abbonation

[abbonation]

guhhhhhh!!!!! another incredible chapter, please guys- go read this if you haven't!! This is so so sooooo good, hot, steamy, but also syrupy sweet and romantic. Living somewhere it's really cold right now, this fic is breathing the life of late summer into me. I'm so enamored!!

resolve

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 8.7k yeehaw

summary: Joel gives you a credit card. You're hesitant to use it.

cherry masterlist

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [piv sex, semi-public sex, a lil tiny bit of ass play, dry humping, fingering, choking but not really], sugaring (kinda, we're getting there), praise kink, reader is a sex worker, smoking (reader and joel), self destructive tendencies, internalized shame, self deprecation, emotional vulnerability, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, struggles with letting go of control

a/n: this is definitely one of my favorite chapters so please let me know what you think! thanks for reading!!

Joel gives you a credit card. 

It feels like dead weight in your hand, like a venomous snake wrapping around your palm and wrist, twisting higher until it can curl around your throat.

He’d given it to you the night you tasted cherry soda on his tongue, and kind of, but not exactly, agreed to be his sugarbaby. 

Just thinking of it makes you feel ill. Not because you have any qualms about it widely, but because it makes you feel beholden to a force you can’t control. His hands are gentle for now, coaxing and gasping, but how long could that last? How long before the hand that fed you, struck you instead? 

How long until this became a mistake?

For several weeks you’ve been dancing around the credit card, hoping that he doesn’t ask you about it again. He’d only inquired once and you’d managed to push the conversation off. You can only assume he’s checking his statements and seeing that you aren’t using it. 

What would you use it on? Are you supposed to take it on a shopping trip like a pet on a leash? 

You’ve never in your whole life had money lying around, and can’t imagine what people buy for fun. Using it on necessities is out of the question.  

You think of the caressing hand again, imagine it forming a fist. And how would whatever you used the card for be held over you if this tentative, slightly volatile thing came crashing down around you? You won’t be able to pay him back.

Still, you’ve been with no one else, keeping that promise at least. You pass the club by entirely and go directly to the hotel. Very often you spend Friday and Saturday with Joel. If you stay a second night, he gives you double the cash he usually does, and although you know that’s fair, it makes you feel sick. 

Because you like spending time with him. It’s hardly work if you enjoy it. The pleasure you feel means you don’t deserve what he gives you. There are some weekends, just as before his gold plated offer, that you don’t fuck him at all.

Desperate nuggets of truth lie buried in the quietly spilled words on those days, admissions about your lives outside that room, the half-agreement you’ve come to. It almost makes you feel worse. You’ve often accused Joel of unnecessary feelings of guilt, but your shame runs so deep it fills you like a swollen sea.

Your battered car hums beneath your thighs as you pull into the hotel parking lot near the back and kill the engine. 

The afternoon sky is a cheerful azure, fingers of warm sunshine reaching across the deserted parking lot. A sheaf of springy, white clouds tumble across the horizon that will dissipate in the heat before they ever have a chance to pass before the blazing sun. 

You sit in the heat for a moment, warmth soaking into your bones, relaxing the muscles at your shoulders until the warmth becomes oppressive. Before you climb out into the yellow sunshine pouring through your cracked front windshield, you reach for your little red purse and rummage through it, digging past hand sanitizer, condoms, a pack of gum, several crumpled napkins, a half empty pack of cigarettes, and a cherry chapstick, until your fingers close around the dreaded card.

It’s cold to the touch, black metal etched with his name. You hadn’t known credit cards could be made of anything other than the standard plastic. 

Joel Miller. 

You hadn’t known his last name before, and Miller is so common it’s almost as though he doesn’t have one. You’d only googled far enough to see that he made his money from owning a construction company before toggling away from it, terrified you might stumble upon a Facebook account filled with family photos. 

You run your thumb over his name slowly, watching the sun reflect off it, the metal heating slowly in your hand, before abruptly tossing the card in your glove compartment and snapping it closed. 

It feels like a trap. It feels like not trying hard enough. 

You push open the door and adjust your skirt, glancing at yourself in the reflection of the window. It’s different to your usual, but you’re no longer going to the club, so you figure it might be okay to branch out, seeing if Joel might like to see you in something else. 

Despite it all, you want to please him. It’s important you please him. 

The skirt is longer, an airy material that falls somewhere around your mid-thigh with a slit up the side, a baby tee that shows a tiny strip of your belly. The colors are brighter than Joel will be used to. You look less like a sex worker and more like. . .you, you suppose. 

The air is sticky with humidity, rife with July heat and the syrupy slowness that comes along with it as you cross the now familiar hotel lot, all smooth white paving stones, Spanish arches, and lush, carefully manicured trundles of greenery, leading to the cool interior of the hotel. 

It’s nothing like cracked asphalt of the club parking lot, stained with brown rust and raven drips of gasoline that reflect swirls of oily rainbows, leading to a depressing building sandwiched between an abandoned auto parts store and a decrepit aluminum recycling plant.

It’s still intimidating to walk into the hotel without Joel. Your heels click on the stone as you navigate the lobby, the deep greens and browns, the heavy smell of something comforting and rich perfuming the air. 

A flock of expensive looking people are exiting the bar when you enter, chattering amongst themselves, eyes ghosting right over you as you head toward the front desk. 

Reception is a little chilly with you, but has a key card ready, for which you’re thankful. 

When you push open the door to room 202, Joel is lying back on the bed’s still made up sheets, one arm tossed over his eyes. His thighs are spread wide, a strip of skin showing between his t-shirt and jeans. The jeans are unbuttoned and half unzipped, a trail of hair leading down his belly. Your mouth grows dry at the sight. 

“Hey, darlin’,” he greets. 

“Hi, Joel,” you answer, dropping your bag by the door, lifting your leg with a bent knee to fiddle with the straps of your heels. “Rough week?” You ask, balancing on one foot. 

A long suffering sigh deflates his chest. “Somethin’ like that,” he mutters. There’s something stronger than just the defeat of a long week in his voice. You consider if you should ask him about it, continuing to struggle with the clasp of your heel.

“Want to tell me about it, sweetheart?” 

Joel moves his arm, eyes running over you slowly, gaze caressing the curves of your contorted body. “Cherry,” he answers. “C’mere. Lemme do that for you.” 

This is the problem you’ve been encountering with Joel, the burr in your side that you’ve yet to learn how to breathe around. 

You aren’t used to a man who wants to do things for you, whose pleasure, whose needs, are satisfied by taking care of you. It’s the credit card all over again. 

“I can get it.” 

“C’mere,” he beckons again, voice firmer this time as he sits up, not asking anymore, not really.

You unfold yourself and perch next to him, offering him your ankle. He curls one hand around the delicate bone and lowers it to his lap, expertly popping the clasp open with a twitch of his fingers. 

You lift your other leg and the second shoe follows the first. “Thank you, Joel.” His hand slides along your flesh, curls against the back of your knee before you find yourself suddenly on your back beneath him. 

The sheets are warm from his body heat, his scent clouding around you. He smells so good it makes you dizzy. Joel smells like sun warmed skin, the tang of bergamot and comfort of oiled leather, the ever present red dust that swirls along the highway. 

A delicate thread of want unfurls in your belly, curls lazily and longingly between your legs. 

You turn your head and bury your nose in the bicep of his t-shirt, thick muscle flexing beneath your mouth, and watch him through one slitted eye. 

His eyes travel over your body, the heat of it tearing through your chest. A shock of hair falls out of place and into his eyes, brown with a thread of gray. “You look real pretty, darlin’.” 

“You like it?” 

He makes an assenting noise, running one large hand over the meat of your thigh, the jut of your hip and curve of your waist. He gathers your hands in his and pins them above your head so your breasts lift and your shirt rides up. “Yeah, I’d say so.” 

“I was hoping you would,” you bite your lip and roll your hips against his, letting your eyes flutter shut. “I dreamed about you.” 

His mouth whispers along your throat, your shoulder, down your bare arm. Gooseflesh rises in his wake. “Did you?” 

You open your eyes and blink up at him. The afternoon sunshine breaks through the lowered blinds, shaping bars of alternating shadow gray and garnet across his skin. You hum, assenting, and spread your legs invitingly beneath him. The longer skirt makes it a little more difficult, but the split up the side helps. 

“Tell me about it.” 

“It’s not PG, I’m afraid.” 

He chuckles and caresses your waist with his free hand. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,” he says, pinching your nipple softly through your t-shirt. You inhale sharply and wriggle closer to him, until you feel the zipper of his half undone jeans against your pussy. “I dreamed about you too.”

“And was it a very innocent dream?” 

Joel thinks for a moment, the gentle pattern of his caresses lulling you. “Half innocent.”

“Well I always end up naked one way or another.” 

He chuckles, absorbed in tracing your waist, the curve of your hip, the swell of your ass. He doesn’t offer the dream, and you don’t offer yours. 

“Joel?” 

“Hm?” 

“You can tell me, you know,” you say, flexing your fingers in his grasp, trying to ignore the pulse building between your thighs. 

The attention drives you crazy. 

You hate to keep comparing him to those other men, holding them side by side, but you can’t help it. So often it had been as though you weren’t really there, a pretty vehicle for their pleasure and nothing more. When they touched you, it wasn’t like this.

“I think that’s what I’m here for and I’m a good secret keeper.” 

“Nah,” he shakes his head dismissively. “Not sure where to start with it all. Go on and tell me somethin’ good about yours.” 

The anxiety you’ve stepped around all week floods your throat, and you have to take a moment to remember you aren’t supposed to be that with him. “It all, huh? Sounds serious.” He doesn’t fold to the bait of your joke, waiting for something real, a confidence to be handed over, as per your little agreement. Wasn’t it so that sugardaddies offered their sugarbabies advice? You don’t want to tell him. “I’m afraid I might not be able to offer that to you.” 

He searches your eyes, something tells you he knows you’re holding back. “Well shit.” 

“Yeah. I can make something up though, if you’d like,” you offer and curl your leg against his hip. “Or you can tell me what’s bothering you.” 

“Darlin’—”

“C’mon,” you whine. The way to Joel’s interior, you find, is by not making it about him. “Distract me from my terrible week.” 

To your surprise, or maybe just the way in which he does it, he deflects. “There’re other ways I can distract you.” 

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” You arch your back and his eyes flit briefly to your tits. 

“Go on then.” His voice is light, teasing. There’s a glint in his eyes that you’ve seen appear more and more over the last couple months. “Distract me.” 

Feeling a little disgruntled and somehow tricked, you tug one of your hands from the vice of his grip, the gentle crush and pressure of the weight of him holding you down, but not really. He nudges his leg more firmly between yours, delicately sliding up the fabric of your skirt until it’s bunched around your hips. 

You press your knee against the outside of his thigh, hooking your calf there to better feel the rough denim of his jeans against your skin, palming his half hard cock. 

“Joel,” you mumble his name, delighting in the scratch of his beard against your throat when he lowers his head. “Yeah, sweetheart, just bury it inside me instead.” You squeeze the bulge of him in your palm until he groans. “Let me fuck it out of you, baby.” 

A curl of pleasant surprise nestles in your chest when he doesn’t release your hand, instead running his free hand over your body again, slotting against the dip of your waist, trailing the backs of his fingers over your belly, before slowly tugging your shirt above your chest. 

Your fingers become clumsy, fumbling with the zipper, distracted by his mouth against your skin, pushing his jeans down until he steps out of them. 

“I wanna suck your cock, Joel.” Your voice is nearly a whine, needy, and after the week you’ve had, you desperately want to please him, just so he’ll call you good. This is something you can do right, and get the cool wash of those words against your ears, having the deep aching need to please, soothed. “I want you to fuck my face.” 

He palms your chest, pinching your nipples into taut little peaks. “Too bad,” he mutters and sucks one nipple into the warm, soft cavern of his mouth. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck. 

“Please,” you beg, arching into his mouth, “tell me what you want. I want to give it to you.” 

Joel tucks his fingers into the band of your underwear and tugs them down your legs, decidedly not answering you, leaving you to flounder in the searing press of his gaze and touch. 

He presses his hand against the side of your throat, thumb digging into the soft flesh beneath your chin. You think he just means to turn your face but your whole body shutters and he pauses. 

“Oh,” you murmur, inhaling sharply through your nose, eyes rolling back, bottom lip caught between your teeth. An embarrassed heat floods your face, hips lifting to meet his. 

He pauses and watches you carefully. “You like that?” 

You don’t mean to answer. You need to think, be calculative. What does he want? Who are you supposed to be for him? “Yes,” the word is breathy and laced with need, misting between you on the air, a barely there whispered admission. “Ye-ah,” you repeat, still meaning to say nothing, voice snapping cleanly in two. 

Carefully, he shifts his hand to cup your throat. It’s tentative and exceedingly gentle, and you sense that it’s the first time he’s done something like that. 

There’s no pressure, you can still breathe normally, but it makes your mind go fuzzy and white. “Uh-huh.” There’s understanding in his voice, something about you clicking into place for him. You can’t begin to guess at what, not really able to at that moment. 

You clutch at his wrist to keep his hand there, desperate not to lose the warmth of it. “Hey,” he says, when you try to urge his fingers to tighten. “No. I don’t know how to do it right and I ain’t riskin’ hurtin’ you.” 

Fuck.

Trying to get him to choke you. You have no idea if that’s something he’s into. 

Not about you, can’t let it become about you. 

“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to regain control of the situation. “Sorry—”

“Baby.”

You still and meet his gaze. This has gotten away from you, lust and need leading the way, leaving your better instincts behind. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

You need to get it together. 

“I want you to let go. That’s all. Quit thinkin’ so damn much.” His thumbs churns slowly over that delicate softness beneath your chin. “Let go for me.”

You want to. It’s all you want. You want to shove yourself into his waiting hands, let him trace the contours of your want and reshape it however he wants, as long as you get to let go. You’re holding it together so hard, begging the seams of your life not to split up the middle, gripping tentative control in ever weakening fingers, that you feel as though you might snap. 

He keeps stroking your throat and gradually you relax in his arms. “There she goes. I’m gonna fuck you now, darlin’.” 

“Yes.” 

He laughs and the sound is more like a grunt. “You want that?”

“I want you to fuck me.” You can’t be any clearer for him. “I’ll beg, Joel. Tell me to beg.” 

But he doesn’t, he thrusts against you instead, cock splitting through your damp folds. The head of his dick brushes your clit and you jolt. 

He reaches between your bodies and grips himself, repeating the action until you keen. 

Almost reluctantly, he releases your throat, pulling away to push your knees apart, stare down at your aching, swollen cunt. He runs one finger through the damp mess, teasingly tracing your hole, massaging your clit, the pressure steady but light, not enough to make you come, just enough to make you desperate. 

His finger traces over your puckered asshole and you squirm. “You wanna fuck my ass, Joel?” 

“Christ,” he mutters. “You might kill me.”

You grip his wrist to keep his hand there and arch an eyebrow. “Oh but you want to.” 

He leans over you and kisses you deeply, his finger still tracing the tight ring of muscle. He pushes his thumb against it, the wet of your pussy helping ease his way. 

Your stomach clenches and loops with each stroke, hips and thighs twitching, until he finally sinks it in, just briefly and shallowly enough for you to feel the burn and then pleasure of it, before he pulls away, stroking again. 

“I want to fuck you any way you’ll let me, Cherry.” 

You shiver and cup one hand against the back of his neck, pulling him down into another sloppy kiss, shoving your tongue into his mouth, tracing the sensitive skin behind his ear with one finger. He’s driving you fucking crazy. 

When he pulls back he looks a little dazed. “Am I that good for you, cowboy?” 

“Quit callin’ me that,” he grumbles, finally pulling his hand away from your ass, cupping your pussy briefly before tracing shapes against your clit, with more pressure this time. 

“I can’t help it, you kinda look like one.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you do me a favor and play with your tits?” He thrusts against you again and this time you watch. The tip of him brushing over your clit repeatedly, fingers divorcing the flesh of your thighs as he holds them down, before he finally guides himself to your entrance. He’s heavy inside you, so full you feel as though he’s touching every part of you, brushing against lungs and heart. 

The pace he sets is languid, building slowly into something brutal, harsh thrusts punctuated by a slow pull out. You feel every inch of space given before you’re filled again. It’s slow and deep and hard and drives you. 

Your stomach curls into knots, looping rings of pleasure that never quite meet their peak. You dig your fingers into his ass, the divots at the base of his spine. Sweat beads at the base of your throat and behind your knees. 

The wet sound of him inside you fills the room, crossthreaded with the slap of skin, the pant of his panting breath and yours. 

He’s not touching your cunt and when you whine he lets out a breathy laugh. “Look at me,” he murmurs, adjusting the angle of your hips.  

You shift your eyes to his immediately, clouded with need and want. Joel cups the side of your throat again and your eyes roll back so hard your vision goes white. “Yeah, there she is. C’mon, darlin’, you can do it. Come for me. Good.” 

It’s the sound of his voice’s praise, the soft, warm pressure of his hand lying on your neck, the repeated brush of him against your clit in this new angle that sends you plummeting over the edge, pussy contracting so hard and tight that Joel curses. 

“Good job, baby,” he coos and you preen. “Where do you want me?” His hips drive into yours harshly again, settle fully against the cradle of your body. Your core aches, still pulsing with pleasure, leaking down your thighs. Joel grunts, the sound pained. “Tell me.” 

“In my pussy,” you breathe. “Please come in my little pussy—”

You feel the moment he comes. He grunts, thrusts becoming sloppy until he finally stops and half collapses on top of you. 

Your mind fuzzes with warmth, dopamine flooding your veins, leaving tack marks on your brain. Neither of you attempts to pull away, and you lie to yourself that that’s okay. You feel the combined mess of you leaking between your thighs, Joel’s softening cock, as he strokes your back and kisses you and doesn’t move. 

Distantly, you remember your rule, that you don’t fall sleep with the men you fuck. But Joel’s breathing is even against yours and the tide is impossible to pull back from. And it feels nice in the circle of his arms, the cool AC buffeting around you when it kicks on. 

Afternoon passes languidly into evening as you nap, bars of light sliding across the room, over your tangled, connected bodies. 

Joel eventually nudges you up and awake. “Want to go for a swim before dinner?” 

You do, even if you don’t want to get up, don’t want to leave behind the curl of his arms, the vast restless pulse of the safety of his body. 

He pulls out of you and the loss and emptiness makes an unknown emotion swell in the back of your throat that you don’t dare examine at that moment, or maybe ever. Joel pulls you apart, stares down at the mess and makes a satisfied sound you don’t think he realizes he does.

Once you decided on exclusivity and Joel revealed that he’d had a vasectomy years before, you’d dispensed with condoms. You have a feeling you both like the feeling, the way it looks, more than you’d like to admit. 

You reluctantly follow on shaky legs, cleaning off in the bathroom quickly, feeling flushed and embarrassed and distant when you meet your eyes in the mirror above the sink. The self deprecations come flooding in. 

Whore. You wanted the excuse. If you’re doing this out of necessity why do you fucking like it so much? You’re using him; you like it too much. That’s why you won’t use that fucking credit card, because it’ll be him and them and everyone else that earn it, not you.

You turn away from your accusing gaze. 

Joel puts his hand against your spine as you leave the room together. It makes you feel worse, because you like it. 

The end of the day is lazy with heat, chlorine choking the air, sharp in your nose, when you pass through the hotel’s back patio to the pool.

Despite the weighted heat and the sweat that immediately beads at the base of your spine, the pool is empty, as it has been almost every evening of the summer, aside from you and Joel. It feels private, the high mason walls of orange and white stone closing you in its fist, cast a light pink in the late light. The warm, soft safety of being encased against the world. 

For a while, you sit in the lounge chairs and pass a cigarette back and forth, breathing in the hot air, listening to the rustle of orange trees, whose citrus smell twins with the smell of dust and pool water, leafy branches quivering in the slight breeze, drooping onto the small, blotched green wooden table between you. 

It’s nice, and nice makes you anxious. 

“Want a drink?” He asks, passing back a cigarette, blowing smoke away from you. “Think I’m gonna get a beer.” 

You’d paused, considering. “Jack and coke?” 

His brows jump up in surprise, one hand scratching over his chin. “Really?” 

Oh. Oops. 

“I can order something else, if you prefer,” you offer sweetly, fluttering your lashes at him. “What do you want me to drink?” 

Joel frowns, sits at your feet, he runs the back of his fingers from your knee to your ankle and back again. “No, that isn’t—Get what you want. Jack and coke.” 

“Joel.” 

“Mm?” He’s looking at you, fingers caressing your skin so soothingly. 

“Jack and cherry coke, if they have it.” 

His face relaxes, creased forehead ironing out as he laughs. “I thought the cherry part was implied?” 

“Only if they have it. Okay?”  

“All right.” 

You take his hand and stroke your thumb against the inside of his wrist. “I’m serious. Don’t go out of your way. Regular coke is fine.” 

“I know.” 

He’s gone longer than necessary, and when he comes back, he carries a bottle of jack, a crystal tumbler that winks in the sun, and a pack of cherry coke, one can missing. His lone beer is cradled in the crook of his arm. 

“The bar didn’t have cherry coke.”

It presses something unknowably tender into your chest, and you detest him for it. Why couldn’t he have just said the hotel didn’t have any, brought you the wrong drink, forgotten your drink, coaxed you to drink something else? 

