ittybxttykxttytxtty

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anyway in case you don’t know it yet

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

Things Unseen and Heard

➪the one where you overhear bradley talk about you to jake and decide to give him the space he apparently wanted.

Warnings: smut, angst, fluff, oblivious bradley, insecurities, self-deprecating thoughts, unprotected sex, swearing, alcohol consumption, maybe more

Word Count: 4.1k

Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡ | happy birthday if it’s your birthday, we share a birthday !

You couldn’t be blamed for accidentally hearing him say it. 

Really, how could you have known that he was talking poorly about you to, who you assumed was Jake, after getting home a bit earlier than you had expected? 

You had just moved in with Bradley, your boyfriend of nearly two years, only a couple of weeks ago, and to say you were happy with the change would be an understatement. You were filled with excitement at the new chapter you had started with him, and were overjoyed to have someone there to come home to after living by yourself for so long. 

You were so in love with him and to be now officially living with him felt like the right move. 

And you thought he felt the same way, but now you��re unsure. 

It was one in the afternoon on a Saturday, and you had told Bradley that you wouldn’t be home until around four, so it really wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have a filter right now for the words leaving his mouth. 

He was sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, grey sweats and a black tee the only things covering his ridiculously hot body from your eyes. You bite down harshly on your lip as you begin to close the door, keeping an eye on him as you do so. 

His back was turned to you, his elbows braced on the marble as he held his phone to his ear. “‘I don’t know man, it’s like she’s lonely all the time or something,” he rasped in his deep voice, making your hand grip the wooden door just before it slammed shut. “Yeah, she moved in like a week and a half ago, but it feels way longer than that.”

Your brows furrow as you step away from the still slightly open door and peer into the kitchen again. He had to be talking about you, unless another woman moved in without you ever running into her. 

“Fuck if I know,” he laughed, leaning back against the bar stool as you lean against the doorframe. “She’s just been all over me. At first I thought it was because we’re living together now, but I can’t get a minute alone without her there. It was hot when she was living in her old apartment and we’d only get to see each other a few days a week, we’d be all over each other then, but now it’s like she can’t spend a second without me.”

You cross your arms as your bottom lip turns in a frown. You knew you were more affectionate than most, but that was one of the things Bradley said he adored about you. Had you known you were overstepping a bit, you would’ve backed off and saved yourself the embarrassment of having Jake find out about it before you did. 

“No, of course I still love her, I’m fucking in love with her,” he said and your heart swelled just a bit before he added, “I just wish she could leave me alone for more than five seconds. I’m surprised I actually have the house to myself today. I kind of missed it.” 

That had it breaking all over again and you turned away in an attempt to save some of your dignity. You felt beyond embarrassed and were actually debating on running out the door and leaving again, but you were stronger than that. 

You loved Bradley so damn much, so it hurt to hear him say those things about you without ever coming to you about it before he told his friend. You always tried to be honest with each other, and you thought it was going well. 

Well, you thought a lot of things, you guessed. 

He clearly needed space, despite his months of constant begging for you to move in with him. If he needed it, you’d give it to him, even if you did find out through accidental eavesdropping. 

You press the heel of your hand against your eyes in an attempt to hide your tears before pushing the door fully closed and letting it hit the frame loudly. “Hey, I’m back,” you weakly call out before taking a deep breath and rounding the corner for the third time.

Bradley looks over at you and smiles, lifting his left index finger as he says, “Hang on, Jake, Y/n just got home,” and he drops his hand then begins to stand up. “Hey, you’re back early-”

“I’m going out again,” you cut him off and hold up your hand, making him stop before he was fully off the stool. His brows furrowed in confusion as he pressed his phone to his chest. “I’ll only be here for a few minutes, I’m already late.”

You hated how easily you were able to lie to him.

“Okay,” he trailed off, sitting back down but still facing you. “Come here, come kiss me.”

Had you not overheard him call you clingy, you’d be all over him right now and only further proving his words. You give him a forced smile and shake your head, “I can’t, Roo, I have to be out of this house in less than five minutes,” you lie again and blow him a kiss before running down the hall and into your shared bedroom, leaving him to sit there with a confused expression on his face. 

“Hang on, Hangman, I’ll call you back,” you could hear his muffled voice that was followed by his footsteps leading up to the room. He poked his head into the doorway, meeting your eye in the mirror as you reapplied some makeup that had faded during the few hours you were out. “Hey, is everything okay?”

He sounded so sweet, you wanted to kiss him and touch him, but you were hurt. You rub your lips together before smiling at him with your reflection. “I’m good, Roo,” you assure him, setting down the blush colored lipstick container onto the dresser and turning to face him. “Just late for….lunch. A late lunch with Fi.”

