leftcrunch

[leftcrunch]

Indebted

Pairings: The Salesman x Fem!reader

Summary: He wouldn't call it jealousy... He just wasn't very fond of sharing his toys.

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Jealousy Language, Violence, Age gap, God Complex, Brainwashing, Psychopathy, Blood, Gore, Codependency, Yandere!Salesman, Stalking, Smut (+18) mdni, Caning, Forced Orgasm, Controlled Orgasm, Dumbification, Impact Play, Blood Play, Blood Kink, Sadomasocism, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Rough Sex, Blood Play, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Sadism, Punishments, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Overstimulation

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume

4k words

"Seriously, if it weren't for your help, I'd probably fail this module-" you meet him at the door, your Salesman, who's come to play one of his games. He arrives just as you're ushering someone else out.

"It's honestly my pleasure," you say, "You've made me feel useful."

As you speak, you open your front door to reveal your Salesman standing on the opposite end of the threshold.

You hadn't been smiling, not until you saw him standing there in a crisp, well-fitted navy blue suit. He's not looking at you. Not immediately. His eyes are trained on the boy you're standing beside. The one who's slipping on his sneakers, still murmuring about how incredibly grateful he is for your tutoring.

'It's nothing,' you replied modestly, even though it was most definitely not nothing to dedicate your entire Wednesday afternoon to tutoring. The boy is a first year and budding with the need to get better in psychology. His essay would have been flawless, had it not been for the grammatical and spelling errors that plagued the page. You'd both sat for the majority of this Wednesday afternoon hacking through the issues and improving on his spelling. It was endearing. To be in university and still need a spelling tutor.

"Thanks so much for the help." The boy tries to maneuver his lanky frame past your Salesman who takes up the majority of the space by your little doorway.

"See you next week." He shoots you a small smile before giving an uneasy glance to your Salesman.

"Hello." Says the Salesman, so painfully formal it causes a wave of unease to swell. He peers down at the boy like a tiny little thing.

"H-Hey." Your student replies before thanking you once more.

When he leaves and it's just you and the man you're paid to please every Wednesday evening, an uneasy sort of silence settles between you both.

You're smiling up at him.

And he's smiling down at you but it's different somehow. Tighter. Not a genuine smile at all.

Although admittedly, none of his smiles were genuine. His entire face was a carefully orchestrated scam, to get any suspecting victim to trust him.

And yet somehow, this smile feels more phoney.

Like a tempest is brewing beneath.

Before you're able to dissect it further, he's already stepping closer, letting his large, elongated shadow fall on you. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"The last time you came to my house, you killed someone." You lean against the door, your hip leaning against the wood as you fold your arms over your chest. His eyes zero in on the movement and a rare occasion occurs: You feel powerful. That's the last thing you've ever been made to feel in his presence.

"It took a week to get the smell of blood and death out of my room." You continue.

He lifts his hands in front of you, showing the briefcase that hangs from his heavy fingers and the blisters coating his palms. Like a magician convincing you his hands were clean, "I come in peace." That deep and gravelly vibrato veneering his voice causes a tantalizing hum to run all the way down your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. You step aside, staring blankly ahead of you as he steps into your house, bombarding everything with his presence.

From his brisk walk alone, trudging into your apartment like he owns the palace (which he regrettably does) you almost immediately realize that something is wrong. You are not under the impression that you've done anything to make him angry but unease still rolls in your stomach like a tempest that's brewing. When you make it into your adjoining living that bleeds into the kitchen, you find him standing in the kitchen. He lowers his briefcase onto the counter before resting both his heavy hands there.

You move to the other side of the counter, leaning down- giving him a more than perfect view of the cleavage spilling from your dress. You hope it might appease him as you try to wrack your mind for possibile slip-ups that would've caused this terrible silence.

This little-to-no-conversation between you both makes your dynamic feel like the transaction that it actually is: a girl, who needs her university fees paid and a sadist who wants his needs met. Feelings weren't in the equation and yet, your heart stops when he asks,

"How was school?"

"School was school." You reply, sounding pathetically excited to finally hear his voice since the moment he entered your little home.

"Although," you peer down at your jittery fingers on the counter. Your nerves are shot to hell as you admit, "I don't know how proactive I'm going to be tonight-”

He was a ruthless dominant, never failing to leave you absolutely spent by the end of the night. It left you with great discomfort to not be able to perform to the greatest of your abilities during these sessions. “I'm so tired... I've got this psychology quiz and-"

"Who was that?" His questions cut through yours like the tip of a hot knife.

“Who was who?” You ask.

He only smiles before turning his back to you, frantically pulling open cupboards as he says, “Rice. Where's the rice? Do you have rice?”

“The cupboard in the bottom row- Who are you referring to?”

He pulls out your tall container of rice and you watch him round the counter with it in his hands. “This place is so fucking small.” He says, popping the lid of the container, “Reminds me of my childhood home.” He stands right in the only open space in your apartment and all you do is watch as he tips the container over, watching millions of rice grains scatter to the bare floor.

“THAT'S MY FOOD, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU-”

His voice is like molten lava when he looks down at you and points toward the ground. “Kneel.”

You feel nothing but cold air slide across your exposed arms when he trudges back to your little kitchen. Your mind reels and your stomach sinks and sinks and sinks- burning a hole through the rest of your organs.

“Am I being punished for something?”

“Be a good girl and kneel on the rice.” He says and because you were nothing but a slave to the dominance in his voice, you slowly lower yourself to the ground. From behind the kitchen counter he watches your face contort into unmistakable pain as the rice grains dig into your knees. He takes a while but soon you're fully kneeling on the floor. He rounds the counter once again until he's standing before you.

“That… child that was just here,” his voice is eerily calm as he caresses your cheek, “Who was that?”

Had you been in any other situation, under vastly different circumstances, you might have looked for the urge to laugh. His blatant jealousy of some university first-year was nothing if not laughable.

“He's just a friend from class- ah.” It almost becomes unbearable but for the sake of your self preservation, you know not to get up.

He continues to caress you, loosening his tie as he asks. “Which class?”

“P-Pardon?”

“You mean to tell me you only go to one class?” He snaps and you fight off tears, “What the fuck am I paying for?”

“You're paying for me to get my psychology degree.” You reply with feeble words, trying to put away the thought of all the little stabbings plaguing your knees.

“And does that entail sleeping with your classmates?”

“What?!” You screech as he walks away. You're suddenly left without nothing to hold onto and you sway forward, your palms landing on more rice.

“Y-You know I don't do that.” You cry, feeling the sting more from the accusation than the pain of all this bloody rice, “Y-You know I don't sleep around- You know I don't talk to anyone-”

You hear his briefcase click open. From your vantage point on the lowly rice-filled floor, you cannot see what he's taking out. It fills you with more dread than you've ever experienced before. Which was utterly ridiculous.

With him, dread is a thing you ought to be accustomed to. Dread is where you live now. You ought to get comfortable with it.

“Such a shame.” He tsks as he finally rounds the corner to reveal whatever it is he's gone to go fetch. His dress shoes clack against your recently varnished floor and you breathe heavily. The pain had subsided- or perhaps you've gotten used to it- which scares you more than anything. He's messing with your pain threshold. Causing you to build a tolerance for certain things and that terrifies you.

Hidden under all that terror was unmistakable lust.

God help you.

“I thought we were making progress, you and I.” you see the cane first. Made of rattan, it hangs from his strong hand corded with tense veins. A gleaming watch is secured around his wrist and you're already shaking your head as you slowly look up at him. Now the tears are right by the doorway. No matter how much pain he forces you to get accustomed to you could never survive this. Your body still has limits.

“He just asked me to help him with his spelling- Please!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Spelling, you say?” he pats down on your head, eliciting a dizzying wave of subordination as he says, “I think you've just given us our game for tonight, Doll.” He bends down, knees bending until he's somewhat closer to your height. He's still far too big for you. Far too much. You try to crawl backwards, you try to crawl away but he grabs you by your face. You're quite literally being expertly manhandled as he turns you around until you're on your knees in the opposite direction.

“Please…” You're begging but you don't know what for. Once his games were set in motion, nothing could stop him.

Your movements still when you fill him lower his large hand onto your backside. It's so big and warm and you momentarily forget about the rice digging into your skin. He slowly lifts up the skirt of your dress, revealing your underwear beneath.

“Our little Spelling Bee,” he lowers your panties down your thighs, causing a shiver to wrack through your entire body. It's pointless to hide how affected you are by every little thing he does.

“For every word you spell right,” he lifts your leg for you, giving you momentary reprieve from the pain as he manoeuvres you out of the underwear, “You get to cum.”

You'd never felt more degraded: being forced onto doggy style onto a million grains of rice while this man lets his fingers graze over your exposed cunt. He parts your folds and a wave of embarrassment rolls over your face. It's all so normal to him though, just sticking his fingers inside your cunt. He does it with the professionalism of gynecology and all you're able to do is stare blankly ahead while he prods at you.

“We can't make things too easy, though, so you're gonna keep this little thing warm for me while we play,”

You're craning your neck back, trying to get a look. “What thi-”

You release one hoarse gasp when he inserts something round and bulbous and vibrating, straight into your cunt.

“Th-This isn't a game. It's a punishment.” You say through gritted teeth, trying to fight off a moan as the vibrator hums inside you, “I've only ever had sex with one person-”

You. That voice pipes up in the back of your head, feeble as you felt. You think back on the time you gave him your virginity. It had been a bloody affair.

The second his cock ruptured your hymen and the blood began to coat your thighs, it only made him ravage you more. You'd gone to bed crying that night, your tears soaking into your pillows. You were unable to get up and head to classes the next day. All that pain and yet you also felt so incredibly fulfilled. The pain was a godsend.

But this pain? It's angry.

He's angry and he's punishing you for it.

Silence follows your pleas.

“Are you done?” He asks and your shoulders slump as the tears begin to fall. The urge to grind down onto the vibrator coupled with the rice stabbing your knees puts you in an odd predicament. The inner workings of your body is being made a fool of and he's the root cause.

“I'm afraid you've gotten too comfortable with me-”

“Comfortable?” You scoff, whipping your head back to glare at the man watching you with calm eyes and raised eyebrows. “I could never feel comfortable around you.”

“And you've forgotten your place.” He smiles before standing to his full height, “Letting little boys over to your place-”

“We were studying-”

“I've gone soft on you as of late.” He lets his other hand drag across the length of the hard cane. “Shame on me. It's clearly deluded you into forgetting about our arrangement.”

He steps around you until he's once again standing in front of you. “You've forgotten your place as a thing.”

He grabs your face. “My thing.”

You do a very wrong thing then.

You moan.

It's soft and insecure and so dreadful but you moan

His eyes search yours. You can see the pleasure diluting them. Causing them to go as round as saucers.

He wants to lean into that sound you just made, but he's still furious with you and that sends you into a spiral.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay-”

“So you admit you're a slut?” He asks, inches the buttons of his blaze as he readies his assault. “You whore yourself out to that little boyfriend of yours.”

"Boyfriend?” It's laughable. “Me?”

“Are you condescending me?” He asks darkly and you screech in frustration.

“You know I don't talk to anyone- Why are you so angry with me!?”

“You haven't seen angry, Little girl.” His face is calm. Dangerously so. “You haven't fucking seen angry.”

A shiver wracks through your body as you look up at his cold dead eyes.

“Fine.”

Whatever it takes.

“I am a slut-” you really weren't and the words barely register as truth but you're scrambling as he steps away from you. His hands folded in front of him and he appears oh so in control as he says, “Your first word is Gorgeous.”

You breathe out as you try to refocus enough to successfully spell the word.

“G-Oh.. fuck.” Your cunt spasms around the device and your eyes roll back. You're rocking backwards and forwards, frantically searching for friction that just isn't there. He loves the show you put on for him, writhing on the floor like a puppy in heat. He barely contains his glee as he raises his hand and says, “Wrong.”

“W-What!?” you blink, trying to shake away your pleasure-filled daze, “N-no that wasn't my final-”

“G-o-r-g-e-ou-s,” he says smugly as he moves until he's behind you. Your body tenses and the world shatters when he darkly repeats, “Wrong.”

The cane cracks through the air before it ever lands on your backside. The word ‘sting’ doesn't begin to cover the utter agony that blossoms across your asscheeks. All you know for all those seconds is white hot pain. Everything is at attention, and your body vitaly tries to urge you to take care of the inflicted wound but you can't.

“Sane.” He's breathing heavily as he walks over to stand in front of you. He's getting riled up, a strand of black hair falls in front of his almond eyes. His shoulders rise and fall and rise and fall. Seeing you get caned once does unspeakable things to his resolve. “Your next word is sane.”

Too easy.

"W-Which one?" You blink through the pain, trying to will the tears away. The second you slipped into self pity, it'd be over for you. "S-Sane is a homophone.” You say thickly. The pain. The pain. The pain. “There's Sane,” you glare up at him through wet lashes, “Which you very much aren't-" that amuses him greatly. You're regrettably far too happy to hear the dark chuckle. “Then there's Seine, like the fishing variety-”

He places his hand on your head. “Clever girl. I thought you didn't have a dad.”

“I don't,” you hiccup, “I just like fish. Men aren't the only fishers in the fucking world.”

“Smart mouth.” He pulls away again until he's standing at his full posture. “You use it like that with the boy from Psyche?”

Your shoulders slump and you don't care about the desperation in your voice as you reaffirm, “I'm telling you I haven't done anything-”

“Seine as in the fishing practice. Spell it.”

“S-E-I-N-E” your eyes are squeezed shut as you take a strike from a whip that never comes. Your eyes that had once been squeezed shut, slowly flit open and you're amazed to see his grinning face right in front of you. Every wrinkle running like tributaries around his eyes. The smile lines. He's so handsome it's devastating.

“Correct.” He says. “You're allowed to cum. Congratulations.” Just those few words have your eyes rolling into the back of your skull as you begin to rock back and forth. You lean into the pleasure like a warm and fluffy blanket during aftercare. It's a godsend and it has you moaning and whining into the air.

“Let me give you a hand,” he says, before stopping to deliver that signature, “My little winner.” He brings you in close, your hands cling onto his forearm while the other reaches behind you. He delivers a kiss to your forehead as his fingers find your puffy clit.

“I'm gonna-”

“Cum for me my Clever girl. Cum for me before I change my mind,” There is nothing but him. He consumes you as you fervently hump against his hand on all fours like the animal he reduced you to. Your hips move on their own accord and in his eyes, you can see his own pleasure mounting. Its in the gravel in his voice when he clears his throat and says, “Thank me for letting you cum.” your orgasm crashes down on you and it's ferocious. It's vicious. It's guttural. The rice underneath you still serves as a reminder of your punishment and that somehow has you coming harder.

“Thank you for letting me cum Sir,”

his eyes flutter shut and his chest expands as he basks in your servitude. He breathes it in, letting it settle in his bones, making him feel as important as he needs to.

“N-No more, please,” you whisper once the orgasm passes. He doesn't switch off the vibrator and soon the pleasure bleeds into a painful discomfort. the aftershocks rattle through your body as you drift into overstimulation, “Please-Done-” you became horribly useless with your words when he had you like this, and he watches you so intently as if not only turned on by your torture but so completely intrugued by it. You intrigued him.

“Stop-” You begin but he chuckles as he moves away from you. He straightens his suit and readies the cane, “Why? You’re not even bleeding yet.” He says, “Suck it up.”

“Oh my god, I need to come again,” it rolls through you quite literally out of nowhere and you gasp as you try to keep it at bay. Cumming without having won a round was a breach in the rules of the game and you didn't wanna do that.

“Well then, I guess you better spell the next word for me.” he says with a smile.

You swallow thickly. Your previous win elicits a tiny sliver of confidence and spelling is something you excel in so you steel your nerves. You breath in deeply and stare blankly ahead.

“Honorificabilitudinitatibus.”

You immediately look up at him.

“Latin words arent-” another aftershock rams through you. You're so close to cumming completely hands-free. “L-Latin words aren't allowed.”

Nothing but a dark chuckle escaped him at your expense. “I had no idea you were making the rules.” He says sarcastically. “Had no idea the cane's in your hand.” That draws your gaze to the cane, leaning in his palm.

Point made.

He could throw in whatever wild-card word he wanted because he held the cane.

“H-o-n-o-r-” you make the mistake of looking up at him then. He's gazing down at you with his head tilted slightly to the right. His cane behind his back as he leans down slightly.

“No cumming,” he tsks, shaking his head. “Disqualified.”

“B-But I didn't-” even as you say those words, you feel it. The lightning zipping through you like a phantom. A ditzy sort of smile flashes across your face as you succumb to the pleasure being forced out of you. “F-Fuck-” its so painful and so fucking good you're seeing stars. He runs a hand through his messy hair and the cane comes down on your backside. This time it draws blood.

“I'm a rusty old man, glad to see I've still got a firm grip,”

“P-Please-” You're still caught in the world of unicorns and rainbows. Your orgasm is center stage, in spite of all the pain. You didn't even know your body could cum for this long. You didn't think it was possible but here you are, riding wave after wave of pleasure induced by a vibrator in your cunt while he canes you almost mindlessly.

He transcended every realm of physical possibilities.

He's breathing heavily now as the cane falls to the floor. The end is bloody. You stare down at the floor while he moves behind you.

“Don't forget, this is a transaction,” Behind you he kneels behind you, his fingers graze your backside, “This is about you avoiding student debt for the rest of your miserable life. A life you'll probably spend married to some depressed drunk who beats you and doesn't even let you cum.” A hand pulls you back by your hair until you're seated on your haunches. Skin had broken.

Your blood drips down your backside like a marble statue in the rain. There were marks. Scars.

“You're indebted to me.” He says behind you. “Say it.”

“I'm indebted to you.”

“Thank me for hitting you, Doll.” His hands drift over your body. The softest touch after these moments of brutality.

Th-" You struggle to catch your breath as he digs his fingers in your cunt, finally freeing you of the vibrator that rattles to the floor, “Thank you… for hitting me.”

He hums into your hair, smelling you, feeling you. “You're welcome, my little winner,”

You hear the sound of his zipper, and frantic movements behind you. You're utterly spent. You'd let him do anything he wanted. Anything at all.

“You look so pretty, Baby. Look at you,” his fingers swipes down the arch of your back. He brings his hand around to show you the crimson dropping from his index. Almost automatically as if the two of you were in communication far beyond that of human understanding, he brings your finger forward the same time you dip your head lower and roll your tongue out. Until the taste of your own blood drawn from all his sadistic torture is wiped along your tongue.

He groans. “I wanna jerk off with your blood.” He admits, “Fuck-”

You gasp, beginning to rock on haunches as if you could still feel that vibrator inside you, “Please- don't say stuff like that-”

This was bad enough.

You were bad enough.

He's already corrupted you to a point where you didn't even recognize yourself.

Where is the quiet, shy girl you had been? She's drowning under all the blood he'd spilled to make himself cum. She's buried under all the pain, all the turmoil and all the damn torture.

You don't miss her

"Pl-lease fuck me, I need it." Your voice is hoarse and you realize you're making demands but still you peer at him over your shoulders. Your tired eyes plead with him.

“I never ever ask you for anything. I've let you control everything.”

While you speak, your voice deep and hoarse, his hand is already moving over his erection. He bends you forward, until you're in doggy style again. Fabric rustles. Your limbs are trembling.

“For once, just grant me th-” the words are barely out your mouth before he's shoving his cock all the way inside you.

“O-Oh God!” Your eyes squeeze shut as he fucks you on the floor like a rabid animal. You try to crane your head back, to watch him ravage you.

His hair is a mess, his tie completely undone. He's everything he tries to hide from the rest of the world. Nothing but an untamed beast.

“Your cunt is so fucking tight-” he says, resting his hands on bloody ass. He guides your movements, pulling you roughly down on his cock until you're screaming into the open air. You're both like animals. You've both regressed to the very basis of your instincts.

“I need to see your blood on my cock,” He's already pulling out of you. The sound reverberates with finality all around the apartment and you cry. It's all you're able to do as you crane your head back to watch him stroke his cock with a bloodied fist.

“Are you ready to cum for me again, baby?”

Your lips are quivering as you rock backwards urging his cock in, “L-Like you won't believe,”

“Then cum for me, Princess.” He says, sliding his cock back inside your overstimulated cunt. Your orgasm is instant and swift and it rocks through you, tightening your cunt around his cock like a vice. His movements grow more frantic as he fucks you through it, keeping a firm grip on your ass.

Your mouth falls open when you realize he's fucking his own cum and your blood back into you and its all too much. He throws his head back when he cums, letting his hips stutter against your ass and the world spins.

“You're s-such a fucking slut,” he laughs manically. You've quite literally given yourself to a sadistic monster and the post nut clarity is vicious.

“I want to take you out,” he says, way softer than he had been a minute ago.

Your body tenses. “Out? Where-”

“Dinner.” He says. “You deserve it… my little winner.”

If you knew anything about anything, you knew it wouldn't just be any ordinary dinner.

But who were you to refuse?

© to @muntitled on tumblr; do not repost

[leftcrunch]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Josef (Creep, The Creep Tapes) x Reader SMUT | This is fucking filthy | The trigger warning/description itself is so explicit, I’m hiding it under the cut. We’re going straight to Hell with this one. You can come along for the ride if you want or just scroll on by, no hard feelings.

TW: BDSM, dubcon, forced cucking, murder, blood, fingers shoved in mouth, cum-feeding, outdoor sex, breeding, biting, period sex, creampie, eating pussy, Josef owns Reader, primal kink, voyeurism, Josef is a little perv, bondage/restraints used, fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex, abduction & sex slave role play, humiliation, daddy kink, degradation, breath play using water, pet play (kind of?) vomit, Reader does some filthy shit in her role play with Josef (everything is consensual, everyone is into it!) sadist!josef, free use, (did I say piss already?) rough oral sex, choking, throat-training, obv don’t do the murder stuff in real life (I feel like that goes without saying) and before trying any of the heavy stuff irl, you need to know you’re with a safe person. Even the darkest fantasies are still fantasies; keep them that way until you’ve developed a bond with someone you can safely put your full trust in.

You and Josef work together as creep-y accomplices. He sends you out to seduce men at bars and bring them back to your place so Josef can fuck with their heads and eventually murder them.

He ties up whatever unfortunate victim you’ve brought home to a chair, and instead of you having sex with him like you promised, you and Josef have sex in front of the guy while he’s forced to watch.

The victim can’t even touch himself because of the restraints, but he’s always as turned-on as he is pissed or scared.

Josef makes sure to drive home the point that HE owns you and your pussy…

…Literally rubbing it in the victim’s face, fucking you with his fingers and then sticking them down the victim’s throat, making them suck your cum off till Josef’s fingers are clean…knowing all the time it’s as close as they (the victim) will ever get to having your pussy…

…Unless Josef feels like sharing. If he’s feeling generous, Josef might let you ride the victim while he murders them. It’s a treat for both of you: Josef gets to watch you hump another man’s dick and you get the thrill of the victim’s blood gushing all over you when Josef slits their throat as you’re riding them...

Of course Josef films every encounter. He watches the recordings when the two of you are apart, jerking himself off to the visual of you sitting on another man’s cock, or the pair of you fucking in front of one of your pathetic cuck victims before murdering him.

Josef likes to have sex in unconventional places, especially in the woods. It appeals to his animalistic nature, rutting into you on wet, muddy ground, feeling the cold air on his bare skin, tasting your cunt in a bed of leaves and grass…

He doesn’t believe in protection, because it takes you out of the moment. It takes the realness away, the rawness…and Josef likes it raw. He wants you bare naked on the forest floor, positioned on your hands and knees, ass pointed up, ready to be mounted and bred just like Nature intended…

The senses are very important to Josef. He needs to use all of them during sex, especially sound. Particularly when fucking you in the woods, he wants it loud. Make noise, growl, pant, grunt, purr, scream for him. He bites when he needs to, because it’s his right. Your body belongs to him; it’s his to nip and pierce when and where he chooses, to remind you who’s in charge. The alpha has to put his bitch in her place now and then. Hurting you is his right, just as much as is pleasing you. You’re Josef’s fuck property, his little bunny to breed, and he’ll tame you in any way he deems necessary.