He hands you the drink he mixes on the little pine green table. The lowball glass is cold against your fingers. Joel wades into the pool with his beer, apparently entirely at ease with himself, with you. 

“You didn’t have to go out of your way,” you offer, not even managing something witty in the face of his consideration. 

“Wasn’t out of my way,” he answers.

You move to sit at the edge of the tiled pool, towel beneath your legs, and think about how you should not drink. The breeze caresses you softly, enfolds you in its embrace as you sip and light another smoke. 

Joel mosies around the pool, and you watch the water ripple around him, admiring the thick muscle of his arms and shoulders, sheened with sweat and water, the softness of his stomach and the attractive gray at his temples. He’s unfairly good looking, and you think it each time you take a moment to look him over. His wet hand passes over his beard as he examines something floating on the water, drops of moisture rolling down his collarbone and into his chest hair. 

Jesus, it’s like he does it on purpose. 

Alcohol has always loosened your tongue, brought forth the thoughts caught in the snare of your heartstrings. It makes it easier to answer Joel’s request from before, to tell him about your week. 

You only mean to have one drink and then keep going because the ache of familiarity lures you into complacency, into allowing yourself to forget. The drink itself is a reminder you don’t want to think about. 

This is one of your boundaries, since the first night you ever walked into that club across town, the one whose parking lot and neon lights and sticky floors you haven’t seen for more than a month. You do not drink while you’re with a man. It never led to anything good. 

But the shape of that long standing order has changed with Joel. The nature of this relationship is so unlike the temporary, unfettered ones you’re used to having with transitory, temporary men. And despite your experience, your good sense, screaming at you not to, you’re beginning to trust him. 

You want to trust him, to deliver your truths into his desperate, aching palms; hands that would count the contours and edges of your life outside these hours with him, tally them as precious as they cut his hands raw. 

He’d gone out of his way to get you cherry coke, just because you prefer it, and you aren’t sure anyone else has ever taken you into consideration that way, men paying you for sex or otherwise. 

What does it matter that you prefer cherry coke? What possessed you to request it at all? You should have let him bring you a beer. 

A self deprecating, punishing, shame-laden thought passes through your mind. Maybe the only good thing about you is between your legs. Maybe there’s a reason you ended up whoring yourself out. 

And maybe, a distant part of you knows, there’s a bigger reason you don’t drink, it makes you melancholy and pathetic, a lamb with its neck cut open.  

You keep talking about things you know you shouldn’t share, the tie between your mind and tongue lazy and unspooling. The thought to stop will come and then slip away, caught between the currents of misplaced trust, thrust into the waiting palms of a man who will only like you as long as you service him, as long as you remain unburdened and fun and only melancholy about things men find sexy to be melancholy about. Your relationship with your father, money problems they believe they can save you from. 

And Joel clearly wants to save you from that. A week after you started coming straight to the hotel, caught somewhere between escort and sugarbaby, he had asked why you hadn't used the card he gave you, and you’d choked on the question. 

It looms like a wraith in your wallet, swims to the forefront of your mind, currently baking in your car’s glove compartment. 

You’d almost used it at the grocery store one week, when your careful budgeting failed you and a hiked price laughed. Instead, you’d couponed and put back a couple items you could live without for the next week. 

Water drips down Joel’s shoulders, beads in sparkling pockets at the hollow of his throat and the crease of his elbows. It’s distracting and you’re vaguely aware that you’re rattling on about school again, about the research you worked on that week, the writing you got done and didn’t get done. 

With effort, you manage to stop the torrent of words that spill forth like a storm. It’s only in the silent vacuum the absence of your words leaves behind that you realize how much it’s been bothering you. 

If asked, you would say that you aren’t stressed out. And as long as you put it out of your mind, ignore it, you can pretend that you aren’t, that your whole life doesn’t depend on this, that who you want to be doesn’t hinge on this, on you having the wherewithal to finish the program, to steel yourself and have the tenacity to make the money you need to finish it. 

If you look down, will the grime and dirt you feel in your soul show on your skin? 

A wave of disgust with yourself washes over you, curdles thick and unpleasant in your stomach. 

The sparrow of your cat’s curiosity is on an entirely different track. The warmth of his hands settle over your thighs and brings you back to the here and now; reminding you that you’re losing the threads of who you’re supposed to be with him. Again.

He isn’t supposed to know you like this, see this side of you, but, you suppose, that line became blurred the moment you agreed to exclusivity, if not necessarily the rest.

It would really become something else, the moment you use that credit card. 

It smarts. 

You don’t want to rely on the whims of a man, who could turn on you and rip all his support away. Relying on anyone is antithetical to you, and this relationship you’re constructing with him only serves to press a heavy hand against those sore spots. 

The soft dig of blunt nails into your skin, tempers the feeling. It brings you back to the world before you, sun on your skin, cool water around your calves, the rough, calloused feeling of Joel’s hands against the tops of your thighs. 

The sun burns bright and red on the horizon, sinking toward the dusky purple rim of the earth. The world narrows again, your focus whittling down to him, to this compartment you live in with him each weekend. 

“Help me in?” You ask when he opens his mouth, afraid of what he might say.

He moves his hands around your legs, tucks his palms against the back of your thighs. You support most of your weight, pushing away from the warm tile to drop into the pool that spills and crests orange and pink on deepest cerulean in the fading light. 

You circle your arms around his neck, the wet press of his body sliding against yours. He’s solid against you, firm and soft in all the right places. The cheap fabric of your bathing suit is thin, and you can feel the scratch of his chest hair against your nipples through it.

He grunts, arm winding around your hips. 

Weak threads of need blossom in your chest, imagining what you must look like, pressed together in the water. 

Hot, probably. Though some people might take umbrage with his mature hands against your skin. But you like the comparison, like the way his scarred, experienced body looks curled around yours. 

He fucked you in front of a mirror the week before, thick cock splitting you in half from behind, arms held at a folded but not uncomfortable angle behind your back. You looked good together, not just in a vaguely well, porn-y way, but in a contrasting way. You have a feeling you’d feel the same way if you ever stood side by side in formal wear. A knot of worry lodges in your chest. Maybe something is wrong with you, for liking how you feel and look with an older man.  

“Sorry,” you say, still feeling unbalanced, from the alcohol but more from how much you want to tell him, how much you want Joel to solve your problems, or at least to cradle your face in his hands and say he understands.

You’re soothed almost immediately, because he does some iteration of that. 

He shakes his head, cups your cheek briefly. “I said I wanted to know.” 

“So, now you do.” 

He nods, then prods you impossibly closer to him in the water. You feel the pull of his leg hair against your smooth skin, tucking your feet together beneath the water. 

“Don’t seem like you want me to know.”

“I guess I don’t.” 

He tugs you though the water, into the deeper end of the pool until the water reaches just above your chest. You feel the shift of alcohol within, how much of a mistake loosening your inhibitions was. 

But you’re supposed to give him what he wants, and he wants to know, even if he won’t say it. “My advisor rejected my proposal for grant funding this week.” The words tumble from your mouth. “So he won’t submit it and won’t give me much helpful feedback as to why.” 

“Sounds like he’s the problem.” 

“Hm. Maybe.”

Or, maybe it’s you, like always. There’s some part of you that just doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t belong in that world, isn’t good enough for it. You know it, your family knows it, and so, apparently, does your advisor. 

Joel doesn’t, though. 

“I don’t know much about that kinda thing, but seems like he ain’t bein’ fair to you. Can you ask for somebody else?” 

Joel’s hand is warm against your spine. Warmer than the pool water, left to boil in the direct sunlight for most of the day. The air suddenly feels chilly as shadows creep across the tile. 

“Not really.” You shake your head. “It looks bad. Like I’m uncooperative or like I’m not able to adjust to obstacles. Something really egregious would have to happen.” You don’t give Joel time to formulate a response, not sure you can bear it at that moment, cupping your hand against him beneath the water. “This isn’t fair you know,” you tease. “I want you to tell me what happened to you this week too. I’m supposed to make you forget your problems, remember?” You say, stoking the length of him slowly.  

Your head is still swimmy with alcohol, the earth tilting and rolling around you. You wonder what it would feel like if he fucked you like this, if it would feel like floating. “I reckon you’re right,” he says after a minute. “I mentioned I had kids.” 

Surprise shuffles through your mind. You had not expected him to answer, only thought he’d let you distract him. You take your hand away from him and loop it back around his neck. 

“Yes. Two daughters. Your wife had a son.” 

He clears his throat. “Didn’t know you remembered all that.” 

“And forget where your sense of everlasting guilt comes from? Absolutely not.” 

His mouth twitches, he pushes closer to you. Your entire world is subsumed by him, reality narrows to this dim, warm, close corner of the pool. “Cute.”

“I’m listening.” 

Joel doesn’t answer for a long moment, jaw ticking. “One of my girls, Ellie, we ain’t talked in a long time. Couple years. Didn’t think she’d ever—” He stops, emotion rolls over his features, like that familiar grief. 

Ah, here, the thing you sensed, the other grief he didn’t speak of. 

“Anyway, she came by this weekend. On her own.” 

You don’t dare ask what happened. That’s the sort of question that ruined things, dredged up anger. It’s a bit of a red flag, that he has a child he doesn’t speak with. 

“And it was—”

“Good. Good. It was real good.” He doesn’t elaborate and you waffle between pressing him and leaving it alone. You open your mouth when he continues, “I don’t want to. . . hope, I guess. But I think she might be comin’ around.”  

You run your hands across his back, tracing the long ridge of his spine. He’s told you something real, something that truly matters to him. “It’s okay to have hope,” you assure him. “Good, even. Some might even say necessary.” 

“Yeah, ‘til it blows up in your face.”

“I hope she comes around, Joel.” 

He nods, still looking unbearably soft. “Yeah, me too.”

There’s a little smile on his face that you don’t think he knows is there. 

“What’s your other daughter’s name?” You figure it must be okay to ask, since he told you about one daughter. 

Joel looks at you sharply. “What?” 

“You have two daughters right? Or did I misremember and you just didn’t correct me?” You tease, not sure why he looks so startled, unsure why he might not want you to ask. 

He clears his throat, “Yeah, I do. Sarah.” 

“Sarah,” you repeat. “Have you been talking with her?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, seeming to recover a little, “Yeah, I talk to her all the time. “ 

You breathe a little easier when his voice softens again, shoulders relaxing. “I think that was an even trade,” you needle. It wasn’t and you know it. You had complained, this was deeply personal to him. 

He laughs weakly and presses you into the side of the pool, water lapping gently around your shoulders. He crowds close to you, as the shadows cast from the hotel gain ground, encroaching on your secluded corner of the pool. 

You figure you must be invisible to the eyes of anyone in the hotel. The angle of the wall and fountain, the bright awning of the umbrellas protecting you. 

It’s not that you mind, you’ve been in much more compromising positions, been viewed in worse ways than this one, but privacy seems to matter to Joel. He likes to keep what’s his to himself. So, you wait for him to make the choice. Does he want to fuck you in the hotel’s pool? 

He kisses you, the start of it soft, morphing rapidly into something else, something more desperate and wanting. His tongue curls hungrily against yours, teeth catching at your bottom lip. 

Big, warm hands slide up your spine, fiddle with the strings of your bikini top. The buoyancy of the water makes it easy to lift your hips and wrap your legs around his waist. “You mind if this comes off, darlin’?” 

“I’d dance naked in the lobby for you, if you asked.” 

He grunts, surprised laughed tucked against the inside of your lip. “Well, I won’t ask for that. I’m not too good at sharin’.” 

You push your hips against his, rolling yours against his slowly,before you reach behind your back and unlace the tie of your top. Joel takes it from you, smoothing a thumb against your hip as he tilts back a little to look at you. “Ain’t you pretty.” 

“I do have nice tits.” 

He laughs again, the sound louder this time. “I mean—Jesus, you make me—all a’ you, not just your tits.” He cups your breasts in his hands, squeezing and kneading until you bite your lip to hold back a moan. 

Minutes pass in silence, the lap and sway of water against the tile, the rustle and shush of the orange trees, as he kisses you and feels you up. He seems content to trace the curve of your body fitted against his. You keep a steady roll of your hips against his, feeling him steadily grow hard against your core. 

“I want it in my mouth,” you tell him again. 

“Startin’ to believe you really like it.”

You pull back, tilting your head. “I do.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I do,” you repeat. “Like the way you taste, the way you feel.”

“Darlin’, you ain’t gotta lie to me. I know you aren’t daydreamin’ about sucking off an old man.” 

Your whole body clenches and curls against him. He really has no idea how wrong he is, but you know it’s an ongoing worry. He feels like a dirty old man and doesn’t like that he does, or maybe he likes it and thinks that he shouldn’t. “I am actually. I do. Can I tell you something?” 

“Anything, Cherry.” 

“I like having my mouth full.” 

He cups your face in his hands, hips rolling lazily against yours, and rubs his thumb against your mouth. “That’s not good enough,” you mumble against the pad of his finger before sucking it into your mouth. 

He grunts, thrusts against you, hands hot against your body, moving you against him. 

You pant against his shoulder, moans muffled against his throat as he gropes your chest, deft fingers tweaking your nipples. 

“Could I make you come like this?” 

“Oh, fuck,” you murmur, a little caught off guard. “I. . .maybe? No one has ever tried.” You’re already sore and sensitive, the water and his hands alternating temperatures that make you  twitch and writhe against him. He’s cooing at you and it feels so good you don’t care if it makes you come or not. 

The attention and the way he cradles you is good enough to make you feel satisfied, even if you shouldn’t.

Minutes pass, as he plays you like an instrument, body straining against him, fingers of pleasure curling around and around your spine, the aching, pulsing maw in your belly. “Lemme hear you.” 

You shake your head and Joel has the audacity to laugh, even if it's strained, stained with need. “Joel,” you mumble when he rocks you more firmly against his straining cock. “I’m gonna—”

“I know, go on.” 

It’s a combination of his cock against your core, brushing against your clit, and his hands on your aching nipples, but he makes you come, deft fingers playing you like an instrument. It’s not fucking fair, and makes you wish you hated him. It’s a pulsing, lazy kind of pleasure that crashes through you in waves and leaves you trembling in his arms. 

Never, in or outside of sexwork, has any person ever made you come so regularly or so well. 

Quitting Joel, wherever you have to do it, will be like quitting a drug, will be living giving up the sun, for many reasons, but also because of this. You’re sure it’s an anomaly and no other man will ever match him. 

You’re still quivering, fingers latched around his arms, trying to catch your breath, when he murmurs a question. 

“Why won’t you use that card I gave you?” 

For a long moment you’re so disoriented you can’t understand the question. The air smells like citrus and deception.  

Your chest heaves against the ripple of the water. “Wh-what?”

“You know I googled this sugardaddy thing.” He doesn’t look happy to be uttering the word aloud. Googled or sugardaddy, you can’t tell. 

Your muddled thoughts squirm into a wriggly line. “Oh. Did you see lots of porn?” 

He laughs, surprised. “Yeah. That ain’t the point.” 

You feel its unfair that he’s talking to you about this now, when your mind is mush and fucked out and his cock is still hard against you, making your legs twitch everytime he brushes your core. 

“This is an ambush, Joel,” you accuse weakly. “This isn’t fair.”  

“Tell me why. According to a couple websites and the porn, I ain’t doin’ a very good job of this.” 

“Oh. What kind of porn do you normally watch?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

He pinches your side. “Focus right here,” he says, just a tad demanding. It gets your attention nonetheless. You sober up and meet his gaze. “Tell me, so I can stop feelin’ so goddamn bad about it.” 

“You feel bad about it?” Surprise is thick in your voice. 

The levity in the air is wiped away as surely as chalk from a board, the dust still settling uncertainly. 

His jaw works and for a moment, you think you’ve ruined it, like water cupped in your palms slowly draining away. He clears his throat and struggles for a moment, jaw tense. “Yeah.” The single word is barbed, pointedly sharp. You tense and fight the urge to pull away from him. You prepare soothing, gentle, general platitudes, bracing for something you can’t stop, when he breathes out harshly and tries again. “Makes me feel like I ain’t. . .holdin’ up my side of things.” 

Oh. Maybe this is your chance to actually give him something real, some real part of yourself that you don’t really want to hand over, but that you think he might deserve after telling you about his daughters. 

“I don’t think I deserve it.” The words are slippery and ill fitting on your tongue. You’ve mostly told Joel the truth of things, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. “When you. . .pay me. . .it doesn’t—it feels like I’ve earned it. It’s an exchange.” You mean to explain more, but the words lodge in your throat and will not spill forth. 

You just look at him and hope he understands what you mean. “You aren’t using me, I want you to—” 

“It’s not that,” you amend quickly. “It makes me feel like I won’t deserve it.”

His shoulders relax. “I’m not earning that degree for you. That’s all you. Because you’re smart.” 

“You think I’m smart?” 

“Hell, honey, you could run circles around me. You don’t get into a program like that for nothin’. Far as I can tell you ain’t some nepo baby.” It’s a joke but you can’t laugh because if you do, you’ll cry. 

A new fear rises out of the depths of your scorned, aching heart - this, this understanding, will make you want to tell him more, let him in inch by inch. 

“No one has ever called me that before.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Smart.” 

You’ve been called a whore and a slut and gritted your teeth through so many months of indignities, striving to hold on, one more day, one more hour. 

You’ve been called haughty, and high and mighty, and an ungrateful brat. Your mother’s face swims before your face, how she’d scoffed when the acceptance email came, said that you’d never ever make it through, it wasn’t worth it to ever try. You’d waste all your money and end up back where you started. 

Why couldn’t you be grateful for the things she’d worked hard for and given you? She’d asked. Because you were ungrateful, wanted too much. 

You’ve never been called smart. 

Something in his eyes softens and you have to look away because it looks dangerously close to pity.

You release your legs from around Joel’s waist, the flood of water against the skin that had been pressed to his is like ice. “Can I have my top—”

But he’s already helping you with it, retying the strings when you turn. 

Shame and embarrassment make turbulent twins in your chest, chasing each other, swallowing one to birth the other. Why would you say that? How do you adjust, calibrate to the whore that just wants to—

“Cherry?” Joel’s palm is warm against your spine, turning you gently back to face him. “Listen, I know. But I want you to use it.” 

You open your mouth to protest but he continues quickly. “Just once. For me. I don’t care what it's on. Just get yourself somethin’, somethin’ you wouldn’t get even if you had a couple bucks lyin’ around. Don’t have to cost much if you don’t want, it just has to be something you wouldn’t get yourself. Start small. Can you do that, darlin’?” 

The words for me stick. 

“Yeah.” 

“All right. Let’s get you out, you’re shiverin’.” 

It’s Wednesday. 

You’re sitting in your car on campus in a crisp, starched button up that itches at your throat, slacks and kitten heels, red lipstick that you’ve fretted over getting on your teeth all day. You’re twirling Joel’s credit card between your fingers, trying to decide if he really meant what he said, that anything would do, that he really wants you to use it. 

It’s sick how much you want to please him. And pleasing him means letting him take care of you, give you things, and this is one of the things he wants. 

You pop your door open and cross the street to the fancy coffee shop that you pass several times a week. Often you stop in the window to admire the pastries they make fresh everyday. It’s fifteen fucking dollars for a little tart, nine for drip coffee. It’s not justifiable in any sense of the word, not on your budget.

When you step inside the barista smiles at you and when you tap Joel’s card against the terminal and tip her, no alarms sound, lightning doesn't lash out from the sky and strike you down. 

You carry your cake and fancy iced coffee and receipt back to your car and eat it in silence with the air conditioning as high as it’ll go. It’s good, maybe not thirty something dollars good, but it's good and you feel like you might cry while you eat it. 

Surely Joel will know about the transaction, but you still take a picture with the cake before you finish it, smiling. You hesitate sending it for a moment, before deciding he’d like it. 

Still, it feels silly, stupid.

did it, you text simply, happy?

His response takes a while, even though he reads it immediately. 

Good girl. How’s it feel?

Fucking wonderful, suddenly. Amazing. It makes you wish you’d called him. 

good. i liked not paying for it. some old man covered it for me. 

Ha. Real funny.  

Then,  

You look pretty, he types. Like the lipstick. 

You resolve to wear it for him that weekend. 

The coffee is sweeter, the sun a little brighter. 

You eat the rest of your cake with a smile.

[abbonation]

Father Figure

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

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

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

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

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

Word count: 19.0k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? Desperate, too?” he challenged.

“Pathetic, really,” you replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet,” she chided.

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

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

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

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

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

She was staring, silent—totally unlike herself.

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

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

You followed her gaze and nearly inhaled the food.

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

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

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

Joel’s here.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, sweetie. How are ya?”

He kissed the top of your head.

The tone sealed his fate completely.

Joel was pretending to be your father.

This wasn’t his brightest idea.

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

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

You couldn’t stay closed off like this forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my, my, oh hell YES—”

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

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

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

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

Before he could answer, though, Michelle interjected:

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

Whatever the hell that meant. Joel smiled.

“Mom, Dad. Please stop,” Aly moaned.

“Seriously.” Dallas’s mouth was full.

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

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

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

“Hey, you OK?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweetheart—”

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

Water dripped in silence before he wiped at his chin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About what?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, uh—”

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

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

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

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

He really shouldn’t be drinking tonight.

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

Joel wanted to talk.

Of course he wanted to talk.

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

Because that made a lot of fucking sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gavin.” Dallas’ tone was a warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was right.