“Okay,” he hummed as he stepped into the room. He made it to you in three strides, his hands finding your waist and his eyes finding your lips. “You look pretty. Almost too pretty for lunch with Fi. Should I be jealous?” He teased and leaned down to kiss you, but you pulled away with a forced laugh. 

“I’m really late,” you dismiss your unusual actions and pull off your oversized shirt. It was actually Bradley’s, but you felt like he didn’t really want you to wear his stuff right now. You throw on a simple black crop top and grab your purse before turning and nearly bumping into him. 

He steadies you with his hands on your hips again, and when you meet his eyes, you could see the faintest hint of concern in them. “You sure you’re okay?” He asked, much softer than before. It was a bit harder to lie to him this time, but you force yourself to nod anyway. He holds your gaze for a few more seconds before leaning down and pressing his lips to yours in a deep kiss. “I love you. Have fun.”

You pull away with a less forced smile and nod again. “Love you,” and then you were stepping out of his arms and quickly walking out of the room, once again leaving him to question your weird behavior.  

That was the start of it all. 

After getting back from a surprise lunch date with your friend, Fiona, you went straight into the bathroom, passing by Bradley, who was in the living room and watching a dumb reality TV show. He barely got a glance at you before hearing the faint sound of the bathroom door shutting, making him sit back against the couch when he realized he missed the chance to stop you before you got in there.

He checked his phone and saw that it was nearly eight at night, and how you had failed to answer the two texts he had sent you. He sets the device aside before crossing his arms and watching another hour worth of the show. 

It was nearing nine thirty when he got himself ready for bed, which was just a quick change into black boxer briefs, and he noticed that you still hadn’t left the bathroom. He plugged his phone in and pulled back the sheets on the bed, but before he could go check on you, the door to the bathroom opened and you stepped out wearing an old tee of your own instead of one of his. 

You quickly smile at him as you cross the room and throw your clothes into the hamper that was in the closet, plugging your own phone in afterwards and not looking at him. 

Bradley watched you with weary eyes as he stood at his side of the bed. “Hey,” he said, and you briefly look up at him. “How was your day?”

“It was good,” you answer, brushing your slightly damp hair before climbing into bed. “Long.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, getting in next to you after turning off the lights. “It’s almost ten, baby. I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

You give him a smile before laying down on your side of the bed instead of in the middle like you normally did. “Yeah,” Bradley’s smile faded at the single word and he watched as you turned your back to him. “Night, Bradley.”

Bradley? You always called him Roo, why the fuck did you call him Bradley? 

“Night,” he trailed off, moving to lay down as well. He had an inner debate with himself before letting his desire to hold you overpower the option to give you a bit of space, and he was glad you didn’t pull away from him when he wrapped his arms around you after moving to lay in the middle of the bed instead of on his side. “I love you, baby, so much.” He promised then kissed the back of your head, staying there afterwards and breathing in the sweet smell of your conditioner. 

“Love you,” it was barely above a whisper, and it was just enough to have him believing that everything was fine, and that maybe you just had a bad day. 

But when he woke up the next morning, he found that you had placed a throw pillow in between you at some point last night, and he was still in the middle of the bed while you were practically on the edge. His arms weren’t around you anymore, instead around the stupid pillow, and he was met with the smell of linen instead of coconut and vanilla. 

You were still sound asleep, and Bradley decided not to wake you as he got himself dressed in light jeans and a white tee. He tossed the throw pillow onto the bottom of the bed before gently moving your body onto the middle of it, where you instinctively pressed yourself against his still warm pillow. 

He guessed you did actually have a tiring day yesterday, and that had him keeping the curtains shut and quietly leaving the room, letting you sleep for as long as you wanted.

It was the weekend, after all.  

He made himself breakfast, then set aside a plate for you as he texted Nat.

Phoenix: Hey, Rooster. Are you and your girl down for a night at the Hard Deck tonight? 

Bradley thought about it for a few seconds before taking his phone with him and walking back to the bedroom. You were awake now and scrolling on your own phone, and he was a bit confused as to why you didn’t come out and say good morning like you always do, but he pushed the thought to the back of his head as he moved to sit next to you. “Hi, pretty girl,” he greeted and brushed your messy hair out of your face. 

“Hi,” you say back, once again forgetting to add Roo to the end of your sentence. 

“I made you breakfast, it’s on the counter,” he says as you sit up and pull the sheets over your body a bit more. 

You give him a small smile, “Thanks,”

He smiled back and reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together once you grabbed hold of it. “Nat invited us to the Hard Deck tonight,” he tells you, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. “Wanna go?”

Your smile fades a bit as you ask, “Will Jake be there?”

At your odd question, Bradley’s brows furrow. “Yeah, I think so, why?”

You shrug and place your other hand over his before bringing it up to your mouth and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Just wondering,” you answer and get up. “Sure, we’ll see.”

Then you were out of the room and wandering off down the hall.