Josef loves period sex. He gets off on seeing your blood everywhere, especially seeing his cock covered in it. He’ll watch between your bodies as he’s pumping in and out of you, the thick gurgle of blood being punched from your guts by his thrusts, the way his cock looks like it’s covered in strawberries and cream when he finishes inside you…

Josef likes to watch people fuck when they don’t know he’s watching. He’s a creep after all, right? He brings his camcorder and gets close enough to people’s windows that he can look inside and see their bedroom/bathroom activities, masturbating outside while he records it and leaving cum spilled wherever he watched from…

Josef likes to roleplay with you as his victim from time to time. But it’s far different than the way he treats his real victims. The role you play with Josef isn’t about murder; it’s about sex. He ‘abducts,’ you and brings you to a location you’ve never seen before, to heighten the realness of the game. Josef chains you to the floor in the basement by a leash, leaving you with nothing but a soiled mattress to sleep on, some absorbent pads for any accidents you might have, and a bowl of water on the floor.

He leaves during the day and does whatever he wants, but when he comes home to the place he’s keeping you, Josef fucks you brutally on that dirty mattress, with your collar still on. He doesn’t care if you’ve made any messes during the day; this is your cage and messes are to be expected. After dumping his cum inside you, Josef leaves you in the dark and heads upstairs to sleep in a normal bed. When morning arrives, he heads back down to the basement and makes you suck the flavor of your cunt off his dick from when he fucked you the night before.

Weekends as Josef’s slave are the most brutal (and the most fun). Because he’s free during the day and night, it means Josef can use you nonstop. He gives you food on weekends, but of course because it’s Josef, it’s in an unconventional way. He’ll smear food on his boots and sit in a chair away from the mattress, making you crawl to his feet, the metal of your leash clinking as you timidly lick your meal off his dirty boots.

It disgusts Josef, seeing you like this, so pathetic and useless, so beneath him that you’ll literally eat food off his filthy shoes. The disgust he feels is tied inextricably to his arousal, his cock so hard it hurts as he watches you drag your tongue along the floor, searching for any stray crumbs.

Josef grabs you by your hair and pulls your filthy mouth onto his cock, skull-fucking you like the worthless whore you are. If you vomit, you get five inches taken off your leash, giving you less room to move around the basement. If you vomit twice, you lose access to Josef’s cock for an entire day.

The first time you played as Josef’s victim, he was a bit more gentle with you. But over time, he saw how much you enjoyed pushing your own boundaries, and acted accordingly, pushing them right along with you.

As much as Josef enjoys using you as a cum dumpster, he likes babying you even more. He’ll pull you onto his lap and cuddle you while watching TV, gently groping between your legs, nuzzling into your neck while you whimper and fidget in his lap, If Josef can tell you’re stressed, he’ll let you get off grinding on his lap/humping his thigh instead of fucking you.

He’ll bring you back little presents from the murders he commits without you. So far, the coolest things he’s brought you are a pair of diamond earrings he found in the pocket of a victim (probably a gift for someone the victim knew) and an original, vintage vinyl from your favorite 70’s band.

Sometimes Josef’s bedroom preferences lead straight to the bathroom. He enjoys ‘forcing,’ you to drink multiple glasses of water all day and making you hold your urine to the point of discomfort. Holding you firmly on his lap, feeling you wriggle and squirm as the pressure to relieve yourself grows so intense, it almost feels like an orgasm building. When he starts playing with your pussy you lose it, you can’t hold it any longer. You orgasm as piss and cum gush over Josef’s hand, running through his fingers and saturating your panties. “Now see baby?” he murmurs, his lips in a condescending smirk. “Wasn’t it worth holding it all in? Besides-.” He slides your warm, wet ass off his lap and goes to his knees in front of you. “-You know how Daddy likes cleaning up your messes.”

It’s humiliating, and so fucking erotic, watching Josef spread your legs and lick the piss from your wet cunt. His tongue spreads you open, his nose dipping between your folds as he ruts his face deeper, lapping every drop till he’s eating your cum instead, your thighs sticky with arousal created by his tongue inside you…

Josef is heavily dominant, but submissive when he wants to be. He isn’t selfish unless it’s part of the game you’re both playing, and selfish is what you want him to be.

When Josef is selfish, it’s intensely so. He’s into throat-training, seeing how much of him you can take without gagging, pushing your limit a little more every day. The two of you share a kink for being choked, and like to wrestle each other for fun. Josef inevitably tops you every time, his strength far surpassing yours. He wraps a hand over your throat and pins you to the ground, his dick getting harder the more you struggle. Josef likes it when you fight back; the little gurgles you make in your throat while his hands are wrapped around it make him climax untouched sometimes…

When the two of you are out in the woods (burying a fresh body for example) Josef usually has to take a piss at some point. Instead of doing it in the bushes, he makes you sit on the ground in front of him and pull up your skirt. You spread your legs and let Josef piss onto your pussy, soaking your panties through, making your puffy lips visible through the fabric. After licking his dick clean and making him come, Josef helps you off your knees and you both head to the car. Josef packs his supplies in the trunk and drives you home, while you sit in a puddle of his piss the whole way there…

Josef loves fucking you in the ass; he’s specifically a fan of ‘painal.’ It works out for both of you because while he loves the dominance and control of it, you enjoy the pain and being reduced to nothing but a hole for Josef to use.

When you’ve both agreed to free use, Josef will take your ass whenever he wants it. Sometimes he’ll be generous enough to prime your hole with his tongue, but it’s not often that he shows such consideration when it comes to fucking your ass. Regardless, he always soothes your newly-gaped hole after he’s done, licking soft kisses around the rim, gently tonguing it in place of the brutal beating his cock just gave it.

Josef will catch you doing dishes and come to stand behind you, humping against your ass, kissing and licking at your neck while you work as usual…his ragged breath hot on your ear as he works himself up, till he finally can’t hold back anymore and bends you over the sink, dishwater going everywhere, making a total mess he’ll surely make you clean up after by yourself later. He pulls up your skirt/rips off your pants and rubs his tip along your cheeks, guiding it lower so his cock is positioned between your thighs. Josef masturbates himself between them for a short while before grabbing his cock at the base and dragging it back through your cheeks, his tip poised at your hole.

He grabs a handful of your hair and forces your head into the dishwater, thrusting into your ass just as he pushes you under. Josef yanks your face out of the water after only a few seconds; it’s not so much the breath play aspect he likes but the ability to control and degrade you. The way you gasp for air, dirty water spilling down your chin, makes you look positively angelic to Josef. Your asshole clenches and puckers around his cock as he punches in and out of you, his fist in your hair shoving your face back under every thirty seconds or so as he splits your ass open.

He whispers praises mixed with insults at your ear, telling you what a good little bitch you are, how well you take his cock, how fucking stupid you are to let a man like him use you this way… Your cunt clenches around nothing, your asshole stretching to fit Josef’s cock, a beautiful burn splitting your skin for him. He slides a hand around your throat, restricting your air before cutting it off completely under the water. Ripping your head back up for air, he orders you to thank him. Thank him for the way he treats you, for being so good to a little whore like you.

“Tell Daddy how good it feels,” Josef whispers against your ear. “Tell him thank you for using your ass to make himself feel good…for giving it the gift of his cum…for putting his babies inside it…”

“Th-thank you, D-Daddy,” you gasp.

“Louder.” Josef shoves your head under again, pulling you up just as quickly. Water bursts from your nostrils and lips as you sputter “thank you-thank you-.”

“Whose whore are you?” Josef asks, pushing you back under.

“Yours!” you gasp, your belly pressed into the sink, the head of Josef’s cock hitting as deep as he can fit inside you. “M’yours-always.” He yanks your head back so it’s resting on his shoulder, his tongue grazing along the shell of your ear and neck. “Good girl,” Josef growls, punching into you with three final, brutal thrusts. His teeth sink over your shoulder as he paints the inside of your asshole in semen, the pain in your shoulder helping to dull the sting of his cock stretching your insides wider.

Josef grabs a wet towel from the sink and wipes his dick clean after pulling out, his breath uneven and rough. He spanks the towel against your ass and tells you to “clean yourself up, and then this mess,” waving his hand at the water-soaked floor…

[leftcrunch]

₊˚⊹🍓{𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘆 𝗜𝗻 𝗣𝗶𝗻𝗸 Mini Series} 🍓₊˚⊹

*•.¸♡ Key ♡¸.•*

-🥹means it is a family fic

-🌻means its a HC / Imagine

-💞 means it is smut.

-🩷 means implied smut

ೃ⁀➷𝑯𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝑰'𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚°࿔*:･

You’re the soft to his sharp edges—the pretty-in-pink daydream Erik never expected to fall for. With your glittery nails, lace-trimmed skirts, and strawberry-scented lip gloss, you’re everything sugar-sweet, yet there’s steel beneath your sweetness. You wear heart-shaped earrings and hum to pop songs while baking cupcakes, but when it comes to Erik, you’re no pushover—you’re his anchor, his softness, and sometimes, his brat.A sugary mix of soft-core chaos and rough-edged romance.It’s a love story dipped in strawberry gloss and laced with ink, metal, and pink silk bows.

This mini-series follows your unconventional romance with Erik Campbell through a collection of interconnected fics. From the moment he lets you paint his nails a delicate rose pink to the first time you climb onto his lap in nothing but blush-toned lingerie, each installment explores your delicate but fiery dynamic. Erik’s the bad boy who never believed in love until you crashed into his life like a walking Valentine’s card—pretty, giggly, and dangerously irresistible.

You bring light into his life with pastel clouds and heart-shaped everything, while he gives you rough hands, low growls, and a kind of possessive tenderness no one else ever earned.

🎀:

🎀:Pretty Pink Polish

🎀:Soft GF.-🌻

🎀:Corruption.-🩷

🎀:𝖨 𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖯𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖫𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖣𝖺𝖽𝖽y𝗒!-🥹

[leftcrunch]

honey, honey | masterlist

sugar daddy! joel x f!reader

summary: you've always had more money than you knew what to do with. what happens if that all threatens to go away when you don't sacrifice what you really want out of life for your fathers wishes? and what happens if his oldest friend just happens to be the solution?

series tags: 18+ MDNI, sub/dom dynamics, power imbalance due to money and the nature of a sugar daddy arrangement, age gap (reader is 21, joel is 54), eventual smut with some pining/flirtation first, attempting to write a slow burn, each chapter will have individual warnings.

chapters:

one: for the low, low price of! two: tempting fate three coming soon total chapter number not yet determined

extras:

pinterest board spotify playlist

[leftcrunch]

hard drive

pairing: joel in his 50s x OF/cam model f! reader

Lonely and with an empty nest, Joel seeks companionship through a beautiful woman on a screen. What begins as a nightly habit slowly unravels into something more blossoming.

word count - 7.5K

rating - E

chapter content - non outbreak au, ellie and sarah are in the picture, lonely empty-nester joel, age gap (reader is in her 20s-30s, joel is in his 50s), sex work, sex livestream, online relationship, sex toys, impure thoughts, digital intimacy, yearning, masturbation m! and f!, cyber sex, joel's savior complex comes out to play, two people just wanting to be seen

author's note - i'm hoping to write this in a few parts but i've just been so excited for this story. hope you enjoy!

Joel wakes before the sun. Not because he has somewhere to be—he never does—but because his body forgot how to sleep in. No alarm. No plan. Just muscle memory and stiff joints, trained by years of early mornings and long stretches of quiet.

He sits at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees. The floor is cold. The kind of cold that climbs your spine and doesn’t let go. Eventually, habit wins out. It always does.

He makes his way to the kitchen by feel, not bothering with the overheads—just the little stove light, flickering once before settling. The cabinets groan when he opens them, like they haven’t been touched in days.

He moves slow. Measures out coffee with the kind of precision that has nothing to do with taste and everything to do with control.

One mug. Always just one.

The dog shuffles in, slower than he used to be, and leans his full weight into Joel’s leg with a soft thump. Joel reaches down, scratches behind his ears.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, like it’s routine. Because so little else is

The house is clean. Too clean. Not for anyone else. Just to keep the quiet from echoing. He wipes down counters that are already spotless. Folds laundry that doesn't need folding. It beats remembering what silence used to sound like, back when someone else filled it.

There’s a photo on the fridge. Sarah and her husband, hands cupped around the soft curve of her belly. Someone added a filter and printed it from one of those little Bluetooth machines, like it was meant to last longer that way.

Taped beneath it, Ellie’s postcard: a fox in the snow. The back a familiar scrawl.

“Dina and I met a guy playing slide guitar at a bar in Missoula. Thought of you. Hope the dog’s still kickin’. Miss you, old man.”

He rereads it while the coffee brews, even though he already knows it by heart. Smiles, faintly Thinks of the voicemail that followed—Ellie’s laugh, something loud and cluttered in the background, her voice getting swallowed up by joy.

Sarah sends updates every couple of weeks. Nursery paint swatches. Little socks lined up in a drawer. The secondhand glider they finally decided on. She asked if he wanted to visit. He said yes. Meant it. Told her not to worry when she said they were booked solid for the next month. Didn’t want her to feel bad for living. That’s what he wanted for both of them. What he’d fought for.

But pride doesn’t keep you warm when you reach for someone who isn’t there.

He drinks his coffee standing. Puts on a slow record—one of the scratched ones—and wipes down counters already clean.

The sponge squeaks across the surface, shrill in the quiet. He doesn’t stop until his fingers ache.

Phone in hand, he leans against the sink. One missed call from Sarah. A text from Ellie: 

Found a bakery with bear claws the size of your head. You’d love it.

He huffs a soft laugh. Thumb hovering over the call button. Doesn’t press it. He taps Tommy’s name. It only rings twice.

“Hey, big brother,” Tommy says, too chipper for how early it is. It grates and comforts all at once.

Joel rubs his jaw. “You busy?”

“Nah. Maria’s out walking. Tryin’ to get the baby to drop, y’know? She’s been waddlin’ like a penguin for days.”

Joel huffs a quiet laugh. “She doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Tired. Hormonal as hell. But good. Real good.” He pauses. “She said to tell you hi. Said if Uncle Grumpy doesn’t show soon, the baby’s first word’s gonna be disappointment.”

Joel smiles, caught off guard. “Tell her I said hi back.”

“You oughta come out. Just for the weekend. Guest room’s made up. Kids keep askin’ when you’re comin’.”

“Been busy,” Joel mutters, though he knows it ain’t true.

Tommy doesn’t bite. “What, reorganizin’ your record shelf for the fifth time?”

Joel doesn’t answer. Tommy’s voice softens. “You know you’re allowed to leave the house, right? Maybe even meet somebody.”

Joel snorts. “Ain’t lookin’ to complicate things.”

“Doesn’t have to be complicated,” Tommy says. “Could just be… nice.”

Joel leans against the counter, presses his thumb into the wood until the skin goes white. “House is quiet now. Sarah’s doin’ her own thing, Ellie’s off travelin’. Kinda get used to the stillness. Don’t know if I’ve got it in me to stir it all up again.”

“I gotta say, sometimes it feels like you’re the one doin’ the leavin’, even when you stay put. We got a lotta noise here. Kids laughin’, cryin’, fightin’ over cereal. It’s a mess. But it’s a good mess. And I just…I wish you wanted to be in it more.”

Joel swallows hard. His voice is low when he finally says, “I do. I just… I don’t always know how.”

Tommy waits a beat, then says gently, “You don’t gotta say nothin’ else. Just show up. That’s all we want.”

“Anyway, just think about it,” Tommy continues. “Ain’t sayin’ you gotta jump on some damn dating app or whatever Maria keeps tryin’ to push. Just… you still got time, Joel. Time to not feel so goddamn alone.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes flick to the fridge. To the photo of Sarah and her husband—her hand on the swell of her belly. To the postcard Ellie sent, taped just beneath it.

He thinks about how long it’s been since someone touched him and it didn’t come from memory. Since someone looked at him and saw something other than history.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, finally.

Tommy nods. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Joel sat at his desk and stared at the screen like it might blink first.

He told himself he was just looking up chords for “Misery and Gin.” Something slow. Familiar. His hands hadn’t moved like they used to—not without protest—but some part of him still remembered. Some part wanted to remember.

He scrolled past blurry chord charts and out-of-tune covers, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

And that’s when he saw it. A sidebar. Bright blocks of color. Looping videos with no sound. Just motion. Skin. Suggestion.

He didn’t click. Not right away.

But he didn’t look away, either. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about sex. Nights got long. Bed felt colder when there wasn’t anyone pulling the covers off him. Desire and loneliness—he knew how to bury both. He had gotten good at it.

But tonight? Something about that link—those flickering, low-res previews—felt like it might break the silence for five minutes.

So he clicked.

The page came up fast. A grid of previews filled the screen. Women in soft lighting. Some posing, others laughing. A few trying too hard. Too much gloss. Too much noise. He was already moving to close the tab—

Then he saw you. 

You were on the floor in a tank top and panties, legs crossed, holding a mug in both hands like you were trying to warm your fingers. Hair twisted up, a few loose strands framing your face. You were laughing at something off-screen, the kind that started low and cracked wide open.

Your stream title was simple:

Come keep me company 🤍

It felt...human. Not slick. Not cheap. Just lonely in a way that mirrored something in him.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he clicked again. The stream opened quietly. Music played in the background, something soft and hazy he didn’t recognize. You were mid-story, leaning forward a little, one hand tracing slow circles on your knee.

“…and I swear, the guy had no idea his mic was still on. Just kept ranting about almond milk like it had personally fucked him over.”

You laughed, bright and real, and Joel found himself smiling before he even realized it.

“Y’all are a great crowd tonight,” you said, eyes scanning the chat like you could actually see them. “So quiet. So well-behaved.”

Your gaze lingered a little longer on the lens, your voice softening just a touch. “Almost makes me wonder what you're all doing with your hands.”

Joel’s breath caught.

The shift wasn’t obvious. Barely there. But he felt it. Like a string pulled taut under the surface, low and steady and impossible to ignore.

When your hand moved down between your thighs, it wasn’t coy or careful. It was familiar. Confident. Like you’d done it a hundred times for yourself, and this just happened to be a night you left the door open. You didn’t angle for the camera. You didn’t make a show of it.

Joel felt it hit, sharp and sudden.

It was the kind of hunger he hadn’t known in years. The kind that snuck in low and hard, blooming through his abdomen and down his thighs until his whole body felt tight with it. His cock swelled thick against his sweats, already straining toward his waistband, the tip wet and sensitive in a way that made him flinch. He shifted in his seat, dragging a palm over his thigh like he could calm it down, but it didn’t help.

He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. The need to be seen. Touched. Pulled out of the quiet he’d settled into like a second skin.

The way you let yourself feel pleasure, without apology. Like you didn’t care who saw, or maybe forgot anyone was there at all. Your body tensed, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut, and Joel forgot how to breathe. He could feel it hit his chest like a fist, like your release had pulled something from him, too—left him clenching the mouse with one hand, straining in his sweats, the ache so sharp it almost felt like grief.

He wanted to touch himself. The urge was sharp, restless, pooling low in his stomach and pressing hard against his waistband. His cock was swollen, already leaking through the soft cotton of his sweats. Still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because watching you in the aftermath unraveled something in him. The way your chest rose and fell. The way your hand slipped away like it wasn’t needed anymore. You looked soft, dazed, like you’d chased what you needed and found it. There was no performance left in it. Just quiet satisfaction, the kind that came from doing it for yourself. And that wrecked him. Because it wasn’t about the camera. It wasn’t about who might be watching. You wanted it for you. And somehow, that made him want you more than anything else had in years.

You stretched, slow and sleepy, fingers brushing your collarbone before tucking your hair behind one ear. “Alright, lovers,” you murmured, voice low and lazy from the afterglow. “That’s it for me tonight. Be good to yourselves.”

Then you smiled—smaller this time, softer. Like you didn’t owe anyone anything.

The screen dimmed. The silence that followed hit harder than Joel expected.

He sat there in the dark, cock still aching, hand gone limp in his lap. His chest rose, then again—shaky. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, barely audible.

—--------------------------------------

Joel told himself he shouldn’t go back.

The first night had been a weak moment. Curiosity, loneliness, whatever excuse made it easier to swallow. He’d meant to leave it at that.

But the next night, he was there again.

A soft lamp glowed from your dresser, casting amber light across your skin. The bed was unmade. A blanket half-kicked to the side. You lay across the mattress, one leg bent, the other draped off the edge, body loose like you hadn’t thought twice about how it looked.

Music drifted low from a speaker—something slow, mostly rhythm and breath. Your laptop was propped up on a pillow. You scrolled through chat, smiling without speaking.

And then, without ceremony, your hand slid down.

Fingers skimmed your navel, lingered for a moment, then dipped lower. You eased your thighs apart, just enough to slip your hand between them. No warning. No shift in expression. Just movement. Fluid and natural. Like this was how your evenings ended—with your fingers between your legs and your head tipped back against the pillow.

Joel’s cock pulsed hard, already aching in his sweats. He adjusted slightly in his chair, trying not to grip the waistband, trying not to reach. But the pressure was relentless. Sharp and thick, the kind that settled low in his stomach and refused to fade.

On screen, your fingers moved slowly over the front of your panties. Rubbing yourself through the fabric at first, finding the rhythm like you’d done this a thousand times and didn’t need to think about it. Your hips shifted just a little, chasing the pressure. Then you slid the fabric aside.

His eyes were glued to the screen—completely still, breath shallow. You moved the fabric aside with practiced ease, revealing the slick pink of your pussy, soft and glistening in the low light. Folds delicate, lips plush and parted, the kind of sight that made Joel’s mouth go dry. He hadn’t seen something that pretty in years—maybe ever. Not like this. Not with someone so unabashed, so sure of herself it made his chest ache.

Joel sat frozen, the only movement the slow rock of his hips against the seat. His hand hovered, then rested low over his erection, thick and aching, tip already wet. He didn’t stroke. Just held. Let it throb in his grip, full of something he still wouldn’t take.

You came quietly, breath catching as your body arched, then folded in on itself. No theatrics. Just a soft, honest release. After, you stayed still, hand between your legs, chest rising slow, eyes fluttering open, dazed and distant.

It felt like you were alone. Like he shouldn’t be seeing this.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His cock pressed against his palm, dampening the fabric, desperate for relief. He could’ve finished. Easily. But he didn’t.

Not while you looked like that. Unguarded. Untouched by anyone but yourself. He didn’t want to ruin it. He just wanted to stay with you.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

What brought Joel back night after night was your voice.

You talked easy and warm, like every stranger mattered. You laughed without trying to sound cute. You filled silence without making it heavy. And somehow, you didn’t feel far away.

You felt like something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want.

Some nights he barely watched, just let your stream play while he tuned his guitar or shuffled through things that didn’t need fixing. Other nights, like this one, he sat still and just... listened. Let your voice fill the room. Like keeping an eye on you made something in him settle.

Still, his body betrayed him. The arousal came fast and hard—sharp, familiar, and constant. It would’ve been easy to give in. Just a few strokes, one imagined moan, and he’d be gone.

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because this wasn’t just lust. Not anymore. It was habit. It was comfort. It was the only way he knew to make sure you were okay. And that felt more important than getting off.

But tonight, something shifted.

Some asshole in the chat wouldn’t stop spamming your name—asking for attention, pushing boundaries, demanding things like he was owed them. You ignored him once. Twice. But Joel saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the flicker of strain in your smile.

Something in him lit up.

That old reflex. The one that used to kick in when Sarah got hurt or Tommy ran his mouth too far. Protective. Immediate. Automatic.

You weren’t his. He knew that. You’d probably seen worse. But he made an account anyway.

Didn’t think about the name. Just typed it out. LoneStar67. One message. Direct.

“Drop it.”