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

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

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

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

Maybe that was for the best.

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

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

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

Pete snapped his fingers, then pointed at Cory.

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

“Fuck me.”

“Let’s go.”

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

“Who’s gonna be Joel’s partn—”

“ME!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your skull started ringing again.

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

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

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

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

“No, Dallas. I’m not playing again.”

You tried to avoid grinding your molars.

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

No way were you playing another game with this man.

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

Yeah, but no.

Hard fucking pass.

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

That should make your old man happy enough.

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

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

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

Joel wasn’t drunk.

He wasn’t tipsy, either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you be back soon?

And why had you taken that kid with you?

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

Then he reached for the nearest door. A bathroom.

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

When he stepped inside, he had to stop.

It was too much to process and walk at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That blow never landed.

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

“JOEL.”

Still not prepared to retreat, Joel reached out again.

Your hand knocked his down in a blink. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just—”

“Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“I didn’t—”

“What that could’ve been laced with?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shut it.

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

His voice was lower when he spoke again:

“What am I gonna do with you, honey?”

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

“You thought—” you started, soft.

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

Your smile split into a grin. Your eyes glistened.

“Is that so?”

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

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

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

Soon.

Eventually.

Once he got this bulge in his slacks sorted out.

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

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

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

That was it.

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

Like having your mouth right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teach you.

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

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

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

His cock throbbed at that last affectionate word.

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

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

“Gavin.”

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

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

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

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

You whimpered.

“No, daddy. No, just— just you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You peered up, confused. Joel was, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that one grounding thought, Joel tried pulling out.

Your body below him responded in sharp protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In between movements against your body, he mumbled:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hide.

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

“We’re leeeeeeeeav—OH! Shit!”

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

Or jumped, really.

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

“I didn’t see that! I did not seeee—”

“Aly!” you half-hissed, half-groaned.

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

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

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

Joel scarcely knew how to react to that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A cute couple!”

“Come again?”

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

“YOU AND JOEL WOULD MAKE A CUTE COUPLE!”

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

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

Followed shortly by:

“Wanna give her somethin’ to watch?”

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

“You ask her yet?!” he bellowed.

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

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

“Well, what’s he—” you began to say.

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

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

“He loves planning trips drunk,” Michelle added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No fucking way.

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

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

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

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

Of course he did.

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

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

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

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

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

Right. You would likely never understand Joel Miller.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s that?”

“Because…”

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

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

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

You pulled away.

Your lips were bitten numb. Your cunt was throbbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go home, Joel.”

You were running again.

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before you were stripped bare, Joel cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he could just control himself and play things right…

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

Wait. No. That came out wrong.

Your eyes widened some.

“Oh, really, daddy?”

Well, shit.

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

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

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

Your eyes widened again, this time in alarm.

“Christ, Joel.”

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

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

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

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

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

But there was a strain in your words. Denial.

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

He was hovering, almost.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t what?” His stomach dropped.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

That he loved you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why can’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

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

“I think you’re trying to be a—”

“That I would lie about it?”

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

“Joel, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.”

“You don’t mean—”

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

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

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

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

“Am I?!” he bellowed.

“Yes!” you spat.

“How can you say that?!”

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

“I do. I mean it. Believe me, I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re gonna leave me, Joel.”

The hurt wouldn’t stop.

“You don’t love me.”

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

“You can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby.”

You blinked back at him but ventured nothing.

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

A beat.

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

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

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

You sniffled between his two broad palms.

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

Joel’s heart hammered at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spit it out, Miller.

Spit. It. Out.

He frowned.

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

And then…

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

There it is.

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

Terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

There was no other logical route for him to go.

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

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

Your grip grew tighter.

“Joel, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He felt a pinch in his groin but ignored it.

Suddenly, your gaze was on his again.

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

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

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

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

Dry humping.

Whining at the friction.

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

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

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

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

You were already expecting this to end.

You didn’t think that he would stay.

“Baby,” Joel panted again.

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

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

Another pinch somewhere deep within him, and a groan.

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

“Joel,” you panted back.

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

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

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

Then you kissed him.

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

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

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

“Joel—”

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

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

“I love you, Joel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel?”

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

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

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

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

He flinched when you reached out instead.

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

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

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

You nodded to the shower behind him.

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

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

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

Joel hovered, eyes scanning the cramped space.

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

Then, as though to emphasize his point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made him lean in closer. Chance another joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My old man,” you repeated affectionately.

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

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

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

“You alright with this?” he muttered.

“With what?” you mumbled back.

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

“My body ain’t what it was—”

“And it’s more than enough.”

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

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

“You could have your pick of any guy—”

“Good thing I only want you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right…here.”

“Right here?”

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

“You want daddy in here, pretty girl?”

Your whine was all he needed to hear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t working.

You were just so. fucking. tight.

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

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

Another grunt. Another moan. Another suffocating pulse.

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

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

Your gaze flashed to his over your shoulder.

“That’s OK. You…you can— oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

Again, it seemed you were begging him to stay.

Expression so pleading and sweet and soft.

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

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

“Oh, honey…”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

“OK.”

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

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

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

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

“You— you do, daddy. You do.”

“Can I fit a little more in?”

Your eyes widened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[abbonation]

words to use when writing

Appetite:

craving, demand, gluttony, greed, hunger, inclination, insatiable, longing, lust, passion, ravenousness, relish, taste, thirst, urge, voracity, weakness, willingness, yearning, ardor, dedication, desire, devotion, enthusiasm, excitement, fervor, horny, intensity, keenness, wholeheartedness, zeal

Arouse:

agitate, awaken, electrify, enliven, excite, entice, foment, goad, incite, inflame, instigate, kindle, provoke, rally, rouse, spark, stimulate, stir, thrill, waken, warm, whet, attract, charm, coax, fire up, fuel, heat up, lure, produce, stir up, tantalize, tease, tempt, thrum, torment, wind up, work up

Assault:

attack, advancing, aggressive, assailing, charging, incursion, inundated, invasion, offensive, onset, onslaught, overwhelmed, ruinous, tempestuous, strike, violation, ambush, assail, barrage, bombard, bombardment, crackdown, wound

Beautiful: 

admirable, alluring, angelic, appealing, bewitching, charming, dazzling, delicate, delightful, divine, elegant, enticing, exquisite, fascinating, gorgeous, graceful, grand, magnificent, marvelous, pleasing, radiant, ravishing, resplendent, splendid, stunning, sublime, attractive, beguiling, captivating, enchanting, engaging, enthralling, eye-catching, fetching, fine, fine-looking, good-looking, handsome, inviting, lovely, mesmeric, mesmerizing, pretty, rakish, refined, striking, tantalizing, tempting

Brutal:

atrocious, barbarous, bloodthirsty, callous, cruel, feral, ferocious, hard, harsh, heartless, inhuman, merciless, murderous, pitiless, remorseless, rough, rude, ruthless, savage, severe, terrible, unmerciful, vicious, bestial, brute, brutish, cold-blooded, fierce, gory, nasty, rancorous, sadistic, uncompromising, unfeeling, unforgiving, unpitying, violent, wild

Burly:

able-bodied, athletic, beefy, big, brawny, broad-shouldered, bulky, dense, enormous, great, hard, hardy, hearty, heavily built, heavy, hefty, huge, husky, immense, large, massive, muscular, mighty, outsized, oversized, powerful, powerfully built, prodigious, robust, solid, stalwart, stocky, stout, strapping, strong, strongly built, sturdy, thick, thickset, tough, well-built, well-developed

Carnal:

animalistic, bodily, impure, lascivious, lecherous, lewd, libidinous, licentious, lustful, physical, prurient, salacious, sensuous, voluptuous, vulgar, wanton, , coarse, crude, dirty, raunchy, rough, unclean

Dangerous:

alarming, critical, fatal, formidable, impending, malignant, menacing, mortal, nasty, perilous, precarious, pressing, serious, terrible, threatening, treacherous, urgent, vulnerable, wicked, acute, damaging, deadly, death-defying, deathly, destructive, detrimental, explosive, grave, harmful, hazardous, injurious, lethal, life-threatening, noxious, poisonous, risky, severe, terrifying, toxic, unsafe, unstable, venomous

Dark:

atrocious, corrupt, forbidding, foul, infernal, midnight, morbid, ominous, sinful, sinister, somber, threatening, twilight, vile, wicked, abject, alarming, appalling, baleful, bizarre, bleak, bloodcurdling, boding evil, chilling, cold, condemned, creepy, damned, daunting, demented, desolate, dire, dismal, disturbing, doomed, dour, dread, dreary, dusk, eerie, fear, fearsome, frightening, ghastly, ghostly, ghoulish, gloom, gloomy, grave, grim, grisly, gruesome, hair-raising, haunted, hideous, hopeless, horrendous, horrible, horrid, horrific, horrifying, horror, ill-fated, ill-omened, ill-starred, inauspicious, inhospitable, looming, lost, macabre, malice, malignant, menacing, murky, mysterious, night, panic, pessimistic, petrifying, scary, shadows, shadowy, shade, shady, shocking, soul-destroying, sour, spine-chilling, spine-tingling, strange, terrifying, uncanny, unearthly, unlucky, unnatural, unnerving, weird, wretched

Delicious:

enticing, exquisite, luscious, lush, rich, savory, sweet, tasty, tempting, appetizing, delectable, flavorsome, full of flavor, juicy, lip-smacking, mouth-watering, piquant, relish, ripe, salty, spicy, scrummy, scrumptious, succulent, tangy, tart, tasty, yummy, zesty

Ecstasy:

delectation, delirium, elation, euphoria, fervor, frenzy, joy, rapture, transport, bliss, excitement, happiness, heaven, high, paradise, rhapsody, thrill, blissful, delighted, elated, extremely happy, in raptures (of delight), in seventh heaven, jubilant, on cloud nine, overexcited, overjoyed, rapturous, thrilled

Ecstatic:

delirious, enraptured, euphoric, fervent, frenzied, joyous, transported, wild

Erotic:

amatory, amorous, aphrodisiac, carnal, earthy, erogenous, fervid, filthy, hot, impassioned, lascivious, lecherous, lewd, raw, romantic, rousing, salacious, seductive, sensual, sexual, spicy, steamy, stimulating, suggestive, titillating, voluptuous, tantalizing

Gasp:

catch of breath, choke, gulp, heave, inhale, pant, puff, snort, wheeze, huff, rasp, sharp intake of air, short of breath, struggle for breath, swallow, winded 

Heated:

ardent, avid, excited, fervent, fervid, fierce, fiery, frenzied, furious, impassioned, intense, passionate, raging, scalding, scorched, stormy, tempestuous, vehement, violent, ablaze, aflame, all-consuming, blazing, blistering, burning, crazed, explosive, febrile, feverish, fired up, flaming, flushed, frantic, hot, hot-blooded, impatient, incensed, maddening, obsessed, possessed, randy, searing, sizzling, smoldering, sweltering, torrid, turbulent, volatile, worked up, zealous

Hunger:

appetite, ache, craving, gluttony, greed, longing, lust, mania, mouth-watering, ravenous, voracious, want, yearning, thirst

Hungry:

avid, carnivorous, covetous, craving, eager, greedy, hungered, rapacious, ravenous, starved, unsatisfied, voracious, avaricious, desirous, famished, grasping, insatiable, keen, longing, predatory, ravening, starving, thirsty, wanting

Intense:

forceful, severe, passionate, acute, agonizing, ardent, anxious, biting, bitter, burning, close, consuming, cutting, deep, eager, earnest, excessive, exquisite, extreme, fervent, fervid, fierce, forcible, great, harsh, impassioned, keen, marked, piercing, powerful, profound, severe, sharp, strong, vehement, violent, vivid, vigorous

Liquid:

damp, cream, creamy, dripping, ichorous, juicy, moist, luscious, melted, moist, pulpy, sappy, soaking, solvent, sopping, succulent, viscous, wet / aqueous, broth, elixir, extract, flux, juice, liquor, nectar, sap, sauce, secretion, solution, vitae, awash, moisture, boggy, dewy, drenched, drip, drop, droplet, drowning, flood, flooded, flowing, fountain, jewel, leaky, milky, overflowing, saturated, slick, slippery, soaked, sodden, soggy, stream, swamp, tear, teardrop, torrent, waterlogged, watery, weeping

Lithe:

agile, lean, pliant, slight, spare, sinewy, slender, supple, deft, fit, flexible, lanky, leggy, limber, lissom, lissome, nimble, sinuous, skinny, sleek, slender, slim, svelte, trim, thin, willowy, wiry

Moan:

beef, cry, gripe, grouse, grumble, lament, lamentation, plaint, sob, wail, whine, bemoan, bewail, carp, deplore, grieve, gripe, grouse, grumble, keen, lament, sigh, sob, wail, whine, mewl

Moving:

(exciting,) affecting, effective  arousing, awakening, breathless, dynamic, eloquent, emotional, emotive, expressive, fecund, far-out, felt in gut, grabbed by, gripping, heartbreaking, heartrending, impelling, impressive, inspirational, meaningful, mind-bending, mind-blowing, motivating, persuasive, poignant, propelling, provoking, quickening, rallying, rousing, significant, stimulating, simulative, stirring, stunning, touching, awe-inspiring, energizing, exhilarating, fascinating, heart pounding, heart stopping, inspiring, riveting, thrilling

Need:

compulsion, demand, desperate, devoir, extremity, impatient longing, must, urge, urgency / desire, appetite, avid, burn, craving, eagerness, fascination, greed, hunger, insatiable, longing, lust, taste, thirst, voracious, want, yearning, ache, addiction, aspiration, desire, fever, fixation, hankering, hope, impulse, inclination, infatuation, itch, obsession, passion, pining, wish, yen

Pain: 

ache, afflict, affliction, agony, agonize, anguish, bite, burn, chafe, distress, fever, grief, hurt, inflame, laceration, misery, pang, punish, sting, suffering, tenderness, throb, throe, torment, torture, smart

Painful:

aching, agonizing, arduous, awful, biting, burning, caustic, dire, distressing, dreadful, excruciating, extreme, grievous, inflamed, piercing, raw, sensitive, severe, sharp, tender, terrible, throbbing, tormenting, angry, bleeding, bloody, bruised, cutting, hurting, injured, irritated, prickly, skinned, smarting, sore, stinging, unbearable, uncomfortable, upsetting, wounded

Perverted: 

aberrant, abnormal, corrupt, debased, debauched, defiling, depraved, deviant, monstrous, tainted, twisted, vicious, warped, wicked, abhorrent, base, decadent, degenerate, degrading, dirty, disgusting, dissipated, dissolute, distasteful, hedonistic, immodest, immoral, indecent, indulgent, licentious, nasty, profligate, repellent, repugnant, repulsive, revolting, shameful, shameless, sickening, sinful, smutty, sordid, unscrupulous, vile 

Pleasurable:

charming, gratifying, luscious, satisfying, savory, agreeable, delicious, delightful, enjoyable, nice, pleasant, pleasing, soothing, succulent

Pleasure:

bliss, delight, gluttony, gratification, relish, satisfaction, thrill, adventure, amusement, buzz, contentment, delight, desire, ecstasy, enjoyment, excitement, fun, happiness, harmony, heaven, joy, kick, liking, paradise, seventh heaven 

Rapacious:

avaricious, ferocious, furious, greedy, predatory, ravening, ravenous, savage, voracious, aggressive, gluttonous, grasping, insatiable, marauding, plundering

Rapture:

bliss, ecstasy, elation, exaltation, glory, gratification, passion, pleasure, floating, unbridled joy

Rigid:

adamant, austere, definite, determined, exact, firm, hard, rigorous, solid, stern, uncompromising, unrelenting, unyielding, concrete, fixed, harsh, immovable, inflexible, obstinate, resolute, resolved, severe, steadfast, steady, stiff, strong, strict, stubborn, taut, tense, tight, tough, unbending, unchangeable, unwavering

Sudden:

abrupt, accelerated, acute, fast, flashing, fleeting, hasty, headlong, hurried, immediate, impetuous, impulsive, quick, quickening, rapid, rash, rushing, swift, brash, brisk, brusque, instant, instantaneous, out of the blue, reckless, rushed, sharp, spontaneous, urgent, without warning

Thrust:

(forward) advance, drive, forge, impetus, impulsion, lunge, momentum, onslaught, poke, pressure, prod, propulsion, punch, push, shove, power, proceed, progress, propel

(push hard) assail, assault, attack, bear down, buck, drive, force, heave, impale, impel, jab, lunge, plunge, press, pound, prod, ram, shove, stab, transfix, urge, bang, burrow, cram, gouge, jam, pierce, punch, slam, spear, spike, stick

Thunder-struck:

amazed, astonished, aghast, astounded, awestruck, confounded, dazed, dazed, dismayed, overwhelmed, shocked, staggered, startled, stunned, gob-smacked, bewildered, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, horrified, incredulous, surprised, taken aback 

Torment:

agony, anguish, hurt, misery, pain, punishment, suffering, afflict, angst, conflict, distress, grief, heartache, misfortune, nightmare, persecute, plague, sorrow, strife, tease, test, trial, tribulation, torture, turmoil, vex, woe

Touch:

(physical) - blow, brush, caress, collide, come together, contact, converge, crash, cuddle, embrace, feel, feel up, finger, fondle, frisk, glance, glide, graze, grope, handle, hit, hug, impact, join, junction, kiss, lick, line, manipulate, march, massage, meet, nudge, palm, partake, pat, paw, peck, pet, pinch, probe, push, reach, rub, scratch, skim, slide, smooth, strike, stroke, suck, sweep, tag, tap, taste, thumb, tickle, tip, touching, toy, bite, bump, burrow, buss, bury, circle, claw, clean, clutch, cover, creep, crush, cup, curl, delve, dig, drag, draw, ease, edge, fiddle with, flick, flit, fumble, grind, grip, grub, hold, huddle, knead, lap, lave, lay a hand on, maneuver, manhandle, mash, mold, muzzle, neck, nestle, nibble, nip, nuzzle, outline, play, polish, press, pull, rasp, ravish, ream, rim, run, scoop, scrabble, scrape, scrub, shave, shift, shunt, skate, slip, slither, smack, snake, snuggle, soothe, spank, splay, spread, squeeze, stretch, swipe, tangle, tease, thump, tongue, trace, trail, tunnel twiddle, twirl, twist, tug, work, wrap 

(mental) - communicate, examine, inspect, perception, scrutinize

Wet:

bathe, bleed, burst, cascade, course, cover, cream, damp, dampen, deluge, dip, douse, drench, dribble, drip, drizzle, drool, drop, drown, dunk, erupt, flood, flow, gush, immerse, issue, jet, leach, leak, moisten, ooze, overflow, permeate, plunge, pour, rain, rinse, run, salivate, saturate, secrete, seep, shower, shoot, slaver, slobber, slop, slosh, sluice, spill, soak, souse, spew, spit, splash, splatter, spout, spray, sprinkle, spurt, squirt, steep, stream, submerge, surge, swab, swamp, swill, swim, trickle, wash, water

Wicked:

abominable, amoral, atrocious, awful, base, barbarous, dangerous, debased, depraved, distressing, dreadful, evil, fearful, fiendish, fierce, foul, heartless, hazardous, heinous, immoral, indecent, intense, mean, nasty, naughty, nefarious, offensive, profane, scandalous, severe, shameful, shameless, sinful, terrible, unholy, vicious, vile, villainous, wayward, bad, criminal, cruel, deplorable, despicable, devious, ill-intentioned, impious, impish, iniquitous, irreverent, loathsome, Machiavellian, mad, malevolent, malicious, merciless, mischievous, monstrous, perverse, ruthless, spiteful, uncaring, unkind, unscrupulous, vindictive, virulent, wretched

Writhe: 

agonize, bend, jerk, recoil, lurch, plunge, slither, squirm, struggle, suffer, thrash, thresh, twist, wiggle, wriggle, angle, arc, bow, buck, coil, contort, convulse, curl, curve, fidget, fight, flex, go into spasm, grind, heave, jiggle, jolt, kick, rear, reel, ripple, resist, roll, lash, lash out, screw up, shake, shift, slide, spasm, stir, strain, stretch, surge, swell, swivel, thrust, turn violently, tussle, twitch, undulate, warp, worm, wrench, wrestle, yank 

[abbonation]

— meet me in the woods

halsin x druid!reader/tav

rated e - 7.2k

tags: double druids, smut with feelings, aphrodisiac (in the form of a fertility solstice), mates/mating rituals, hinted at breeding kink, poly!halsin (but has a connection with you), pleasure dom!Halsin, canon-typical violence, masturbation, miscommunication, oral, PiV, size kink, multiple orgasms, cum play

Living in the city had muted your druidic powers, cut you off. That all had changed, in your journey across Faerûn. Something inside of you had cracked open - letting nature and instinct sink in.

And in spite of the feelings now burning inside you - you don’t know what it means to celebrate the Solstice. Luckily for you… Halsin is there to help you through your first.

The sky has started to slip from soft shades of blue to deep orange and purples. Your wrist aches from where you scrub at your hide armor, removing the layers of grime from the long days of travel.

Your eyes flick up, like they have three times already in the last ten minutes. Across the twist of smoke from the fire that Gale tends, a cauldron of stew that has begun to fill the camp with it's rich aroma.

To where he lounges. To where your eyes meet soft green.

You look away.

"Do you think he's looking at us?"