You did end up going to the Hard Deck, but kept mainly to yourself at the bar. Every time Bradley looked over at you to check in, you were in a deep conversation with Penny. 

He was going on an hour of playing pool and losing to Jake when the blond also caught onto your unusual quietness. “What’s going on with your girl, Bradshaw?” He asked as he sunk a solid colored ball. “She mad at you or something?” 

“No,” Bradley answered as he finished his third beer. He was feeling the effects of the alcohol by this point, and he wanted to throw you over his shoulder and take you home more and more with each passing second. “I don’t think so. I haven’t done anything or forgotten anything, so I think we’re good.”

“You think?” Jake laughed as he stood up to his full height. “That’s reassuring.”

The two men both looked over at you, and when you turned and met their gaze, you only gave them a half smile as you sipped on your second drink of the night. 

Jake poked at his cheek with his tongue before he asked, “You think she heard what you said about her yesterday?” 

“No,” Bradley confidently answered. “She wasn’t even home, man, and she knows I love her and her need to be around me all the time.”

“Uh huh,” Jake laughed and set the pool cue down. “Well, I’ll let you go get all flirty with her. Gonna go beat Payback’s ass at darts. See you later.”

Bradley just shook his head as he made his way over to you and wrapped his arms around your middle from behind. “Hi, baby,” he mumbled and pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

You laughed and gave Penny an apologetic look, and she just shook her head with a smile before walking over to the other end of the bar. “Hi, boozie,”

Bradley rolled his eyes and buried his face against the side of your neck. “Missed you,” his voice sounded muffled but you still heard him.

“I’ve been here the whole time, Bradley,” there was that damn name again. “How could you have possibly missed me?”

He lifted his head and gave you a pointed look. “I always miss you,” he muttered then dropped his gaze to your mouth. “I always want you.”

You turn your head to look back at him. “Like, right now?” Bradley nodded and held back a groan when you bit down on your lip. “Okay, boozie. Take me home then.”

Bradley grinned at you before paying for both yours and his drinks and practically carrying you out the door. When you got home, he was all over you in the way you were usually all over him. 

You were a mess of limbs as he rocked his hips into yours, your head tilted back against his pillow as moans left your mouth. “I love you,” he rasped as he fucked you into the bed, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulders. 

“I love you,” you say back, sounding a bit breathless. Your hands run down his back and pull his body closer to yours as you clench helplessly around him. “Bradley.”

Bradley grunted at your use of his real name, and he lifted his head to look in your lust filled eyes. “Roo. Call me Roo,” he begged and felt his high approaching. “I’m your Roo, baby.”

You moan and reach up to grip his hair. “Oh, God,” you whimper, tightening your legs around his waist. 

“Please, baby,” he pleaded, his hips stuttering when you clench tighter around him. “Please, call me Roo.”

You bite down on your lip again before pressing your face against his shoulder. “Roo,” you oblige, making Bradley moan loudly and drop his head against the pillow next to yours. “I’m gonna come.”

“Come for me,” Bradley groaned and fucked into you harder than before. You cling onto him as your high washes over you and triggers his own. He fucks your mixed releases back into you with each thrust until he can’t anymore and falls against you.

He doesn’t know how long you stay like that, but when he feels himself begin to fall asleep, he pulls out and wraps you up in his arms. 

A few more seconds of silence pass before he breaks it. “We’re okay, right?” He wearily asks and feels you tense up against him.

“Course,” you reply and kiss his shoulder. “We’re okay, Roo.”

You both fell asleep soon after that, and for a brief while Bradley believed everything was okay, but then he woke up to his arms around a fucking pillow again and saw that you had already left for work. 

Bradley was a bit annoyed as he got himself ready and turned up the Broncos radio as he drove to work. 

While last night was great and it seemed like you were back to normal, that wasn’t the case as when Bradley got home and found you sitting on the couch, before he could even move to sit next to you, you were getting up and making your way to the kitchen. 

He tried to ask you how your day was, but your response was short and seemed forced as you made dinner then ate it in silence. That night you fell asleep on the edge of the bed again while Bradley moved to the middle of it in an attempt to get closer to you, and when he tried to wrap his arms around you, your body tensed up and you pushed him away in your sleep. 

He had no idea what the fuck was going on with you, but he was determined to find out. The last straw was when you failed to say goodbye to him before work again and when he found you on the couch again after arriving home, you didn’t greet him with words. Just a small, barely-there smile. 

Bradley left his boots on as he walked over to the couch in three strides and towered over you. “Hey,” he tested, and you only looked up at him again with that forced smile. He felt like he would lose his mind if you gave him one more fake expression. “What’s wrong?”

Your brows furrowed as you shifted towards the edge of the couch. “What?”