The guy didn’t stop right away. Of course not. But Joel kept at it. Quiet, steady. No threats. Just presence. Control. Something that said, enough.

Eventually, the chat went quiet.

And then you looked up. Read the name out loud. Smiled, soft and real.

“Thank you, LoneStar67.”

Joel felt it deep in his chest. Like he’d just been handed something he didn’t know he needed.

His cock still ached, worse now. He glanced down and found his hand already there, pressed firm through the fabric, knuckles white.

This time, he didn’t stop.

He slid his palm lower, fingers curling around the thick shape beneath his waistband. His breath caught. Head tilted back just slightly. Your voice still filled the room.

He didn’t move fast.

Didn’t stroke.

Just held.

Because right now, it wasn’t about getting off. It was about being here. About knowing you felt safe again. About the way your voice softened when the tension left your shoulders. The way you said his name.

Even if you didn’t know who he was.

—--------------------

You noticed him right away after that night.

LoneStar67.

It wasn’t just the way he shut that guy down—it was the way his name kept showing up after, quiet but constant. If someone in the chat got pushy or crude, there he was. A short message. Just enough to let them know someone was watching. Someone had your back.

You started seeing the pattern. He didn’t flood the chat or toss out tips to get your attention. He wasn’t flashy. But he was always there. Right when your stream started, right until the end. He didn’t say much—just enough to let you know he was watching.

Especially the night your setup gave you hell. The ring light kept shorting, the whole stream lagged, and someone was already mouthing off in the chat about the delay. You were two seconds from snapping when you caught it:

LoneStar67: “Take your time. We’re here.”

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. The timing, the tone—it calmed you instantly.

“I appreciate it, LoneStar,” you said, glancing at the screen. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not really. But your voice softened. Warmer than you meant.

His reply came a beat later.

LoneStar67: “Just looking out.”

You waited, eyes lingering on his name, expecting more. Hoping, maybe. But nothing else came. And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, that left you a little bummed.

The restraint was… curious. Maybe even a little frustrating. Your chat could be a mess—commands, crude asks, things no one would dare say face to face. But not him. Never him.

And that made you wonder. Why not? Was he older? Married? Just not interested? Or was it something else you couldn’t quite place?

You started testing it. Little things. Slower moves. Softer light. Holding eye contact with the lens a bit longer. Letting your voice drop, just enough.

Still nothing from him. No shift. No reaction.

Just that steady presence. Quiet. Watching. Always there.

So one night, you decided to make it obvious. Just for him.

You figured with his username this would grab his attention. You pulled on an old Texas Longhorns t-shirt before the stream—soft from years of wear, thin enough to cling, tight enough to tease. No bra. Your nipples pressed against the fabric, dark and visible in the low amber light. You didn’t mention it. Just let it sit on your skin, casual and deliberate.

Half an hour in, you straddled the toy, slow and steady. No theatrics. Just the grind of your hips, the quiet rhythm of need building under your skin. The hum of background music filled the silence, and you let yourself get lost in the feel of it—wet and aching, slick thighs tightening with every shift.

But what made you wetter wasn’t the toy. It was the idea of him. Watching. Wanting. Sitting in the dark somewhere, jaw tense, cock hard, hand still.

You scanned the chat, barely blinking. Waiting.

And then–

LoneStar67: "Look at you."

It hit you like a pulse. Low and hot. Straight between your legs.

You held eye contact with the camera a little longer after that. Slowed your hips. Let your hand drift lazily over your stomach, slipping just under the hem of the shirt like it meant nothing.

You didn’t say his name. Didn’t call him out.

But your smile turned knowing—small and secret, meant for someone.

“Thought you might be here,” you murmured, soft enough it could’ve been for anyone.

But it wasn’t. And you both knew it.

—--------------------------------------

Something in Joel cracked open.

His cock had been hard for minutes, straining against his sweats, aching for relief. His hand had just been resting there—like that meant it didn’t count.

But this time, he moved.

Fingers slipped under the waistband, wrapped around the heat of it. Thick. Leaking. He dragged his thumb up the length, breath catching, hips twitching forward.

And then—without thinking—he typed something.

He almost shut the tab. Almost backed out before it could matter.

But then you smiled.

Small. Soft. Like you knew.

“Thought you might be here,” you said.

That was all it took.

Joel gripped himself and stroked, slow and steady, matching your rhythm. One hand on the desk, holding still. Eyes locked on your body. Pretending it wasn’t a screen. Pretending it was real.

He came harder than he meant to.

Joel stayed even as the stream slowed to its quiet end.

You’d already come, already slipped into the soft hum of your wind-down voice, talking aimlessly about your day. Nothing special. Just the little things. But he listened. Still. Like always.

His body was loose, spent, but his mind hadn’t gone quiet. If anything, it felt clearer. Calmer. His shoulders had dropped without him noticing—more relaxed than they’d been in weeks. Maybe longer.

Then came the ping.

A soft sound. Barely there. He almost didn’t check.

But it was you.

Hey.

He blinked. Stared at the screen, like it might change. Like maybe it wasn’t meant for him.

Replies flooded his head. All wrong. Too eager. Too cold. Too much.

He typed what felt real.

Hey.

You answered fast. Said you couldn’t sleep. Said the stream had you wired. He told you he felt the same. Conversation unfolded slow from there—gentle, unhurried. The kind that made time slip by.

Then you said it.

Thanks for always showing up. For making the space feel a little safer.

Joel read it twice. Three times. His hand hovered over the keyboard.

Then he typed.

Didn’t mean to cross a line earlier. That comment—‘look at you.’ I just… I didn’t want you thinkin’ I’m some creepy old man.

A pause. He exhaled. Rubbed a hand over his jaw.

It had been a long time since a woman messaged him like this. Since he let someone see even a part of him.

Your reply came quick.

You didn’t. That’s why I liked it.

Joel froze.

It had been a long time since anyone flirted with him. Or really saw him at all—soft around the edges, a little unsure, worth noticing for more than what he could do. Most days, Joel didn’t feel like the kind of man someone teased. He felt useful. Reliable. The guy you called when something broke, not the one you stayed up thinking about.

He didn’t respond right away.

And just when he started to wonder if he’d let the moment slip, another message popped up. Like you’d waited for him, then stepped in to carry the silence.

Not gonna lie, I kinda liked that you couldn’t hold back… kinda surprised you’re even here, to be honest.

He stared at the screen for a long beat. Then:

Only reason I’m here’s you. Always has been.

You blinked. Stared longer than you meant to. You’re shocked at how it didn’t feel like a line to you. Just honest. 

You blinked once, then typed:

This? Me in a Texas tee with a half-dead ring light and an anxiety twitch? This is the highlight of your night?

He didn’t answer right away. You figured maybe you’d overplayed it—too much snark—but then:

Well damn, you forgot the part where you made me lose my mind for fifteen minutes straight.

The rest came easy after that.

You asked what he did. He kept it vague—said he worked with his hands, mostly. Construction, repairs, whatever needed doing. You joked that he was a walking fantasy, and he told you to cut it out.

You asked what brought him to your stream in the first place.

You told him about your first stream—how awkward it felt, how long you spent picking an outfit no one cared about. Lit candles you didn’t even like.

“And now?” he asked.

A pause. Then:

“Now I care more about who’s watching.”

The hours passed without either of you noticing. Conversation drifted from music to bad dates. Joel laughed hard at a story about your ex and a botched roleplay scene. His dog was curled up at his feet. A low playlist hummed in the background. He wondered what you were listening to. What your room looked like. If you were sitting cross-legged or curled up in bed.

His clock ticked past 2 AM.

“I should probably get some sleep,” you typed. “My legs are killing me. Haven’t moved since nine.”

And Joel hated how much he didn’t want the night to end. Before Joel could figure out how to sign off, another message popped up.

“I don’t really do this…But you don’t seem like a creep. So if you want to… you could text me?” 

“On one condition.” You continued. 

He stared at that part.

“I get to know your real name.”

His thumb was already reaching for his phone. He opened a new message.

Hey. It’s Joel.

—-----------------------------------------

You started texting the next morning.

Just a quick “hey” from you, a dry “mornin” from him.

But it didn’t stop.

You talked all day. Every day.

You sent photos of your breakfast with dumb captions. He teased you about burnt toast. He learned your routine—when you streamed, when you went to the gym, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly three ice cubes. You loved little things. Old songs. Warm socks. Inside jokes.

You learned he liked quiet mornings. That he kept to himself. That he was always fixing something, even when no one asked. He told you about Texas, about music, about the old mutt curled up at his feet most nights.

Not everything, though.

He still hadn’t told you his age. You hadn’t asked—but he knew you could tell. In the way he spoke. In the quiet pauses. The wall wasn’t to push you away, just to protect whatever was left standing behind it.

But you still stayed. So when you went live a few nights later, Joel didn’t hesitate.

He was already logged in.

And there you were.

Hair down, soft light behind you, something low playing through your speaker, more atmosphere than music. You stretched across the bed, one knee bent, eyes locked on the camera with that look he was starting to recognize as you typed on your phone.

Coy. Quietly smug. Like you knew something he didn’t.

Like you were waiting for him to catch it.

His phone buzzed.

You: You watching, LoneStar?

His chest tightened. Fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Him: Course I am.

You smiled. Slow. Like you could feel him watching. Like you knew exactly who his eyes were on.

Then came another message.

You: Been thinking about doing a private stream soon… Not for just anyone, though.

Joel’s stomach tightened.

He shifted in his chair, legs spreading without thinking, cock aching hard against his sweats. His hand twitched at his thigh, wanting to move. Just a little.

But this time, he didn’t pull back.

Your message sat on the screen—innocent on its own, but with your voice, your gaze right into the lens like you were looking straight at him—it felt intimate. Intentional.

Joel exhaled slowly. Ran a hand over his face, then down to his phone.

Him: Not just anyone, huh? Then yeah. I’d love to.

You looked into the camera and smiled—bright, excited. The kind of smile that made something flutter deep in his chest.

Then his phone buzzed again.

You: Can’t wait to see the handsome man I’ve been talking to.

—----------------------------------------

The stream had ended twenty minutes ago.

Joel was still at his desk, hands curled loose in his lap, heart thudding like he was waiting for something he shouldn’t want.

The room was dark now, lit only by the low glow of his monitor. Your last words still echoed in his head. That smile. The way you said you couldn’t wait to see him.

He should’ve let it go. Signed off. Gone to bed like he always did. Instead, he sat there. Waiting.

Then it came.

Incoming Video Chat Request 

His stomach dropped.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You were asking to see him. Not just hear his voice. And that terrified the hell out of him.

What if you saw him and changed your mind?

What if all the little things you liked, the quiet jokes, the steadiness, the care, what if none of that mattered once you saw the lines on his face? The gray in his beard? The years?

What if all you saw was a lonely old man?

Joel stood too fast, ran a hand through his hair. Wiped both palms down the front of his jeans like it might settle him. It didn’t.

He tapped out a quick reply:

One sec.

Then paused. Looked around his room like it might offer reassurance.

It didn’t.

He angled the webcam low, kept the frame tight—just his chest, his collarbone, his flannel. Just enough to ease into it. Just enough to hide the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to offer yet.

Then he hit accept. The screen lit up.

There you were.

Propped against the same pillow he recognized from your streams. Makeup still fresh. Hair mussed just enough to be real. Your lips were a little pink at the edges, like you’d been chewing on them out of nervousness.

And when you saw him, you smiled. Bright. Unfiltered. Not performative. Just you.

Joel’s breath caught. His throat went tight. But he kept his voice steady, even if the edges frayed a little.

“Fair warnin’,” he said, rough and low. “You ain’t gonna like what you see.”

“Joel, there’s not a single version of you I wouldn’t want to look at right now.” You smiled. 

He didn’t move.

Just sat there, fingers curled around the edge of the desk, your words sinking slow and heavy into a part of him he’d kept quiet for years. He hesitated—then reached for the camera.

He adjusted it, tipped it and let you see the real Joel Miller. 

—--------------------------------------

You weren’t sure what you expected.

But when the screen shifted and Joel’s face came into view, it knocked the air out of you.

He was handsome.

Not in some curated, filtered kind of way. Not like the men who filled your inbox with flexed arms and forced smiles. Joel looked real. Solid. The kind of man you could lean into without thinking twice.

There were lines around his eyes, a heaviness in the set of his mouth—worn in, not worn out. His hair was swept back, going gray at the edges. Stubble roughened his jaw like he’d tried to shave and changed his mind halfway through. His collar was loose, his shoulders broad, but he sat stiff like he didn’t quite believe he belonged here.

And still—he looked at you. Let you look back.

No mask. No pose.

“Holy shit, Joel. You’re hot, you know that?”

Joel looked up, caught off guard. A quiet huff left his chest as he shook his head. “You need your eyes checked.”

You grinned, settling your chin in your hand. “No, I don’t. I just finally get to say it to your face.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. A little softer now. Like he wasn’t waiting for the joke to land or the punchline to come.

The conversation drifted after that. Nothing big. You told him about your day. He listened. You teased him once or twice, watched his mouth twitch like he might actually smile. He shifted in his chair, rubbed the back of his neck, but stayed right there.

At one point, you leaned in a little, voice quieter now. “I like the way you look at me.”

His gaze sharpened just enough to feel it. Then he said it. Low. Real.

“You’re somethin’ else.”

“You mind if I ask how old you are?” you asked, voice soft, almost careful.

Joel hesitated. His jaw flexed once. That old instinct to pull back, to guard what little he still kept close, flickered through him.

“Fifty-six,” he said finally, voice rough.

He waited for the shift. The flicker in your expression. The math behind your eyes. That quiet recalibration he’d seen before, where interest dulled just slightly.

But it didn’t come.

You smiled. “Good. I like knowing.”

And just like that, something in his chest let go. You weren’t trying to flatter him. You weren’t fishing. 

Still, he didn’t relax all the way. Not when you leaned in a little more, voice dropping low.

“I don’t usually do this,” you said. Honest. No act. No script.

“I know.” Joel’s voice was quiet. “Didn’t figure you did.”

You looked at him then, really looked. “But I wanted you to see me.”

His pulse kicked up.

He’d been trying to be good. Careful. Not let this slide into something it wasn’t supposed to be. Because you weren’t just some girl on a screen. You were funny. Smart. Warm. And if he fucked this up by giving in too fast, by making it about his need instead of yours, he didn’t know if he’d forgive himself.

But the way you were looking at him now, there was no mistaking it.

“I been seein’ you,” he said. Soft. True.

That did something to you. He could see it, the way your body shifted, the way your mouth parted just slightly.

Then your fingers slipped to the hem of your shirt, slow and sure.

“Wanna keep looking?” you asked.

And Joel didn’t have a single good reason to say no.

You lifted your shirt slowly, letting it rise over your stomach, then higher. There was no act to it, no script. Just skin and intention. Your breasts were soft in the glow of the screen, nipples already tight, a flush blooming across your chest. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. This was yours. And it was for him.

Joel watched like he’d never seen anything so real. Like he didn’t want to miss a second. His eyes followed every line of you, slow and careful, like he was trying to memorize all of it.

You heard a quiet shift on his end, the rustle of fabric. His chest rose quicker now. His hands stayed out of frame, knuckles flexed tight against the edge of the desk. But still, he didn’t move.

He was trying to be careful. Trying not to break something that already felt too good to be real.

You looked into the camera.

“Joel,” you said, soft but sure. “You don’t have to hold back.”

His breath hitched.

“I’m trying not to,” he said, voice low. “Just don’t wanna turn this into somethin’ it’s not. Don’t wanna turn you into that.”

“I know that,” you said gently. “And you’re not.”

Something in him loosened. Just slightly.

Then your hand moved lower, fingers slipping between your thighs. Not to perform. Just to let him see. To let him in.

Joel’s breath caught.

And this time, he didn’t fight it.

He let himself want. Let himself feel it—your trust, your body, your eyes on him like he was worth watching.

Like you’d chosen him.

You stayed like that for a moment, bare and open, your hand resting between your thighs, breath shallow. The silence between you wasn’t tense, it was thick with something else. Anticipation. Want. Trust.

Then you shifted back slightly on the bed, the movement slow, deliberate. Your legs parted just enough to let the shorts ride higher on your hips. The fabric was thin, soft, and now visibly damp, clinging to the heat between your thighs. You weren’t wearing anything underneath.

Joel’s eyes dropped.

His breath faltered.

He didn’t speak, but everything about him shifted. His grip on the desk tightened, jaw locked like he was holding back something feral. You could feel it through the screen, the way his want built like a storm in his chest.

Your fingers moved, just a light press, a soft rub through the cotton, and his reaction was instant. A sharp exhale. His eyes flicked up to your face, then down again, like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to burn into memory first.

He didn’t try to hide it anymore.

One arm moved out of frame, slow and controlled. His shoulder lifted, and you could picture it—his hand wrapping around his cock, thick and aching, slick at the tip, finally giving in to what he’d been holding back since the second you lifted your shirt.

He let himself have you now. All of you. Your flushed skin, your parted lips, your fingers slipping beneath your shorts, your breath catching every time your eyes locked on his.

You moved for him. He touched himself for you.

And in that moment, it didn’t feel like performance. It felt like confession.

“I can tell you take care of everybody else,” you said softly, your voice a slow pour of warmth. “Always carrying something for someone.”

It landed hard. Too real to dodge.

Your fingers moved between your thighs again, slow and wet, breath catching softly.

“So how about tonight,” you whispered, “you take care of yourself?”

Joel exhaled rough through his nose. One hand slid out of frame, slow like he still wasn’t sure he should.

“Don’t gotta be perfect,” you breathed. “You don’t have to prove anything. Just let go. You’re allowed to feel good.”

He wrapped his fingers around his cock, thick and flushed in his palm. He moved slow at first, like he didn’t trust the moment to stay. Like if he went too fast, it would vanish.

Then your voice hit him again.

Low. Sweet. Just a little wrecked.

“Jesus, Joel.”

His eyes stayed low, focused on the desk, breath dragging through clenched teeth. His thumb swept up the length, catching at the tip, already wet.

Then came the next part—softer, almost a hum.

“Of course you’d have a cock like that.”

Joel froze for half a second.

It unsettled him because it landed too deep. Like it carved a space in him. No one said shit like that to him. Not like they meant it.

He groaned low in his chest, the sound pulled from somewhere he hadn’t touched in years.

“Touch yourself, baby,” you murmured. “Don’t stop. I want to watch you feel good.”

His hand moved faster, strokes slick and tight. His legs were spread wide beneath the desk, his body tense, trembling with restraint. His jaw clenched, face flushed. Mouth slack now. Every part of him undone.

You whispered again, filthier this time, and that was it. “Cum for me, please.” 

He came with a groan—raw, guttural. His body jolted forward as he spilled over his hand, across his stomach, soaking the band of his jeans. His eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving, hand still gripping tight around the base like he couldn’t let go yet.

And for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

Because when he looked back at the screen, you were still there. Still watching. Still smiling.

He saw the way your body moved, how your thighs trembled, your hips rocking into your hand. You tipped your head back, mouth falling open, trying to stifle a moan that still made it through, low and needy.

Joel couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. He watched you unravel, cheeks flushed, lips parted, your fingers working tight between your legs like you couldn’t stop now, not with his eyes on you.

He should’ve been spent. Should’ve leaned back and let the moment settle.

But the sound of your orgasm wrecked him. The sight of you shaking, breathless and needy, pushed him past any thought of restraint. He imagined what you'd look like if it were his hands making you feel that way, his mouth, his fingers, his body over yours, pulling those sounds from you until you broke apart beneath him. The fantasy hit too hard, too fast, and it lit something up in him again.

His hand moved before he could stop it. Gripped the base, already half-hard again, his cock twitching in his fist. He stroked once, breath catching, the weight of it still hot and slick in his palm.

Then again.

He let out a moan, surprised by how quickly it built, how sharp the second release hit him. His cock throbbed, twitching hard as more cum spilled over his hand, thick and warm. His chest rose fast, jaw clenched as his body trembled through it.

He hadn’t expected to come again. Not like that.

But with you still spread out on the screen, flushed and wrecked and smiling just for him—there was no holding anything back.

You looked so goddamn beautiful like that. Skin flushed. Chest rising slow. Eyes lidded but still on him.

He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t find the words that fit.

He glanced around, hand sticky, breath still uneven, and realized he hadn’t thought this far ahead. No towel in reach. No plan for what came after.

He muttered something under his breath and stood, shifting the laptop with him out of habit. The camera wobbled a little, then tilted just enough to show you more than he probably meant to. A glimpse of worn floors, a shelf full of records, a lived-in couch draped with a throw blanket. The hallway behind him was dim but warm, the kind of space that looked like it held stories.

You perked up, chin resting on your arm. “Wait… are you giving me a tour now?”

Joel glanced at the screen, caught off guard. “Wasn’t tryin’ to.”

Your grin widened. “Too late. I’m already invested. Keep going.”

He shot you a look but didn’t argue. Kept the camera propped up on the counter while he grabbed a towel from a nearby drawer. You watched his shoulders roll as he cleaned himself off, muscles shifting under the soft fabric of his shirt, the flushed line of his stomach still visible.

“You always this prepared?” you teased.

“Usually just this messy,” he said, drying his hands. But his voice was light. More open than it had been minutes ago.

You kept watching. Not for the view—not just for that—but because this was him. Unfiltered. A little awkward. A little shy. You liked him like this.

He caught the way your eyes lingered on his body. The slow curl of your mouth. It made something settle low in his stomach again, not arousal, not exactly. Just the comfort of being seen. Of being wanted.

He sat back down, pulled the laptop closer, cleared his throat.

“Hope that was alright,” he said, voice low. Like it wasn’t the best thing he’d felt in years.

You smiled, soft and sure. “Joel, it was perfect.”

His stomach pulled tight again. Not with heat, but something deeper. Something that ached in a better way.

You were curled back on the bed now, one arm tucked beneath your head, the other resting lightly across your stomach. The screen lit your face in soft gold. You looked relaxed. Real. Still watching him.

Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence felt soft and settled, like a blanket pulled up after a long day.

Joel leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the desk. You asked if he always kept his place that clean. He chuckled, said no, not unless company was coming over, which earned a sleepy grin from you.

You shifted on the bed, asked about the records behind him. He told you about the stack he kept by the player. One was missing a sleeve. You teased him about that, said it gave character. He said he liked that word.

And just like that, you were back in it. Conversation easy again, like nothing had happened — or maybe like everything had, but it didn’t scare either of you off. Just made the air between you feel more certain.

Something had changed. Quietly. Without either of you naming it.

You broke it gently. Voice low, half-muffled by your pillow.

“I know I keep saying this, but I really don’t usually do this with other viewers. The texting, the private streams. Any of that.”

Joel laughed once, soft. “Me either.”

You looked at him again, more serious now. “But I’m glad it was with you.”

Joel didn’t know what to say to that. Just nodded. You yawned. Shifted a little deeper into your pillow.

“You gonna text me in the morning?”

His voice came quieter this time. “Yeah. I will.”

And he meant it. He stayed on the call long after you fell asleep, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest. The way your lips parted. The sound of your breathing, steady in his ears.

When he finally closed the laptop, the room felt too quiet.

But for the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

Like something had started.

And this time, he didn’t want to let it go.

[leftcrunch]

double play

Tommy and Joel Miller x f!reader, 500 words

WARNINGS: 18+ PIV, degradation, incest via double vaginal penetration, infidelity

You were riding Tommy on the sofa when the truck came rattling down the road. Most of your encounters took place at Joel’s house, since Tommy had a family. Joel pulled into the driveway, and Tommy gritted his teeth with a sharper thrust. His big hands tightened on your hips. When the truck door closed outside, Tommy's cock twitched, and he let out a low moan. Bouncing on his cock, you cooed, "Gonna cum, baby?"

His tongue was pressing hard against his molars to stay in control.

"Gonna fill me up?" You asked.

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, and his hands forced you to be still on his raging hard cock.

Joel came in, and Tommy's jugular vein was pulsing fast under a cold sweat. "Get in here," Tommy demanded of him.