You don't mean to ask this question out loud. It's a thought that swirls in your mind - slipping between teeth and a tongue loosened from a warm afternoon under the sun and a flagon of crisp wine.

There's the cutting strike of shale against steel. Sharp eyes flicking across to where yours have slipped, once again.

A lip curling, with the click of a tongue.

"Chk. I've seen that look on a male before." Lae'zel's tone is knowing, the slightest hint of a smirk sent your way, as she sharpens the edge of her longsword, "A bear that wishes to devour."

You blink, glancing her way at the humor in her voice. Trying to ignore the fluttering flip in your stomach at the thought.

"Oh, I am not so sure he sees me that way." Your knuckles curl as they press into a stain, your eyes dropping in mock concentration.

A red eye cracks open near your hip, Astarion's head propped up on the wrap of your bedroll. Curled like a cat under the sun and with the wafting warmth of the fire - a hand coming up to shield the bright glare above.

If it had been anyone else lazing next to you, you might have asked them to lend you a hand with the basket of vegetables for the stew - the next in your long list of things to-do. But secretly, you were just pleased he chose to spend the afternoon near you.

"Gods - I took you for boring, darling. But I never took you for stupid." He sighs, with a stretch.

Well, you had been pleased.

He ignores your look of offense as he pushes himself up on an elegant elbow, chin propped in the cup of his hand, "I don't think he's stopped looking at you since he's joined us."

A wistful sigh, "It's enough to make me wish I had saved that child."

Before his nose wrinkles, as he reappraises that thought with displeasure.

"Appreciate that, friend." Your response to his earlier remark is flat, as he flops down again.

"Oh, don't be like that," He drawls, "You were the one who asked."

The misdirection is noted with a small huff of a laugh, as you turn back to work again. Flipping around their thoughts in your own mind.

How you wish that were true.

Your own feelings were no secret to yourself. There had been no pretending in your heart, after your first meeting. Even if you had not always known the strength of your powers, you had always known yourself.

There had been a near-instant attraction with your first meeting. A suspicion that there was something special about the bear trapped in the worg pens. That feeling blossoming with the fluttering in your stomach when he had changed - the depth of his thanks at your aid in protecting the Grove.

A seed had been planted then. A hope that perhaps, with time - with some tending - that there could be more. That feeling only grows since, flourishing, weaving its way between your ribs.

And lately, you think there has been something more. His laugh comes easier. An eagerness to join you when you left the camp. Never far from you, when you return.

You were the first one he turned to after the rage of battle.

“Are you well, teuivae?”

As if you could not mend your own wounds. The word that slipped from his tongue lost as his eyes searched - until he was satisfied that the blood splattered across your leather armor was not your own. Broad hands that cupped your face. Close enough to brush his own against yours, but instead he had hovered.

Waiting - but for what, you did not know.

It had you wondering. You suppose enough now that those thoughts have made their way out into the world. Not knowing what to do, with your friend’s confirmation.

That feeling only increases, the turn of the moon turning it into a surging weight in your chest. Something physical, that gnaws at you. Tipping past want and hurtling towards something that felt like need.

Your thoughts of desire running wild, until you can’t help but slip your fingers beneath the layers of your bedroll. Your teeth biting into the heavy fabric that muffles the quick circle of your fingers, the soft sigh of your relief.

It was hard not to. To see him that way, to want him.

He is kind. Almong the best Elves you have met. He could take care of you. Your mind tells you, now. Protect you.

A very instinctual thought, one that you’ve brushed aside. You don’t need protecting. How could one protect against the tadpole, better than you already are?

But the thought comes back.

He would keep you safe. You know that, as certain as the changing of the seasons.

How quick he already is to race to your side - all teeth and claws. Imagining the honor of sharing his bedroll, how he’d wrap around you…

Only now do you realize you’ve been staring - your damp rag hovering in your still hands. A small shake of your head as you concentrate on your work. Making a point not to look again, to push the thoughts from your mind.

You really needed to get a hold of yourself.

You’re still thinking about it later, as dusk settled. The sky now streaked with hues of purple and grey, the camp littered with small fires and torches. Bellies full of stew, content to wind down after the long day.

Under the stars, it's impossbile to ignore just how much things have changed.

In the city, everything had felt muted.

Even in the outskirts, the small towns you had flitted to. The desire to fit in cutting off your attunement with nature.

But, after the Nautiloid. After you had crashed down to the Wilderness. Met the others - truly embraced who and what you were - things had changed.

You felt more like yourself than ever.

Even when you thought your time left was marked by days. Hours.

The warmth of the sun against your face. Acres of trees, the bark rough beneath your fingers as you climbed.

It seeped into your skin. Invigorating you. That liminal space between beast and body melding as you changed freely, unrestrained by space or propriety.

It was freeing.

You didn't have a coven, in the city. A lone wolf - left to wander along.

Forgetting how it felt to channel the forces of nature, with the night air wrapping around you. A bond formed when you had met Halsin, your first prolonged contact with another Druid in years. Something had been planted, watered with admiration, carefully tended in the absence that had soon come.

An urge to stay at the Druid's Grove, once the fight was over. Something unlocking in you, a need for kinship.

It had been ignored - there had been no other option. But it was like part of you stayed cracked open. Inviting nature, the whims of Silvanus, to eddy inside you. Growing potent, under the wax and wane of the moon above.

Intimate feelings mixing their way in along the way. Undeterred by the quiet, shared murmurs. Of rumors and whispers of Halsin's many lovers - good natured ribbing about his scar.

You had often thought your heart was too large to belong to only one other. It had been a relief, when you heard Halsin speak the same, around the fire.

Not fearing a connection, but not limiting it. Like nature itself, he had said. His eyes had found yours - you had taken it as some sort of lesson, from the Archdruid.

Perhaps it had been an invitation, instead.

The thought is pleasing to you. Enough so that you think… you think it’s worth being brave for.

You can’t help but seek him out, once more. Thick arms cross over a broad chest as he talks, though you’re too far away to hear. But it doesn’t stop his gaze from finding yours over the top of Wyll’s head. The way his friendly smile softens, a look you suddenly feel certain is just for you.

One you return, as that thing inside your chest swells. Blooms.

You’ve trusted your gut so far.

You’re ready to trust it again.

There is a stirring. A rooting, something sprouting in his chest. A feeling that has flickered before, but never this strong.

It had been easy, for gratitude and respect to bleed into something more, after their first meeting. After seeing such a fierce little thing take down two goblins with the flash of sharp teeth, sharper claws. A worg following, almost bigger than themselves.

Few would have stood before him, after. A frown as ferocious as their bear-form as she had offered her own opinion on how to handle the Druid Kagha, though his sentence had already been bestowed.

It had been hard not to smile.

There had been more pressing matters that had kept him away, after. Denying the offer to join her - them - the Emerald Grove had needed him more.

But still, something had lingered.

A connection. Something invisible that ties them together, that has nothing to do with the being that squirms in her mind. It begins lower - beneath the cage of ribs and where, perhaps, something soft lies.

It has him feeling like a yearling again, in spite of his three hundred and fifty years amongst Faerûn.

As the moons have passed, he'd become too accustomed to the gleam of her fur, in the sunlight. Nearly blinding him. Eyes as sharp and a tongue as quick as his.

Her true form as pretty as a field of wildflowers, of the rainbow spray of colors against the mist of a waterfall.

Evenly matched, he has thought. More than once.

The sentiment settles in his bones, trapping him - a rabbit in a snare. Though he's not so desperate to be freed, as he might have thought. The idea of being tied down had never been appealing.

But there is no urge to leave. To walk amongst the forest again, to find his way back to the Druid's Grove, for Spring. To dance and join beneath the moon, like he had for so long.

A more singular focus taking over his thoughts, as the rite approaches. A deep-seated hope, his affections shown in the ways known by his people.

Many have begun their attachments in the span of evenings to follow. Perhaps they would take the same path, if is she was willing.

The thought is more than pleasing.

It has him seeking out the eyes that fall on him so often. Finding where they linger now, in the flickering of the fire. The look she gives him - one of consideration, one of seeing in a new light - is one he knows well.

The beast inside him can read the subtle looks like tracks in the mudbank. The glitter of lights in her eyes like runes - etching a message just for him.

Enough that when she turns from the fire, when she pushes herself so carefully up - slipping like a shadow, into the forest...

It's impossible not to follow.

You can feel him behind you, as you weave through the trees.

Anticipation, excitement, pricking up the hairs on the back of your neck. Guided by the stars that sift through the canopy of leaves above.

Your feet know the way, though your mind does not. Guided by something primal inside you, taking you to a small clearing.

Grass blankets the space, tucked away in the forest. Dotted with wildflowers, a break in the branches above to let down a shaft of moonlight.

The armor you once clung to left back at the camp. An innate knowledge that there was something special about this place - that you were safe here. Protected by your own abilities. Even more so, with him following.

There is much said, in the look that he gives you as you turn. The shift of his shoulders as he approaches, a slow nod of approval as his eyes sweep across the clearing.

“You’ve chosen this spot well. The Solstice, could you feel it?”

His words make you frown, suddenly unsure. The curve of his smile wanes at your silence, as he takes another step closer, “Is that not why you’ve come here?”

The hope you’ve carried sinks, settling low in your belly. So unlike the weight that was there before - one of hunger and desire.

“I must confess, I had been hoping.” He continues, with a cock to his head, “But it seems like we are on different paths.”

You have to answer him, you know this. It takes a second to gather your courage, this meeting quickly taking a much different turn that you have expected.

“I do not know anything of your Solstices. I came here because I hoped…” Your gaze drops, unable to look at him, “I had hoped that you would follow. That this night might be ours.”

A hand cups your jaw, tilting your head up. To your surprise he is smiling, his thumb stroking across your cheek, “Your answer relieves me. We are not so far apart. I thought I had been clear, but it seems you are still unsure of my intentions.”

Something flips in your stomach, melting the spray of ice that has coated your insides. A small flutter of hope, as your eyes search his green ones, “What do you mean?”

“I have become so accustomed to your presence, that I’ve forgotten that our ways are still unknown to you.” His voice softens, and you can’t help but lean into his touch - hanging on to each of his words, “I’ve been courting you for some time, now.”

Time freezes, for a moment. Your mind whirling past all the small moments you’ve collected - held so close to your chest. Reaching out to touch others that now made more sense.

Bringing you your share of dinner at the camp. A solving of the mystery of a fire that had been stoked during the night, an extra pelt placed over you for warmth. Caring for you.

You had mistaken them all for chivalry.

“-and I had thought you were accepting, tonight. With the beginning of the Solstice.”

“I must be dense.” You can’t help but smile, with a sensation of being able to breath again, “I had my own wishes, but I never knew-”

“I should have been more clear. Forgive me,” His hands touch his scars, his smile turning wry, “I thought it wise to let you set the pace of our journey.”

Hence his waiting for you to kiss him, after that battle. His following you, tonight.

Courage rises in you, once again.

“I want you to show me what it means to celebrate.”

He softens, for you. Hands dropping to entwine with yours, bending until your foreheads touch, “Then I am yours.”

The slightest tilt of his head, bringing your joined hands to point at the heavens.

“With the spring comes new beginnings. We lead the way, with the Solstice. Baring our flesh and joining beneath the moon, in an offering to the Oak Father.” His words are a low rumble, it’s impossible not to focus on his mouth, the way it quirks at his next words, “It is… rigorous.”

The heat that has simmered for weeks now flares to life, as his eyes darken.

Bu there's something small tickles at you, making you lean back. Your brow furrowing, needing the clarity.

"Is it just the Solstice that draws you to me?" Is it just duty that has ensnared his affections? Is this no more than fulfilling the desires of Silvanas?

He laughs, with a shake of his head, "If our first meeting had been in the Grove, your beauty would have been more than enough to enthrall me."

The knowledge is flattering. That he still would have wanted you, in another life, in another time. His next words are enough to cast the rest of your doubts aside.

"But make no mistake. For quite some time now, I have desired more. Deeper than the skin, down to the marrow." He brings your entwined fingers to his mouth, his lips pressing against your knuckles, "I fear you stole more than gold that day, in the Sanctum."

There is much that he reveals, with his words.

A sense that your feelings are more than reciprocated. A reminder that he does not mince words, like others you have known.

For as keen as your eyes are, you should have realized this sooner. The last curl of unease lifts, wafting up to stars above.

“How do we begin?”

“Eager. I like that.” Halsin grins - his eyes dragging over you, as his voice pitched low, “For starters… you are overdressed.”

With as large as his fingers are, they are dexterous as they tug at the tie of your tunic. A palm curling around your waist, tugging you close as your face tips up to his.

“And there is usually music.” He murmurs, dipping just enough to brush his mouth against yours, “But I am sure we can make our own.”

His name is a soft sound on your lips, before they press against his. Warm and solid and plush, a sigh in his throat as your hands reach up to grasp at broad shoulders. Slipping to tangle in his chestnut-colored strands, keeping him pulled close.

And you are reminded that he is strong. Abandoning your shirt when your tongue brushes his lip. Hands catching the underside of your thighs to haul you against him.

Your legs stretch wide around his waist. One of those hands moving to splay across the small of your back, a low growl rumbling as you nip at his lower lip.

Hunger gnaws at you, as he deepens the kiss. An ache to be closer, unable to get enough of the taste of him as he licks into your mouth.

Holding you against him as he sinks to his knees. Bringing you down against the blanket of grass, nestling you against it. A low chuckle at the way you still cling to him, entangling yourself around him like vines, as Halsin begins to tug at your clothes again.

Carefully, as if it's a gift to unwrap you.

"Come now, my love." He coos - another gentle tug, as you finally let go.

The air ghosts against your skin, warm with the changing of seasons. A low sound of approval with each layer that is stripped from you. The curl of a palm against your ankle, tugging off your boots. Heat pooling low, as fingertips brush up your thigh, settling at your belt.

"I long to see you bare beneath me."

He touches you as if he can't get enough. The sweep of his thumb over your thigh. Fingers joining yours as your hips lift, allowing him to peel your trousers down, and then off.

You think that perhaps it should feel strange, to be naked in the moonlight. But Halsin eclipses the brief fluttering of unease. The hunger in his expression captures yours, as he leans back to sit on his haunches.

So broad, so big. You think the desire must match in your own eyes, his sentiment so shared.

"Join me," You coax, a hand reaching for his thigh - feeling the muscles jump underneath.

His grin gleams in the moonlight, as he lets you start to do the same to him. Distracting you terribly as his hands skim from your waist to cup your breasts, teasing and pinching.

Only tearing the sleevless tunic from his shoulders before he's curling over you - his mouth pressing against your neck. Inhaling your scent with another low growl, his nose skimming over heated skin.

Those lips pressing against your throat, the threat of teeth as they part. You squirm beneath him, something inside you aching for him to bite down. To mark you.

You can feel his smile against your skin, his hands still teasing the tight peaks of your nipples. One drifting lower across sternum and belly, drifting across the curve of your mound.

It’s easy to arch into his touch, to urge his fingers lower. The sweep of his fingertips is so light, a summers breeze against your skin - a low hum of a laugh as your hips jerk again.

“I know it’s affected you.” There’s the slightest pressure - thick fingers split, tracing the crease where your thigh meets groin. Purposely avoiding where you need him, where you know you’re wet and wanting.

Another sharp intake of breath, before he’s pushing himself up to hover over you, “At camp. Your smell. It was difficult to hold myself back.”

He touches you, then. Twin moans as his fingers slip against slick flesh. Dripping, for him. Almost making you forget your words as the pad of his fingers circles your clit, as your hand brace against his biceps, nails biting skin.

“W-wasn’t the coming of Spring.” You protest - the rhythmic swipe of his fingers stealing your breath, “It was just you.”

The look he gives you then - it’s all soft edges, wrapped in a focus that’s so intense your eyes flutter shut. It’s too much, his gaze, his touch.

A low groan from his chest then, in recollection, “There were many nights lately where I wished to offer myself for your pleasure. Perhaps I should have.”

For your pleasure. Few would word it that way - conjuring images of him beneath you. His tongue tracing the same path of his fingers, your thighs pressing against the long points of his ears.

It makes you clench - the simmering fire in your belly sending up sparks, stoked by the way his head moves lower. Your fingers slipping to twist sharply in his hair, as his tongue peeks out to brush your breast.

“More, Halsin. I need you-” You pant, your free hand fitting under the bulk of his shoulder. Reaching to nudge his hand down lower, until his fingers are brushing your entrance.

He traces you, before he sinks into you, down to the first knuckle. His hands are so much bigger than yours, there’s already the slight stretching burn as he eases deeper.

The tilt of his head, chin pressing against your ribs. The fire burns in his own eyes, a heavy press of his hips against your thigh, letting you feel him.

“If we had been at the Grove, I would have hoped you would have chosen me as your mate for the duration of the three nights.” It’s a confession, the word mate ringing out - enthralling you, “Now, I do not know what tomorrow brings. I will give you all that I can, tonight.”

In a fluid motion, he moves. The ripple of muscles as he shifts between your thighs - their breadth stretching them too wide. Enough that you have to hook one over the curve his shoulder, before his head dips.

The heated swipe of his tongue hits you just as his finger presses deep and curls. You’re instantly thankful for his three hundred and fifty years, with the pointed exploration of his mouth.

A groan as he tastes you, those green eyes fixing on yours again. Fitting another finger into you as your heel digs into his shoulder, as your head tips back with a cry.

It’s too much. Pleasure skitters through your stomach, your hips moving on their own, matching the steady thrust of his fingers. How he drags them against a spot that makes you keen and squirm, before sliding them free to fit them between his lips.

Tasting the honey of your arousal, his lips already shining with you, before filling you again. Muscles clenching like the pull of a bow, waiting for the arrow to fire.

Halsin moans into your cunt like he’s feasting, like he truly means to devour you. His own hips pressing into the ground, easing his own need for friction.

Too practiced with the tight flicks of his tongue, the way his lips kiss and suck against the sensitive bud. The press of his fingers loud with how wet you are, matching your sharp, panting breath.

His name is a whimper before your muscles string even tighter. Going stiff as your breath catches, a pathetic whimper of a sound before you’re crying out.

The pleasure ignites, ripping through you as you come. As your thighs press around his ears, though he does not slow. Fucking you through it with his fingers, soft growls that buzz against your clit with each press of his tongue.

Leaving you breathless, boneless.

His mouth soft as kisses are pressed to your thighs, as you come back to yourself. It feels like you’re glowing, a soft haze settling over your limbs, down to the curl of your toes.

A broad hand smears your slick across his jaw, as he pushes himself up to kneel between your thighs. Where his cock strains against the leather of his leggings, tenting the soft fabric.

You ache to make him feel as good you feel. Something primal roars in your belly, as you follow him. Hands pressing against his chest, the flicker of shock turning warm as he lets himself be eased back.

Until it’s your thighs straddling his, moving up until your slick cunt is pressing against that heavy curve. His lips parting with a soft pant as you lean over him, your head dipping to kiss him.

He tastes like you, the sweet tang of your orgasm. Another shudder of pleasure coursing through you at the thought - as his hands find your hips, coaxing you to rock yourself against him.

Back home, you don’t know if you would have had the courage to climb this mountain of a man. But the images that flicker through your mind - the ones of him beneath you - are too strong, tugging at you. Beckoning your limbs to follow.

“I want to-,” You’re mumbling, between kisses, “Will you let me?”

“Follow your urges, my heart. Wherever they lead you, I am here.” His words sound strained, his hips flexing up, against you. More than content to be your guide, or to let you explore at your pace.

Your fingers drop to tug at his belt, with his consent. His hands coming to cover yours, lifting you with the rise of his hips. Freeing himself, his clothes joining yours on the forest floor.

It’s only here that you pause, as your thighs stretch across his waist. Where it becomes evident just how proportional he is - his cock full and flushed and heavy, curving up towards his stomach.

Unable to help touching him, his eyes fixed on the slight frown and then panic that flits across your features. A low rumble as your hand fits around him, your fingertips unable to touch.

“You-” You stammer, suddenly unsure, “Halsin, I don't know if I can-”

His eyes darken at your insinuation, his teeth flashing with his smile. Fingers curl around his base, tilting himself up. Pressing himself against your belly, the tip smearing a wet spot on your skin.

Measuring. Your grip tightens and he groans, his hips flexing into your touch.

His voice ragged, rough in the night air, “You can take me. Know you can, my love.”

You can’t pretend you’re not eager to try. Hands pressing against his chest, eyes flicking between his face and his cock, as you lift yourself up.

One leaving to hold him steady, taking a second to feel him slide against you. Muffling a sigh when he bumps against your clit, slicking him up with your release. Before you line him up, and start to sink down.

He splits you open. The pinch of his fingers against your hips hurts, as he tries to resist thrusting up into you. Even with your orgasm, your cunt slick with pleasure, he still stretches you wide.

Taking an inch, and then another. A tremble in your thighs as your knees press into the earth, a strangled whine as you make room for him.

His murmured encouragement catches in his chest, the moon and spring calling to him - only his experience keeping him from taking matters into his own hands.

A strong jaw ticking as you sink onto him, achingly slow - until your hips finally lie flush. Your hand flying to your belly, as if you could feel where he fits inside you.

His gaze is heavy, reverent. The press of fingertips against your skin as his grip eases, lips parting as you carefully begin to lift up - to rock back down.

The sensation flickers through you like faerie fire, the slow and sweet drag of him. Making you feel impossibly full, your head dipping down to hang between your shoulders. Hands curling into the hair covering his chest, as you figure out how to move.