“Somethings wrong,” he stated and took a step towards you. “Either with me or with us, and I want to know what it is.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Bradley,” you tried to assure him but he knew better. 

“See, no, there is,” he rasped. “Because you just called me Bradley again when you’ve literally only been calling me Roo for the last two years.”

Your gaze drops as you play with the edge of the blanket that was thrown over your body. You went quiet again and Bradley ran a hand through his hair and made it a mess as he sat down next to you. 

“Baby, tell me what’s wrong,” he said desperately. “Whatever it is, I can fix it.”

You shrug as you look over at him. “But you can’t,” you say quietly. “I’m what’s wrong with us. I’m the one who has to fix it, and I’m really trying to.”

Bradley was as confused as ever as he took in your words. “What are you talking about?”

Your bottom lip trembled a bit as you shrug again. “I heard you talking to Jake,” 

It was a pretty vague sentence as he talks to Jake all the time, but he knew exactly what conversation you were referring to. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, but you just shook your head. 

“I’m clingy, I get it. I’m trying not to be. I’m trying to give you space here, Bradley,” you whispered and he hated the way you sounded so sad. How could he have not realized your sudden change in behavior was all because of him? “You need space, and I’m sorry I’ve been such a handful since I moved in. I was thinking maybe we should take a break or something so you can-”

“No,” he said before he could bring himself to listen to the rest of that sentence. “I don’t want that. At all. How could you think I’d ever want to go on a break with you?”

“Because you said you missed having the house to yourself,” you weakly answer and Bradley felt his heart break at his own harsh words. 

He could barely remember that conversation with Jake as he had been too focused on trying to figure out what was going on with you, but you clearly remembered it as if it happened this morning. 

“I didn’t mean that,” he said and tried to get you to meet his eyes. “Baby, I didn’t mean that, I promise. I’ll admit it was a lot at once when you first moved in and I should’ve talked to you about it and not Jake, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

You didn’t say anything as you blinked away tears, and Bradley felt even worse. 

“This is why you’ve been so distant with me lately?” He regretfully asked and you nodded. “I’m….fuck, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to go on a break with you, ever, okay? I mean it, I want you and need you. Always. I should’ve never said all that shit about you. I swear, baby, I didn’t mean it. I love you so much.”

You meet his eyes with a blurred vision. “You say that now, but what if-”

“What if nothing, Y/n,” he cut you off and took your hand in his. “Whatever you were about to say, forget about it. I want you here with me every single day. I need you here with me. I’m sorry that I made you feel like I didn’t. I promise, I don’t want space. I don’t want to be away from you unless I’m deployed, and even that is something I don’t do willingly.”

You use your free hand to wipe away your tears but they keep coming as you move towards him. “I don’t want you to think I’m overbearing, Roo,” you cried and he pulled you against his chest and wiped at your tears for you. “I’m sorry if I was.”

“You weren’t,” he promised, kissing the top of your head repeatedly as you shook against him a bit. “God, I’m such an asshole, baby. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“I love you,” came your whispered response as you gripped his shirt. “Promise me that you’ll talk to me next time, okay? Please?”

“There won’t be a next time,” he replied and you pulled away to look up at him. “I promise you that. There shouldn’t have even been a first time.”

You nodded and he leaned down to press a deep kiss to your mouth before pulling you back against his chest. “I don’t know how to face Jake now,” you confessed. “I’m just embarrassed.”

Bradley wanted to punch himself square in the face, because how the fuck could he have made you feel embarrassed about yourself? What kind of boyfriend was he? “I’m so sorry,” he said again, holding you close to his chest. He missed having you this close to him, and he knew that was his own fault. “Jake defended you over the phone, by the way. And that in itself should’ve had me shutting up, because I should be the one defending you, always. He said I was acting like a dick and I should be grateful that someone as amazing and sweet as you actually picked a guy like me.”

You laughed and nuzzled against the side of his neck. “He did?”

“Yeah,” Bradley answered and kissed the side of your head. “And he was right. I don’t deserve you, baby, but I promise I’ll do better. I’ll be better for you.”

You nodded again and pulled him onto you as you moved to lay down. “I missed you,” you quietly admitted and he groaned as he buried his face against your shoulder. 

“Not nearly as much as I missed you,”

-

look at me working on my birthday...

sorry for any spelling errors ! I'll edit once I get home MWAH

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In 2017, American film researchers recovered “Something Good – Negro Kiss,” a short film depicting a playful kiss between a Black couple which had not seen the light of day for more than a century. A long-forgotten artifact from the earliest years of American film, the sweet, humanizing vignette, produced by the Selig Polyscope Company, makes a startling contrast to the overwhelmingly racist and blackface-ridden contempory portrayals of African Americans. Four years later in 2021, archivists in Norway, halfway across the world, identified a sister short in their collections—an extended alternate cut which reveals more of Chicago stage performers Gertie Brown and Saint Suttle’s vaudeville-like routine, a theatrical, hot-and-cold romantic dynamic between two lovers which parodies the popular and controversial short “The Kiss” (1896). Both films, which had previously been lost, were known from entries in old motion picture catalogs but had been assumed to be era-typical, anti-Black “race films” until their rediscovery in the 21st century. Together with its more famous sibling, which has since been inducted into the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry, this alternate version of “Something Good” represents the first-known instance of Black intimacy ever captured on-screen.