Joel rubbed his hand over his jeans, and said "Afternoon to you, too..."

"Get the fuck in here,” Tommy repeated.

"Coulda got ready on the drive if I knew ya were here. Damn.”

You rocked yourself on Tommy's cock, and he warned under his breath, "if you don't sit still, god damnit..."

"She's a cumslut, Tommy. What the hell do you expect?" Joel lubed up his thickening cock, pumping it quickly.

"Already made her cum," Tommy complained. Joel explained, "A real cumslut is all about gettin' filled up. Ain't that right, doll face?" Joel's free hand groped your tits from behind.

-

Once you and Tommy were laid on the couch and Joel was all ready, Joel straddled Tommy's legs and examined your hole, finding it full of Tommy's cock and dripping with arousal. Joel wedged his fingers in, and a growl left his chest. He placed his hand over Tommy's balls at the base of Tommy's shaft. Joel held Tommy's cock in place that way while Tommy helped spread your thighs. When Joel's tip hit your clit, you whimpered. Then the spongy head dragged down to your already full hole, and prodded to be let in.

Joel used his thumb to force himself in, still not fully erect. Tommy was holding his breath. Joel's shaft quickly thickened as he pushed into you with a grunt.

Tommy let out a sigh of pleasure, and his chest deflated under yours.

Joel pulled back a couple inches then thrust forward, his big cock plowing its way between Tommy's shaft and your stretched walls. Tommy groaned, and his balls tightened, then his shaft twitched, and he erupted, shoving himself deeper into you, packing you tighter as his cum coated your walls and Joel's cock. Joel fucked you through it and Tommy shuddered with the extra stimulation as his balls were drained.

As Tommy finished coming, Joel said, “That ain't enough for this cum dumpster… is it, doll?” He fucked you even as Tommy's spent cock lie drained in your hole. “God Almighty, this slut is one of a kind,” Joel breathed as he fucked you.

“Fuck,” Tommy moaned.

“Couldn't quit this if ya wanted,” Joel taunted him. “Never gonna find one like this again.”

-

-

-

cc: @iamasaddie , @cosmickid-inmotion @lunarlilith

Joel x Reader x Tommy Masterlist

Thank you for reading 🖤

[leftcrunch]

Relax

In which your psychologist, Doctor Delroy, hypnotizes you into true relaxation.

Tags - dark, one shot, smut, piv, fingering, oral sex, creampie, masturbation, dubcon/gentle noncon, hypnosis/hypnokink, discussions about anxiety/mental health, unethical as fuck, but it’s hotter that way isn’t it, clothed jack + naked reader cuz i'm into that, slight fearplay, manipulation. 5.9k words.

A/N - fuckin finally, right?

Your manicure’s chipped. Fuck, you just did your nails, too. Frowning, you wonder how that happened as you wait for your psychologist, Doctor Jack Delroy, to come retrieve you for your appointment. Fuck, you just did your nails, too. Doctor Delroy had mentioned having a fondness for the color violet, so that’s what you painted your nails with. 

You smooth out your clothes, calming your nerves. You’re wearing something casual; a soft, thin sweater and some jeans that hug your body just right. You feel pretty, but you wonder if Doctor Delroy will think you look pretty, too. It’s a silly thought, you know. Inappropriate, too - that’s a boundary neither of you should cross, nor do you truly even want to deep down. But still, you can’t help but to fantasize about it. About him. You wear an extra squirt of perfume on Friday evenings when you have appointments with Doctor Delroy because he told you that you smelled good once. 

Doctor Delroy’s office door opens, and out leaves a woman, guided by his hand on her lower back. You offer her a polite smile as he tells her to take care. He then turns to you and says your name kindly, greeting you, gesturing towards the room. He follows you inside his office, closing the door behind you. You sit on his modest little sofa, crossing your right leg over your left, admiring the familiarity of the room. The olive green refrigerator, the desk in the corner. Simple still life artwork decorates the walls. You watch Doctor Delroy move about his office before he starts the session, the wood flooring creaking with his steps. He’s at his tiny kitchenette, turning off his electric tea kettle. He pulls out a box of tea from the cabinet and turns around, asking, “Want me to make you a cup while I’m at it, darling?” 

Darling. Jack knows he’s not supposed to call you that. But he breaks rules, though. All psychologists do, right? A little bit, here and there. 

“Oh, you don’t–”

“Nonsense, my dear, it’s no trouble at all. Come on, what’ll do ya? There’s chamomile - but that’ll put you right to sleep. I have ginger, I have peach, I have-”

“Peach,” you interrupt. “Please and thank you, Doctor.” 

Jack smiles, and drops a bag of peach tea into the bottom of an orange fiestaware mug for you, and a bag of black tea into a purple mug for himself. He pours steaming water over both, then clears his throat. “Honey?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

Jack chuckles. “No, darling, I’m asking if you’d like honey in your tea.”

“Just a little,” you answer bashfully. God, you’re stupid. You’re stupid and nervous and Doctor Delroy’s so gorgeous tonight, just like he always is. Tall, dark, and handsome, with his gorgeous, strong nose, sparkling eyes, that charming smile that makes your heartbeat a little harder.

“Just a little,” Jack repeats, drizzling the plastic bear full of honey into each of your mugs - a little for you, a little more for himself. Jack always did have quite the sweet tooth. He’s always been a rather indulgent man. 

He turns around carefully, and walks with both mugs toward you. He places yours on an end table next to your couch, right by a box of tissues and a warmly glowing lamp, illuminating the room. Jack places his mug on his own end table, then takes a seat in his leather chair that’s seen better days. He checks his watch, then looks at you. Nervous, nervous girl. You’re sitting up straight, restless fingers tap-tap-tapping away. 

He takes a sip of his tea, nearly burning his tongue. “Well, we made it to Friday, didn’t we, sweetheart? Hot dog.” 

“Yep,” you answer, smiling awkwardly. Jack lets you take your time - you always need a moment to settle in. “Did you have a good week, Doctor Delroy?”

“I did indeed,” Jack answers with a grin. “Did you?”

“I did, too.” 

Right, right. Of course you did, darling. Jack knows he’ll get nowhere if he doesn’t poke and prod a little, so he asks you, “What’d you do this week?”

“Oh, you know.” Shy girl. Jack taps your shoe with his, his silent way of nudging you to elaborate. He crosses his foot over his knee, and his pants ride up his legs a little bit, showing off his multicolored striped socks. “I like your socks.”

“Why thank you, darling. I really would like to hear more about your week, though. Indulge me, hm?”

You pause, thinking back. What’s there to talk about? “You know, just work, cooking and cleaning…” you answer, looking off to the side as you try to think back. You really should keep a notebook, like Doctor Delroy suggested. You find this happens often at your appointments, that when you finally get here and you’re sitting in front of him, suddenly you can’t remember a single thing you did in the past week. Nothing had upset you, everything’s totally fine. In fact, why are you even in counseling? “Oh - I did go on a date, though.” 

Jack’s ears perk up at this. “A date, huh? Boy, who’s the lucky fella?” 

“Nobody,” you tell him. “I mean, he was a nice enough guy, he just…wasn’t for me. I don’t think it’ll go anywhere. I haven’t returned any of his calls,” you admit sheepishly. 

Jack’s relieved to hear this. He shouldn’t be, of course. Oh, he knows, he knows, he fucking knows. Ethics, boundaries, morals, and the like. Does any of it really matter, though? Does it? “Oh, well. At least you gave it a shot, right? No harm in that.”

“Yeah, there is that.”   

Jack reaches for his mug and takes another sip of his tea before speaking. “And the-” he clears his throat, “Gosh, pardon me,” he chuckles, running his fingertip along a chip in the mugs rim, “The anxiety, sweetheart. Anything new this week?”

You shrug at the question, and you refuse to look at Jack. Jack grabs a notebook and a pen sitting on top of his end table, opens the book, and writes a little note about the way you’re nervously spinning your hair tie around your wrist instead of answering his question. “The usual,” you answer, noticing this. A nice, noncommittal answer to satisfy the doctor.

You’ve told him before that your anxiety is difficult to talk about for many reasons, and you’d listed a few of them - it makes you feel weak, pathetic, overreactive. Silly, too. But Doctor Delroy doesn’t think it’s silly, darling. Not when you’re short of breath or feeling those horrible tingles in your hands and fingers, and when your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your mouth. When you’re so worked up, so wired that you can’t even cry yourself to sleep. Staying up all night, filled with dread over something you can’t place your finger on, nor that you can solve. The anxiety’s the whole reason you’re here, isn’t it? And gosh, how debilitating it’s become. Became. It’s gotten a little better since you’ve been visiting Jack. Only a little.

You didn’t know what to call it when you first came into his office. You were referred to Doctor Delroy by your general practitioner after you had an anxiety attack - not that you knew what that was at the time. You thought it’d be a one and done visit, and that this psychologist in his corduroy blazer would pat your knee and give you a label - a mild case of the jitters - and send you on your merry way.

But this psychologist, this Doctor Jack Delroy, did no such thing. He poked around some, had you visit some more. You were defensive at first, playing at your own game. You weren’t rude by any means, you just…had your guard up. You liked getting to visit with the handsome doctor, even if that in and of itself made you a little nervous. 

Jack used to do more clinical studies, and he used to teach at colleges and such. Had a couple of affairs with his students, just here and there. Helped get those grades up, is all. Right? And that was fine and good for the time being, and satisfied him perfectly well. But really, his heart lied with helping people. Girls just like you, darling. 

When you finally opened up, you talked about this dreadful feeling looming over you. This wolf at the door. Constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, anticipating something terrible happening because, well…why wouldn’t it? It always does, doesn’t it?

Jack felt for you, truly. You poor girl, all worked up all the time. He told you that you showed signs of anxiety disorder, maybe even panic disorder, and that you should keep visiting with him so you and he could help you solve this. He told you he didn’t want you feeling so worried all the time. 

It started with discussing your anxiety, discovering what exactly triggers it. It was difficult to nail down at first - you told him that sometimes the panic comes up out of nowhere and you just feel like you’re drowning in it, fighting to stay above water. There are other times it feels sort of paralyzing. You seem to get nervous about having a lot on your plate. Being in social situations, too - a grocery store on a Saturday, when it’s all busy. Holidays with your family. You told Doctor Delroy you like to find a quiet place to just be. You hibernate, you said. But you’re not all alone, though - the family cat likes you because you’re quiet and gentle and calm with him.

Next came managing those triggers. Doctor Delroy talked to you about breathing techniques, bringing that heart rate down. Breathe in for five seconds, hold for five seconds, and exhale for five seconds. Rinse and repeat. He told you to prioritize your sleep, and advised against sleeping with the television on. Eat a balanced diet, lots of fruits and veggies, and keep that blood sugar up. 

Doctor Delroy also told you that he suspects you’re an introvert, which is perfectly okay. Just work on pushing yourself outside of your comfort zone a little. He told you once he wanted you to get out of the house once a week to go somewhere busy. Go dancing, go skating, mini golfing, even. Just acclimate yourself to being around more people than you’re comfortable with, little by little. He wasn’t trying to change you, he was just trying to help you manage. 

“There’s a nice little event being hosted downtown tonight, you could stop by after our visit?” Jack suggested, and how you scoffed at that. “Stretch your legs a little, get some fresh air. I’m going to be there too,” he added. “Say, we can go together, hm? How ‘bout it? You’re a brave girl, aren’t you?” 

“I am not,” you told him, laughing nervously. 

Jack smiled. You indignant thing, so difficult and for no good reason at all. “For me, darling?” he asked, soft and coaxing.

He knew it’d be a piece of cake. He walked with you from his office down to the event, and he bought you a pop. Jack saw it all in action, how you went quiet and your eyes turned wide and you stuttered your way through every sentence. “Are you doing alright, dear?”

“Uh huh, yeah. Great, I’m - I’m doing…”    

“You’re doing good,” he whispered. “Doing so well. Just breathe, in and out. Just like I told you. I’m right here,” Jack promised, taking your shaking hand into his own. The little excursion acted as a good way to gauge where you were at with your anxiety, though perhaps the hand-holding wasn’t so helpful. He was supposed to teach you to cope, and there he was, cushioning you…

…but that’s not so bad, is it? If you never get better - or maybe only marginally so - you’ll be his patient for longer that way, won’t you? And sure, he makes more money that way, but that’s not what he’s in it for. Jack’s got plenty of money. He could retire at the drop of a hat. No, darling, he’s in this for you, and all the others just like you. All the other girls charmed by him, dependent on him. He hears their most intimate thoughts and worries, and he soothes it all better. A hand on the knee, offering a comforting squeeze. It’s okay, sweetie. I’m listening. Sliding up her thigh, fingers slipping past the cotton fabric of her panties. She’s always wet for him. 

“I see,” Jack says, nodding slowly. “The usual. Would you tell me a little more about the usual, darling?” Poking, prodding. Nudging, pushing, but always gentle. 

Doctor Delroy’s eyes are dark and sparkling, warm and kind. He’s relaxed and calm, sipping on his tea. He’s a safe, trustworthy man - this much you know. You’ve been seeing him for the better part of a year, and he really has helped you with so much. But the anxiety is embarrassing on its own, and it’s worsened by the fact that objectively, you’ve made very little progress when consider it all. 

So you smile and laugh awkwardly, quietly, tucking some hair behind your ears as you gather the courage to elaborate. “Just…yeah. The usual. I guess I had some nightmares this past week.” 

“Mhm.” Doctor Delroy scribbles something into his notebook.

You continue, “And I was sort of agitated all week, too.” 

“In what way?”

“Just like, I don’t know, Doctor. I just felt overwhelmed. There was so much to do. Cooking and cleaning amidst all these deadlines coming up, which maybe sounds silly. I know everyone else has these responsibilities too, but it’s still hard, somehow. I’m just not handling…whatever it is I’m…never mind.” You’ve lost your train of thought. 

You pause. Then, quieter, “And I had another bad day yesterday,” you admit quietly, “Really bad.”

“What happened yesterday, sweetheart?”

You almost wish you didn’t tell him that. Talking about it makes you feel vulnerable and small and embarrassed, or like your skin’s been turned inside out. Doctor Delroy stays calm, but you know that he worries about you. That in and of itself is anxiety-inducing, somehow. Makes it all worse. You know it doesn’t make much sense, but you can’t help but feel uncomfortable when he worries. It’s the confirmation that something really is wrong with you. He’s wiggling the foot that’s draped across his knee in non-rhythm, and that bothers you, too. He must notice this, because he stops. 

“I don’t really know what all led to it,” you begin. “Nothing happened, Doctor. I was at home, everything was fine until it wasn’t, and then I found myself out of breath. And my heart was pounding too, like I was - like I was in danger, or something? But I wasn’t, I was just - oh, fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know. My hands were shaking,” you tell him. “My teeth were chattering. I wasn’t even cold.” 

Jack picks up on the way your voice wobbles when you speak, and writes down one last note. “You had another anxiety attack,” he says in a gentle voice. 

“Yeah.”

Jack clicks his pen and puts both it and his notebook away, then clasps his fingers together. He looks at you, tilting his head when you nod shamefully, how you look down at the floor. His chair creaks as he leans forward to put a hand on your knee, squeezing you there comfortingly. “Hey, I get them too, sometimes. Remember?” Jack says softly. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie.” 

“I know that,” you whisper, looking at his large hand on your knee. You try not to hate the way he strokes you there with his thumb. You try to allow yourself to let him comfort you - he’s not fawning over you, not chastising you, he’s completely inoffensive. Just quietly reminding you that he’s here, and you’re safe. Everything’s okay. It’s just you and Doctor Delroy.

Jack’s pleased to feel your hand on the back of his, your smaller fingers curling into his palm. He rubs your soft skin, gently encouraging you to continue. You hold his hand tightly as you speak, rubbing the lines and calluses in his palm like a worry stone. “It’s just kind of hard, you know? I don’t know what would make it all better. I thought I had an idea, but…I don’t know. It’s stupid.” 

“Oh, now, I highly doubt that,” Jack laughs. “Why don’t you share?” 

“Will you laugh?”

“Only if you tell a joke,” he teases, smiling. 

You smile at that, pausing before you speak to look at Doctor Delroy’s hand, so strong and warm. The dark hair that climbs up his forearm. “I feel like I’m sort of white knuckling it all the time, Doctor,” you explain, eyes darting from his face to somewhere else in the room. Jack can tell it’s not so much that you’re nervous to make eye contact, but rather that you’re simply trying to gather your thoughts. He’s always perceptive, noting all these little things about beautiful you, darling. “You know? I always have both hands on the wheel.” 

“Sure.”

You explain that you want to take a hand off of the wheel. Just one, probably. Not both, though…maybe. “Like, remember when I went out of town a while back, and when I came home?”

“Uh huh,” Jack nods, smiling fondly. “You seemed happy. Relaxed,” he adds. “I think we ended up cutting our appointment short, yeah? There wasn’t much to talk about.” He chuckles.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Yeah, I wasn’t thinking about anything when I was gone. I wasn’t trying to handle everything all the time. And I know it doesn’t work this way but I was in the backseat, - I felt like it, at least. And I just want to be there again. But then again, being in the backseat kind of scares me,” you laugh quietly, pausing. “So…that’s why I was thinking maybe I’d only drive with one hand instead of two. Still driving the car, but…I don’t know. Fuck, this is stupid, isn’t it?”��

Jack shakes his head before speaking. “No,” he says, “Not at all, sweetie. It sounds like you’re just looking for your happy medium.” You nod in agreement, and your relief is palpable. Jack can feel it in your hand, and he can hear it in the little breath you let out. He asks then, “If you were in the backseat, who’d be driving?”

“I’m really not so sure, Doctor,” you say softly. The sentence lingers in the air for a moment as you think about your answer and the question itself. “I want control, but I don’t.” 

“Oh, yes,” Jack chuckles. “I know, dear. You’re a very contradictory young woman, huh?”

You shrug and look off to the side, a little embarrassed. Still, you giggle, and Jack joins you. “But I like ya anyway,” he says, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Yeah? Do you like knowing Doctor Delroy likes you? Those wide eyes, lips slightly parted. Jack thinks you’re the prettiest thing, darling girl. He likes a lot of things about you, sweetheart. 

Jack clears his throat and drops your hand. “I think we ought to lean into this - this backseat idea, so to speak. I think it could be good for you to let your shoulders down. So I would like you to try something rather unorthodox with me, if you’re feeling brave.” Jack tilts his head, and his voice comes out smooth as silk. “Have you heard of hypnosis?”

Oh, Jack likes that skeptical look you give him. How you narrow your eyes and smile like he’s playing a trick on you. “Like in the cartoons? With a - a pocket watch swinging in front of my face? Is that what you mean, doctor?” You’re laughing, incredulous. That’s okay, honey. You won’t be laughing here in a moment. 

“No, sweetie.” Jack chuckles silently out of his nose and scoots his chair even closer to your couch, noting the way you tense up just a little. Clinically, he could attribute that to your anxiety, sure. But Jack’s a perceptive man, and a handsome one at that. He’s not oblivious to the effect that he has on younger women such as yourself. Especially when you make it so obvious, gosh. Your pupils give you away, dilating, eating into your most gorgeous irises. His looks alone can make you react as such, but take into account his quiet atmosphere, this small, private room. Coupled with the vulnerable intimacy of you sharing the most private of your thoughts with him. Of course you’d have a little crush on him.

It’s more than little, Jack bets. All the fantasizing you do about him, well. How about it? Do you touch yourself thinking of him, dear? Thinking of him fucking you on the very couch where you sit when you spill your guts to him?

“It doesn’t work like that, not quite. There’s a lot of misconceptions about hypnosis. It’s not as spooky as one might think. Have you ever been so focused on a book that you had no idea what was going on around you? Or maybe gotten lost in a daydream while driving and before you know it, you’re home.” 

“Yeah.”

“Those are all mild forms of hypnosis. All it is, darling, is a changed state of consciousness. A simple shift in awareness. That’s all it is. Sort of like looking at things from your peripherals, hm? And people in a hypnotic state respond well to suggestions, they relax easier…does this make sense?” 

You wiggle your hand from side to side, laughing. “Sort of.” 

“No need to overthink it. I’ll hypnotize you into relaxing, just for tonight, just for an hour. Nothing more. I’ll put you in a nice little trance just to see how you do in the backseat.” 

“How will you hypnotize me?”

“Just talking,” Doctor Delroy says. “I just talk, and you listen to me. That’s all there is to it.”  

“Okay. And then what?”

“And then,” Jack explains, “Depending on how it all goes and how you feel, we might make use of it some more. I could even give you a trigger to help you relax when you find yourself in rather distressing situations. Say, maybe to nip one of your anxiety attacks before it even starts, hm?”

You nod, smiling so sweetly. Jack looks pleased with you. He starts the first parts of routine here, as it’s very important that he says all the right things and makes all the right moves to guide you into this special state of mind. He tells you that this is what you want - you want to be relaxed, you want to surrender control to him. He tells you that it’ll work like a charm, darling, and that you’re going to find it all very enjoyable. Don’t be nervous, dear. Jack needs you disarmed, empty, obedient. 

“Have you eaten, sweetie? Can I get you anything before we begin? Want a sip of your tea?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Yes. And so it begins with that simple word, yes. Jack watches you sip your tea, then asks, “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.” 

“I’m going to have you lay down now,” Jack says, reaching from the other end of the couch for an end pillow, and he fluffs it before putting it beneath your head. “There we are. Just take some deep breaths for me, sweet pea.”

Doctor Delroy guides your breaths, telling you when to breathe in, when to breathe out. He has you breathe deeply as he moves about the room, closing the blinds and dimming the lights. 

“Just checking in, honey. How are we doing?”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You’re off to a great start, darling.” Jack’s tone is reassuring and calming, dominant and a little dark. “I’m going to touch you,” he tells you, taking your hand into his own. He knows how much you like that, how grounded you are by his touch. “Picture you’re somewhere relaxing, hm? Where is that?”

“At home,” you sigh. “In bed. And it’s raining.” 

“Wonderful, sweetie. Is there thunder and lightning, too?” You shake your head. “I see. Just raining, huh? Good, honey. You’re doing so well.” 

Jack spends a few minutes talking to you in that soft, velvety voice of his, touching you with his warm hands. He rubs you rhythmically with his thumb, matching its pace with your heavy breaths. 

“I’m going to count back from ten, and each time I say the word relax, you’re going to drop down a level of relaxation until you’re totally, completely, one hundred percent calm. Loosey-goosey,” Jack explains softly. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Doctor.” 

“Attagirl,” Jack says. He pauses a moment before speaking again, then begins. “Ten,” he whispers, “Relax.” 

He gives you a moment to sink down a level, then speaks again. “Nine…relax. And eight…relax. You’re doing just fine, honey. Seven…relax. You’re falling deeper into the trance, aren’t you? Feeling calm?”

“Mm…yeah.”   

“Good, good. Six…relax. And five…relax. Good, honey. If you try to break from this trance, darling, you’ll only sink deeper into it. So be good and listen to me.”

You’re melting into the couch as Jack speaks, and his soft, velvety voice sounds distant and close all at once. His hand is on your bare skin, tracing intimate patterns as he speaks to you. Your heavy eyes flutter open to steal one last look at the handsome man, and he smiles kindly at you. They fall shut once more. You’ve never felt so relaxed, so weighted and floaty all at the same time.

“That’s it, four…relax. You can’t do anything you don’t want to do. Three…relax. You’re going to feel so good, honey. Don’t be nervous. Two…relax. And one…relax. Perfect.”

It works like a charm, just as Jack promised it would. Your body’s limp, eyes twitching underneath your eyelids. You’re mumbling nonsense for Jack, trailing off before you can finish a single thought. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” 

“Good,” you answer. 

“Open your eyes for me, darling, I’d like to see you.” 

You couldn’t keep your eyes closed if you tried. You question it slightly, the way you willfully obey Doctor Delroy like this. All the things he could make you do…you’re lucky you’re in his care, huh? 