It’s impossible to describe. A desire like you’ve never known bites at you, curling in your belly. You think perhaps you understand now - this need to bring forth the Spring and celebrate its arrival. It’s been something inside of you this whole time, waiting for guidance.

You have it, now.

“I-I did not think there was anything that could rival your touch,” Your words some out shaky - your thighs already twinging with the effort of moving. The steady rise and fall of your hips, the hitch in your breath when he sits flush within you, “I am happy to be wrong.”

The corner of his lip lifts in a snarl, but it’s one of pleasure. Just as gone as you are, with the drag of his eyes from your face, down to where you bounce on his cock. The thick peek of him each time your rise, shining with your slick.

It’s enough that his hands slip lower. Fingers slipping to rub at you again, each time you sink down.

“Use me, then.” He rasps, “Come on, sweet one. Take your pleasure.”

Your heart races, breath caught in your throat at his words, his touch. The slow pace increasing, as you try to do what he says.

Instincts flooding wisdom, drowning it out - tilting your hips until your thighs tremble, as he knocks against a sweet spot inside you.

Again, and then again. His eyes are fixed on you now, and the look he gives makes you clench - coveting his attention. Wanting him to only look at you, tonight.

To sear the feeling of you into his memory, as he has done to you. You think there is nothing that could make you forget tonight.

To forget this swirl of magic, as if you’re tethered to the ground, the sky, him - all at once. Utterly free at the same time, your body moving on its own without inhibition, encouraged by the sound of his moans.

The clench of teeth - the heavy press of hips that have begun to snap upward, no longer able to hold back.

“Oh gods-” You keen. Once, and then again - a grinding circle of your hips against his fingers, as that feeling inside you threatens to burst again.

Halsin chases the rock of your hips now with his own, with his fingers. His laugh rough, caught between his teeth.

“The gods may be listening, little one. But only I will answer.”

It makes you shudder, makes you beg.

“I’m so close. Please don’t stop.”

His fingers stay true. Pressing just a little harder, a jostle of his thighs as his feet plant against the ground. Fucking up into you now, as your pace falters. Too focused on the rushing white noise in your ears, the feeling that’s so big that it feels like you’ll choke on it.

“Let me feel you.” The words are muted, miles away. Digging into your skin to weave around your ribs, “Sweet one, come on-”

Your cry rips from your lungs, as you tip over the edge. He’s there to catch you, the steady pound of his hips as your own legs fail you. Fingers sweeping as the pulse of your cunt matches the heartbeat in your ears, clenching around him as you find your release.

Pushing himself up to meet you, as your arms wrap around him. Letting you chase the last waves of pleasure with the grind of your hips, your mouth panting into his neck.

A sweet sweat beading at the nape of your neck, across your skin. Your head turns just enough to meet his, his hand coming up to curl around the back of your neck.

To hold you to him, hovering over him, as he buries himself in you again. Again and again, until he is panting as you steal kisses. Tasting where you still linger in his tongue, another melding of your spirits.

“How do you want me?” His eyes are bright, hands slipping down to cup your ass, to help you ride him, “My heart, I fear I won’t last-”

You had made a pretty coin, brewing herbs and potions. Enough that you could do it in your sleep, your talents extending to camp. Teas of protection brewed openly and without shame.

The need for him to spill in you floods your senses, your own breath ragged at the thought.

“In me, my bear.” You beg, leaning back - the snap of your own hips sharp and loud, “I need you in me.”

The groan he makes is laced with relief. The feeling coursing through him as well - an innate need to spill himself into your cunt. To rut himself into you, until you’ve taken every drop.

Your name is ragged on his lips, as his thrusts turn shallow. As you take over, riding him until his hands grasp at your waist, as he goes stiff beneath you.

He throbs, a warmth flooding deep inside you. A pretty sight, his strong back arching into you - lips parted, hair streaming loose amongst the wildflowers. A snap of teeth as he grinds against you until you drip with him, too full of his cock to keep everything inside.

Fully joined, beneath the moonlight.

Afterwards, you melt against him. A hand smooths down your back as your fingers wander. Across the fur of his bare chest, the curve of his lip. The swirls of scarred and tattooed skin - your lips following.

He’s beautiful beneath you. Eyes content and half-lidded as an arm tucks beneath his head. A little inhale of breath - his broad chest rising as your lips move to his neck.

If you were Volo you think that, perhaps, you’d write a song about this. But that would mean that you would not be with him now, and the thought all but fills you with agony.

That hand on your waist tightening as you push the thought away - stretching up to reach the curve of his ear, a groan as your tongue traces the point.

It moves you against him. His cock slipping part-way out, only to sink deep again with your exploration.

He’s still hard, achingly so. You’re more sure whether it is a blessing of Silvanus or just him - this being so perfectly crafted in nature’s image.

Your teasing winds him up, even as his release leaks from you, shining against your thighs. A groan buzzes against your lips, where they still press against his throat.

A shifting beneath you, a pointed lift of his hips that nudges him against that sensitive place inside you.

“Let me take you, once more,” He husks, his face tipping up to yours. Knuckles brushing your cheek, tender in spite of the fire burning in his eyes, “Like the Oak Father intended.”

Desire still burns in you. An ache at the thought of having him another time, enough that you’re pushing yourself up to straddle him.

Nodding, your begging “please” making him smile, as he pushes himself up on an elbow. His eyes raking over your body, bathed in the glow of moonlight. Where he’s still buried deep, kept warm by you.

Before he’s moving. Hands gripping at your waist - a soft whine when he lifts you off him. His cock flushed and shining where it rests against his belly, as he rolls you beneath him.

“Hands and knees, my love.”

You’re eager to do so. The grass soft against your palms as your knees press into the ground. Arching your back - feeling the weight of his gaze as his thighs brush against yours.

The curve of his cock pressing against you, as he squeezes the flesh of your ass. His touch reverent and hungry, grinding himself against your core as he groans.

“If I could keep but one image in my mind, it would be this one.”

You moan at his praise, rocking back to meet his press of his hips. His hand dropping to wrap around his slick cock, notching it at your entrance.

Holding himself there as his chest presses against your back - warm, as his other arm wraps around your middle. It does something to you. The position, the feel of him overwhelming you.

“Halsin-” You pant, each second ticking by feeding into your desperation, “Why do you wait?”

“My impatient little she-bear,” He laughs, but the sound is strained with you beneath him, “Do not fear, I will give you what you want.”

And he does, the thick tip of him parting you. Sinking deep with a rough thrust of his hip, making you cry out as he fills you.

You had thought he was big before, when you rode him. But you had been in control - taking him at your own pace. Bouncing at your leisure, aided by the span of your hands against his muscular chest for balance.

Now, it feels like he’s in your throat, as he seats himself completely. As you make room for him, gripping him so tightly he chokes on a breath, fingers biting into your skin.

Yours wrap around his wrist, braced against the grass for balance. Nails biting into skin as he noses at your neck, his breath warm where it ghosts against your skin.

A kiss pressed there, so tender that you feel yourself relaxing. Rocking your hips back, whimpering at the feeling of his cock dragging against your walls.

“Take me,” You beg, wanting more, “Feels so good, I want you-”

He groans, and you can feel him throb inside you. There’s the sharp snap of his hips, starting shallow. Sliding out further each time, until pleasure is crackling against your skin.

The little clearing filled with the sounds of your joining. Panting breaths and the slick sound of you taking him. Fucking his own cum deeper into you, lewd with the way you cry out when his cock grinds against that spot. When the heft of his balls kiss your clit again and again, heavy with his arousal.

It feels right. Halsin’s body pressed against your back, bending you until your chest is flattened against the grass. Fingers finding purchase in the strands and flowers, giving you something to hold onto as his thighs crash against yours.

Each deep thrust pushed your breath from you with a soft whine, leaving you panting.

Trapped beneath him, until all you can do is take it.

Squirming against the cage of his chest and arms.

Fuck me. Take me. Fill me-

It comes from deep inside you. The want to be filled. An ache at knowing he’s already spent himself, that each thrust brings him closer to a second.

You must say the words out loud because he makes a noise that sounds wounded. A stutter of his hips, his words a jagged rasp, “Let go, my love. I've got you.”

So, you do. Releasing your hold on that last ounce of control. Leaving yourself in his hands, letting your sounds and cries flow freely. Embracing the mounting pleasure as it swirls through you.

You babble - half-formed words as he holds you against him. Shifting when he hears you sob, rutting himself against the spot that sends you up to the stars above. The broken “oh, oh, oh’s-” bleeding into “Gods, Halsin-”

His teeth press against your neck, pinching against your skin, “Give yourself to me.”

The arm curve around your waist moves. Fingers carefully wrap around your hair until it’s fisted in his grip. Pinning you further as he pants in your ear, soft grunts and growls that sound like music in the night air.

Not stopping until you’re shuddering beneath him. Until he feels the tight pulse of your cunt, his own release not far behind. As sweet as the taste of you, as your muscles jump under his touch, as you arch and claw at the grass below you.

It’s bliss. It feels like you’re channeling the forest itself. Feeding off the pleasure that radiates from him. The new beginning of the season, the pull of the moon above.

The Gods are pleased, you think dizzily, they must be, for I have never felt like this.

The slap of his hips is louder, as you soak him. An overwhelming instinct to claim you, as his teeth sink into the curve between neck and shoulder.

Holding you still against him as he growls. Eyes flashing gold as you cry out again - pleasure and pain melding as your orgasm flares out, beginning to ebb in sweet bursts. As the sensation drags him along to find his own end.

Spilling into you a second time with a shout. His hips moving on their own, shallow thrusts with each pulse of his cock. Your head twisting to meet his mouth, a press of teeth and tongue as you swallow his groans.

Until his strength is all but sapped from him.

Until he is more man that beast again, those eyes soft and green again - a field of clover on a bright spring day.

It’s an easy thing, to take you with him to the forest floor. To curl around you - blocking your smaller form from the midnight chill that’s begun to creep in.

Warm and strong - an arm wrapping around your hip, a large hand splaying across your belly. As if those thoughts still lingered.

Still pressed inside you, keeping you filled with him. You think you’d be content to stay like this all night. Longer, if there was not more work to be done, tomorrow. More paths to be taken.

It’s not long though, before you find yourself shifting. Dozing in his grip, a sleepy rock of your hips in an effort to feel him move in you again.

“Oak Father, preserve me.” Halsin stirs behind you, as he huffs into your hair, “Insatiable little thing. And to think I worried about you lasting through the solstice.”

Your teeth bite into your lip as you grin, as his arms wrap more tightly around you.

“I should have been concerned about myself. This old bear needs rest, little one.”

But even with his low rumbling, his hand drifts. The pad of a finger brushing against your clit, sending another shot of pleasure coursing through you.

Your thighs part, a knee bending to give him access. Another soft whine as his circles against skin that is slick with his release, as his hips slowly match the lazy rhythm.

“Do not worry, my love. I will not leave you wanting.” He rasps.

“And there are many left hours until dawn.”

omg I started playing recently and I am so in love with this game. this was so much fun, I hope you enjoyed! I love Druids so much (and am playing one) and thought they for sure would have a 👀festival👀 of some kind and wanted to explore that in the context of like, act ii/iii (I am still playing so please let me know if I got any lore wrong!!)

Teuivae – ‘Moonlight’

(tags: @samspenandsword, @amywritesthings)

[abbonation]

Mating Season

Halsin x Female Reader | sexual frustration | sexual tension | growly bear halsin | totally adoring halsin | horny bear mating instincts | semi-shifted sex | fluff | smut | nsfw

How Halsin’s romance might have played out if we could have had his kisses, adoration, and been totally railed senseless by Oak Daddy from the end of Act I. An ode to Halsin’s hairy chest, big arms, and the vein that I know stands out so thickly on his *muffled horny noises*

After a long and tiring day of fighting off goblins as you search for the Githyanki Crèche, you groan in relief as you sink into the cool waters of the river. Everyone else is back at camp and you’re able to enjoy the currents swirling around your naked body. 

You float in the water, thinking about how much your party has grown in the past few weeks. First Shadowheart, Gale, and Astarion, then Lae’zel, Wyll, and Karlach, and finally Halsin, the wildshape druid you rescued from the goblins. He’s a focused member of the group, a valuable healer, and an unstoppable force in battle. You occasionally feel things turning against you in a fight, and then Halsin is there, supporting the group and laying down swathes of flame, lightning and ice. His bear shape never fails to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies. 

Around the fire at night, he talks openly about his quest to free the Shadow-Cursed lands, his admiration for the party, and his praise for your leadership. His gentle words about you have your body prickling with awareness of his. 

That warm smile of his. His large and clever hands. His deep, gentle voice. Everything about this man makes you tingle all the way down to your toes. Whenever you think his gaze is lingering on your mouth, he murmurs goodnight to you and leaves your side. You watch him go, wishing that instead he would reach out and touch you.

An angry, snarling sound fills the air and you sit up in the water. Not far from you, an enormous bear, grunting and breathing hard, walks heavily down the riverbank. It’s huge, and its muscular body blocking out the setting sun, and from the noises it's making and its attitude, it’s a hair's-breadth from lashing out at anything that moves. 

You freeze, not daring even to breathe, hoping with everything you have that the animal will turn around and head back the other way. Instead, it launches itself into the water with an almighty splash. 

As it disappears beneath the surface, you notice a faint scar over the bear’s right eye, as if it’s been clawed. You recognize that scar. 

Wait, is this--

Golden light flashes. The water seethes. A man stands up where there was a bear just moments ago, water cascading from his body. Halsin, and he must have stripped before he changed into wildshape for now he’s completely naked, standing hip-deep in the water. 

He’s partly turned away from you but you can tell his manner is no less worked up than it was in bear form. He swipes his hands angrily through his dripping hair and breathes hard, the muscles of his shoulders and arms clenched in frustration. 

Halsin is one of the gentlest-natured men you’ve ever met, most of the time. Like nature, he too can be wild, his eyes flashing and his voice breaking like thunder over you when he’s frustrated or disappointed, such as when he was remonstrating Kagha for the Rite of Thorns. How magnificent he was that day. 

But what is he restless for now? He stands in the water, looking around at the forest, gripped with frustration, and when he turns a little more your way you can see that the root of his cock is thickened in a tell-tale manner. 

Ah. 

That kind of frustration. 

You quietly make your way to the edge of the river where a willow tree is trailing in the water, moving as carefully and as quietly as you can. This feels like a private moment you’re intruding on. Even though you don’t mean to spy, it feels like you are. The fronds of the willow provide a little cover for you, and hopefully Halsin will cool off and leave the way he came. 

The dice do not roll your way this evening as he approaches you, seeking deeper water. A moment later, your gazes lock, and his eyes widen in surprise.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘I wasn’t spying on you,’ you tell him quickly. ‘I thought you needed some peace, so I was waiting here quietly.’

His eyes run over you, your back pressed against the river bank and cowering amid the willow leaves. 

Halsin heaves a regretful sigh. ‘I frightened you, didn’t I? I am sorry. It’s all right, I am myself again.’ 

He smiles and holds out his hand. It’s a tight smile, like he’s forcing it for you, but you’re no longer worried a bear is about to disembowel you.  

You place your cool fingers into his large, hot ones and let him draw you slowly out of your hiding place. The water is deep enough here that your nakedness is covered, and so is his.

You relax as you gaze up at him, enjoying the sensation of Halsin holding your hand. Quietly enjoying the sight of his bare chest and handsome face. You hope he might walk you into the shallows so you can be naked together, but he remains in deep water, sunk in thought.

‘The river is yours. I’ll leave you to enjoy it,’ you murmur, and glance to where you left your clothes. 

Halsin’s fingers are still tightly twined through yours beneath the water. He seems to be in a world of his own as he gazes at your mouth, your throat, the droplets of water sliding through your wet hair and down your shoulders. A world that includes you. A world where you’re touching one another. 

‘Halsin?’ you ask tentatively. Hopefully. If he wants to move closer and kiss you, that’s more than okay with you. After a long and dusty day, there’s nothing you’d like more than exploring his body in the cool water. That hairy chest of his. His hard muscles. You long to run your tongue over him. Flex your fingers on his biceps. Trace the red tattoo on his cheek.

Halsin comes back into himself with a deep inhale, and he lets go of your hand. ‘Then I’ll see you back at camp.’ He moves away from you through the currents. 

As you push the water from your body and dress in your clothes, you search for Halsin in the river, but he’s disappeared around a bend. 

***

Later around the campfire, you’re hyper aware of Halsin as you talk with Gale about his home in Baldur’s Gate. Halsin is silent, the campfire flickering over his handsome face. You try not to pay him any more attention than you do the others, but your interest in him has spilled over into blazing attraction.

Your gazes lock and Halsin’s brows are drawn tightly together. 

Is he glaring at you? 

A moment later he gets to his feet and, unnoticed by the others, slips away into the darkness. Something’s eating at that man and you wish you knew what.

A short time later, you take a bottle down to the river to refill it with water before turning and heading for your bed. As you round the corner of the ruin where you’ve made your camp, you run straight into Halsin. 

His eyes widen and they flare with heat and surprise, and then he quickly looks away and moves past you.

‘Have I done something to make you angry with me?’ you call after him. 

Halsin stops dead. He stares straight ahead for a moment, and then slowly turns to you, shaking his head. ‘Far from it. I am worked up and frustrated, but not with anger.’

Maybe his frustrations are because of you, and that’s a thought you don’t know what to do with when he keeps avoiding you. 

Not knowing what else to say, you tell him, ‘We will free the Shadow-Cursed lands soon. I know we will.’

He breathes out heavily, his expression troubled. ‘I’m not thinking of the Shadow-Curse right now, even though I should be. It is more important than anything I...’ He trails off, but his gaze lingers on your mouth. ‘...want.’

Halsin steps closer, and you feel the heat blazing off his chest. His warmth and bulk are so welcoming and you crave to reach out and touch him. The backs of his fingers caress your hair. The lightest of touches. Then he takes a handful of your hair and dips his head, bringing the strands to his nose. 

‘You smell wonderful.’ He heaves a deep sigh, and whispers, ‘Can I hold you for a moment?’

That sounds lovely to you, and you nod. 

Halsin wraps an arm around your waist, scoops you against him, and buries his face in your neck. ‘By Silvanus, your scent is sweet,’ he groans. ‘I caught it when we first met, in that foul goblin nest. How it pleased me. Getting to know you these past few weeks has been even sweeter.’

Your hands are plastered against his chest and so is your body. He’s saying everything you hoped to hear. More than you hoped to hear. He has such a beautiful way with words. You turn your head so he can kiss you, but he still refrains. 

Taking a ragged breath, he releases you and steps back. ‘I’m sorry. It’s always difficult this time of year.’

You miss his warmth so much that you shiver. ‘What time of year?’

He gazes at you for a long time. ‘You may laugh, but I’ll tell you. It’s bear mating season.’

You don’t laugh, but your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

‘I know--I’m no bear,’ Halsin says with a laugh of his own, ‘but I spend so much time in wildshape that bear instincts tug on my heart and...other parts of me. I return to my own form and unfortunately the needs do not dissipate. In fact, they worsen, because it is not a bear I want. When she comes close to me smelling like spring and honey and warm sunshine I can’t help but crave her.’ A smile glimmers on his lips.

Enough being vague. You want to hear him say it. You step closer and put a hand against his chest. ‘A general someone, or anyone in particular?’

He groans softly and captures your face in his hands. He drinks you in and swipes his thumb across your lips. The gesture is soft, and full of the promise of his kiss.

‘You are someone I admire and I think I could grow to care deeply about,’ he murmurs. ‘I care about you so much already. Any little scratch you receive I want to push Shadowheart out of the way and tend to you myself.’

Your heart soars.

‘But this isn’t how or when I wanted to begin anything with you. I have to walk away.’

Disappointment plummets through you. 

He’s still holding your face and his expression is conflicted. It seems he wants to put an end to this for now but can’t bring himself to do it. 

‘I can walk away, if that helps?’

His eyes fill with gratitude and longing. ‘Please. That would be a mercy. Know that when the time comes, I will come to you with more than lust in my heart.’

You nod, trailing your fingers down his chest as you step back, but you fail to see what’s wrong with him desiring you. ‘Whatever you need. Of course.’

‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’

You smile gently at him. ‘Your desire is so far from offensive. Please know that I don’t demand more of your attention than you’re willing to give. The Shadow Cursed lands are your priority and I’m...’ How to put this delicately? I’m here for you and you can rail me senseless in between your duties whenever you want to let off steam. That’s what you want to say, but you’re too shy to say it. ‘...Here. Your friend. Always.’

Halsin seems to catch your meaning anyway as his jaw flexes and he nods slowly. 

You promised him you would walk away, and you do, and though you give him ample time to allow him to pull you back, the next sound you hear is a clash and a growl, and a flare of golden light. When you glance over your shoulder, a bear is thundering into the woods on all fours. 

***

A few days later, you’re returning to camp feeling like you’ve been put through a meat grinder, and your companions haven’t fared much better. Gale is unusually silent and covered in blood. Shadowheart is exhausted and dragging her feet. You’re trying not to limp because she and Halsin have already cast so much healing magic. Something’s wrong with your leg, but you’ll see to it yourself when you’re alone. 

The others bid you tired farewells as they head for their tents, but someone catches your arm and holds you back.

‘Oak Father, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?’ 