SOMETHING GOOD [Alternate Version] (1898) Directed by William Selig

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First of all, I really enjoy your  writing especially the atmosphere (even in drabbles like edging Joel one) And your Joel the right mix of soft and strong.

Also, I have an idea maybe you will be inspired to write smth.

Usually, Joel is the one who is not sure he is the right fit for reader (too old, too broken, too rough). But I was thinking Jackson (or just in his 50s) Joel who fall for the reader but she is the one who is thinking she is not enough for him (not pretty/smart/capable enough).

I think women were all over Joel (be it in Jackson or not) and that's only made situation for reader worse. Maybe some angst with happy ending.

jackson!joel x reader

summary: you’ve never believed you were good enough for someone like Joel Miller. But he’s steady, stubborn, and set on showing you just how wrong you are. || angst + fluff, horsegirl!reader, handyman!joel, jackson!joel, joel is down bad (love it sm), joel is popular in jackson, reader is not so much or doesn't think she is, insecure reader!!!, joel expresses his feelings au, soft!joel || a/n: holy shit, may finally doing a request? that's been sitting in her inbox for 20 years??? sickkkkk. anyway—tysm for your sweet words anon!!! WHERE DEM HORSE GIRLS AT????

You were starting to think Joel Miller only came to the stables to watch you.

You, the girl who taught Jackson’s children how to ride, how to aim and shoot from a moving horse, how to fall without breaking something. It was the one thing you did that felt like it meant anything. You weren’t a good cook. You had no knack for building or fixing. And if anyone sent you out on patrol, you were pretty sure you’d pee your pants the moment you saw an infected and then promptly get eaten alive.

No, the stables were where you belonged. In the stables, you were with the only creatures who really understood you. And who, in turn, you understood too, better than anything else in the world.

Because horses were about energy, not words. Soft snouts and gentle nickers, they knew the sound of your footsteps at the first crack of dawn, your gentle voice calling goodnight when the light went down in the evenings. And they didn't care if you'd had the best day of your life or the worst. They only cared that you showed up, and so, you did. Every day, morning afternoon and night, this is where you were—mucking stalls, hauling hay and making sure everyone was fed and healthy. And they surely didn't care what you looked like or that you never knew the right words to say or that you felt useless in any other facet of life.

You didn’t have to be anything, really.

"Okay, Henry, just use that outside leg a little more, keep him straight!" you called in the ring, shielding your eyes from the sunlight. Dirt kicked up as Henry, a new teenaged resident, held a bow and arrow on top of your best bomb-proof gelding, Rufus.

You watched Henry ride straight through the ring, back perfectly straight, but his legs kept swinging, making Rufus swerve hard.

"That's okay, just keep your knees against him, like you’re pointing the way! All the way til you can get an eye on the target!"

Henry loosed an arrow, which flew way past the stuffed dummy target, and you watched his shoulders drop as he brought his horse to a trot, then a walk, then stopped in front of you.

“I’m terrible,” he muttered.

You shook your head with a smile, looking up at him, the buttery yellow sun in your eyes as you pat Rufus's sweaty neck, "It's a great start, really, you just need to work on that leg strength. Takes a while to build, is all."

Henry smiled, grateful at your praise before you sent him off to clean his horse and tack.

And on your way inside, you spotted the man who seemed to always be on your tail, always just on the edge of your vision, always showing up with some half-excuse and a soft look you didn’t know what to do with.

"Joel," you greeted with a short nod.

He looked over from where he was crouched by the stable door, tools in hand. “Howdy, darlin’.”

You shook your head, more to feign off the blush creeping to your cheeks at the sweetness of his twang than anything else.

“That door get broken again?” you asked, leaning against the barn’s archway.

“Yeah. Jesse fixed it last week,” he said, wiping oil-streaked hands on his jeans, “but he don’t know a damn thing about latches.”

“Mmm,” you replied, narrowing your eyes and folding your arms over your chest. “So no other reason you’re hanging around?”

Joel just smiled a little crooked, groaning as he stood.

“What reason would that be, darlin’?”

You gave him a look, and he held up both hands in surrender, grease and all. “Alright, alright. You caught me.”

You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Answer’s still no, cowboy.”

He nodded, that sad little smile flickering across his face. “I know.”

“Good.”

You turned back toward the stalls, heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs.