“There she is,” Jack whispers, pushing some of your hair behind your ears. He looks into your sleepy eyes, smiling proudly, cock thickening in his trousers. “My gosh, you’re not gonna remember any of this, huh? Can’t do a damn thing about what I’m gonna do to you,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” 

“Nothing, sweet pea.” Jack kisses your forehead and your eyes fall shut again. He’s reaching for his crotch with his free hand, groaning quietly as he pets at his bulge. He squeezes as much as he can of himself through the fabric, feeling his cock harden. Quietly, so quietly, he unbuckles his belt. He unzips his pants and pulls his length out, stroking himself while running his knuckle over your cheekbone. 

Look at how relaxed you are, just lying there, watching Jack fuck his fist. He wonders what’s going on in that head of yours as you stare blankly at him, blinking slowly. And ope, look at that - you’re drooling, too. Silly girl. Jack collects that on his hand and uses it to slicken his palm before he works himself again. 

“Tell me, darling, do you touch yourself?” Jack asks, lazily pumping his cock. He’s so thick and long, curved slightly to his right. 

He knows the answer already. “Yes,” you murmur. 

“And what do you think of, dear? Is it me?” Another quiet yes from you, and Jack’s nodding along. “Good, good girl. You pretend it’s me touching you, don’t you? My fingers?”

“Yes, Doctor.” 

Your eyes are glassy as Jack leans over you and tugs your sweater up, up your body. He has you sit up so he can pull the garment off of your torso, and he undoes your bra. He unbuttons your jeans, then tugs them with your underwear down your legs, tucking your panties into his pocket. With your naked body laid out on his couch, Jack parts your thighs. 

And oh, what a sight for sore eyes your glistening cunt is. Soaking wet, dripping onto the upholstery of his sofa. Your lips are puffy and creamy ribbons of your arousal decorate them. Clit swollen, too. Throbbing, aching to be touched. Jack inhales deeply, god. He can fucking smell you.

He pushes two fingers into your pussy, pumping them in and out of you as he quiets your weak little whine. “Shh, I know. I know. Like this, right, sweetie? Is this how I touch you?” 

Jack nods with you. He loves those soft and sweet whimpers you let out as he fucks you on his long, thick fingers, buried to the knuckle. You sound so desperate when he curls them, tickling that neat little spot inside a woman he loves so much. You can’t keep any of your delicious noises from spilling out, and Jack likes that. He keeps a hand on your face as he pleases you, rubbing you soothingly. 

“I’ll bet you taste good. You’re going to let me taste your cunt, won’t you, my darling girl?” 

“Yes,” you whimper, though you couldn’t say no if you tried. Jack’s already dropping to his knees, and his thin lips are kissing a trail up your inner thighs, then right over the seam of your pussy. Jack’s gorgeous mouth against your cunt makes the most exquisite, wet, sticky noises. He sucks and licks at your folds, and passes over your clit now and then. There’s no method to it at this point. It’s all Jack eating you selfishly, satiating his own sick desires. 

You’re not even sure if you want this. That alone makes it scary, but you’re not capable of panicking. You’re not capable of struggling either, or of asking Doctor Delroy what he’s doing to you. You can touch him, though. You reach for those dark, smooth strands of his hair and tug, whimpering incoherently. Jack’s lower face is covered as he takes your wrists and holds them in one of his hands, keeping you right where he wants you. You’re stuck to the sofa, completely at Jack’s mercy, in the proverbial backseat of his car. Your body is not your own, and neither is your mind. One might even say you’re in the trunk, locked quietly away. God only knows where you’ll end up. 

Jack circles your swollen clit with his tongue, then sucks it between his lips. You cry at that, too sensitive. He quiets you with a kiss pressed against your cunt, hushing. “Quiet, honey. It’s okay.” He tastes you until he’s had his fill, and then he pulls away. His lips and chin are shiny, dripping with your arousal. He wipes himself with the back of his hand, then joins you on the sofa, knees cracking as he does so. 

“You’re doing so well,” Jack groans, dragging his cockhead through your folds. “So well, sweetie, and you’re going to let me fuck you. Isn’t that right?” 

“Doctor–”

“Oh yes, you will.” Jack swipes at the tip of your nose, grinning with sharp intent as he notches himself at your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you, darling girl, and there’s nothing you can do about that. You’re gonna take me,” he says, “All of me - yes, just like that,” sliding slowly into you, and the way your tight, wet cunt hugs his cock has him sucking in a sharp breath. “And you’re not going to fight it, are you? No, no. Of course not. Because it’ll make things worse for you, won’t it? So behave, sweetheart. Be good for the doctor. I know you’ll do it.” 

Jack bottoms out with a grunt, and the ferocity of his thrust bounces your head against the arm of the sofa. Ever the gentleman, Jack adjusts your pillow, then begins rolling his hips. He draws in and out of you at a steady and punishing pace, hanging his head to look at where his body connects to yours. The clear, sticky strings of your arousal cling to his pubic hair, and break when he pulls out far enough. Jack pushes in again, gently hushing you when you cry out. 

Doctor Delroy’s eyes are endless and empty, and his face and neck flush red as he fucks you. A vein in his forehead protrudes slightly, and a bead of sweat trails over it and gathers in the elegant dip of his temple. You’re afraid, but your body can’t do anything about it, and you’re still so completely, profoundly relaxed. It’s the most disorienting thing you’ve ever felt. 

“That’s it, honey. Taking me so well,” Jack coos, fucking you deeply. His cockhead kisses against your cervix and drags against that sweet spot inside you, making you moan his name as his heavy balls slap against you. “You’re in good hands,” he promises. 

Jack reaches between your bodies and rubs your clit, noting the way your walls clench around him when he does that. He rubs patiently, practiced circles over your swollen, sensitive clit. “How hard are you going to cum for me, darling girl?”

“H-”

“Very hard, yes. That’s right, sweet pea. Always such a good girl for Doctor Delroy.” 

Jack fucks you hard and fast, watching your breasts bounce as he guides you to orgasm. Your brows are pulled together as release approaches and you’re moaning for him, and then you’re quiet for a second, and loud again when you finally do cum. You moan Jack’s name as your walls ripple and pulse with your orgasm, pleasure surging through you. It coaxes Jack’s own orgasm along, his balls tightening before he spills into you, filling you with his warm spend and fucking it in deep. His thrusts slow as he fucks you through the last tremors of your release, and then he pulls out of you, leaving you lying on his sofa and dripping his cum. 

Jack pulls a comb from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and combs his hair back into place, then pulls his handkerchief from his breast pocket. He dabs at his flushed skin, then straightens out his suit and clears his throat. Jack dresses you in your clothes, save for the panties he tucked away into his pocket, and takes a seat in his leather chair. 

“I’m gonna count to ten and bring you back, okay? You’re going to wake when I tell you to.”

Jack counts slowly to ten, then commands you to wake up. The light comes back into your eyes, and you’re disoriented as you come to. “There she is. Hiya, sweetie.”

“Hi,” you mumble, slightly groggy. 

“How do you feel?”

“Like I woke up from a dream,” you tell him. “I - did that work? I don’t remember a thing.” 

“It worked splendidly,” Doctor Delroy chuckles as he comfortingly touches your cheek. “I think we’ll utilize it some more in our sessions, hm? I’ve got a good feeling about it. I think we’ll make some real progress, you and I.” 

You smile, feeling accomplished. Doctor Delroy helps you up and walks you to your car, then bids you goodnight. “Drive safe, darling. I’ll see you at the same time next week.” 

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[leftcrunch]

ugh it’s that time of month for me again strange which means i get to fantasize about a big bear of a man lovingly pinning me face down ass up on the bed and fucking me slow, hard, and deep no matter how much i bitch and hiss about being sore and bleeding because he knows this is what i need to get the poison out.

-🍒💋

you and me both sista. i like started last night during sexytimes which is always fun (i'm not being facetious lol i do like getting it uhh fucked outta me) and today it vanished! but the cramps remain ever present.

i think, respectfully, that you are thinking of dad!hop. mhm big daddy jim hopper, and he's pressing his full weight into you, and really the last thing you want is to be fucked, or held, or any of that shit. you just want space to bleed and ache on your own.

but dad knows you. and he knows if he doesn't fuck at least a little of this out of your system, you're going to be a fuckin' peach. oh my god, your attitude when you're on the rag is something else entirely. and hop thought it was bad before you ever even got your first period. shoooooot.

why the fuck are you hellbent against cumming, kid? just fuckin' let go, for fuck's sake. quit fighting it. you're doing yourself no fucking favors here. lay down, buck up, and quit fucking complaining. dad knows you're sore. he knows you're achy and uncomfortable. and he will fucking fix it, if you just...

...let go. theeerrrreeee it is. atta-fuckin'-girl, kid. hopper draws out of you, his thick length coated in your blood, and when he pushes back in, you moan so nice for him. so fucking nice. he presses the heel of his palm against your clit so that with every thrust, you're getting that friction he knows you so desperately need. and oh, there it is. there you fucking are, coming hard on dad's cock. just like you needed.

you're a different person when you come down. still annoyed, sure - less so from cramps and more so from the fact dad bought you the shitty, off-brand pads again.

but he did remember your reese's pieces :) and what's better than feeling his big, warm hand on your tummy when you snuggle him on the couch, soothing those cramps away?

[leftcrunch]

I just need to say I love your work it’s so good and the way you write Joe too? Don’t even get me started. Could you maybe do one where the reader has a bad day and hasn’t slipped in a way and Joe kinda has to help them slip and he’s really sweet to her and kind (very much fannon Joe) by yk Joe being Joe he thinks about what he’s gonna due to the person that made your day bad if you could that would be great! No rush!!!!

A/N: Thank you!!! Again I LOVE getting Joe requests, I put a lot of effort into writing them, there's no sfw content anywhere for him so I take great pleasure in making it for people! Joe's great to write for too because his character is just soooo unique so it makes it easier to get that inside voice he has right if that makes sense. Ok I'm rambling, enjoy!

Worth It

Pairings: Cg! Joe Goldberg x Fem! Little!reader

Word Count:1.1k

Warnings: usual warning for Joe! Language, reader is called stupid (not by Joe), implied violence.

Joe's waiting for you when you come home from work as always. He likes to wait for you with a homemade meal or simply a warm smile. You have a stressful job and he helps you relax afterwards because that's just the kind of boyfriend he is. Usually you come home stressed, giving him a weary smile and a kiss before heading to the shower to wash off your long day. But not today.

He can tell somethings off when you walk in. You're biting your lip anxiously, not giving him your usual loving greeting. Something's up with you.

"Hey baby, you ok?" He questions softly, moving towards you for a hug.

Before he even gets to you you break down into tears. "He was s-so mean to me!" You cry, clutching on to Joe when he pulls you to his chest.

"Who was baby?" Joe questions, a hint of panic lacing his voice. "What happened?"

Who hurt his girl?

"My boss." You say, voice breaking as you say it. "He literally s-screamed at me in front of everyone. He made me feel so stupid." You sob, burying you face into his shirt, body shaking with the impact of your sobs. Joe brings his arms around you, kissing your head while shushing you. He's incensed.

What kind of low life fuck gets off on making a pretty, smart little thing like you cry? When all you do is work your ass off to please him? This is not gonna fly.

"Oh baby I am so fucking sorry. Why would he do that? You've been working so hard recently."

You shrug your shoulders, shaking your head. "He s-said my work wasn't good enough n that I-I didn't try hard enough but I did Joe I promise." You look up at him, your oh-so-innocent eyes now bloodshot and puffy.

Oh this fucker has to die. Of course you tried! You always try you're his, he loves you because you try- ok Joe gotta focus. She needs you.

"Oh baby I know. You've don't have to explain to me I know you've been trying. It's not you're fault that your boss is an idiot."

"Was so mean." You mumble. "Do you think I'm stupid Joe?" You look into his eyes with that borderline puppy-dog expression on your face and you look oh so sad.

You just need his reassurance. Your dumbass boss doesn't get to make you feel like this. He's going to make sure it never happens again. After he makes you feel better.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, cupping your face. "Of course not baby. It's your boss who's stupid. He doesn't know how good he's got it."

You sniffle, shaking your head. "Bad day."

Joe nods. "I know." He coos, wiping stray tears from your cheeks using his thumbs. "But you're home now. Daddy's here baby."

You don't know when you started slipping but it's happening. Joe can always tell, he's good with things like that. "Gotta get changed." You mumble tiredly.

"Want some help?" Joe offers with a slight smile. You respond by simply holding your arms out towards him. He picks you up swiftly and carries you into the bathroom, grabbing you some pjs on the way.

He places you down onto the granite counter top beside the sink, turning on the warm water and wetting a cloth before helping you wipe your make-up off. When it's all off he rinses it out and puts it under cold water.

"Close your eyes, good girl." You do as he says, letting out a muted whine as you feel your eyes instantly cool as he places the cloth on them. After a minute he lifts the cloth back up and you feel him put something cold on your face. You open one eye, keeping the other screwed shut, looking up at Joe.

He chuckles. "It's just your moisturizer baby, don't give me that look."

This makes you smile, closing your eye again as you let him rub the moisturizer into your skin in small, languid circles.

"There's that smile." Joe murmurs, finishing up with your skincare and tucking a few loose strands of hair behind your ears.

You open your eyes, feeling thoroughly smaller now.

God. You're adorable. How could anyone purposely hurt you ?

"You want me to help you get dressed little one?" You nod your head, thumb drifting up to rest on your lips, dangerously close to slipping into your mouth.

Joe gently takes your wrist and pulls it down. "Uh uh" he reprimands quietly, lifting you down from the counter and helping you into your pjs. You lift your hand up to your lips again but you stop when you see the look Joe's giving you. You can't help the little frustrated whine that escapes you but Joe is quick to soothe.

"Shh shh, I'll get you your pacifier soon, ok? C'mon, let's fix your hair."

He softly pulls a comb through your hair, detailing the knots and putting it up into a bun.

"There." He says when he's finished, booping your nose, smiling when you giggle at him.

"Beautiful baby."

You blush at the attention, burrowing your head into his shoulder.

"Alright, c'mon kiddo" he says, sweeping you up into his arms yet again and bringing you into the kitchen, not before grabbing your pacifier from your bedroom. He makes you a sippee cup full of hot chocolate and gives you a snack.

"Thank you Daddy" you say in between bites, looking up at him with a smile, mouth covered in hot chocolate.

Joe's heart clenches. Even when you're small you're so polite. You just want to please. That's all you ever want to do. His minds starts spiralling again at the thought of your boss. You worked overtime! You clearly put huge amounts of effort into that project, just needing some recognition and your he called you stupid? The jackass with a comb over called his little girl stupid? No wonder his wife left him, guy has the emotional intelligence of a fork.

He's roused from his thoughts by your voice.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah pumpkin?"

"Colour now?"

Joe smiles. "Of course sweetheart." He cleans off your face with a napkin before pulling out your colouring books and crayons to let you scribble happily beside him, occasionally calling out to him so he can see your masterpieces. As the evening wears on you slow down, pacifier in and colouring abandoned, breathing slow and even as you sleep in his arms.

Two weeks later your boss doesn't show up for work and you never see him again. Joe seems to share your slight worry but that's immediately overshadowed by the fact that you were promoted to your bosses old position.

That night Joe falls asleep with a smile on his face.

Worth it.

[leftcrunch]

Girl Dinner Masterlist

Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.

Completed!! w/c--37k

Hungry Man - The events following Girl Dinner

content warnings: Reader (no descriptions besides having hair that can be pulled) is in a weird mindset; hears voices, talks to herself. non-con/dub-con (if you're looking for enthusiastic consent, ya wont find it here) smut, cock-warming, unprotected P in V, creampies, oral (m&f receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, pussy and peen pronouns, alcohol consumption (altered mental state). Joel wears a shock collar and other various horrible things that would keep him in check-- and he doesn't fucking like it.

Reader warning- flashbacks of readers graphic and sad past!!!

While it looks real pretty, this is a Dead Dove, Do Not Eat. If ya do and then come complaining to me that you ate a dead dove-- I'm gonna fight you. I warned you!

Part 1- Knocked Loose

Part 2- Cave In

Part 3- Your People

Part 4- Goodbye

thank you to @pedrospookie for these amazing mood boards/ collages/ inspo for the fic. They're fucking adorable, and I love how each one changes to fit the chapter a little. Lets all thank pookie for answering all the questions I had about some of the inspo for this fic and fueling my unhinged delusions that make this fic possible.

Fan art- Pudding Fan Club

[leftcrunch]

DotM MASTERLIST

Dark!Reed Richards x Fem!Student!Reader x Dark!Sue Storm

Summary: Life's good, you are in the best university of NYC, you have friends, the position of TA, and a brilliant career in front of you. Things at Baxter University couldn’t get any better until it received the most prestigious professor there was, Reed Richards. HIm and his wife Sue are the hottest, smartest couple in the entire galaxy. It was a dream when they set their eyes on you for you to join them…, but everything has a darkside… 

Warnings: Bi-reader, OOC, Dark!, stalking, power imbalance (Reed is a professor, reader a T.A (not his T.A though), threesome, throuple, (polyamorous relationship), Smut, consensual, then Dub-con, death of secondary characters, inaccurate descriptions of physics, more tags will be added by chapter

Wordcount: TBD

CHAPTERS

I. A comet

II. Colliding stars

(coming soon)

[leftcrunch]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 (series masterlist)

last updated: may 26th, 2025

Pedro Pascal x singer!reader

summary: you're a hot singer that has hot older men falling at her feet. pedro becomes one of them. (literally my cyg hughxreader fic but for pedro)

warnings: age gap (23/49), use of y/n, swearing, sexual themes, afab reader, she/her pronouns, verbal fighting, pedro is a smoker, cheating, Hugh Jackman is your ex (oops), he also pops up a few times and it mentioned.

warnings may change as the story progresses. all descriptions of real people in this story are fake! I don't know these people and this all for funsies. let me know if I missed anything!

part one: late nights and heartbreak

part two: sparkle in your eyes

part three: cigarettes and coffee

part four: may 30th

part five: june 6th

part six: june 20

part seven and beyond tba

part 2/?

extras:

series playlist

readers dress in part two

🏷️ : @moonangxl @brittmb115 @starsmoonn @mmkkzz @angellreads @daydreamzsworld @goldfish-987 @peacefangirl @leclerc13 @llsister @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @needz1nk @olympe-lottie @mielsonrisa @sexyvixen7 @thezoddfather @joelmillerpascal @mega-kittyglitter-1 @bluetimeombre @stvrl1ghtt123 @lcvespedro @silksepia @maystyles @blushingwueen @pandamoaniumsworld

*taglist open: pls comment to be added*

[leftcrunch]

All Tied Down

Part 2 of All Tied Up

The Wizard/Oscar Diggs x female reader (NSFW 18+ only)

Summary: It's been several months of living (and sleeping) with the Wizard of Oz and due to the impending arrival of a mysterious powerful girl from Shiz University, you are now planned to be sent away by his orders... But after overhearing him talk with Madame Morrible, it throws into question staying with the one man who magicked his way into your heart and who you've come to call home.

Warnings: age gap (much older man/younger woman), unprotected sex, minor breeding kink, power imbalance dynamic with humiliation, daddy kink, spanking, lots of hickeys (love bites/bruises), slight jealousy, mentions of past kidnapping and imprisonment (with likely bit of Stockholm Syndrome), drinking, angst and hurt/comfort, some action & drama, the Wizard being the villain he is (but also dastardly loving)

Word Count: ~11,802

A/N: So, I may have gotten a little carried away (haha) with this and it took a while, but by request I've added a part 2 to my previous fic, All Tied Up, which can be found at the link above in the title or again here. I highly recommend reading that first before you read this! Also please heed the warnings, this one's a bit more intense than the first part. No use of Y/N in dialogue. Based mostly on the climatic events of Wicked: Part One (not entirely canon accurate) and Jeff Goldblum's portrayal as the Wizard.

Loud clapping of dry palms smacking against each other in quick succession and his jovial, singsong voice bounces off the walls of his grand bedroom, abruptly startling you awake.

"Rise and shinnnnne, for tooo-day is a new daaaay and a new beee-ginning..." the Wizard sings, his vocals pitching and drawn out, impossible to ignore.

You'd been having a strange, borderline nightmarish dream of home back in Kansas where the farm animals had staged a revolt, oddly gaining the ability to speak. The chickens gathered at your feet with complaints about not getting high quality feed, shrieking, and tiny pitchforks in their sharp talons jabbed furiously. Horrified, you tried backing up, but your back hit the side of the barn and you were trapped between plywood and the crazy birds...

Stirring, you try to forget the disturbing dream, and rub at your eyes, squinting in the bright diffused light at him approaching the bed, arms outstretched dramatically.

He's already fully dressed in his embellished suit, and you wonder what time it is, but more so why exactly he's acting awfully cheerful for just another day.

"How's the little lady? My sweet sleeping beauty?"

You blush, covering your face with a big green plush pillow as he bends over, clearly aiming for a kiss.

"Ugh, no, please, I probably have morning breath," you grumble embarrassingly, and he chuckles.

Hands pry the pillow off your face and despite your protest, he leans in but goes for a peck on the forehead instead. It feels like a father would do to his child. This thought makes your stomach squirm in a feeling best described as comfortably uncomfortable.

"Welcome to another gloriosky day in Oz my dear!" he exclaims, too loudly.

"What's happening today?" You can't hide the apprehension in your voice, and it doesn't help when his warm brown eyes widen and his smile dips a bit before he plasters on a forced calm expression instead.

"Today? Uh, today is what's happening as it does every day! But it's a new fresh day, isn't that miraculous!"

Rolling your eyes at his corniness, you sit up and he starts to pull the sheets down. You squeak, yanking them back as you're wearing nothing but your birthday suit.

"Sweet Oz! What the hell do you think you're doing?! Close the curtains!"

He laughs, a wonderfully diabolical sound emulating deep from his chest.

"'Sweet Oz', indeed. I see you've picked up a popular phrase around here. Funny how this land rubs off on us all, hmm."

"I should get dressed," you mumble, ignoring him, but he places a large hand down on your lap.

"You act like I haven't seen you utterly indecent before, like you weren't just buck-naked last night, fucking me."

You swallow and now that he's brought attention to it, you do feel especially sore and awfully achy in-between your legs. Your limbs feel made of wobbly jelly and your back is too stiff. The lovemaking had been very passionate but also lustfully frantically aggressive even for him, like the kind of love soldiers give before they're sent away to war, not knowing if they'll ever see their lover again.

Anxiety prickles in your gut and it grumbles back in annoyance.

"Hungry?" he asks, lifting eyebrows.

"It is high past noon, after all." He lifts his hand and backs off, watching you carefully as you slip out of the sheets, wincing.

"Can you please close the curtains?"

"No one can see," he counters, but after a moment he crosses the room and quickly shoves them together, blocking the streaming daylight.

You sigh in relief, loosening up and stretching, hearing a few joints pop and crack. A yawn comes next before you tiredly pick your pale green flouncy nightgown off the floor, pulling it over your head to cover up.

"I'm going off to use the washroom," you announce to him, and he hums, nodding distractingly as he's fiddling with one of his green bottles on the side table.

Still uncertain and wary about whatever could be going on, at least in his head, you shuffle off to the bathing chambers and he doesn't follow, giving privacy. Usually, there's a maid around to assist, but not today. It's quiet and peaceful as you undress in front of the expansive mirror, reflecting your entire appearance. You're almost ashamed of how much of a hot mess you are: unkept messy hair, blotchy cheeks, puffy eyes, and numerous dark hickeys dotting both sides of your neck.

Your head pounds as if hungover and you try to remember how much of the elixir you drank last night. Why was it the shade of green anyway? What was it, precisely? He would never tell you.

Back home in Kansas, a neighbor's kid had once told you a person's skin could turn orange from eating too many carrots and as an impressionable young child, it had haunted you, to the chagrin of your mother who nearly had to force feed you the root vegetable for years.