Halsin is staring at your legs, and you stare with him. Blood is pooling around your foot. Oh, that’s not good. 

‘I can tend to it myself after I’ve had some rest--’

Your words are cut off as the massive druid picks you up in his arms and carries you into a crumbling barn. Automatically, you wrap your arms around his neck and lean against the solid bulk of his chest. Halsin lays you down on a pallet and helps you remove your armour, revealing a ragged gash on the top of your thigh. Your clothes have to be cut away until your legs are bare.

Halsin looks exhausted and has dark circles under his eyes. It seems he’s been taking little rest as he roams the forests nightly as a bear. When he reaches for you to lay healing hands on your wound, you place a hand on his wrist.

‘You don’t have to do this right now. I’ll bandage myself up and someone can heal me after they’ve rested.’

Halsin raises challenging eyebrows at you. ‘You believe I don’t have the strength to heal you myself? That I’ll walk away from the most important person in my life and leave her bleeding?’

You moisten your lips, trying not to show how much his words have affected you. The most important person in his life? Suddenly you don’t feel injured at all, and he hasn’t even healed you yet.

‘I have more than enough magic left for this. Now, lay back and let me do my work, and then you can get back to yours.’

You settle back on the pallet and gaze at the cobwebby rafters. Halsin’s hands hover over your thigh, and a warm, delicious feeling spreads through your leg, and then up between your thighs. Your head falls back in relief and pleasure. 

Even Halsin makes a surprised noise. ‘That felt...’ He rubs your now-healed high, massaging the last of the tension and pain from your muscles. ‘That felt different. How’s your thigh now?’ 

You can’t help but moan and arch your back a little at his touch. ‘Good.’ Your voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

‘Just good?’ He strokes his palm over where there was a cut just moments ago. 

‘Halsin, please, you make me feel heavenly,’ you whimper. The words pass your lips without thinking. You reach up to take hold of his shoulders so you can pull him down to kiss you, but pull back before you can touch him. 

This isn’t what he wants. Your hands clench on the pallet, feeling your core ache with need. As soon as he leaves, you can get yourself off thinking about him. 

‘Would you like me to go?’ he asks softly. 

‘I never want you to go.’

His hand rests lightly on your leg. 

You open your eyes and gaze up at him, and he’s sitting so close to you. ‘But if you stay, you’re going to see me touching myself.’ Then you smile at him, remembering your last conversation. ‘I would love for you to see that. As a friend.’

You want him to see you. You want him to participate.

He smiles and leans down to you, and runs the blade of his nose up your cheek. ‘I can’t think of anything more wonderful after a long, hard day, my dear friend.’

Halsin lays down beside you and props his head against his fist. With gentle fingers, he helps you to drag your underwear down your legs and cast them aside. As your teeth sink into your lower lip, you gently touch yourself, your eyes on his handsome face. Halsin strokes your thighs, your stomach, finds the fastenings on your clothes and loosens them. As he pulls back your bodice, revealing your breasts, he lowers his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth. 

You cry out and flex up into him. Heat is gathering within you. You suck on your lower lip and release it. ‘Please--your fingers--I need--’ you manage between pants. You can barely get the words out, but he understands. Halsin drags two fingers through your sex, making them slippery, and then sinks them inside you. 

Another loud cry from you. Gods, he feels perfect.

Halsin groans and kisses your throat, murmuring, ‘You’re so tight around me. Have you been as frustrated as I am?’ He pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, slowly at first, and then faster.

Yes you have, the godsdamned stubborn bear of man. He should have pulled you into his arms that day in the river and let you suck all the frustration from his body out through his cock. 

‘So frustrated,’ you whimper. ‘Please, that feels so good. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.’ 

He brushes his lips over yours. ‘I won’t stop. You’re always so beautiful, but like this, all of nature pales in comparison.’

You reach down and lay your hand over his wrist, adoring the tension and flex of his muscles in his arm as he moves inside you. Your fingers keep moving on your clit as you moan and cry out his name, and when you come you dig your nails into his flesh, and press your feet into the ground so he can fuck you even harder with his fingers.

When you fall back exhausted, Halsin sits up and spreads your thighs open, trailing his fingers over your sex and drinking in the sight of you as you catch your breath. ‘Your body is wondrous.’ He leans over and kisses you, his tongue caressing yours. ‘Will you rest well tonight?’ 

You nod, feeling drunk from his kiss and your climax. 

He smiles. ‘Then I’ll rest well too, knowing that you’re sleeping soundly. Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment with me.’

As he sits up, you notice that he’s hard inside his tight pants. Excessively hard. Huge in fact. He shouldn’t be leaving, he should be pulling off his clothes and pounding the living daylights out of you until he also gets the release he needs. 

But he’s gone before you can call him back to you. That’s not why he just blew your mind, was it? He healed you, and now he wants you to get some rest. Druid’s orders, apparently. 

You smile and roll over, and fall into a doze. 

***

The next morning, before anyone has arisen, Halsin finds you coming back from the river. You smile at him, thinking he looks so handsome in the morning light, and you expect him to keep moving past you. Instead, he stops and smiles at you, as if basking in the sight of you is all he wants right now. 

‘May I have a kiss?’ you ask hopefully. Perhaps he’s decided not to want anything for himself right now, but he still wants to make you happy. 

Without needing to be asked twice, Halsin grasps you around the waist with his large hands and walks you back against the wall, kissing you enthusiastically. ‘I can still smell you on my fingers this morning. I could smell you all night. You are a delight.’

Your lips part for his so he can kiss you even deeper. With your arms around his neck, you revel in the sensation of his mouth on yours. 

‘I find you irresistible.’ Another kiss. ‘But we have much to do today.’ Another kiss. 

‘We do,’ you say, smiling as he kisses you again. 

He gazes down at you for a moment, a slight frown between his brows. ‘If you need more, know that I won’t be offended if you take another lover. Nature intends for us to roam and be free.’

You have considered that, if not someone at camp, then a handsome stranger at a tavern, but you’d only be thinking about Halsin the whole time. ‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘You must do as pleases you,’ he replies, and kisses you again.

You guess that he didn’t tell you this for idle reasons, but to let you know about his own preferences. You reach up and stroke your fingers through his russet hair. ‘I have always wanted my own person, but to roam with them. Share everything with them. I would miss you too much if I was to roam without you.’

He smiles down at you. ‘Us, with others? I would like that, in time. You’re more than enough for me, but I wouldn’t wish for you to be denied anything. Seeing you with another lover, and participating as well...it sounds wonderful.’ Then he steps away from you. ‘But we are getting ahead of ourselves. My thoughts turn to other things for now. But they will turn back to you.’

With a final warm squeeze of your hand, he leaves you, but your heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time. 

***

Two nights later, you’re awoken by snarling and roaring in the distance, and you sit bolt upright. It sounds like two large animals are fighting in the woods. 

Only Astarion is awake. ‘What a ridiculous racket,’ he mutters with a scowl, before licking his thumb and turning the page of the book he’s reading. 

You look over at Halsin’s pallet, knowing it’s going to be empty before you lay eyes on it, but your stomach drops just the same when you see that it is. You scramble to your feet and set off at a run into the darkness. 

You follow the roaring and snarling and it doesn’t take long to find two bears fighting with teeth bared and swipes of their claws. You recognise Halsin from the scars over his eye.

What can you do to help him? A spell? A cantrip?  

Before you can decide, Halsin swipes the other bear so hard across the snout that it reels back, and then turns and runs away into the woods. 

Halsin paces up and down for a moment, and then golden light ripples, nearly blinding you, and when you open your eyes again, he’s striding toward you. His chest is heaving and blood is pouring from scratches and bites across his shoulders and throat. Nothing life threatening, but he’d be in pain if he wasn’t so angry.

‘That bear was looking for a mate, and I wasn’t having it prowling around her when I haven’t even tasted her myself.’

Halsin when he’s feeling himself wouldn’t say something so uncharacteristically possessive. It must be the mating season instincts overriding his natural feelings. ‘That bear wouldn’t have been interested in me.’ Also, you could have tasted me by now if you’d wanted to.

He doesn’t seem to have heard you as he glares into the darkness. Suddenly, he rounds on you. ‘It’s dangerous out here. You shouldn’t have come. Go back to bed.’

You fold your arms and stay where you are. The big alpha bear can throw his weight around, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to jump to obey his commands. ‘Shouldn’t have come? Would you have ignored me if I was being attacked in the woods?’

Halsin takes a deep breath and some of the anger melts from his face. He pushes his hands through his hair and shakes his head. ‘Of course not, I would never abandon you like that. Thank you for coming out here to help me. I promise I’m not ungrateful. I’m all out of sorts because...’ He gestures vaguely at himself and the woods around you both. 

You smile at him. ‘I know. It’s mating season.’

You help him pick dirt and gravel out of his cuts before he casts healing magic on himself, but you’re not ready to leave him and go to bed. The river is close by and you take his hand and lead him to the water. 

‘Let’s wash the blood and dirt off you.’

At the riverbank, hesitantly you reach for his clothes. He says nothing but he’s watching you with such intensity, and so you find the fastenings and help him out of them. With gentle fingers, he does the same for you. The night air is warm and still. Crickets are chirping and the river makes gentle rushing noises. The two of you are standing so close that you’re breathing each other’s breaths. His massive chest lifts and falls. Your nipples tighten with awareness of him. You don’t want to stare but you can’t help but look at this beautiful man as you undress him. 

Halsin helps you out of your underwear, and his cock bumps against your thigh. He’s so hard that he’s standing to attention, his foreskin drawn back, a drop of pre-cum at the tip. Your mouth waters, and you want to run your tongue along the thick vein that stands out on his shaft.

‘Sorry. Ignore me,’ he mutters. 

You don’t want to ignore the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen, but you keep your hands to yourself and look up at him. ‘I want to feel flattered. Should I feel flattered?’

‘You know I think you’re wonderful,’ he breathes, caressing your face. 

Oh, by all the gods, then fuck me, please. 

‘Would you want me even if it wasn’t mating season?’

‘Of course I would, though I’d probably be better at keeping that to myself. You wouldn’t awaken to hear me fighting other bears in the woods, or see me staring at you with longing across the campfire. I’d still feel the same way, but I wouldn’t be so obvious about it. Probably.’

‘Do you mind that mating season makes you feel and act this way?’

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘It is who I am, and another connection I have to nature.’

‘Halsin. For a wildshape druid who believes in going with what’s natural, you’re very stubborn about resisting what your body is telling you it wants.’

A smile curves his lips. ‘You may be right. I’ve told myself that focusing on the Shadow Curse is the right and only thing to do, but...’

Halsin ducks his head and slants his mouth over yours. The kiss is so fierce and sudden, and pleasure takes a swan dive through your body. He wraps his arms around you and gathers you to him.

‘This isn’t how I imagined things between us,’ he murmurs. ‘I intended to come to you after the curse is lifted and declare my feelings for you, and tell you that my unburdened heart is yours.’ 

‘Please still do that,’ you breathe, planting soft kisses again and again on his mouth. ‘I would love that. But don’t walk away from me now.’ 

‘You want me, even though my mind is often on things other than you?’

What a romantic Halsin is, wanting to give you his whole heart at once, or nothing at all. ‘Of course I do,’ you tell him, your fingers stroking his bare back. You don’t need that declaration yet. You just need him. 

Halsin lifts you in his arms and carries you into the water, gazing into your eyes. The water flows around your bodies as he kisses you and places you on your feet.

He nods at something over your shoulder. ‘I have to taste you. Turn around and put your hands on that rock.’

You do as he asks, standing thighs-deep in the water and bent over with your hands braced against the river bank. Halsin kneels down in the water and cups your ass. 

‘So beautiful...’ You feel his tongue run up your sex, and you moan and close your eyes. He’s slow and languorous about it. Not trying to make you come, just tasting you thoroughly and enjoying the sensation of you against his tongue. 

Halsin stands up and when you glance over your shoulder you see him gazing at your sex as he strokes you with his fingers and fists his cock slowly up and down. 

‘Can I have you, sweet one?’ he asks huskily. 

‘Please, gods, yes .’ You’ll go crazy if he holds back a moment longer.

You feel him step closer, and the blunt head of his cock slides against your slippery entrance. He feels alarmingly thick and you take a deep breath and try to relax. 

With a muttered oath, he sinks into you. As much of him as he can, anyway. Gods, he’s a lot . You walk your feet apart, trying to accommodate more of him. 

‘Too much?’ he asks, hesitating. 

You shake your head desperately. ‘Not too much. More, please.’

He fucks you slowly, working himself deeper by delicious increments, while your cries fill the night air along with his ragged breathing. His blunt nails scratch your flesh. He roughly squeezes handfuls of your ass. 

You reach down between your legs and touch yourself, and you grow wetter and wetter, allowing him to fuck you in long, smooth strokes. Every single one makes your insides light up. Your orgasm is barrelling down on you surprisingly fast. 

‘Please, fuck me hard, I’m going to come,’ you beg him. 

Halsin groans and takes your hips in a secure grip and slams into you, over and over, hard, brutal and heavenly thrusts. You push against the rock to hold you steady as a wild, untamable sensation crashes over you, and you cry out loud enough for the whole forest to hear you. 

Your head is hanging low and you’re panting as you feel Halsin draw out of you.

‘But you haven’t come,’ you protest, straightening up and turning around. It’s what you want, to see and feel this beautiful man let go. 

He takes your hand and helps you out of the river. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

He lays back on the grass and pulls you astride him so your thighs are straddling him. ‘I want to see you like this as well.’

Hungry for more, you grasp his cock and sink down his length. Halsin groans and his head tips back, and he squeezes both your breasts in his large hands. His throat is so beautiful, and so is his chest. You draw patterns in his chest hair as you move up and down his length. 

Weeks of frustration and wanting him haven’t been fulfilled by one climax, and soon you feel another one gathering within you. He watches you with a smile as you desperately moan and pant his name. As your cries reach a crescendo, Halsin plants his feet securely against the ground and pushes sharply up into you, over and over, making you shatter around him even harder than before.

You collapse forward on his chest, weakened and helpless, his cock still lodged deep inside you. 

‘That was wonderful,’ you moan, your cheek plastered against his chest. ‘Give me a moment and we can change positions. I’m not stopping until you come.’

He rubs circles on your back. ‘I think I might shift into wildshape if we keep going. I can feel the need getting stronger and stronger.’ 

‘I don’t mind. Your bear form is pretty sexy.’

He laughs softly, a surprised sound. ‘Really? I’m pleased you think so.’

Even sexier is the way he looks while he’s changing, his body even bulkier and hair sprouting everywhere. ‘Can you change part ways?’

His hand stops moving on your back as he considers this. ‘I can. I think it might be easier for me to maintain that, rather than one or the other.’

Halsin rolls you both over until you’re on your back in the grass and pinned beneath him. With a heavy hand on your inner thigh, he pushes your knees up to your chest and thrusts deeper, and then again. 

‘By Silvanus, you feel wonderful,’ he pants.

A ripple goes through his body. His eyes turn fiercely golden. The hair thickens across his chest and spreads over his shoulders and down his arms. His top lip pulls back from his teeth, revealing thick incisors. His cock swells to what feels like twice its size inside you. You gaze at him in wonder. He looks incredible like this. 

As he continues to pump his cock into you, you press your hands against his muscular, hairy stomach, struggling to accommodate all of him. 

‘I’m hurting you,’ he realises, his voice more growl than words. ‘I can change back.’

‘No, don’t stop. Just slow down for a moment. It’s a good problem to have.’ You reach down to the place where you’re joined and wrap your fingers around his slippery thickness. Gods, that’s wonderful. So is his bulk looming over you and the rich, animal scent of his body. He thrusts carefully, watching you closely, his golden gaze roaming over you. 

‘So beautiful, sweet one,’ he rumbles. ‘Are you sure you like me like this?’

‘Yes, oh gods, yes.’

With every thrust, it’s getting easier for him to slide his whole length deep inside you, and pleasure stabs through you every time he bottoms out. 

You reach up and cup his furred cheek. ‘I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even sexier like this. How does it feel for you?’

He groans and seems to take courage from your words. ‘Like I’m finally free. No longer fighting what I crave.’ The speed of his thrusts pick up, and he devours you hungrily. ‘You’re so good to me.’  

His breathing becomes a throaty snarl. His claws dig lovingly into your thigh. His hips move in a relentless rhythm, long thrusts, and then shorter, urgent ones, and you can tell he’s nearing his peak. You hold onto his shoulders for dear life as his body stiffens and his climax breaks through him, and he throws his head back.

With a groan, he sinks down onto his elbow and buries his face in your throat. As you hold him tight, you feel him shift back to his human form, his skin smooth and damp with perspiration. 

Halsin lifts his head and kisses you. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. Was it all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

You hasten to assure him that he didn’t and it was everything you wanted.

He smiles. ‘How wonderful you are.’

You stroke his sweaty hair back. Neither have I. You’re so beautiful always, and especially seeing you like that, through wildshape eyes.’

He rolls onto his side in the grass and wraps both his arms around you, keeping you tight against his chest. ‘I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. The world feels so much better now I have you in my arms.’

‘How long does mating season last?’ you ask. You hope it’s a long time, and he needs you often. 

He laughs, a deep sound reverberating through his chest. ‘It’s every moment I lay eyes on you, sweet one.’

‘I hope that I haven’t distracted you from your duties.’

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. ‘I’m more motivated than ever.’

You lay like that together in the grass until Halsin feels your cooling body shiver. 

He helps you to your feet and draws you into his arms for one last, tender kiss. Cradling your face in his hands, he murmurs, ‘You are the person I admire most in the world. I feel honoured by every moment I spend by your side.’ He kisses you again. ‘Know that I can’t wait until I’m able to tell you that my whole heart is yours.’

Thank you so much for reading. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! Or tell me how the Halsin brainrot is affecting you while playing BG3. I have just about no braincells left by now. Only Daddy Bear remains. 

[abbonation]

the monster under the bed is scary to YOU. i’m having sex with it though.

[abbonation]

shower time w/ simon n his pretty lil roommate

water beats down at his shoulders, scorching drops pelting down the arch of his arms, down the rippling muscles of his chest. soap lingers on his skin as his hand words quick strokes over his cock, head falling back to let water run through his hair and over his flushed face.

on the other side of the shower curtain there you are, he can barely see the silhouette of your body, can barely make out the soft of your voice. but fuckkkk the mere outline of your plush curves had him in some fuckin trance.

“ugh, i still don’t understand why they couldn’t just come over and watch a movie with us.” you’re speaking of your friends, painting your lips in a cherry, explosive red as you get ready to go out to the bar together. but simon couldn’t focus on anything except the emphasis of us. good god.

he presses his free hand to the striking cold shower tiles, lip stung between his teeth as he chokes back his guttural noises. his stomach rising, flexing and pulling back suddenly taut against his organs, breath ragged.

“si?” you chirp, and he can hear the click of your heels at the edge of the curtain. he can see the slightly sliver of your soft, thick legs. fuck fuck fuck. “would you tell me if i look good in this.”

and he abides, folding his back to the shower wall, hips reeled forward to keep working his hand. and when the beads of water strike his cock, he’s in shambles, jaw dropping and eyes rolling, barely concealing his reaction when his neck rolls and his head hits the cool tile.

his eyes scan you, your sweet dress cuts down into your breasts, accentuating em in a way that they spill into his face. it cuts into the plush of your waist, silhouetting your figure sweetly. and when his eyes drop to your legs, his cock spurts.

“so?” you giggle, giving him a lil spin, before you’re popping a hip in question. “how do i look?”

and simon chuckles to himself, pulling his lip between his teeth to hide the whimper that works itself up his goddamn throat.

“y-you look beautiful, babe.” he chokes slightly, desperate to lick the tang of your red lip off, to have it ringed round the base of him. n his head rolls back, low eyes looking down your dress as he mumbles, “one more spin for me?”

[abbonation]

konig's soft little thing 🗡 (🌽 link)

you know who else loves himself a soft missus? konig. i've talked about price loving himself a soft lil' thing as a contrast to his line of work. for konig is something similar, but it is worse in the sense that those geneva conventions are an afterthought.

and with the amount of shit this man does, he just wants to go home to his sweet missus. get loved and pampered by you, and also reciprocate those feelings. because let me tell you, the first thing he does when he gets home is kissing you all over and then goes straight to burrying his head in your soft stomach, plushy tits and pillowy thighs.

after a few hours, some limbs falling asleep and a lot of honeyed and reasuring words from you, he has to pay you back and show you how much he loves you and how grateful he is to you for being so good. and he does so by having you on every surface of the house.

bending you over the bathroom sink, plowing his hard cock into you, getting the perfect view of your ass - and sneaking a few slaps here and there -, while also getting to watch the way your breast swing with each thurst. or having you ride him, giving him full acces to a soft tummy to grab onto and some fat tiddies to look at and grope, all while he's sitting sunggly inside of you, getting milked dry by your spongy and wet walls as you rut your hips against his.

he just enjoys grabbing himself a loving handful of supple skin

[abbonation]

Ah! An incredible chapter 2!!! Ughhhh so good I loved this one 🤤

late nights

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 7.6k

summary: You never expect Joel to come back, let alone to search for you.

part 2 to cherry

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [f!masturbation, voyeurism aka joel watches reader self pleasure, piv sex, f!receiving oral, clothed man, naked woman], praise kink, a little bit of a voice kink, reader is a sex worker, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, smoking (reader and joel), mentions of violence and self destructive tendencies

a/n: please let me know what you think! this chapter is a lot of character establishment and, ahem, smut. maybe some of you can guess where this is going, id love to hear if you have theories even if its a little early to have them. thank you for reading!