"Darlin'?"

You hate that the simple call would stop you in your tracks.

“If you change your mind,” he said softly, “you know where to find me.”

You looked over your shoulder.

“I do,” you said. “Good thing I don’t plan on changin' my mind.”

You were the prettiest thing Joel Miller had ever seen in his whole damn life.

And Joel was old. Not just in years, but in miles. He'd lived through too much, carried memories that didn’t leave room for softness. But you—God, you brought something back into him that he didn’t know was still alive.

He knew he didn’t really stand a chance. But he tried anyway. He wanted to show you what it was like to be chased, to be wanted. The only thing he didn't understand was how you couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see yourself the way he did.

It's not like he didn't have other options. Actually, he thought maybe he had too many options. The curse of a choice. He might've been a bit fawned over by other women in Jackson, and maybe they liked him for his stoicism, his quiet nature. Maybe they just liked that he knew how to fix their leaky faucets and build them guitars and little wooden statues of animals they liked.

Joel wished you'd ask him for something, anything. Because he'd give it to you in a heartbeat.

So he made himself useful at the stables, always finding a reason to be nearby. Fixing latches, restacking hay, sanding down a splintered stall wall—anything that gave him a reason to linger. And the cherry on top was you, cheeks flushed from work, hair mussed from the wind, your voice low and steady as you cooed to a skittish colt or soothed a rider after their first fall like it was second nature.

He felt like a kid again, like some love struck yearling. He couldn't help it.

You were so strong in ways he was sure you had no idea. And God, on the days you chose to ride just for yourself, when your work was done and the sun was low and the air still warm, he knew he was ruined. Watching you take off across the pasture like the world couldn’t touch you, hair pulled back and mouth tilted in something that was almost a smile—it did something to him. Unstrung him. Made his stomach churn and his blood run hot in ways he wasn’t proud of. He felt depraved and awful for the thoughts he'd had of you in the privacy of his own mind, behind closed doors, in the shower, in his bed. Anywhere he was, he thought of you there with him. It was awful, really. He figured if he told anyone, they’d call it unhealthy, maybe even obsessive.

He didn't have half a mind to care. He knew he wasn't subtle about it, anyway.

The first time he'd asked you out, you 'd thought he was joking. That he was pulling some stupid prank on you. You had looked so angry, so mean, he was surprised you didn't slap him across his face.

And the second time, he tried again, softer in his manners, a small bouquet of flowers in his hand while you were finishing up with stalls. You asked what in the world you were supposed to do with them. And then you told him no, flat out.

The third time—now this was when you were really getting frustrated—he'd found you on one of your nights out. This was rare in itself, you, just enjoying a brew at the Tipsy Bison. He went up to you, all nerves and southern charm, and you'd asked him why. That was what caught him off guard the most. That you still didn't get it, didn't get the affect you had on him. He remembered your eyes flicking around, mentioning he had his choice of any woman in the room. They're just waiting their turn, Mr. Miller, you'd said. But he didn't give two shits about that. He wanted you, only you. But again, you said no. And worst of all, you’d left, leaving your drink half finished, clearly embarrassed and upset.

So after that, Joel didn't give up, per se, but he stopped pushing. He became a constant in your life, someone always in the periphery, someone you could count on to be there. And over time, he felt a shift in the way you knew he'd always be there. It was little, things, asking if he'd help with a feed bag, if he'd take a look at the crack in the wall of the tack room. Sometimes he'd help bring in a horse that needed shoeing or hold one still so you could administer medication.

And he ate it up. Loved that you were starting to turn towards him instead of away, that you knew he'd be there no matter what, that you could count on him. And he tried to compliment you as much as possible — how nice you looked even in your patched up jeans and thin tank tops, how the horses just loved you. He thought you might've liked when he called you darlin' from the blush that would rise in your cheeks.

So eventually, when enough time passed, he made a plan. One last effort. No pressure, and definitely no flowers.

He asked one of the other stable hands for help and got your favorite gelding, Hudson, saddled and ready. He picked his best girl, Cali, for himself and waited by the edge of the path, early enough that most of the town was still asleep.

When he saw you walking up to the doors, boots dusty, hair half-tied and eyes still tired, he took a breath and stopped the horses in front of you. He sat atop his mare, waiting patiently as he looked down at you with Hudson's reins in his hands.

“Get on,” he said softly.

“I gotta feed,” you said, bracing a hand on your hip. “And Eclipse needs his meds—his foot soaked—I don’t have time—”

“Already done,” he said. “Stalls too.”

You blinked, visibly thrown, “I...what?” Your voice was barely more than breath.

“I got here early. Took care of it.”

“But I need to—”

“Darlin’,” he said, quiet, firm.

Your lips parted, then pressed together again.

He held Hudson’s reins out toward you. “Get on.”