Paranoid now, you scrutinize your skin color, thinking there might be a faint green hue. It's stupid. Drinks don't turn folks a color. You take a deep breath, stepping away from the mocking mirror. Maybe a bubble bath will help wash away the insecurities and sinful reminders of the night before.

But even the soap and bubbles are dyed verdant, and it's as if you're bathing in the very essence of him and this city. You throw your head back on the rim of the tub and moan softly to the high ceiling as hot water soothes your sore muscles, seeping into your pores. You spend a while bathing and relaxing, grateful for the serenity.

********

When you're finally dried off and dressed, you creep out into the hall, planning on heading to the dining hall to get some late lunch, but a babble of voices ahead make you halt. You dive and duck behind a pillar to hide when you immediately recognize the owners to them.

"When can I, uh, expect you to join us tomorrow?" The Wizard, tone low and serious.

"As soon as possible if there are no delays." Madame Morrible, voice icy and impatient.

"Well, huh, not too soon because I'd like a chance to bond with the girl first, get her to know me a little bit and-"

"What about that whore of yours? Has she been removed?" Morrible interrupts shrilly.

"Ah, uh, no. I was planning to dispose of her today."

"She should have been gone weeks ago; we're about out of time, Oscar. You need to deal with her immediately."

"I know, I know, but golly. What if it's safer to keep her here? She knows too much already, we can't risk her blabbing to the Munchkins about who I am, what we've done, all-"

"She'll just get in the way if she stays and you don't need distractions. You've had your fun with her and now it's time for her to go. I'm sure you can function properly without her, yes?"

"Well of course, yes, but she has no idea... She's not equipped for this land, she doesn't know the anything of Oz outside these walls, this city..."

"I'm sure she'll find a way to survive and if she's learned anything from you at all, she'll thrive."

"What are you implying?" he asks nervously.

"She's a bit plain for a harlot, but she can use her bodily sensual services, can she not?" Morrible quips and Oscar gasps.

"My lady will not be prostituted! No, no, I won't have that! She's not even that kind of girl, this isn't like the traveling circus. She's still pretty inexperienced, she'd be ripped apart out there if she tried! Ack, the very thought of any men laying their grubby hands on her makes me sick."

"You've grown too attached to this foreign farm girl and frankly I don't see what you see in her."

"We have a real connection! She recognized, she remembered me from when I was a carnie and came all this way looking for me. She was in such a state of distress, what was I supposed to do? I couldn't - didn't know how - to send her back! Besides, this is the most fun I've had in twenty years..." His voice is warmly pleading, begging, but Morrible cuts through it like a knife into melting butter.

"We've had this discussion before, and it remains the same conclusion: She is nothing special and a waste of resources. You need to do what's best for you, for us... for the sake of all of Oz."

"Are you, uh, jealous of my affections for her, perchance?"

Morrible scoffed vociferously.

"Don't be ridiculous and flatter yourself. This has nothing to do with that. I did this for you, like with everything else."

"And boy do I appreciate it. But, well, because if I get rid of her... you might be free?" He pauses and you hate to imagine what he might be doing. Giving her a sly grin? Stroking her arm? Kissing the back of her hand? Whatever it is, a faint laugh is produced from the sorceress. You've never heard that from her before.

"You know... Like the old times?" he purrs seductively, and you clench your fists in your lap, the bones of your knuckles straining against skin.

The laughter gradually dies off and you would bet she's shaking her head disapprovingly as the next words are spoken, starting off as sweetly humored and ending in sheer scolding.

"You haven't changed a bit all these years; still as devilishly charming as ever. I would say I admire your stamina, but I don't when it is misplaced and a hindrance to our plans. You're not much better than some of those sexed up failing students at Shiz. Focus, Oscar."

"I am, but a man can have his cake and eat it too, can't he?"

"We shall see how well that works out for you."

There's an abrupt loud clop-clop of heels driving into the flooring as Morrible presumably turns and begins to walk away.

"Just make sure the whore is gone by the end of the day, no exceptions. Tomorrow has to be perfect, Elphaba Thropp is expecting only the best," she calls back to him in warning.

Her footsteps fade one piercing thud at a time, and you slowly stand up, peering around the pillar. The Wizard has his hands jammed in his pockets and muttering to himself.

"More like you, Madame, are expecting the best as you always do. Yet I cannot ever please you in the ways I would like... What in the blazes am I supposed to do?"

You flatten back against the cool marble column, trying to remain calm, but hot wet tears are brimming in your eyes. You blink then away, not willing to go to pieces now. He deserves a piece of your mind first.

Steeling your strength, as this is "Oz the Great and Powerful" after all, more importantly, the man you've been loving for months now, the man who'd rescued you and was now treating you as trash to be thrown out...

You can't take it anymore.

Striding out from your hiding spot, you holler angrily from several feet down the hall.

"YOU NO-GOOD, TWO-FACED BASTARD!"

To say the Wizard is shocked would be an understatement. His face is a priceless expression of utter baffled horror, and he staggers backwards, nearly stumbling over his own feet as you barrel towards him, not even controlling how raised your voice is. Part of you wishes Morrible is still in earshot.

"I MAY BE A JUST A DIRTY COUNTRY GIRL, BUT I AIN'T GONNA STAND BY AND LET YOU AND YOUR OLD FLAME CALL ME A WORTHLESS WHORE BEHIND MY BACK! SAY IT TO MY FUCKIN' FACE, YOU ABSOLUTE COWARD!"

You reach Oscar and pummel your fists into his vested chest before he can stop you, but after a few seconds you hiss and pull away, shaking your fist as your knuckles sting in pain. One of his vest's stupid shiny metal trinkets on its chain hit squarely on the bone and you swear a string of cuss words that would've made your mother blanch.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, concern creasing his face, but you aren't touched by it in the slightest.

"Of course I'm hurt, jerk!"

"Oh, yes I know, but your hand? I didn't mean-" He reaches out, not offended (or just ignoring) that not only you've disrespected him, but cursed profusely in the presence of The Wizard of Oz himself. Anyone else would be getting their ass whooped right about now, if they were lucky and not thrown in prison or killed.

"Keep your filthy hands off me!" You recoil, jerking away as if he's a poisonous snake, and his face falls like a curtain.

"I'm sorry, but I told you all about this, remember? I was arranging for you to be sent away for your safety!"

"You forgot to phrase it as me being just a disposable whore. And I shouldn't even be called such a thing as a whore because you don't pay me to fuck you anyhow! Why don't you just say slut?!"

He cringes, appearing truly apologetic, but who knows? You can't trust him, no one can - except for his precious Madame Morrible that he lets pull his heartstrings, among others.

"Darlin', let's discuss this later, I've gotta-"

"NO! Don't brush me off!"

He glances over your head where human guards are approaching quickly, their footsteps just now registering to your ears. Perhaps punishment was coming after all. You yelp as they grab you roughly from behind, Oscar's face twisting in floundering regret as he watches you get manhandled.

"How can you - do th-this...?!" Your voice falters as you succumb to the guards' strong grips and he has the audacity to avert his eyes as they drag you away.

********

You're taken to your own bedroom and shoved with force inside, and then the heavy door slams with a resounding thud, locking you in alone.

You glance to the glass window, half a mind to break out and try to shimmy down the side of the palace wall, which probably wouldn't end very well. If he wants you to leave so badly, maybe you should even though you have nothing to go off with.

But then your attention draws to two decent sized suitcases at the foot of the carefully made bed and you pop them open, revealing one trunk full of clothes. There's rolled stacks of bills tucked in-between the socks, enough money to last quite a while, assuming that Oz was financially similar to America's economy.

You swallow hard, almost taking back your statement about him never paying you a dime. He did pay you, in personal affection and letting you live here with his luxuries, and now he's willing to give you a generous chunk of savings to get by.

He'd obviously planned to send you away promptly today, but you just found out before you were supposed to. You should have seen it coming and expected it, but a different kind of fury - a type that's the opposite of the prior one that just urged you to run away with spite - rolling through your body contradicts this.

You don't want to leave, not on these terms. You won't take this rejection slapped with misplaced kindness.

Damn Oscar Diggs. Or maybe you no longer have the privilege of using that name, so he's just the impersonal Wizard? No matter. The saddest part is if he thinks he's doing right or wrong here, it hurts regardless.

With a sigh of despair, you sink down on the edge of the plush bed, letting those dammed up tears break containment and flood out. You cry a river, grateful for the couple of handkerchiefs that had been tucked on top of your clothes in one of the trunks. It has his stupid "OZ" moniker on it, but it feels justifying staining it with copious amounts of snot and salt water.

By the time the door opens again, you're in the worst dejected, defeated, and sour mood you've ever been in.

The Wizard quietly shuts the door behind him, and he stands awkwardly for a minute, assessing you with a deep frown and sadness in those once charming hazel eyes. You felt like such an utter fool to love him... Morrible was right, you were waste here who would be better off wandering Oz without him. But the thought of strangers, particularly unknown men, out there makes your stomach curdle in unease. But you'd journeyed through parts of Oz before to reach the Emerald City and no one had made you feel unsafe and in danger, so maybe you could again... There was always Munchkinland; perhaps there was a way back home from there.

The Wizard clears his throat, but you don't look up. You can't bring yourself to face him.

"Uhhh, this was-wasn't how I wanted things to end up, you know."

"I never asked for this," you bite out quietly.

"Do you think I did?" he snaps with the same biting coldness and crunch of a mid-winter's morning.

"I should have never come here. It was a mistake."

He huffs loudly in anger, reminding you of a disgruntled steer.

"You're damn lucky I decided to keep you in the first place. To house, feed, and even love a stranger from fucking Kansas! And yet here you sit, ungrateful when all I'm trying to do is help you!" His voice grows in intensity, and you realize you've never seen him this mad at you before. It's like facing his giant mechanical head all over again, surrounded by flaring fire, heat licking the air.

"Y-You think throwing me out helps? I-I want nothing more than to be with you!" You hate the way your voice wavers, sabotaging your desired strength.

"YOU CAN'T! WE CAN'T STAY TOGETHER!" he bellows back, every word a punch to the gut.

"Then why don't you just kill me since I'm nothing to you anymore? Or I never really was?" you choke out, not completely meaning the killing part, but he's alarmed.

At once, the Wizard lurches forward, dropping to his knees in front you and taking both your hands in his large encompassing ones.

"No, no, no! How could you even conceive of such a horrid thought?" he gasps but part of you honestly can't tell if this is an assumed act and he's just toying with you, trying to seem innocent.

"I may be something of a scoundrel, but I would never want you dead for no reason when all you've ever done is please me."

"Then... but why do you want to get rid of m-me?" It's pathetic how broken and exhausted this sentence is said. You don't want to sound so wretched, to make it all worse.

"I truly don't, we've had a lot of fun these past several months, and you've healed my loneliness. I've come to care quite a lot for you. But..." he trails off as you slide off the edge of the bed into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face into the crook of his neck.

"Oh, darling," he grunts, embracing back.

You inhale his spiced musky scent deeply, wishing you could never leave this position. It's perfect this way, the pain warped into cathartic.

"I love you, Oscar," you confess, and he squeezes back in affirmation.

"I love you to the moon and back, sweetheart. And that's an awfully long way."

"Don't make me leave then, it's too long a trip."

He chuckles, rumbling in his chest like distant thunder.

"Don't you miss your family back home?" he asks softly, all humor evaporated.

Your fingers dig into his back like talons, and you sniffle once, eyes leaking a little.

"If they're still left there. That tornado was massive and was wiping out everythin'."

"Yeah, uh, you've been crying and moaning in your sleep about it lately," he mentions uncomfortably, and you unlatch your arms, pulling back to look at him.

"Really? I did have an awful dream this morning before you woke me, not about the twister, but farm animals speaking and coming after me. Chickens with pitchforks, can you believe it?"

"Huh, that's, uhh, that's unusual." He laughs, but it sounds very forced and nervous.

"Hmm, maybe we should lay off on the elixir for you, I know it can be prone to giving one strange feverish dreams and visions, I would kno-" He halts his sentence as your stomach gurgles very audibly. He glances down, then around the room in astonishment.

"Gosh, did no one bring you any food?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head.

He snaps his fingers, the loud pop echoing in the room.

"Drat! I asked them too, that's unacceptable."

"It's okay."

"No, it's certainly not. No wonder you're so cranky." He lifts you off his lap and gets up. You start to follow, but he pushes you down.

"Stay here, I'll bring a plate up."

He strides out, returning a few minutes later with water and a gold plate filled to the brim with several fancy stuffed sandwiches. It makes you salivate as he hands it to you with a fretful expression.

"Here, I'm so sorry about that, it is not my intention at all to starve you."

You eagerly take the plate in your lap, not caring to be prim and proper about consumption when you shovel in a sandwich and gulp water from a sliver chalice. He stands and watches in amused satisfaction as you demolish the food in no time and then set the empty plate aside, sighing happily.

"Thank you," you tell him with reverenced earnest.

The Wizard nods in acknowledgement and then there's a lull of stuffy silence. You pick at loose thread on a corner of the bedsheets, swallowing.

"If I, uh, if I let you stay, you must promise to st-stay hidden," he suddenly declares, slightly awkward in delivery.

"Of course," you reply at once, hope soaring into your chest, making your heart swell.

"You mustn't let Madame Morrible or Elphaba see you," he continues, stern.

"I won't." You hesitant and then go ahead with the question because it's been bugging you.

"Who is this Elphaba exactly? She's powerful like Morrible?"

The Wizard crosses his arms tight to his chest, working his jaw a bit.

"Well... apparently she has a load of potential - sorcery, yes - that could be mighty useful for me in keeping with ruling Oz and gaining power over our enemies. But she needs to be trained to serve and to enhance but also control her power, there's something Morrible hopes she can do and-"

There's a sharp rapping on the door that interrupts him, and you jump, glancing as the door bursts open, a red-faced mustached guard dragging in a monkey who is holding a satchel in its paws.

"Urgent mail call, your Ozness," the guard announces, and Oscar stands up, swiping the envelope from the monkey.

"It's from Munchkinland." He frowns, ripping the wax seal off and tugging out the contents, a single half page letter.

There's a tense minute as he reads and when his eyes leave the page, he looks to the mustached man and monkey first, then to you.

"It's news of Governor Thropp's death. He just died of a heart attack," the Wizard says, slightly aghast. He then addresses the guard.

"Am I the first to know of this?"

"Yes, sir."

"What does it mean?" you ask.

"It means the bastard's dead, what else?!" the Wizard exclaims, and you raise an eyebrow at mostly an absence of remorse.

He shoes the guard and monkey out before turning to you, speaking rapidly.

"I've been trying to annex that breadbasket country for years... The Yellow Brick Road construction hit a snag, but with leadership in flux now, it'll be easier to take full advantage." He rubs his mustache, a scheming glint in his eyes you don't particularly enjoy.

More power. Just what he needs.

You sigh, falling back on the bed with an exaggerated flump!

"Oh, what's the matter now?" Oscar asks, obviously irritable.

"Things are changing, aren't they? You wanted to send me there, but now the governor's dead and there could be political upheaval! They won't want anything to do with me, especially if I came from you and you're trying to take over their land."

"True, that's a point there. Well, you're getting your wish after all, darling." He walks to the bed and looms over your body before swiftly placing his hands down on either side of your head, trapping you between the sheets and his handsome face.

"You get to stay, my little lady... And we'll just find a way to keep our secret from Morrible, understand?"

Something about his tone makes you gulp; this isn't the goofy playful man anymore. This is Oz the Great and Terrible demanding obedience or else.

"Yes, sir."

"That's my girl." His tongue flicks out for a second, wetting his lips, before his spreads a smile.

There's a frothing hunger splashing at his toothy grin and your breath hitches as his index fingers caresses the left side of your neck, touching the barely fading hickey marks. Another good reason to hide away, you can't imagine Morrible or some outsider like that magical college girl seeing this.

"Gee, I wonder who left all these?" he breathes and the heated coil in your lower regions unwinds slightly.

"A man, I think," you reply in a whisper, and he winks, cradling your cheek.

"Will you forgive an old fool's folly? For almost throwing away the happiest part of his life?"

"What about Morrible?"

He withdraws, uneasy, but quickly recovers.

"Ah! Uh, an unavoidable co-conspirator and companion. We may have had a tryst years ago, but she's not too interested in physical pleasures anymore." He waves a hand as if letting bygones be bygones, but you're still bothered.

"You must love me and only me or I will leave after all. Remember, I don't belong here."

"You do now. Besides, you could never bring yourself to abandon the life I've provided," he retorts smugly, clearly thinking you're bluffing.

"If it comes to it, you give me no choice. I may not have magic, but I have my free will even if you lock me up. I don't have to love you, I could just pretend."

"Now you're the one threatening me? We'll make a politician out of you yet with that attitude." He smirks, unable to resist as he goes down, hands all over your clothes

"We can't do this now..." you gasp, distracted by the spurt of lust.

"I may do whatever I please, including enjoying my lady. And don't you want me to make it up to you? After all, that snafu of sending you out has nearly resolved itself and as long as you stay hidden tomorrow, we're in the clear. If you will?"

"If you love me then yes, all I want is nothing more than to be with you."

"That's what I thought." He gets a pondering expression, eyebrows pinching together.

"But perhaps you are right. We'll wait to celebrate... But I don't know when. I'll be accommodating the girl tomorrow and there will be plans to roll out, hands to shake, blueprints to complete, orders to designate..." He sighs dramatically and for a minute, his old age truly shows.

"You're too drunk with power, it's not healthy."

"I didn't used to be, but these things grow on a man. You know..." He waggles his finger in the air, drawing a circle, before landing it on your chest, right where your heartbeat is.

"You know why we connect so well? You're the first person I've known in twenty odd years that wasn't born a citizen of Oz; you come from the heartland of humble corn fed hicks just as I did and understand how confusing but fantastical this whole world is." He pauses and a wistful sadness seeps in the creases of his face.

"You know I always wanted a family of my own, but traveling wouldn't allow."

You nod, he's alluded to this many times. Always longed to be a father...

"Part of me wishes we'd crossed paths earlier in life or you hadn't been born so soon because we could have fallen in love the old fashioned way and had ourselves a nice farmhouse and fucked until the cows came home, and I would've given us a big family to raise... We could have had a whole, uh, brood of Diggs children running around causing chaos."

You swallow, not too sure about the "big family" part, but the way he phrases his pipedream makes it seem oddly rather idyllic and for a moment you can see a murky vision of yourself on a porch swing with him, babe in lap as a few older children chase and shriek after a smattering of chickens in the yard. Oscar with one arm on the tiny child, another arm around you, the scuff of his thin mustache bristles brushing your cheek as he kisses lovingly, working his way to your lips... That was the way country life would've been if everything was normal, right?

"That sounds just a bit simpler than being a ruler," you answer him softly. He rigs up a half smile and a glint of mischief flashes in his chocolate eyes.

"But I'm not a simple man, am I? I wasn't born to be a farmer; I was destined for more than that... The sense of being a salesman, the allure of the stage show magic was much too strong. Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was real here, not just sleight of hand tricks and palmistry and crystal balls and all that bullshit."

He digs in the pocket of his pants for a moment and then holds up a single gold coin, one of his many.

"See this? Now you don't." With a flick of his wrist and an open palm three seconds later, the coin's gone.

"Kids used to love that trick at the fairs, especially the tykes. That and the ol' 'got your nose', though anybody could do that." He pretends to grab your own nose, and you scrunch your face, eliciting a giggle.

"Now... Where did that coin end up?" He gives an even more mischievous look and then his hand is down between your legs and you gasp as he feels intrusively into your panties.

"Ah-ha!" He procures the coin from what feels like partly between your moist folds, making you flush.

He flips it in the air once, it lands down on his palm with a light smack, gleaming gold. He chuckles once at your expression, which must be infuriatingly amusing.

"It never gets tiring, seeing people's reactions. God, that sure makes me happy."

"That was a very dirty trick, though!" you point out scandalously, but not able to hide the grin spreading.

"Yes, uh, that one's reserved for special ladies." He winks again and then pulls you up and onto his lap, straddling you to his front. You can feel his half hard cock under his trousers and smile, shaking your head.

There has to be something more in that green elixir. Most men his age can't have this level of a sex drive, right? You just had a strenuous round last night and he's aiming for more satisfaction less than twenty-four hours later. You feel his hands trailing down your lower back until he has a tight grip on your ass, and he leans in, threatening to plant another neck hickey. His teeth graze along the fragile skin of your neck, winding upward to your earlobe and he growls playfully in your ear.

"You sound like a tiger," you tell him with an amused snort, struggling to not to let him rip your clothes off right here and now. Being on a bed doesn't help these urges.

He cocks his head, flicks his tongue out once across his lips, and then gets a very devious expression.

"A tiger you say... Or how about a lion? I am feeling as if I could devour you whole." He snarls and lets out a smooth rumbling purr just like a real house cat before rubbing your ass and carefully nibbling your earlobe.

He withdraws suddenly, arm snaking out from behind you and he holds up a single digit.

"Hold on, lions can't purr. Have you ever seen one in the flesh? I think we should get a pet cub; it'll give you something to care for."

"But they're dangerous!"

"Not when they're whipped into submission," he points out flatly and you frown.

"That's a harsh term, isn't it? But, my dear, they're absolute beasts who cannot ever truly be trained, you must get them young to make an impact," he justifies.

"Can't we just get a normal kitty cat instead?"

He rubs the dark patch of facial hair under his lower lip, lips twitching.

"I shall consider it if it would make you happy. Please, please forgive me for my terrible actions and words earlier," he pleads, cradling your cheek.

"I'll consider it, your Ozness," you shoot back teasingly, but in all honesty, you are caving in. He does seem truly sorry and there's so much relief in not having to leave the palace.

Oscar pats your head and then grunts, adjusting you off his lap with sheer abruptness.

"There's preparations to be made for tomorrow, I must ensure every bit of my machinery and displays are in perfect order, so I must unfortunately go. But I'll join you for dinner, and you deserve to eat as much as you want in apology for earlier." He jumps sprightly to his feet and energetically springs to exit, hesitating only for a fraction in the doorframe.

"I'll see you tonight, little lady."

********

Late that evening, after you've unpacked your belongings since you're sticking around, The Wizard invites you to spend the night in his bed and you cuddle under the covers, watching him pace back and forth in the middle of the room, muttering under his breath, too fast for you to correctly make out what he's speaking. His movements are jerky and reminiscent of a marionette, twitching and guided by an invisible force. Maybe there is one, involuntary. Could Morrible be capable of that kind of dark magic? Like the elixir, you'll likely never know if there's a secret to it or not. Just smoke and mirrors, never a clear reason to why anything happens.

Your mouth stretches into a wide yawn, and you spread out, relishing in the silky sheets. His bed is more comfortable than yours with more pillows that let you feel as if you're among puffy clouds.

Oscar doesn't offer any drinks tonight even for himself; he's too preoccupied.

You're in a cozy half-asleep state when he finally joins you in the bed, having removed his outer fabrics to be just in a white undershirt and boxers. There's nervous anticipation radiating off him, keeping him awake, but serious tiredness in the bags under his eyes.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?" you ask drowsily, though it's an unnecessary question.

"Yes... Can you tell? Mostly because I'm trying to figure out a way to pull my pitch off just right. To sell to the Thropp girl she belongs here with me and Morrible says she's gullible but strong-willed and determinedly emotional, a volatile combination if not anything gets out of control. I want to ease into things with her, see just how much power she could hold. And on top of it, I have to keep you completely out of sight, so I ask you remain in your room for the entire day, got it?" he rambles out in a rush the pace of a babbling brook.

"Sure."

He spreads his legs and moves you so you're lying in-between them. He pets your hair, sighing softly.

"Good."

Silence lapses and there's not even a hint of sex tonight, just cuddling for once and him humming an unknown lullaby as the night moves slow as molasses eventually towards tomorrow. You pass out shortly to the sound his steady breathing and the weight of his arms encircling your body.