You don’t think about Joel. 

He was unexpected and rare, and you would never see him again, nor be with that kind of man in a place like this ever again, and daydreaming about it wouldn’t help anyone. It would make everything that much harder.

A couple weeks go by and you forget about him, just another in a long line of men. 

The only time you dare to let your mind drift to him is late at night in your own bed, fingers between your legs in the dark, the remembrance of his voice whispering praise. 

It always pushes you over the edge. 

It’s not the first time you’ve tucked away an unexpected part of a man, kept in your imagination, to get off. That Joel’s voice keeps cropping up when you’re alone, least expecting it, for much longer than some others, means nothing. 

But then, one evening, things change. 

“Cherry!” Chastity hisses your name as soon as you cross the threshold into the club, metal hinges squeaking as it swings shut behind you. It’s a little conspicuous, to be flocked together like a bundle of flighty hens near the doors. She’s standing with Crystal, cigarette hanging from the side of her perfect pouty lips, looking distinctly unhappy. 

It makes you nervous. The owner of the club knows you operate there, but he doesn’t like you being too obvious about it, and you would not put it past him to call the cops. He has the benefit of denial, and safety of his sex, that you don’t. 

“That fella is back. Asked for you by name at the bar.” 

“Who?” 

“I never got his name that time he was here.” She taps her chin, thinking. “Older, real deep accent, kinda gruff,” she muses. “Ringing any bells?” 

A blankness sweeps though your mind, shuffling through the last few men you’ve been with, unable to pin down who she’s talking about. It’s such a remote possibility that it doesn't even occur to you, until—

“Oh, c’mon, Cherry, that real sad one everybody talked to—”

“Joel?” 

Her eyes flash, face lighting up. “Is that his name?” 

You blink at her tone, the excitement in it. 

Crystal tilts her head at you, cool and assessing. “What's your deal with him?” 

You shake your head, meeting her gaze head on. “Don’t have one.” 

“He’s at the bar,” Chastity chirps, nudging you. “Don’t keep him waitin’. Go on.” 

Surprise sends a thrill swirling up from your belly when you peek out onto the floor and catch sight of a familiar silhouette. “Damn, he really is.” 

“Bad thing?” Crystal asks as Chastity’s fingers dig into your arm. 

“I just didn’t think he’d come back.” And you are good at this, good at reading men, knowing things about them, and he’s surprised you. A vinegary squirm of worry twists in your belly. A man fixated on one prostitute never bode well. 

Joel is sitting at the bar, leaning against the wooden countertop like he never left in the first place. “Did you fuck him?” 

“Blew him,” you answer distantly, trying to decide how to feel. 

“Must have been some head.”

Maybe you’d been a little more enthusiastic than usual, but at the end of the day it had just been a blowjob. No reason not to put his dick in whoever was available. 

Maybe it had more to do with the other stuff. The dead wife stuff, the guilt stuff. The telling him he was special stuff. 

Fuck. 

Crystal looks on, her gaze heavy and disapproving. “Be careful,” she advises, head tilting, eyes narrowing. “Remember what I told you.” 

You need no reminders, no cautioning. 

Still, you cross the floor, navigating tables, girls carrying drinks, dancers leading men away for private dances, the raucous laughter of tables full of drunk, reaching hands, though not for you, not yet. 

Maybe not at all, at least not tonight. 

And, despite yourself, despite the worry like a lead balloon in your chest, you feel an undeniable thrill. A ribbon of need unspools in your belly, slips lower between your legs. 

Maybe he’ll fuck you this time. 

Joel turns when you near the counter, like he senses you behind him. He straightens and nods, appraising eyes falling over your body. You tuck your elbows in delicately and tick out your hip when you stop next to him. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Didn’t expect to see you here again,” you smile and lean against the counter, crossing one heeled foot behind the other. 

“Howdy,” he greets. “I’m sure you’ll tell me why you didn’t expect it. Teach me some kinda lesson.” 

You smile and press one hand over his forearm. He’s wearing an olive green t-shirt that softens his eyes. “Lesson? Did I learn you somethin’ mister cowboy?” 

He ignores your jibe. “Suppose you did.” 

“Hm,” you lean in. “Is that an invitation?” 

“Yeah. If you’re willin’.”

“Oh, well, of course, Joel, anything for you.” 

Joel eyes you for a minute and you just smile at him. “I swear, I have never met a man that didn’t take a whore at her word.” 

That gets you a surprised laugh. “Now, darlin’—”

“C’mon,” you interrupt, “let’s get a move on.” You tilt your head and glance around. “Unless you’d like to peruse your options a little more—” 

He rolls his eyes and places a hand against your back, guiding you back toward the entrance you’d just come through. You aren’t sure you’ve ever had such a quick turn around. 

Crystal and Chastity have blessedly already departed from their station just inside the door, though you can feel their eyes on your skin, somewhere in the shadows of the club behind you.

Joel holds the door open for you and ushers you through it ahead of him, fingers light on your spine. 

The air is warm, the still setting sun an orange flame on the horizon, coating the parking lot in shades of rose and salmon. The smell of warm asphalt and gasoline rises up to meet you, settled between the dust of the wasteland beyond the town. 

“I came back twice, and you weren’t here,” he says as you cross the lot toward his truck. “Or, maybe, you was busy with, uh, somebody else.” 

You frown. “Didn’t someone else offer?” 

“Yep. Wasn’t interested.” 

“Really?” 

“Figure we kinda got an understanding about each other. After the last time.”

Hm, so you were right. It was the emotional unloading that brought him back, not the head he’d gotten. 

It was probably easier not to have to explain everything again. Not that he would have had to, the second time around. He could have just fucked someone, since his secrets were safely lain with someone else. 

And was it really easier to come back three times? To this desolate stretch of highway? That fancy hotel he stayed in could probably press a button and get him an escort. 

“Well,” you answer. “Just for any future endeavors, you should know I’m strictly only there on weekends, usually only Fridays and Saturdays.”

Joel opens the passenger door for you. You slide into the shadow of it, leaning back against the seat, the fabric cool on the backs of your thighs. 

“All right,” he leans one forearm against the side of the open door, opposite hand on his hip. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He’s close to you. The frame of his body blotting out the streetlight behind him. The evening light softens his features a little, rounds out his jaw, lightens the color of his eyes. 

A soft tug behind your navel gives rise to worry in your chest. 

You’re glad he came back, more than that, you’re flattered by it. Your thirst to be praised slaked by the knowledge that he had come back for you, waited for you. 

The rational part of you knows it means nothing at all. You’ve spent enough time with enough men, to know they’ll fuck pretty much anything.

You lean forward and loop your fingers into his jeans, tugging him toward you as dusk settles in, a quiet yawn of the day slotted between you and nothing else. If you offered, would he let you get him off right here? 

His skin is warm against your fingers, the wings of his hipbones muted through a layer of fat and muscle. 

There’s a decision to be made here, how close he wants you to actually get. Does he want to talk about his wife again? Does he want you to know more about him? There’s always the possibility they turn violent, if they thought you were treading where you shouldn’t be. A hard lesson learned and never forgotten. 

A sudden thought occurs to you as you ponder, tugging and touching until his hips are flush with yours. The hand on Joel’s hip moves to brace against the top of the truck. “Were you there through the week? Joel, everybody knows a club like that on a weekday is just sad.”  

“All right,” he mutters, and, you notice, rolls his eyes. It makes you smile. “I’ll keep Saturdays in mind.” He slides out of your grip and instead offers you a hand to balance on. You accept it, arranging yourself delicately on the seat, tucking your legs to the side, as Joel watches. 

You lift a brow when he doesn’t shut the door, eyes hooked into your legs, the fabric of your dress bunches the very tops of your thighs. At the very least, he’s letting himself look at you freely this time. “I can flash you if you want.” 

His gaze jerks up to yours. “I have really pretty panties on today,” you offer. 

There’s a startled quality to his features that makes you laugh. He doesn’t know how to handle you, what to make of you, and you like that. 

But then he leans down, his face very near to yours. He’s looking at you, eyes hungrily sliding over your skin. Joel palms your thigh, the tips of his fingers slipping beneath your dress. “Why don’t you save it for me?” 

“So you can guess the color?” 

“Mhm.” His hand curves over the top of your leg, between your thighs. “Somethin’ like that.” 

You uncross your ankles and let them fall open a little. “Look at you,” you tease. “What happened to all that guilt?” 

“Trust me it’s there.” 

“But?” 

He pulls back and closes the door. 

The cab is warm with trapped spring air. Joel settles in beside you, sticking the keys in the ignition without looking over at you. “She’s been gone for a little more than a year,” he says to the windshield, the falling darkness. The truck rumbles to life, the neon lights of the club passing by in a flash, the glow sprinting over his features. You notice that the box of cassette tapes is gone. “And I had my kids young.”

You nod, not sure what to say, waiting for a little more before hazarding a reply. 

He struggles with it for a moment, grapples with his own thoughts and how much he wants to tell you. “You was right,” he glances back at you and away. “About bein’ lonely,” he hesitates, thinking for a long moment, “so this ain’t a bad thing.” 

And that’s all you get, left to twist apart the lines and find meaning. You wring the sentences dry, looping them around your fingers, counting the words. 

It strikes you suddenly that there’s something more going on. He lost his wife, the relationship more like a partnership than anything romantic. But he has children, a family, and a man that had been fulfilled for years on that alone, wouldn’t suddenly be desperate to get his dick wet. 

Something else happened. Besides the loss of his life partner, that constant presence, he’d lost something else too. 

You don’t dare ask. It’s too complicated and close, especially when he’d gone to such lengths to bring up the fact that at least one daughter is older than you, and possibly the other, considering you’d lied about your age. 

Night falls in a blue-gray sheaf around you, casts him in shadow and light as you pass beneath streetlights. A chord in his throat strains, jaw clenching and releasing as he drives, no doubt thinking about what he’d just said to you, agonizing over it again. 

You can only think about how your mouth had touched him there, had tasted the salt of his skin beneath his jaw, how you’d like to do it again. Tell him to pull over and climb into his lap and make out with him on the side of the road. 

You wonder what it’s like to kiss him, to feel the scratch of his beard against your cheeks and lips. 

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” you soothe, curling up on the bench seat. “Really. And I’m not just feeding you a line.” 

He nods, and you reach to take his hand, put it back between your legs. “Jesus,” he mutters, but his thumb strokes the inside of your thigh. 

“Am I really your first?” 

“First, uh,” he pauses and doesn’t seem to know what to call you, clearly not wanting to call you what you are.

“Whore?” You offer with a grin. “Hooker? Call girl? If prostitute isn’t to your taste, of course.” 

He mutters something under his breath, takes his hand from between your legs and rubs it over his chin. You like the sound it makes, the scratch of his beard against his palm. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, you’re my first.” 

A laugh lurches out of you, a brighter sound than you intend. It’s genuine, and by the way his mouth twitches up, he knows it. 

He puts his hand back on your leg, though not on the inside of your thigh where it had been. 

The last few minutes of the drive are silent. You run your nails over the inside of his wrist, distractedly looking out the window, watching nice neighborhoods roll past until the hotel appears, it’s beacon of warm white light like a homing signal. 

His hand leaves a warm imprint on your leg, like a suddenly removed branding iron, the air cool in the space left behind. 

Joel once again rounds the truck and a hand down  before you have a chance to even open the door. He balances his hand against your spine like you’re a lady and not a whore he’s paying for, no matter what he wants to call you.

A curl of rarely felt embarrassment slices through your chest when you cross the lush, posh lobby. The same woman is at the front desk, and she and Joel repeat their exchange from the previous time. Her face remains pleasantly professional, but you can sense her distaste this time around. A thick cloud of judgment wreathes her.

There are people milling around the lobby, perched at the bar, and thankfully none of them spare you a glance.

He’s in the same room as before, the brass plated 202 winking at you in the low light of the hall before the door swings open. 

You perch on the bed like the first time and wait. He takes his time about sitting down next to you and taking off his shoes, workman’s boots, you notice, still at odds with the hotel he stays in. 

Curiosity burns bright in your chest. To ask him what he does for work to dress like that and drive the truck he does, but stay at a hotel like this one. 

“First whore,” you muse when he sits back with a groan. “Hm. Can I ask how I’m performing so far? Living up to the fantasy?” 

He ignores your jabbering, shaking his head in a defeated, embarrassed kind of way. “Can I ask—”

“What? How I ended up fucking strangers for money?” 

He rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs it over his jaw. The silvered strands stand up, mussed. You lie your hand on his thigh, reaching to push it back into place. You’re close, nearly nose to nose.  “Jesus. Yeah. If you wanna put it like that.” 

“What other way is there to put it?” 

“Well, you been usin’ the word whore a whole lot.” 

There’s the beginning of a joke there, but you take it out at the knees. 

“You wanna call me a whore?” 

Something dangerous and unsure bleeds into the air. You wonder if he does. 

Does he want to indulge that side of himself? 

It doesn’t matter to you either way. Most of them like some element of that. Degrading you in some way because they all believe you’re beneath them. The receptionist’s face flashes through your mind. 

To your surprise, he brushes over it. “How’d you end up doin’ this?” 

The truth burgeons at your lips and flutters free before you can think better of it. It’s rare that your tongue gets the better of you. “I need to pay for school.” 

“School?” He asks, sounding genuinely miffed.

“College,” you clarify, then tilt your head at him. “Please tell me I don’t look that young.” 

He rolls his eyes. It’s starting to become a familiar gesture. “You screwin’ with me?” 

“Don’t you want me to screw you?” You purr. When he just gives you an unimpressed, flat stare you sigh and then stifle another laugh. “What? What do you want me to say?” 

“No, it makes a whole helluva lot more sense than—” He looks at you again and you grin. You both know that whatever he says next will get him in trouble. “I was just thinkin’ when you first sat down next to me that you don’t really fit in.” 

You open your mouth and he holds up a finger. “Don’t.” 

“Fine,” you smirk. “I’m very privileged that I don’t . . . fit in, I suppose. I very easily could have.” You think about leaving it at that but figure you might as well just tell him. “I grew up poor. I worked all through undergrad, forty hours a week and classes and everything. And then. . .by some miracle I get into my dream grad program. No one else in my family has ever gone to college. My assistantship takes up any time I’m not working on my dissertation but it also doesn’t pay nearly enough.” 

You feel something tinge in the pit of your belly when you realize he’s actually listening to you. Paying attention to the words coming out of your mouth, gaze intently focused on you. “Dissertation,” he mutters. Then, “Workin’ in retail not stimulatin’ enough for you?” 

If anyone else had said it, maybe you’d take offense, but it comes out of his mouth like a lighthearted joke not a judgment. Though maybe he’s judging you, too. You tell yourself you don’t really care if he is, but it’s not quite ever true. 

And, the people who use your services are very often the ones who judge and detest you most.  

“Too much time for too little money,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand, as nonchalantly as you can. “I waited tables for a while but. . .I don’t know. I was tired and falling behind because the shifts were so long and. . .more money, I guess, for less hours, doing this. I thought about being a stripper but I’m not athletic enough.” You tack the joke on at the end, to redirect him away from what you’d just revealed. 

It gets a laugh out of him. “You lyin’ to me about all this?” 

“Cross my heart it’s all true. That kind of sob story only works on the very worst kind of man.”  

So many of them want to hold the misery of your life in the cup of their palm, taste the daddy issues and loneliness and poverty and think themselves better, and believe you broken and easy, something they could close their fist over and feel the shards of your life bite into their hands. 

“Guess I’m not that kind of man, since you told me.” 

“I don’t get that sense.” You smile, “There’s time for you to disappoint me yet, though.” You expect it. His lust will eventually turn to disgust. 

Joel just nods, and then touches your knee with the backs of his fingers. “You want these shoes off, darlin’?” 

“Do you want me to take them off?” 

“Not what I asked,” he corrects. “They look mighty uncomfortable.” 

“Actually they’re not too bad.” Still, you nod, and he kneels to take them off for you. He slips one heel off, then the other, and you still can’t believe you’re here with him again. Your rarity, kneeling in front of you.

His thumb divots the flesh of your ankle, the scrape of the calloused pad tracing over your skin. 

You tilt back as he works his way higher, lying against the softness of the comforter somehow already imbued with his scent. It’s cool against your skin, against the flushed and warm feeling sweeping over your skin. 

Was he here the night before? Did he nap there earlier? Leave his clothes on the bed while he showered? You imagine all the paths his hands might have taken, all the ways he might have led himself back to that skeevy club. Did he have to convince himself to come back? Had he looked for you again the very next night? 

Anticipation makes you squirm, and he chuckles under his breath. 

Maybe there’s more to him than you thought. 

Good. It just means there’s more to discover, more to dig your teeth into. 

“So, what do you want from me tonight, Joel?” You stretch your arms behind your head and arch your back, lifting one foot onto the bed to tuck beneath your opposite knee. 

Joel presses his fingers higher until they catch under the hem of your dress. “I wanna watch you.” His fingers touch your underwear and a knot of anticipation curls in your belly.

You hadn’t expected an answer, not when you’d done most of the leading the time before. 

“Watch me?” 

He doesn’t elaborate and you sense he’s a little remiss to actually ask it of you, whatever he wants. 

“Like with another person or—” 

“No,” he clips in, hooks his fingers in your panties but doesn’t pull them off. His hands are warm on your hips, against the curve of your ass. You want him take them off, want him to tug them down your legs and spread you open. You help him along, folding your legs open until your dress is bunched entirely around your hips. “No, nothin’ like that.”

He shifts one hand to your core, rubs your pussy through the thin fabric still covering you, not looking away from your face as he does.  

It takes you a moment to realize what he means. “Oh. And you’ll just watch?” Hesitation works over his face, then something else you can’t quite put a finger on. “Just want to make sure you don’t want to fuck me.” 

He snorts. “Not that I don’t.” 

“Then what’s this about?” You coo, gripping his forearm, pressing his hand harder against your core. Just the pressure makes your pussy clench. “I promise I can do better if you let me touch you.” 

He leans over you, one hand braced against the mattress. “I wanna know what you look like when you come. You didn’t last time. Couldn’t get it outta my mind that I don’t know. That I didn’t get to see it.”

Oh. 

“I’m sure you could make something up. Surely your imagination isn’t that poor?”

He just shakes his head, looks you over. Indulging in the simple act of looking at you, gaze hooked into your skin and tangled in your hair. It’s delightful. 

The ghost of his voice praising you echoes through your mind, whispered words you’ve replayed when you’re alone. You arch your back, not willing to admit that you desperately want him to tell you how pretty you look.

“I could fake it,” you tease, voice breathless to your own ears. 

“I’d know.” 

You roll your eyes. “Sure, sweetheart.” He doesn’t answer, eyes flicking over you again. You’ve been looked at a lot over the last year, but this is something different.

It’s heavier. 

Needier, somehow. 

Like he’s not just finally looking at you but really seeing you. Seeing more than a warm hole at the very least. 

“How do you want me, Joel?” 

His eyes drift to yours, something hungry and wanting deep in his gaze. Joel’s hand caresses your hip, slips unhurriedly down your thigh, and comes to a stop at the hinge of your knee. His thumb slides against the back of your knee, against the sensitive, oft untouched spot. A shiver traces gooseflesh along your skin, nipples stiffening against the fabric of your dress.

Joel watches you closely and doesn't immediately answer.

It’ll be agony to touch yourself for him when you want so badly for him to do it for you.

“This will be the second time you don’t touch me,” you say archly, tone just a little haughty, just a little whiny. 

“Didn’t say nothin’ about not touchin’,” he teases, blunt nails tracing up your side to cup your tit in his hand, tweaking your nipple sharply. 

You gasp and push your chest into his hand. He squeezes the supple flesh, big hands trailing down your body again, fitting against the curve of your waist. “Lift your hips.” 

It’s easy to oblige, and you’re rewarded with a warm, “Good job.” It makes your belly clench like nothing else. He slides your panties off, leaves them caught around your ankles, a desperation fixed in his gaze when he pushes his fingers between the folds of your cunt.

His thumb finds your clit, swirling slowly against you, the pressure and pace agonizingly slow, but expert.

Your eyes roll back, lips parting, and a distant flutter of thought murmurs in the back of your mind that his wife had been a lucky woman. 

He abruptly takes his hand away, leaving you chasing nothing, hips bucking toward an invisible master for a long moment. 

“You comfortable here?” 

“Ye-ah.” 

His chin tilts down. “I’m really askin’ you here, darlin’.” 

You feel flushed and stupidly horny but manage an inkling of sass in response. “And I really am.” 

He chuckles. “You wanna get undressed for me?” 

Actually, you’d love nothing more than to have the warmth of his gaze settling heavily over your naked skin.

You sit up slowly, and he pulls away as you do, staying nose to nose with you for a long moment before he’s gone, plucking your underwear from around your ankles before he goes. 

He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, folds his hands together across his belly and waits, head tilted. It’s a go on then kind of look. It’s kind of infuriating, and more than a little hot. 

“Hm.”

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just wondering about that guilt again,” you smile and curl your fingers around the hem of your dress and shift onto your knees. Your thighs feel damp; you wonder if he can see it. 