You stared at him, disbelieving. Then, after a pause where he could nearly see the gears turning in your sleep head, watching you try to figure a way out of this, you stepped forward, patting the gelding between the eyes before swinging up into the saddle like muscle memory.

You settled your weight, putting your boots in the stirrups and gave Joel a look.

“What is this, Miller?”

“I’m takin’ you out.” he said, easy as anthing.

“Out...” you echoed, squinting at him.

“Just a trail ride.” He gave a small smile. “Not a date. Swear on my life.”

You eyed him like you didn’t believe a damn word.

“You should know,” you said, adjusting your grip on the reins, “I have no experience taking down anything we might find out here.”

Joel glanced back at you from his saddle, smirking. The trees were green and moss covered around him as he made his way up the trail, the air crisp and cool despite the summer sun beginning to rise, “Ain’t you the one teachin’ the kids how to do all that?”

“In theory,” you muttered, ducking beneath a low branch that nearly took your head off. “Doesn’t mean I’ve ever had to do it myself.”

He chuckled, low and easy, and it made your skin warm in a way that pissed you off. “Feel like we might need to get you some trainin’ out here, then.”

If you’d had a rock or even a small stick, you might’ve hurled it at the back of his thick, smug head.

Instead, you exhaled hard through your nose. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”

“Trail ride,” he said, like he hadn’t already told you that. “This area’s been cleared for a while. Thought I’d show you somethin’.”

You didn’t say much after that. The two of you rode deeper into the woods, the dense cover of pine and aspen dappling sunlight across the trail in moving patches. The only sound was the soft rhythm of hooves in dirt, the occasional snort or huff from the horses. It smelled like wildflowers and warm moss, so far away from busy life you lived.

You weren’t used to silence with someone else. Not like this, at least. It should’ve been uncomfortable, but you were surprised to find it was...nice with him.

Eventually, the trees began to thin, the trail sloping up toward a clearing. At the edge of the rise, Joel guided Cali forward until her ears flattened at the drop below. He let her stop where she was comfortable, reins loose in his hands.

You came up beside him and froze.

Below you was a wide valley carved into the hillside, blanketed in deep green, glowing almost silver in the morning light. A river ran straight through the center, curling between tree lines, smooth and fast and clear as glass. The sky was open and blue in a way that made your chest ache. Like you’d stumbled into the kind of picture perfect postcard lost to the rest of the world.

You hand't even realized you’d stopped breathing until Joel shifted in his saddle beside you. And that's when your eyes glanced over at him, noticing that he wasn't even taking in the beautiful scenery.

"Quit your starin', Miller."

He didn't even miss a beat: “Why d'you keep tellin’ me no?”

You blinked, startled by the bluntness of it. Heat flushed up the back of your neck.

“I—”

“I get it if you don’t like me,” he said quickly, as if trying to soften the blow. “If you think I’m too old or too ugly or just not what you want.”

“That’s not—” you started, but your voice caught.

He gave a quiet laugh, one with no real humor behind it. He averted his eyes, watching the horizon, like he couldn’t bear to look at you while he bled his heart out.

“I know I ain’t the best lookin’ fella in Jackson,” he said, slower now. “Know I've got things to work on. But I know we get along. You don’t roll your eyes every time I talk. We talk easy. I know I make ya laugh sometimes. And I like bein’ around you more than I’ve liked anythin’ in a long while.”

You swallowed, hard.

Joel finally looked at you, earnest in a way that left no room for pretending.

“I just thought... maybe we’d be good together. That’s all.”

You turned slightly in the saddle, reins clenched in your fists.

“But at least tell me why,” he said. “Please, darlin’.”

“I’m not...” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m not good, Joel.”

He frowned, confused. “Yes, you—”

“I’m not good at any of this,” you cut in, voice too loud and too fast. “I’m not good at people. I say the wrong things. I get awkward. I mess everything up. I don’t know how to—how to let someone in.”

"But—”

“And there are so many other girls,” you said, the words tumbling out. “Prettier girls. Funnier. More useful. Girls who don’t freeze when they’re asked on a date or who can cook or shoot or hold a conversation. You could have your pick, Joel.”

Your voice cracked, and the tears came before you could stop them.

You wiped your cheek roughly, ashamed of the sound your breath made. Too shaky, too raw.

Joel’s voice was quiet when it came again.

“Baby...”

You didn’t look at him.

“You think I care about any of them girls?” he said, so gentle it made your throat even tighter. “I don’t.” He shook his head, breath catching somewhere in his chest. “All I think about… is you. Ain’t been a day you haven’t crossed my mind. Not one. Don't even matter what I’m doin’.”

You turned to look at him.

“And I ain’t good either, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m not a good man. I've done things to survive — terrible things. But I’m tryin’. And I wanna try for you. I wanna be good for you.”