********

The next day, The Wizard isn't there to wake you. No one is. It's empty in his bedroom, but someone been in to open the drapes halfway and crack the window; you can hear birds chirping and twittering noisily outside. There's also a fresh vase of flowers - a dozen red roses that smell decadent - on the table that weren't there last night.

You leave to the bathing chambers and complete your morning routine before returning to your room, feeling encroaching boredom. He wouldn't mind if you go to the library, would he? There were no books left to read in your room.

You wander out down the long corridors, surprised at the lack of guards, human or monkey. The one you do see hardly bats an eye; after all, you're just The Wizard's pet who's not going anywhere.

A moving flash of green catches your peripheral, a tall figure who could only be one man, rushing off towards the throne room. You have never seen the behind the scenes of his operation and curiosity peaks, despite this would be denying his orders. You want to see what this Elphaba Thropp is all about and are just as intrigued as him to witness any strong magic capabilities.

You silently slip through the ropey curtains.

He's up at the control panel, hunched over the panels and levers. When there's faint footsteps from outside, he perks up, hand cranking a wheel.

"Okay, okay, here we go..." he mutters to himself as the gears churn, and he lifts the speaker to his mouth.

Outside, the giant mechanical head groans to life and introduces itself before imploring.

"Who are you... and why do you seek me?" it hisses out menacingly.

You hear muffled voices, one particularly high pitched and female, the other female as well, but more muted.

"Elphie, say something."

"What am I supposed-"

"Anything! Say something."

"Say something..." the Wizard echoes into the mouthpiece and you stifle a laugh into your fist.

You see confusion in his expression as he's working to process who the two voices could belong to.

"My name is Elphaba Thropp and-"

He startles a little, hand slipping on the lever and the machine grinds to a halt just as it did when you met it. You watch as he gathers himself and then slips out from behind the curtain and you strain to hear as he greets the visitors.

"Elphaba Thropp? I didn't know it was you. You know, when I'm back there I can't make out people's faces... Uh, it's so great to meet-"

There's a pregnant pause and you wonder what he's doing before he speaks again.

"So great to meet you. Uh, hang on."

You stand up and creep over past the control panel and to the curtains, pressing your ear against it to hear better.

There's a quick exchange and then one of the girls - clearly not Miss Thropp - introduces herself as "Glinda" but he butchers it, misspeaking as "Belinda".

Before long, you hear him say "wait 'till you see this" and there's the quickening clop of his tap shoes, and before you can move out of the way, he's barging in the control room.

"Now, just hold on and I'll show-oah - OHH, good sakes!" He gasps, clutching his chest when he sees you, stopping dead in his tracks and nearly crashing into a part of the ropey curtain.

"Is everything alright, your Ozness?" the perky sounding Glinda calls out in confusion some distance away.

The Wizard catches his breath and then quickly calls back as nonchalant as he can manage.

"Oh, yes, everything's fine! Someone-thing just went a tad haywire, so just give me a minute and I'll be with you very shortly! Two shakes of a cat's tail, I promise!"

He roughly grabs your shoulders and steers you aside, plunking you down at the base of the stairwell.

"What in the name of Oz are you doing in here?!" he breathes in a frantic whisper.

"I was curious, I'm sorry, I-"

"Curiosity doesn't begin to cut it! I asked you to stay in your room! I thought I could trust you to be a good girl about all this."

"I'm not your child," you retort back, whisper-shouting.

"Then don't act like one." He glances over his shoulder anxiously and then bops your nose lightly with his finger.

"I will deal with you young lady later, but for now, stay put in here and don't make a single sound," he orders angrily.

"I won't," you whisper back, and he gives a you-damn-well-better dangerous glare.

He dashes back out from behind the curtains, cheerily addressing the girls as if nothing happened.

"Sorry about that. Follow me this way, ladies!"

You hear them walk off and sink down to the floor, cheeks flushed with guilty heat.

The Wizard proceeds to show the girls around his miniature set, and you feel a pang when listening to him about his sentiment of longing to be a father. It's just all part of his pitch, isn't it?

********

There's a chill to the air when Madame Morrible shows up just as his performance ends, her footfalls resoundingly loud and foreboding.

Everything escalates and spirals out of control rather fast from there when the Grimmerie book is brought out and Elphaba attempts a spell, which backfires on the lead monkey guard, Chistery.

Terrified, you grip the curtains and stare at Chistery howling and writhing on the floor with his new set of conjured unnatural wings. You want to rush out to the Wizard and hold onto him tight, but you can't, it's too dangerous and you aren't supposed to expose yourself.

But when it comes to light the Wizard is using Animals to his advantage and Elphaba loudly rejects his plan and makes a run for it, leaving a scared and stressed Glinda behind, who is taken care of immediately by Morrible ordering her to go get her friend, you can't help it.

"Oz, what's going on?! Are we in danger? What's going to happen to Elphaba?!" you yell, bursting out from your hiding spot into the large room, earning a stunned and furious gaze from Morrible and bewildered overwhelming disapproval from him.

"Sweetheart, please-" he starts, but Morrible intercedes, her tone livid as she rounds on him.

"How is SHE still here? You promised to rid of this useless whore yesterday! I regret ever conjuring the tornado that whipped up this random Kansian and dumped her here in the first place."

"What?!" you gasp, head reeling from this sudden realization.

"Oscar, you were so depressed and lonely, and I was bored to death of your bellyaching. We agreed it was just a fun arrangement at the time, but you've grown so attached to her, it disappoints me. Now look at the mess we're in and she's just another unnecessary piece on our plate to deal with. Aren't you proud of yourself?" Morrible asks dryly.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water and Morrible scoffs in disgust, turning back to you. She takes a half step forward, hand raised and poised in strike, as if she's two seconds away from slapping your face. You recoil, eyes darting to Oscar as he lunges forward and attaches his hand into your wrist, tugging you away.

"Excuse us, Madame."

He takes you once again behind the curtains, disappearing from the scene. The disturbed ropes swing loosely behind as he drags you up the staircase, huffing and muttering indistinctly. When you reach the platform where the control panel is, he whirls about, livid.

"Do you need to get your ears checked? Because you just can't seem to listen to a darn fucking word I say!" he exclaims furiously, gregariously shaking your arm.

"What is going on? And why didn't you tell me that me coming here was Morrible's fault? That I was just supposed to be a floozy? Was this a set up all along? How long have you been pullin' my leg!?" you demand, retching your hand from his grasp before he yanks your arm out its socket.

"A disaster, that's what's going on! Morrible just couldn't keep her damn mouth shut. But never mind that. This situation apart from you isn't how I wanted things to go, but one must adapt to the circumstances. Elphaba knows too much and has made herself an enemy of the state that I must dispose of."

You don't miss the intentional emphasis on that term that infuriated you to tears yesterday, and you know what he's implying.

Elphaba Thropp is going to join her governor father in death.

Distracted, you bite your lip, not sure what to make of this. Yes, the girl was dangerous with a spell book, but she had a cause that wasn't evil. She just wanted to help the Animals and expose the Wizard of Oz as a fraud. And what's Glinda's role in all this? She seems bonded to the green girl as some kind emotional support person, deeper than just a friendly peer.

"Okay, but what about Morrible? She's ready to put my own head on a pike!" you exclaim in panic, and he snorts.

"Forget it. She doesn't think highly enough of you to warrant a such a spectacle as a public execution, so don't worry."

Uncertain whether to be offended or not by that, you plow ahead with your questioning.

"What are you doing? Can I help? Maybe this is all a misunderstanding, maybe we can reason with Elphaba, there has to be another way, right?"

He ignores you, lifting up the mouthpiece connecting to his mechanical head and barking orders to his guards standing outside in the throne room.

"Guards! There's a fugitive loose in the palace... Find her... and bring her to me."

When the Wizard whips around to you, his face is calmly focused, and it unnerves you how ready he is for complete warfare against a single girl.

"Want to be useful and do the right thing for once today? Go after the blonde girl and bring her to me. We can use her as leverage against Elphaba, which speaking of - if you happen to see her, don't approach, wait for the guards. She's extremely dangerous and will attack if provoked. Here, take these for restraining her friend." He tosses a heavy pair of dark metal handcuffs to you, which would've hit you in the chest if not for lightning reflexes.

"Go!" he urges, ushering you down the stairs and back out to the main floor.

As you race off down the corridor, you can't help but feel flabbergasted and frightened at how this was all playing out. There's no room to digest what Morrible admitted and what this means for your relationship with the Wizard, so your brain shoves the confusion and hurt into a box. You'll deal with that later.

You shriek as a crazed flying monkey bursts through a glass window and clumsily crashes off down the hall, and then as you round a corner, you scream as you smash right into a small waif of a person with radiant locks of blonde hair.

It's Glinda.

"Who are you?!" she gasps, spinning around in a 360, momentarily dazed.

You heave to catch your breath, keeping your hands behind your back, hiding the handcuffs.

"I-I'm... with the Wizard," you tell her cautiously.

"Oh, well I could've figured that!" she exclaims, and you're confused for a moment as she points emphatically at your front.

"You have the monogram of Oz right here on your collar."

"Oh, right, I guess I do." You laugh nervously and she cocks her head, trying to figure out why you're even here talking to her. Interrupting her mission to find her friend.

"Did he send you? I hope you're not a guard; you don't look like one. Are you a servant or something?"

You grimace, thinking bitterly:

No, I'm just his stupid slut here to capture you against your will.

"No, um, I-"

Glinda stares at you intensely, her brain trying to work you out. This is what the Wizard would he want, isn't it? Stalling. But time is ticking; she's already flighty and her attention won't last much longer as she needs to get to her friend.

"You know, it's really not important who I am, um-"

"I have to go find Elphie before they hurt her! Please." She spontaneously grabs your shoulders and shakes you frantically back and forth. For such a tiny overly feminine person, she has quite a fiery amount of strength to her.

"You MUST convince him she's not going to hurt anyone. She made a scandalacious mistake but doesn't deserve to be hunted down like some Animal! Please, make him listen! I just need to get her to say sorry and we'll be FINE!" Glinda's voice reaches hysterical levels and as you stare at her wide huge brown doe eyes, you realize you don't have the heart (or lack thereof) to apprehend her by chaining her wrists together and dragging her back to the man.

"I'm so sorry about all this. Go find your friend and get the heck out of here!" you tell her before stepping away and bolting back the way you came.

You tremble as Morrible's cruel voice booms from speakers above, pronouncing Elphaba Thropp as a Wicked Witch and to hunt her down. It's too late to talk sense.

Dread swirls in your stomach when you reach the Wizard empty handed. He is unsurprisingly disappointed and snatches the handcuffs out of your hands, tossing them aside with a clunk to the floor.

"I didn't find her," you lie and his jaw clenches, but he doesn't detect the fib.

"Alright, alright. Stay with me then, it's safer." He catches your wrist and intertwines his fingers through yours, locking hands.

"Hey. I know you're upset about me and well, everything, but I still love you, okay? I love your guts. If you let go of me now, consider it the last thing you'll do," he threatens and you nod once, gripping back harder.

It's good to feel wanted, at least not in the bad way that Elphaba currently is.

********

Morrible storms back in just as all the lights in the palace explode, the electrical power blown out by an invisible energy force.

"They're at the high tower," she reports, and the Wizard drags you out down the winding corridors.

"Look!" you shout, pointing with your free hand to the broken windows and the sky outside where rampaging monkeys have gone, flying in circles.

A cloaked figure is on a broom, somehow flying in the air without wings, as guards stare up helplessly, brandishing swords, guns at their belts.

"Why don't they just shoot her down?" you ask, feeling terrible.

"No... This is what we can work with," he replies, his eyes scanning the sky.

"What's that mean?"

"Let her think she's free for now, she's weaponized herself so the people of Oz will be afraid and look to me for guidance. She's given me the perfect ascent without even realizing it. Selfish, stupid girl."

"But what if she tells people the truth and forms an army?" Your hand is getting sweaty in his grip. None of this is right, but like a trainwreck, you certainly can't stop nor can you look away.

"Not in the city, she won't. Everyone here is very loyal to me. No, she'll find a hiding spot somewhere unincorporated, I suppose, and if she's lucky, only a few will be sympathetic to her self-imposed plight. She's not the type to rally folks together and-" he breaks off as Elphaba does a battle cry in the sky, and a chill crawls down your spine.

The Wizard's hold on your hand slacks and you're momentarily forgotten as he drops his hand and moves forward, staring up in awe and fear as the green girl zooms away into the sunset.

She's made her choice, you think sadly but with reverence as you watch the billowing cloak of black against the setting sun and painted clouds.

Like I've made mine.

You glance at the Wizard, standing dumbstruck in the same position and you walk slowly over to him, taking his palm in yours, his dry hand wicking the moisture away. It takes a moment, but he squeezes in return.

When the commotion has died down and the witch has flown far away from the palace, leaving damage in her wake, you briefly see her friend Glinda with Morrible, embracing the older woman with streaming tears. By the embrace, you can't help but assume she has wanted this affection for a long time and Morrible isn't the right person, but someone Glinda has desperately latched to. She might mean as much as the Wizard means to you, minus the sexual aspect.

Everyone's made a choice today, you muse somberly as the Wizard guides you inside.

********

The palace goes on lockdown, guards trawling every inch of the perimeter all through the night.

"I should've tied you to the bed first thing in the morning and maybe we wouldn't be in so much of a pickle," the Wizard muses tiredly to you in his bedroom.

"Elphaba Thropp's rebellion is hardly my fault, mister!"

He shakes his head, distracted with his own jitteriness, pacing once more back and forth across the room, wearing a groove in the flooring.

"Come here," he barks suddenly and it's not a request.

You rise off the bed and move to meet him when he grabs ahold and spins you around so your back is flush to his chest. His breath is hot and ticklish in your right ear, voice husky and laced with frustrated lust.

"You were an awfully naughty girl today... I should punish you... Teach you something about listening to your elders, to not be in places you're not supposed to... How'd you like it if I stripped you naked and made you parade around the palace, huh? Would that make you feel good? Do you want to be called my slut? Would that make you feel wanted?"

"No," you breathe as his hand cups one of your breasts, groping generously.

"Should give you a spanking if I was so bold..."

You gulp as his other hand winds up your skirt and finds its way to your ass, hovering an inch above your panties.

"Hmm? Would that make you feel bad? Would you take the consequences? What can I do to prove this wasn't all some game I was playing?"

His fingers slip the panties down and there's a audible riiipp as he stretches them too far with a sharp yank, and the ruined fabric falls in a shimmy down your legs to land around your ankles.

"I'll take whatever you give me, your Ozness." Saying that makes bile rise in your throat, especially after today.

Slap.

You wince as his palm connects to the firm tender flesh of your bottom and he holds you still, arm snaked around your middle.

"Ooh, it stings, doesn't it? When you don't get your way? Believe me, I know. I know."

Slap.

"You shouldn't lie to me, my dear."

Cold fear crystallizes your veins, and you freeze, certain he knows you bullshitted about not finding Glinda and bringing her to him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to-"

"Offend me? That's wise..."

Your brain reels in confusion, trying to unlock whatever he's on about. Not getting Glinda back would insult him? Would it make him feel inadequate for not being able to obtain the witches? Were you offensive to have around?

Slap.

The spank jolts you out of theorizing and his breath is hot against your neck.

"Not everyone appreciates what I have to offer, it baffles me, but I understand. Elphaba Thropp is one such girl who is not enamored by my gifts and premise, clearly. But you... I expected better." Cold disappointment laces his tone and the spank that follows it sinks home the feeling that, at this moment, you are very lowly in his eyes.

"I made a mistake, I know, it'll-"

"Hush." He grunts and another slap hits your rear, making you chomp down on your bottom lip.

"I won't take apologies or excuses, missy."

Slap!

"Please, I beg of you-"

"Oh, begging now, are we? Begging to stay with me even if it means I hurt you?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Yes, I want-"

His hand leaves the target zone and drifts up your spine briefly before backing down and out, proceeding to make quick work of removing the skirt.

"Sweetheart, you don't know what you want other than my attention, that's pretty damn clear."

Well, you can't deny that.

"And now look at that, you're butt naked and here I am giving you my full attention. Lucky you." He sighs dramatically, as if this whole ordeal is a great chore.

"Gotta give the woman what she wants, I suppose." He pokes your ribs playfully and you wriggle, not sure whether to laugh or cry at this point.

"I should punish you further but considering the circumstances and how much of a day it's been, I shan't." His hand, however, goes down and spanks your ass once more, hard enough to make you squeal and squirm away. There's sure to be a lasting red mark down there by now.

"I'm... n-not your child," you manage to blurt out, breathless without dignity.

"Well, if I have to take on the role of acting daddy, I will if it keeps you in line." He huffs, wrapping an arm possessively around your midriff and catching you to reel you back into him.

You hate how your cunt clenches at those words, especially "daddy". It's wrong, it's perverted, but it also feels so... right for him. The father of Oz, the father of all you desire...

"No, I'm good," you rebuff, but the words betray your true feelings.

"You won't be the one to determine that."

He means it too, if how he handled the situation with Elphaba (now the labeled Wicked Witch) is anything to go by.

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl."

You writhe a bit, feeling seeping wetness on your folds and he must sense it too, for Oscar dips a finger in-between your thighs and briefly taps your damp entrance.

"Wet already? I guess spanking you wasn't the punishment I was intending."

"It still hurts," you whine out and he chortles darkly.

"Of course it does darling, that's life isn't it?"

He presses against you, and you can feel his hard-on against your back, his own budding wetness warm and sticky on skin.

"Will you take me?" he asks in a low voice, surprisingly tender and gentle.

One would presume the question a trick, a folly to make one feel the illusion of a choice; he is Oz the Great and Terrible after all. There is no questioning under his regime, there isn't anyone stopping him from getting what he wants. He must please himself first and foremost at the expense of others. A hunter in the grass, locked on his hapless prey that is aware that if it flees, it means a gamble for its own life.

But the man holding you to his chest with a ready cock that could break into you so easily is perfectly still, patiently awaiting an answer. There is no obvious threat behind his words, no cloak and dagger, or at least you chose to believe so. Oscar is not a good man, but he is not a monster.

"I'd like that," you whisper out, and the next actions that swiftly follow are seamless and nearly effortless.

It feels completely natural to conform to his larger body, to let his cockhead burrow past your folds and move with the steady thrust of hips, body grinding into your own at a passionate but forgiving pace. Even his grunts are rhythmic, only broken with pauses for breath and speech is when his otherwise fluid motions get sloppy. But you're too busy chasing an earth shaking orgasm to take much notice. Oscar's voice is gruff and needy at the side of your head as he carries the weight of holding you and himself upright to keep from collapsing to the floor and fucking right there. Standing up is a different kind of stamina.

"I... I should-should've given you a baby, it would give m-me an excuse to never let you go... Still can, in fact. Want one? A kid? I-I don't know, no-not at my age, I know, but fuck I... I can't pull out every single time," he pants, thrusts getting more frantic by the second and you erupt in euphoria as he hits the sweet spot, cock curved at just the right angle.

"Morrible will murder us both, we can't, what will people think..." you moan out, seeing twinkly stars as your head is thrown back in ecasty.

"I know, I know... But the thought is too tempting. I could be a real daddy for once..."

"I thought you already were mine," you gasp out and at this he groans, unable to conjure an answer as his cum splashes your cunt, cock promptly dragging out and dribbling hot thick streams down your thighs.

You feel like melting in his embrace from behind, legs going to jelly and he props you up, but he's faltering as well, all his energy drained.

"Buh-Bed," he stutters out, struggling to catch his breath.

You lumber forward with him until you reach the bed and fall face down into the cool satin emerald sheets, a second later the bed creaks and sinks with his weight beside you.

You doze off almost immediately, not even minding gooey fluid mess among tangled legs. There's the heady smell of sex and for once no elixir or whiskey accompanies it. It is raw, organic, and primal... and it feels awfully right.

********

When you awake sometime later with no recollection of the time, the room is unchanged; the candles still lit a glow, the sheets crumpled. But the Wizard is gone. For a moment, you stupidly panic, afraid Elphaba the Wicked Witch has somehow flown back and did away with him in revenge. Likely he would be too weak to fight her, or he had to flee.

"Oz... Oscar?" you croak out, clutching your chest as your heart hammers.

There's a rustling to your left and his voice comes, muffled, from the walk-in closet.

"I'm here, darling. Just getting my shoes on."

After a minute, he shuffles out with a bemused expression.

"Hey... Uh, you look like you've seen a ghost. Did I miss something?"

You sigh in relief, lowering your hand and falling back down to roll over, cocooning yourself within the satin sheets that reek of him.

"I thought you'd left or been captured, I dunno."

"I'm not leaving you. Ever," he replies, much more serious than you'd expect.

You peek up at him from the bed as he wanders over to the windows of his bedroom, pushing the drapes open a crack.

He looks out, brow furrowed in uncertainty, and you hear him faintly mumble to himself.

"Eyes on the sky, keep an eye westward..."

Then he shuts the drapes closed and steps back, humming a tune you don't know. He's half undressed in his trousers, fly open, and white undershirt with his green tap shoes.

"Do you want to dance?" he proposes excitedly, seemingly out of the blue. He's never asked to dance before. You swear sometimes his mood swings like a weathervane.

"Uh, I can square dance," you offer with a shrug and cheeky grin. He waves a hand dismissively, going to put a record on the gramophone. The melodic music comes out crackly before steadying to a mostly nice smooth sound.

"Nah, this is different than that. A slow dance, a waltz if you will." He beckons you to get up off the bed and then points excitedly to his shoes.

"C'mon, let's dance. Step right up."

You approach him, not sure why butterflies buck up in your belly. He looms before you and takes your hands in his, lifting you up so your feet in their stockings are on top of his shoes.

"You ever dance like this before?"

"No," you reply with a shake of your head as he guides your hands to his waist.

"Just follow my lead."

You sway with him in tandem for a while and then he lifts you up off his shoes and sets you on the floor, and he guides you around in a gentle fluid movement. When he dips you back briefly before finishing, delight oozes from his pores.

"Thank you for obliging me in a dance."

"Why haven't we done it before?"

"You never asked. Now, back to bed."

You smile, floating over onto the sheets once more with a yawn and he joins after removing his shoes and dropping his trousers to the floor. He picks a rose out from the vase next to the bed, the thorns all stripped from the stem, and twirls it around playfully, lightly tapping you on the nose with it.

"A pretty flower for a pretty girl." But then he violently plucks the petals off and scattering them all over the sheets, decorating the satin with splotches of red. He turns to you, eyes alight manically.

"Hey, I'm glad I didn't send you away after all! Can you imagine you, a foreigner, from the Emerald Palace sent by me landing in Munchkinland just hours after their own governor dies and said governor's daughter flies into a rage - not just figuratively - and is now a threat to all of Oz? They'd think I set this up and you'd be caught in the crosshairs of speculation! Thank goodness you convinced me not to get rid of you, by golly."

You stiffen, scowling.

"Am I really nothing more than just a political ploy and pleasure toy for you, Oz?"

"Nice rhyming, sweetheart. You are a carnal delight, but no, not a political tool. I love you too much for that."

"Do you really?"

"Don't make me have to show you." He groans, rolling over so he's on top of your body, bracing his arms against the headboard. His face is worn and exhausted, remnant of the day.

"Don't kill yourself now."

"If loving you is the last I get to do with my sorry life, I will take it." He grins but gets off and collapses down beside you, giving up. His arm reaches out, stretching to reflexively retrieve a glass medicine bottle of elixir from the bedside table.

"Fuck," he mumbles as his fingers brush it clumsily and it crashes to the floor.

"Do you want me to get that?"

"No, no, I got it," he mutters, crawling out of bed with a few more cuss words. When he pops back up and into bed, he takes a generous swig from the remarkably unbroken bottle.

"Want any?" he asks, but you shake your head in refusal.

You still don't exactly trust the stuff and tonight's enjoyable as it is without needing to be tipsy.

"More for me," he concludes, sipping more.