You shook your head. “Why?”

He smiled faintly. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You scoffed, half laughing, half exhausted. “If you’re just gonna lie—”

“Quit that,” he said, stern, but not unkind. “And it ain’t even about that. You could look like anything and I’d still feel the same. It’s the way you are. The way you move with the horses like you speak their language. Like you were born in a barn and the world just made room for you after.”

Now the tears were flowing.

“Watching you with them is like watching a painter,” he said, softer now. “Like art. You’re steady and you’re kind, and you don’t even see it.”

Your shoulders shuddered, and the tears slipped freely now.

“I wanna show you how good you are. How much you matter. Not just to me. To this place. To those kids. To the animals. You’re something special, darlin’, and I’ve been goin’ crazy tryna tell you that.”

That last remark, you couldn't help it. You chuckled through wet tears, throat tight. Because you knew he had. He'd tried so many times to tell you how great you were with the horses, that you looked nice, that the kids loved you. You just never heard it. Never could get it through your thick, self effacing skull.

“Makin’ fun of me now?” he teased, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, close enough on his horse to reach and poke you in the side.

You smiled through the tears, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said gently after a few moments.

“Come here, asshole.” you choked, laughing a little.

He blinked, confused.

So you reached across the narrow space between your horses, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the wind in the trees. Your fingers found the worn collar of his flannel, warm from the sun and his skin, and curled tight.

He left you pull him in close, close enough that you could feel his breath. You didn't hesitate, didn't question, didn't let your brain scream any doubts as you kissed his lips.

Soft at first, tentative, almost reverent. His lips were warm and a little chapped, tasting like dust and coffee and everything you’d been too afraid to reach for.

But then you tilted your head, deepening it, surer in your movements now that he wasn't pulling away. Like something broke loose in your chest.

Joel inhaled sharply through his nose, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening, but he leaned in, meeting you there. He kissed you back like he’d been holding it in for months, as if he’d been imagining this in every quiet moment he’d ever had.

You felt the brush of his calloused hand against your cheek, unsure at first, then firmer, comfortable, eager to touch and to feel you for the first time.

The horses shifted beneath you, hooves rustling in the grass, and you broke the kiss with a soft breath, easing back into the saddle. Joel’s eyes followed you, still dazed, still catching up to what had just happened.

You glanced toward the trail, the early sun now spilling fully across the valley, casting gold over the tree line. The warmth had changed, the soft blue quiet of dawn giving way to something brighter, lighter, like the whole world had been pulled on with you.

“I’ll race you back,” you said, voice light, teasing, even though your hands still trembled slightly on the reins.

Joel arched a brow. “And what happens when I win?”

You smirked. “Then… it’s a yes.”

He laughed, the sound low and full, and you could feel it settle somewhere in your chest.

“Deal.”

You clicked your tongue and nudged Hudson into a walk, but just before you pushed off into a gallop, you glanced over your shoulder.

“Joel?”

“Yeah, hon?”

The morning light had caught in his hair, glinting soft and gold at the tips as you looked at him. He looked younger in it, gentle. And for a second, you didn’t see the man who'd spent months chasing you or the one you kept trying to push away. You just saw someone who’d waited. Patiently. Willingly. Kindly.

You cleared your throat.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, slow and sure, and started after you.

You turned back to the trail, legs tightening around Hudson’s sides as he took off beneath you, hooves thudding against the packed dirt. The trees blurred past in streaks of green and gold, the light shifting warmer as the sun climbed higher behind you, casting long shadows and waking the world inch by inch.

Safe to say, you may or may not have let him win.

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

Um.

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

The pencils breaking into smaller pencils

And why they treating word pencil like a slur. Reblog to scare ai losers away 🤭

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

getting fired from my position as the emperor’s food tester because I keep taking too large of bites

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

like people forget that weird girls grow into weird adult women. it doesn't just go away. and no you don't perish when you turn 25 or automatically turn into a nonweird wife and mother like some kind of Pokémon end evolution, you end up like me.

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

"superman is overrated" "no batman is overrated" they both are. and with your help, we can finally kill them ! by signing up for just a small monthly donation to me, Lex Luthor,

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

Superman & Batman scene redraw

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

Listening to a podcast

"Let's take a word from our sponsor."

*Skip ahead a minute* "You can-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "Use code-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "300,000-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "300,000-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "T-shirts-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "Motherfuck-"

*Go back 15 seconds*

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

i got that deer in me (watery brown eyes and the constant urge to run into oncoming traffic)

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

The Entirety of Tumblr from Tumblr has been Chucked in to the ocean! You're all wet now.

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

this is genuinely the funniest thing i’ve seen in weeks. love wins 🫶

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

not enough secret gardens and hidden passageways and bookshelves that open to a mysterious library these days. get working on that girls.