His Adam's apple bobs with each ingestion, and he sets the bottle aside after a bit, fixing his attention back on you. His eyes are more focused than you'd expect, not dreamy with drunkenness, and you wonder if it's possible he's built a tolerance to it. Or perhaps it just hasn't kicked in yet.

"Come here, my beauty." He encircles you in a full body embrace, the musk of his body engulfing. He must have washed up in the time you were unconscious, for his face smells of soap as he nuzzles his nose affectionately against the crook of your neck.

"Y'know, there may come a time we may have to leave this place for good... The Emerald City, that is. I hope to reign Oz until the end of my days of course, but with everything off kilter in the air because of earlier, and those girls utterly destroying my balloon, I have to plan ahead." He scoffs, mustache hairs tickling your skin as he shakes his head back and forth in obvious disgust.

"I'll get a new one fashioned up." He rolls you over to face him, worry causing deep wrinkles in his forehead.

"And, hey, what Morrible said earlier? I should've told you, I'm sorry. It was selfish, but I mean every word when I say you really are the best that could've landed on my doorstep. I don't regret it a thing and I value you, so if you don't want to be my, uh, plaything and call this all off, I understand."

"No, I don't. Just don't leave me out of the loop from now on."

He nods slowly, thinking.

"Hey... If something bad were to happen, would you come with me? Escape and leave Oz? Go back to the Midwest if we can?"

"Yes," you reply, stroking his grey hairs.

Relief floods his face, and you almost think he's about to cry before he kisses you on the lips briefly.

"I knew I could count on you, my dear. I apologize for every stupid sentence I've uttered this past twenty-four hours. Maybe it's not too late for us."

"Second chances?"

"You bet."

You snuggle contentedly into his chest, the light layer of fair hairs a comforting texture grounding you to him.

"When you asked me earlier about if I missed home... Well, I only miss it if you ain't there."

"You mean it?" he asks, anxious for any insincerity.

Funny, for a man who's built his entire empire on a decent amount of deceit. When it comes to the matters of his heart though, he merits no lies from his lover. Oscar wants to feel wanted, that is certain, and there's no tricks and sleight of hand in that.

"Cross my heart."

He presses his lips to your head, holding you snugly.

"I'm afraid you have mine until I die. I promise to never pull a stunt on making you leave again. From now on, you go where I go, even if that's by wayward balloon... I'll keep you as safe as I can. Understand?"

"I do."

"Thank you." He pauses, giving a sleepy wink.

"Goodnight, my little lady. Sweet dreams this time."

"Goodnight, Oscar," you murmur back, content and perfectly safe for the foreseeable future.

[leftcrunch]

Masterlist

Welcome to my masterlist! It's exclusively Pedro Pascal cinematic universe.

Here for Kylo? Click here.

Random snippets | Dreams | All Joel

One Shots:

Sheep Keeping Age - Jackson!Friends Dad!Joel Miller x innocent reader

Cherub - Priest!Joel x reader

Eight Ball Corner Pocket - Jackson!Joel x plus size reader

Requests:

Say It - Daddy kink

Little Blue - Old!Joel takes viagra

Study For Me - Daddy!Joel helps you study

Dreamland - Daddy!Joel gentle blowjobs

Cumulonimbus - Touch starved!Joel and reader get caught in a thunderstorm

Bad Man - Professor!Joel spanks you

[leftcrunch]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of here.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing is something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You have realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

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Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

[leftcrunch]

Joel Miller x f!reader

TEACHER'S PET

Summary: You, as always, didn't do your homework, so you got detention. But, what starts as a punishment turns into a secret, obsessive game of power and lust, that you will not forget.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, teacher/student relationship (both characters are adults), dominant/submissive dynamics, nicknames (slut, sweetheart, …), fingering, multiple orgasms, oral sex (male receiving), praise kink, unprotected sex (piv), creampie, school-setting tension, little angst!Joel

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It’s just another school morning.

You’re walking down the hallway with your best friend Maya. She’s grinning like an idiot, nudging you with her elbow as she sips iced coffee from a reusable cup.

“Try not to cum the second he walks in, okay?” she teases, half-whispered, half-laughing.

You roll your eyes with a snort, cheeks warming instantly. “You’re so dumb,” you mumble, but the corner of your mouth can’t help twitching into a smile. Because yeah… she’s not exactly wrong.

Joel Miller.

Your new literature teacher. Only two months in, and you’re already a mess. He teaches with that deep, Southern drawl, his voice rough like gravel and honey, and God help you, the man reads poetry like it’s a sin.

Every class with him feels like you’re being edged intellectually and emotionally. And maybe a little physically too. You walk into the classroom, and it’s all downhill from there.

You drop your bag by your desk and sit down, already distracted before class even starts. The room is buzzing with chatter, people rustling papers, unzipping backpacks, getting ready. You? You’re just staring at the door, waiting.

And then it happens. The bell rings and the door opens. There he is.

He steps inside with that signature calmness, a worn leather messenger bag slung across one shoulder, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms dusted with dark hair. The cotton of his shirt clings to his chest in all the right places, and the way he adjusts his glasses as he looks around the room? Unholy.

Your core pulses. Just from looking.

He walks slowly to the desk, every step like a magnetic pull. His boots hit the floor with a muted thud, his posture relaxed but confident. That salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed perfectly, shadowing the line of his jaw you’ve stared at one too many times during his lectures.

You don’t hear a single thing he says. Because you’re not listening.

You’re watching his fingers. Those thick, skilled fingers, uncap a pen and jot something down on the board. You wonder what they’d feel like tugging your hair or gripping your thighs or—

You blink, cheeks burning.

“Okay, folks. Take out your homework,” Joel says, his voice a velvet command.

Only when zippers and rustling bags start echoing around the room, you snap, blinking back to reality. Shit.

You turn toward Maya, panic flashing in your eyes.

“You did the homework, right?” she whispers, pulling her sheet from her folder.

“I—” You hesitate. You had every intention of doing it. You thought about it, you really wanted to impress him, wanted to do well in his class. But something came up and then it slipped out of your mind.

You’re fucked.

Your fingers fidget. You chew the edge of your nail. Your leg bounces nervously beneath the desk. He’s making his way around the room, collecting the papers one by one. And then he’s at your desk, right in front of you.

He reaches for Maya’s assignment without a word, his body angled slightly toward you, and you can smell him—woodsy cologne, leather, coffee. Something warm and addictive. He leans closer.

“Y’got yours?”

You look up at him, eyes wide, your mouth suddenly dry. He’s so close. Close enough that your skin prickles, close enough that the heat of his body almost brushes your cheek. His gaze stays neutral, unreadable, but his jaw’s tense.

“I… I’m sorry. I meant to do it but something came up and I forgot.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking toward the classroom window like he needs a second not to react. His voice is calm, but tight.

“That’s not the first time, is it?”

You flinch a little. It’s true, you've forgotten a few homeworks lately, too caught up in him to function properly.

“You’ll stay after. Detention.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “W-What? I’ll do it tonight—I’ll hand it in tomorrow, I swear, just—please, I have plans after school—”

He’s already moving on to the next desk without reaction, without argument, just: “Detention.”

You slump back in your seat, humiliated. Maya covers her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Someone’s gonna be suckin’ Miller’s cock,” she teases under her breath. You elbow her, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

But even through the sting of frustration and embarrassment, a little part of you, the part currently wondering how he’ll look at you when the classroom is empty and quiet and the lights are low, kind of… doesn’t mind.

Time alone with the hottest, most captivating teacher in the whole damn school? Doesn’t sound so bad.

You didn’t hear a single word for the rest of the class.

Not because the room was quiet—Joel’s voice still echoed, low and steady, through the lecture hall—but because your focus was completely consumed by him.

Every movement he made felt deliberate, magnetic. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The subtle flex of his fingers as he turned a page or tapped chalk against the board. Even the faint lines at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, as if every sentence was backed with some deeper thought he wasn’t sharing.

Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath your white summer dress, a subconscious attempt to anchor yourself, to not let the heat building between your legs take over your mind completely.

The fabric of the dress, light and barely grazing your skin, didn’t help. It clung in places it shouldn’t, and the warmth of the room—or was it just him—had your skin tingling, oversensitive, alert.

You shifted in your seat, squeezing your legs together again when you saw him adjust the cuff of his sleeve, revealing more of his forearm.

Something about that simple act made your breath catch. It wasn’t just attraction. It was need, raw, irrational, impossible to ignore. Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves, your core pulsing with every stolen glance you dared to take. There was something primal about the way he commanded space. And you felt it everywhere.

When the bell finally rang, it startled you back to the present like a sudden jolt. The rest of the students began to gather their things, rustling bags and murmuring to each other. You blinked, hands reaching for your notebook in slow, distracted motion. Your pulse was still racing.

You and Maya were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the air like velvet wrapped in iron.

“Don’t forget—detention.”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

His tone wasn’t raised, but it held an edge. Stern, direct, laced with authority. But it didn’t scare you. Quite the opposite. It hit something deep inside you, something that made your knees go weak and your breath hitch in your throat. The heat that had been simmering all class long flared suddenly, dangerously. You could barely look at him, not with the way his eyes brushed over you, steady, unreadable, as if he already knew what kind of thoughts were spinning in your head.

Beside you, Maya let out a soft laugh and nudged your side. “Girl, get your face under control.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but you weren’t. Not even close.

Later, at lunch, Maya sat across from you at your usual table, smirking into her salad.

“You’re gonna combust,” she said, pointing her fork at you. “I swear, you looked like you were about to pass out when he said ‘detention.’ You okay?”

“No,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m not. I’m—”

“Thirsty,” she offered helpfully.

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you think… if I actually had a shot—like, a real one—to blow him, should I take it?”

Maya choked on her water.

“Oh my god,” she coughed, laughing. “You did not just say that.”

You leaned back in your chair, flushed and breathless. “I mean, I wouldn’t actually do it. Probably. Maybe…I don’t know! It’s just, he’s Joel Miller. Have you seen his hands? The way he talks?”

“Yeah, and the way he gives you detention,” Maya teased. “Which, by the way, I think you’re secretly looking forward to.”

You stared down at your tray, heart still fluttering like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of you. Because truth be told… she wasn’t quite wrong.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Every class felt like static noise in the background—your mind already stuck on what awaited you at the end. Detention. With him.

By the time the halls emptied and the last bell rang, your heart was racing like you were heading into something forbidden. You walked slowly, deliberately, each step echoing down the corridor, your palms slightly clammy as you pushed open the classroom door.

Joel was already there, seated at his desk with a few papers in front of him. He was reading something, brow furrowed, his fingers absently rubbing against his lower lip—a gesture so casual and yet so… distracting.

The door creaked as it closed behind you, and his head lifted. His eyes found yours in an instant, dark and unreadable, and he gave a slight nod toward the desk closest to the front. “Sit,” he said simply, and you obeyed.

You didn’t say a word as you settled into the chair, trying not to let your dress ride up too high. It was hot today. It wasn’t your fault that the short summer dress made your skin feel electric, or that your thighs kept brushing when you crossed your legs.

Joel stood up, approached slowly, and stopped at the edge of your desk. He looked down at you, voice calm but firm. “Do you even know what the assignment was?”

You hesitated, already knowing the answer was no. Your mouth parted to form something, anything—but he exhaled, frustrated, and slapped a sheet of paper onto your desk.

“The prompt,” he said, “was to write about your greatest desire. In poetic form. Minimum of two hundred and fifty words. You’ll sit here until it’s finished… and until I think it’s good enough.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He arched a brow. “You heard me.”

Then he turned and returned to his desk, sitting back down with a controlled calm that made your stomach clench.

You stared at the blank page for a while, your mind swimming—not with words, but with him. Then you looked up at him and thought about his voice. His scent. The way his forearms looked with those sleeves rolled up. The veins in his hands. The line of his throat when he tipped his head back.

And then it hit you.

Words started flowing faster than you could think. Line after line, vivid and raw, filled the page. You didn’t filter. You couldn’t. It was as if something had broken loose in you—this quiet, desperate longing you’d been carrying for weeks, now shaping itself into metaphor and pulse-heavy confession.

Every so often, you looked up, and sometimes his eyes were already on you. Not for long. Just fleeting moments, but they ignited sparks all the way down your spine. And when your eyes locked, you had to squeeze your thighs together beneath the desk, trying to contain the wave of warmth rushing through you.

Finally, when you’d scrawled the last word and your hand trembled from how fast you’d written, you stood up, gripping the paper tightly. Every cell in your body screamed that this is insane, and yet… you were already crossing the room.

Little did he know, that you wrote about your sexual desire for him. You described it in detail, poetically, what would you like to do to him and how, as well as what would you like him to do to you.

He looked up as your shadow passed over his desk. His brow arched again. “That was quick.”

You didn’t answer. You just handed it to him.

Joel leaned back slightly, eyes shifting down to the paper in his hand. He lifted it slowly, his fingers brushing over the edges, and brought it closer to his face. He didn’t read aloud. But you watched, his expression change with every line. The tightening of his jaw. The flicker in his eyes. The stillness that suddenly overtook him.

Then… his gaze lifted to yours.

And it was different now. Heavy. Tense. You felt the weight of his stare everywhere—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. It was first time he saw your outfit and he really scan you.

“This,” he said lowly, voice edged with something he was trying hard to suppress, “is inappropriate.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to cross a line…”

He stood up. Slowly. The scrape of the chair against the floor made your whole body flinch. He took a step toward you—close, but not quite touching.

“Stand there,” he said.

His voice had dropped an octave. Controlled. Commanding. You moved around the desk to stand where he’d pointed—his spot. Joel placed your paper on the desk, smoothing it with his palm.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. And neither did you. The air between you was charged, electric, so heavy it felt like gravity had doubled.

His expression was stern, serious, eyes narrowed with a fire that made your knees feel weak. He set a pen down on the desk next to your writing and said in a low, firm voice, “Cross out anything inappropriate.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and leaned over the desk. Your white dress brushed softly against your thighs as you bent forward, exposing just enough of yourself to feel the shift in the air behind you. You knew he was still standing close—too close. You could feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your back, burning through the thin fabric like sunlight.

You feel him before you even hear him—his hand brushing against the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. Goosebumps rise instantly, your spine tensing as heat coils low in your stomach. The pen trembles slightly in your hand.

“C'mon, keep going” Joel mutters, voice low, rough, but there’s something else in it, something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

His fingers trail higher, grazing the hem of your dress, then slipping just beneath it. Your breath catches, and you grip the edge of the table harder.

Your eyes locked on the ink-stained paper in front of you, even though the words blur under your gaze. His hand slides between your thighs, calloused fingertips moving up your inner thigh slowly, torturously. “You’re too distracted. Maybe I should teach you how to really pay attention.”

You bite your lip hard as his fingers press gently against your underwear—just enough to make your hips twitch, not enough to satisfy anything. You can feel the smirk in his voice without even turning to look.

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You gonna cross that out or keep pretending you’re some innocent little thing?”

Your hand moves shakily, red pen dragging a line across the paper, but your mind isn’t on the words anymore. It’s on his fingers, teasing at the edge of the fabric, sliding it to the side—just enough for him to slip between.

When he finally slides your panties aside, the first brush of his fingertips against your bare heat pulls a sharp breath from your lungs. You tense, the sensation electric—like a jolt low in your belly that travels down to your thighs. His touch is light at first, teasing, as if he wants to savor every second of this new power he holds over you.

“Already wet for me,” Joel murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough that you hear it—and feel your face burn with heat. You don’t move, don’t speak. You’re completely frozen, except for the way your hips shift back just slightly, begging without words.

His index finger slides on the surface of your folds, slow and deliberate. He traces you from bottom to top, gathering your slick, then circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees tremble. He doesn’t rush. He wants to feel every twitch, every reaction—wants you to know you’re under his control.

You whimper when he presses down more firmly, rubbing slow, torturous circles. Your hands grip the table harder, knuckles white, breath shaky. He watches the way your body responds—the way you arch into his hand without even realizing it.

Then he slides a finger inside you.

The stretch makes you gasp. He moves it carefully, deliberately curling it just enough to brush against that sensitive spot deep inside. Your legs shake as he sets a rhythm—steady, unrelenting. Then comes the second finger, thicker, deeper. You moan, softly, head dropping as your body clenches around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

Each thrust of his fingers is slow but deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The wet sounds between your legs grow louder, obscene, echoing through the quiet room. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight circles in sync with the rhythm of his fingers plunging in and out of you.

Your body is fire—hips jerking, thighs quivering, mouth open with desperate little gasps you can’t hold back.

“You close?” he mutters, leaning in so his voice rumbles right against your ear. “Gonna come all over my fingers, sweetheart?”

You nod helplessly, barely able to form words.

And then he speeds up, fingers moving faster, thumb harder, and it’s too much. The pressure bursts all at once. You cry out as the orgasm rips through you, your muscles tightening around his fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably. Joel doesn’t stop, not until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and breathless, collapsing against the table, legs barely holding you up.

He finally pulls his fingers out, slow and dripping, and brings them to his mouth—sucking them clean with a low groan.

“You taste even better than I imagined.”

You’re still trembling when he steps back, his belt already undone, jeans pushed down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already hard from watching you fall apart under his touch. He’s looking at you like you’re a feast, like you were made just for this.

You straighten slowly, legs shaky, and turn to face him. Your eyes drop to the way he strokes himself lazily, precum glistening at the tip. You swallow hard. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“You starin’, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice thick with arousal. “You want it?”

You nod, stepping closer, sinking to your knees without breaking eye contact. Joel hisses through his teeth when you do.

“Good girl,” he says lowly. “Knew you’d look perfect down there.”

Your fingers wrap around the base of him, and he’s so hot and heavy in your hand that it makes your core clench again, already aching for more. You run your tongue along the underside, slow and teasing, tasting the salt of his skin. He groans, hand falling to your hair, not pushing—yet—but guiding.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, licking up the precum, and then you take him in—just the head at first, letting your lips stretch around him. He growls softly, head tipping back.

“Fuck, feel so good.”

The praise makes your thighs press together instinctively. You take him deeper, slow but hungry, feeling him stretch your throat. He’s big—almost too much—but you want it. You need it. His hand tightens in your hair when you hollow your cheeks and start to bob your head, setting a steady rhythm.

“Atta girl,” he grunts. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

You hum around him, sending vibrations down his shaft, and he groans, bucking his hips forward just slightly. Your eyes water, but you don’t stop—you want him to use you. His breathing turns ragged as you take him deeper, faster, spit dripping down your chin, your hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach.

“Look at you,” he growls, gaze locked on yours. “On your knees, takin’ my cock like a good little slut.”

That makes you moan—so much so that your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the need to please him. He twitches in your mouth, and his grip tightens.

“Shit—keep goin’. I’m close,” he breathes. “Gonna come down your throat. You want that?”

You nod with him still inside you, eyes wide, desperate.

“Then take it,” he snarls. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

With a final thrust of his hips and a broken groan, he comes—hot and thick, spilling onto your tongue. You swallow quickly, not wanting to waste a single bit, your lips still wrapped tightly around him until he jerks from the overstimulation.

When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, he’s staring down at you with a mix of hunger and admiration.

Before you can even wipe your mouth, Joel grabs you by the waist and hauls you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, caught off guard, hands flying to his shoulders as he turns and slams you down onto the table. Papers scatter everywhere.

“You think you can just sit there in that little dress,” he growls, pushing your knees apart with rough, determined hands, “actin’ like a tease, not do your goddamn homework properly—”

He yanks your panties down your thighs and tosses them aside.

“—and not get fucked for it?”

You don’t get a chance to answer.

He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch makes you cry out, your nails digging into the wood of the table as your body adjusts to his size. He doesn’t give you time. His grip on your hips tightens as he pulls back and slams into you again, the force jolting the table beneath you.

“This what you needed, huh?” he grunts, voice sharp with control. “A hard fuck to teach you how to focus?”

“Mr. Miller—fuck!” you moan, your words barely coherent, back arching as he pounds into you, fast and brutal, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning over you, his mouth at your ear. “You take my cock like a goddamn champ, baby. So tight—so fuckin’ wet for me.”

Every thrust hits deep, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you, making your thighs tremble, your breath coming out in frantic, broken gasps. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head against the table, fully owning every inch of you.

“You gonna be a good girl next time?” he growls. “Do your fuckin’ homework when I tell you?”

You whimper, nodding, barely able to speak. He smirks, slamming into you harder.

“Say it.”

“I—I’ll be good,” you gasp. “I’ll do it, I swear—”

“That’s more like it.”

He releases your wrists and lifts one of your legs higher over his shoulder, changing the angle—and suddenly he’s even deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur. You cry out, eyes rolling back, fingers clawing at the table’s edge as he keeps going, unrelenting.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me teachin’ you a lesson.”

You can feel your orgasm building again—hot and fast and uncontrollable. Joel sees it in your face, in the way your body clenches around him, and he grins darkly.

“Gonna come again, aren’t you?” he mutters. “Such a desperate little thing. Come on, baby. Come all over my cock.”

And just like that, you shatter—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream, your body pulsing around him. Joel groans low and guttural as you tighten around him, and a few rough thrusts later, he’s coming too—filling you with a hot rush of release, staying deep inside as your bodies collapse together on the desk.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathless, sweaty, completely spent.

“Now that,” he mutters with a smirk, “is how you learn.”

The next morning, your thighs are still sore.

You try not to limp into class, but Maya clocks you the second you slide into the seat next to her. She leans in, eyes narrowing.

“So…” she hums, “how was detention?”

You glance at her, trying for casual—but the moment your lips twitch into a smile, it’s over. Maya gasps so loudly that a few people in the rows ahead of you turn their heads.

“Oh my god. YOU FUCKED JOEL MILL-”

You lunge across the desk, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“Are you crazy?” you hiss, eyes wide. “Do you wanna shout it louder, maybe let the principal know too?”

Maya yanks your hand away, but her eyes are dancing, her voice lowered now to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I saw your face. You’re glowing. Like post-orgasm, wrecked-for-life glowing.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Shut up.”

She gasps again, this time softer, leaning even closer. “You fucked him! You totally—oh my God. You and Professor Tall, Dark, and Growly?”

You’re already blushing. She fans herself dramatically.

“Okay, details. I want everything. Was it hot? Was he rough? Does he growl the way he does in class?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “Maya—”

“He totally does, doesn’t he? God, I knew it. That man is sex personified. Did he make you come with just his—”

“Jesus Christ, Maya!”

She stifles a laugh. “Sorry, sorry! I’m just… I’m happy for you. That’s like… forbidden fantasy dreams fulfilled. You’ve had a crush on him since the first lecture, babe.”

You look down at your desk, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.”

Before Maya can reply, the classroom door opens. And there he is.

Joel Miller. Same flannel, same boots, same deep, intimidating presence—but now all you can see is yesterday. His fingers buried inside you, your knees on the table, the weight of him pounding into you like he owned your body. Your thighs press together involuntarily.

He strides to the front of the room, placing his notes on the desk. Your eyes trail over his hands, remembering how rough they felt on your skin. You’re so deep in the memory that you barely hear him start to speak.

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

But then, then he looks at you.

Just a flicker. A glance that lasts a half second too long. And the corner of his mouth twitches.

It’s not a smile. It’s something darker. Wicked.

Maya turns toward you, oblivious, scribbling something in her notebook. But you’re frozen, breath caught in your throat.

Did he just wink?

You can’t be sure. It was so fast, so subtle—but that little spark in his eye… it wasn’t nothing. It was intentional. And it was meant only for you.

He turns back to the board like nothing happened, like he didn’t fuck you senseless on his desk the night before. But your heart is racing, and your whole body feels like it’s on fire.

And now you have to survive the next hour trying not to squirm every time he says your name.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEE!!! 🎀🌷

[leftcrunch]

DUSK TILL DAWN MASTERLIST

pairing: hwang inho x fem reader

warnings: stated in every part

[1] dusk till dawn

[2] baby i'm right here

[3] fly me to the moon

blurbs and extras: coming soon...

comment to be tagged in future blurbs!