He raises a brow at you. “I’m ignorin’ my better judgement.” 

“You must want this pretty bad then.” 

He dips his head once in a nod, eyes fastening to the carpet. “I really wanna know.” 

“So I shouldn’t start begging for your huge cock to be inside me?” 

He laughs, the sound genuine and thick. “You don’t want that?” 

“Penetration doesn’t do much for me.” 

“Ain’t that honest of you.” 

“I thought that was what you wanted? Thought you really wanted to know?” 

He nods, jaw ticking in clearly repressed amusement. “Yeah. So only beg for it if you really want it, I guess.” 

You peel your dress up and over your head, letting it fall to the floor at your side, leaving you bare. You draw your hands up your side to cup your tits in your hands. Joel just looks eyes hooking into different parts of you, the meat of your thighs, the curve of your waist, your breasts when you let your hands drop, nipples hardening in the cool air of the room. 

You fold yourself backwards against the headboard and prop your legs open wide. “So?” 

Being naked in front of veritable strangers has become a strange but regular part of your life. You’re almost used to it. Still, some part of your mind breaks off from the rest of you, walling off the mortification at being that exposed. At times, it’s like you’re gazing down at yourself, floating above it all.  

His eyes slide up from your cunt to your face, gaze working across you in starts and stops when he suddenly stands. 

You frown and start to draw your legs in but—

It’s that fucking pillow situation all over again. He gives you the cushion from the chair, so your arm and elbow are supported. It’s a much more comfortable position if a little less sexy. “Gentleman,” you say softly when he moves away again. 

He snorts, and you understand how rare a man you have with you. Not just for someone like you, but at all. He doesn’t just look, he sees. It makes you feel more vulnerable than sitting naked in front of him does. 

But somehow not in a bad way.

You swallow and try for levity, to chase away that ache behind your breastbone, of being seen. “I bet you wish I’d left the heels on.”

He doesn’t answer and your cunt pulses. “What do you want from me, Joel?” 

“Do it like I ain’t here.” 

“That is a tough ask.” 

And a vulnerable one. It feels more intimate than if he was inside you. 

“Just wanna know what you look like.” 

You shift your hips, heat blooming in your belly at the look on his face, the way he just sits there, hesitantly leaning forward. “Okay,” you murmur. You let your eyes flutter shut, running one hand down your belly to your pussy, spreading your legs wide. 

All in all, not the weirdest demand you’ve ever gotten. It is the first time a man has insisted on knowing what you really look like when you come. It’s also not really a demand. If you’d have said no, you doubt he would have tried to convince you otherwise, or made a fuss at all. 

But why? Why does he need to see so badly?

Because. . .what? You made him come? It’s a little funny.

And you want to fake it, just to know for yourself that he wouldn’t be able to tell. But something in you really wants him to know too, so you won’t. He wants to see? Fine, you’ll show him. 

Still conscious that he’s there, that it’s a show too, you push out your chest, part your lips, hope you look sufficiently like you might be in a porno. 

It helps that he teased you, touched you. God, you’d like to know what his fingers feel like inside you. His are bigger than yours, would stretch you wider, reach deeper parts of you. 

The wet sound of your cunt fills the room, the quiet pant of your breaths clouding the air. You start with one finger and quickly press another inside. You wish he would have let you come before, that he would have kissed down your body and put his mouth on you. 

Your whole body clenches tight, pussy contracting around your fingers, when you think of him lifting his head, mouth wet from you, to say you were doing good. 

He could just talk and you’d probably find a way to have an orgasm without any touching at all. 

You slide your other hand from your belly to your chest, thinking of his hand there earlier, squeezing, how much skin he’d covered, and pluck at your nipple. The image of his mouth there follows, the sound of his voice vibrating against your chest, his cock at your entrance, slowly pushing forward, giving you time to adjust to his size because of course he’d do that. 

Good girl. 

You can practically taste the words. 

You arch your back and moan softly, lips parted to the cool, filtered hotel air, thrusting your fingers steadily. 

Even in the fantasy, he doesn’t kiss you. 

“Christ. Open your eyes.” 

The demand is a grunt pierced with want. 

You blink into the dim light of the room that suddenly feels brighter than the sun. Blinking is like reentering Earth’s atmosphere. It’s too warm, the cascading rush and ache of pleasure intensifying when you meet his eyes. A hot flushed feeling rushes into your chest, makes you feel like all the air was suddenly sucked out of the room. 

“Will you touch yourself too?” You ask, sliding your fingers out, spreading yourself for him, the slick pooling between your thighs, the clench of your pussy around nothing. “Please?”

He shakes his head again. “You ain’t came yet.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do.” Then, a little hesitantly, “What are you thinkin’ about?” 

You hesitate, watching him rub a rough palm against his jeans, the prominent bulge forming there. If you tell him the truth, that you’d been thinking about him, he probably wouldn’t believe it. 

“You aren’t going to believe me,” you murmur, curling your fingers, thumb sweeping messily over your clit. 

“Try me.” 

“You.” 

“Now that’s a damn line if I ever heard one.” 

But there’s a pretty flush in his cheeks, a desperation in the way he shifts his hips. He doesn’t give much away, but not everything can be hidden. “It usually is a line. But right now, it isn’t.” You let your eyes flutter shut again. 

“What about me, darlin’?” His voice is strained, and you want to look at him so badly but don’t.

You don’t answer immediately, thinking about him fucking you again, calling you good, saying you were doing good. 

“Thinkin’ up somethin’ believable?” 

You look at him again, and bite your lip. “It’s just that you told me not to beg for your huge cock,” you say breathlessly, pinching your nipple, hips thrusting against your own hand. “But that’s what I want.” 

“What?” He laughs a little, the sound choked. “Though it didn’t do nothin’ for you.” 

“You’re using your hands, too.” And then, almost without meaning to, you continue, “Wanna know what it feels like inside me.” You moan the last word and don’t mean to, the line between your own desire and this being work becoming more blurred by the second. It isn’t supposed to feel this good, you aren’t supposed to actually want him.

“What else, honey?” 

“I’m thinking about you eating my pussy.” 

The image comes suddenly to the front of your mind again, the bow of his head between your legs, the strain of his vocal chords when he groans into you, the scrape of his beard against your thighs. You know he’d make it good, that he’d use his fingers too, push them so deep inside you you’d discover new corners of yourself. You see him kneeling, his clenched eyes and his hand fisting around himself, the tilt of his brow when he touches himself because he just can’t help it. 

“Oh, fuck—” You mutter and then the quiet, fuzzy crash of your orgasm floods your veins, cunt pulsing. You rub your clit through the pleasure, a noisy little whine bringing you back to yourself, that you pinch off, throttling it midair. 

Too real, you think distantly, muscles spasming and then going loose in bliss. 

A few minutes pass in silence, the sound of your breathing and his and the shush and hum of the central air. 

“You were quiet.” 

You blink lazily at him, stretching so your back arches, trying to remember that you’re just his whore right now. It’s work, it’s now about you. 

“I thought you wanted authentic?” The corner of his mouth curls, and worry creeps into your throat. Stupid, to really show him. Every ounce of bliss is suddenly sucked from your veins. “Was that not good? Let me make it up to you—” 

“No,” he interrupts, sounding very serious about it. “No. Nothin’ like that. You did real good.” 

Good. 

“Oh,” you breathe. “Okay.”  

You watch him shift uncomfortably and rub a palm against the bulge in his jeans again and imagine him stroking his cock, his hand so much bigger than yours on it. Your mouth waters, but you feel unmoored, adrift. You try to shake yourself, get a handle on yourself and climb back into the cradle of this role you know so well. You’re not you right now. “C’mere, darlin’.” When you look at him, he just says, “Said you wanted it.” 

A command, this time. 

Better, you don’t have to think, don’t need the moment to shake yourself. 

You rise and saunter over to him, bracing one hand against his shoulder to go to your knees. Joel stops you, presses his hand to your hip, fumbles in his back pocket for a wallet, from which he pulls a condom. 

“Let me,” you coo, sinking to your knees between his spread thighs, feeling the tense, thick muscle beneath your fingertips. 

Joel hisses when you unzip his jeans and pull his cock from the confines, giving it a few strokes, tracing the weeping slit at the head with your thumb. He’s silken and firm in your hand and part of you just wants him to ask for your mouth again so you can taste him. 

You tear open the foil and roll it on with deft fingers, eliciting a groan that makes your cunt leak. “My, my, sweetheart, you are so sensitive.” You climb onto the chair with him, straddle his lap. He looks up at you with a faraway look in his eyes. 

You stroke one hand through his hair, the delicious realization that he’s still fully clothed making you drip, though you wish to feel his skin against yours.

Joel is gentle with you when he guides you onto his cock slowly, hands anchored on your hips, fingers denting your flesh.

You breathe through the slight burn of the intrusion, the angle, until it subsides into that heavy, full feeling. 

You want to languish in the feeling, just stay seated there, but this isn’t for you. 

Before you can lift your hips, Joel’s hand is sliding along your spine, up and down, over the blades of your shoulders, down the middle of your spine and back up. “Stay there,” he mutters. “Just like that.” 

Your nipples harden, a groan gets caught in your chest. “Joel,” you whisper, just to say something, clenching around him. “Fuck.”

“Thoght penetration didn’t do anything for you?”

It doesn’t. But usually when you’re getting fucked it isn’t like this. “I—” 

His palm fits against the back of your neck, right where your skull meets your spine. A bolt of pleasure races down your spine, curling hungrily in your lower belly, waiting.

He tilts your head back gently, carefully, while his other hand explores your body, touching all the places you take for granted. It’s demanding and you like that it is. 

His hands are hungry, greedy in their exploration. And you love it. You want him to want to touch you. 

It’s a part of this that you like, that you don’t like to admit that you like. That fucking stranger, losing control, is like a drug. It’s heady. Fucked up, sure. But it makes you feel good in the moments you don’t think about it. It only sometimes ends badly. 

Joel’s hand settles at the dip of your waist and slowly traces its way upwards. 

You let your eyes flutter shut when he circles your nipple slowly with his thumb, cupping your tit in the wide expanse of his palm. When he leans in and sucks the taut peak into the warmth of his mouth, you groan and dig your nails into his bicep. 

Wet rushes between your thighs, hips involuntarily rolling forward. 

The rough denim feels good, and the destructive part of your brain hopes that it leaves a mark on your flesh.

Joel gives your other breast the same treatment, suckling at your nipple until you whine this time, fingers of pleasure racing across your skin like licks of lightning. 

“Keep doin’ that,” he commands.

You push your hips against his, setting a slow, rolling pace. From the angle he holds you at, you can’t shift your weight onto your knees to really fuck him. 

His hand slides back down, across your belly to the apex of your thighs. He leans back, to look at his cock disappearing inside you, you would guess. You hear more than see him lick his thumb and press it to your clit, an immediate, steady, heavy pressure that makes you jerk in his arms. 

“Careful there, darlin’,” he mutters before his mouth closes around your nipple again. “Said I was using my hands too, right? When you were thinkin’ about me.” 

He releases your neck then, and you tilt forward to brace your hands against his shoulders. You set a steady pace.

There are parts of this you have to fake. 

Sometimes, oftentimes, it’s all fake. 

It frightens you a little that none of this is. 

The moan that looses from your throat is yours, the words you want to beg him with are your own. 

His hips lift to meet yours, and the room grows warm, the salty, musky scent of sex blotting out the astringent, cleaner smell. It mingles with his cologne and you hope it sticks to your skin. You hope it says layered on your skin, that you can bring it all the way back to your apartment with you. 

It makes you feel insane. 

Your pussy contacts around him, the beginnings of an orgasm tightening your core. “Come, baby,” he says. “I can feel it.”

A desperate plea catches in your throat, your thoughts a tangled mess of confusing want and knowledge that this isn’t supposed to be something you want. “Please,” you murmur. “Joel.” 

The sound of his name on your lips sets him into a frenzy. Thrusting harder, fingertips more searching, more demanding. 

“I got to see it, now lemme feel it.” 

Your second orgasm makes your vision flash white, swirling around you in waves as Joel groans in your ear and rocks your hips against him until he stills, coming hard. You reach between your bodies and touch where you connect, some insane part of you wishing you could have felt him come inside you. 

You ache, in a good way. 

Joel tucks his arms around you and you have no choice but to lie your head against his shoulder, kissing the space, your taut nipples brushing against his shirt.

Minutes pass in silence as you both come down, breath evening, pulses slowing, Joel’s palm keeping a steady pressure against your spine. 

“Stand up for me?” He asks. His hand stills, and you realize you were about to fall asleep on his chest. 

You’ve fallen asleep with clients before, but not like this, not in their arms and int their laps. Embarrassment flashes through you with a vengeance. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” you mutter and pull back. “I’ll go, I meant to—” 

“No.” He breathes the word out quick. “No. Just want to clean you up.” 

When his cock slips out of you, you feel empty. Still, you lie back on the bed, naked and touch yourself, feeling the mess he’d made of you. 

He ties off the condom and trashes it before zipping himself up. Your muscles ache, a wrung out feeling. 

Joel returns to you and hands you a washcloth. You’re grateful he doesn’t try to do it for you. The intimacy of that might have actually killed you. 

You pull your dress back on and wait, expecting him to hand you money and see you out. 

“You mind if I smoke?” You ask.

“Go on.: 

You lean over the side of the bed and feel his hand brushing against the back of your thigh, pushing your legs open. A whine pushes past your lips when he touches your pussy. “Can I see you next weekend?”

“I’m still here right now,” you turn on your back and light your cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “You can fuck me again, Joel.” 

You like the way his hands look on your thighs, the way your knees look against his hips. 

“Might be too old for that right away.” 

“Ah.” 

“Can I taste you?” The question is quietly murmured, his eyes still locked on your cunt. “Then I can fuck you again.” 

Your body clenches and you grab his wrist. “Yeah. Please.” 

He does just that, eats your pussy and then fucks you again. He grips your hips in his hands and fucks you slow and deep from behind. It takes everything in you not to lose your head and drool into the pillow he places beneath your chest, nipples brushing the sheets. 

You smoke again and Joel asks you something about school, about your life. 

When he finally drives you back to your car, insistent on it, frowning when you tell him you’d taken a cab the last time, fingers of sunshine are reaching across the empty, desolate lot. 

He catches at your elbow, there’s a flush of something in his face, something you can’t quite put your finger on. 

“Will I see you next weekend?” 

You blink. “Do you want to, Joel?” 

“Cherry,” he takes your chin in his hand then strokes your cheek, saying your name just to say it. “Yeah.”  

“Okay. Then I’ll see you next weekend.” 

“You’ll wait?”

You raise a brow and push open the door. “No. Just don’t be late.” 

He doesn’t drive anyway until you wave, safely inside your car. 

[abbonation]

Cannibals : 2. LOVE.

Part 1. House of Fools

An At the Restaurant story

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It's two days til Christmas, and the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, giggling at one another for absolutely no reason other than it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours.

It's two day's til Christmas, and one of the more bizarre aspects of life is how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship to real love AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alternate Universe; Modern AU Din Djarin; Holiday Season AU; Heavy Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Explicit Sexual Content; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Squirting; Unprotected Sex; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotionally Unavailable Idiots; But Also, Idiots in Love; Complicated Characterizations of Imperfect People; Toxic Relationships; Miscommunication; Anxiety & Depression; Brief Blood Mention; Mild Violence; Brief mentions of disordered eating; Unreliable Narrator;

A/N: The emotions surrounding the sex in this chapter are complicated, however, both parties are entirely consenting and both want the sex to happen, despite the fraught nature of the situation and the words exchanged. I don’t really know how to tag it or explain it otherwise, but I did want to mention it so that readers can proceed with caution. 

Word Count: 15.7K

Read on AO3

2. LOVE.

Christmas day dawns brilliant white, blanketed by snow.

A dog’s bark slips through the crack of your open window, the radiator spitting too much heat in the night to sleep comfortably. Outside, the flurries swirl in a mad frenzy, slipping inside one by one to gather and melt piled on the rug. The sound of the owner’s shushing follows. Another person’s laughter, an apology. Good morning and Merry Christmas, one says to the other. Silence, after that. 

You lie in the time machine of your childhood bed and wait for it to move, but it hasn’t been invented yet. 

Downstairs, your parents breathe life into the house, dishes clattering, making breakfast. This is the third time your mother has played I’ll Be Home For Christmas this morning. 

Last year, when you were still so unsure of one another, when he still felt entirely unknowable, the two of you had been in the car going nowhere, and you’d seen his eyes go tear-wet while this song played—the first time you’d discovered it was his favorite. Seeing him emotional had made you emotional, and when you’d climbed out at the end of the car ride, you’d kissed him fiercely. Feeling more in love with him than you’d ever felt before. 

You see, he was real in that moment.

The sound of the barking dog, your parent’s laughter and a favorite song. An apology and merry wishes. Still, all you can hear is the memory of his quiet voice following along to the lyrics in the car. 

You miss him more than you have ever missed him before and breakfast is a sad affair with your parents who love you and remind you of it constantly. Your heart is broken.  

You don’t call him like you feel the need to. You take the pile of wrapped gifts for the two brothers from atop your dresser and hide them at the back of your closet. You try to forget. 

You miss him more than you have ever missed him before. 

-

Time turns a year older and in the weeks that follow, Bo moves out of the apartment the two of you have shared together for the past five years. 

You defend your thesis at the end of January and the victory is passing. It makes you angry that the happiness of this achievement is overshadowed by the pain of your lukewarm goodbye, but you can’t help it. You feel badly stitched together. 

And after the worry of school has passed and the tepid happiness at the prospect of your new job has settled in, you also decide to leave the small apartment that has been your home for the past five years. Packing your things slowly, pieces of your life wrapped carefully in paper, one box at a time on the bus and over the bridge, back to your childhood home to attempt to pull the tatters of your life back together. 

You felt you needed to leave the place where you’d lost all sense of self, go back to your roots, to your mother’s arms. 

You’re ashamed to look at her in those slow, lagging weeks. As if moving through mud you seek out the safety of your family home, your creature comforts, crawling into your mother’s bed in the middle of the night, a ghoul playing the part of a child. 

But it is only that—he’d taken a piece of you with him, stolen it, or you’d given too much away until there was nothing left like you'd always known you would. Like you could never help but do. 

You revert to old habits during those January days, going to the Viewpoint to sit on the benches, even on the days when it’s too cold, to get drunk alone, ten mile runs along the shoreline, watching the water crash and crash and crash. One afternoon: a small boat struggling along in the distance against the waves makes you laugh and then cry hysterically. 

The dawn of the year passes and soon it’s February—you develop an obsession with time, with numbers, with the keeping of dates. The day of his birthday is a desperate, manic horror. You can’t look your mother in the eyes, can’t find the comfort you’d always done in sharing everything with her. Too ashamed of what you’d let become of her own daughter. Of your own weaknesses. You go to church on Sundays with them, you decide to finally try to get your driver’s license, fail three times and then give up again, bracing yourself for the prospect of a ticket when you start driving your father’s old Jeep to work, unable to muster the will of responsible fear. 

You think constantly of that delicious ability to look across a room and have an entire conversation without words. To have a partner. To know a person so well you’d know what they need at any given moment. To lose yourself amongst a crowd and laughter and still know where they are at all times, to know when they want to go home and then get to go home together. 

You think of what it is to know someone—to love someone. 

You rail at the tragedy of him, to find oneself unable to love the person who loves you in return. 

You horror over the destruction of your failed relationship, going over every detail obsessively in your mind, tearing it to shreds over and over trying to make sense of the minutiae. It’s agony, flagellating and cathartic. To see all the wrong, all the ugly. All the wonderful things that you miss so badly. 

After all, everything is remembered more beautifully with the passage of time—fairy lights through the mist of your memory. 

You wonder how he’d spent his birthday, with who. If someone had gotten him a cake. If anyone had remembered and made it special for him. If he’d fucked someone. He’ll find another, you tell your reflection in the mirror, cruelly. Men like that are never alone for long—making yourself sick in the streets with the daydreams of it. 

Felled by your lukewarm goodbye, this is all you become, a mania of roiling thoughts. Unable to do anything but think and wonder and miss. A deep and unsettling missing that permeates your bones until it’s all you've become. Sometimes to a degree that you worry is not even reality; all the things you never did that seem so real in your memory because you wanted them so badly. And you feel robbed, left without any sort of proof it hadn’t all been some sort of dream. His number, blocked, one day turns to weeks without the sound of his voice. You hear his laugh coming from the backs of rooms and know it’s only your heart’s imagination, you dream of watching your clothes tumble together in the dryer. Nothing but the comfort of videos and pictures left to you.

The first time he’d let you take a picture of the two of you together, you’d gone home and cried. Sentimental and overwhelmed by the silly, girlish idea of doing something so relationshipy. But the first time he’d taken a picture of you, alone—you’d been lying on the couch in their living room, cuddled warmly against his side, close up and goofy, your eyes wide, nose practically pressed to the camera—the end of everything had flashed in your mind. Unable to keep yourself from imagining the inevitable break up, the way that afterwards he’d still have that photograph of you in his phone. The way he’d either have to keep it, let it lose itself amidst the rest of his captured memories and life, or have to hunt for you, find you, make a conscious choice to erase you. 

In ways, the passage of time, of memory fading, makes it worse—worst of all, worse than anything—that you’d destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. That you’ve been left with all this nothingness. 

The reality that you’d done yourself a great harm. That you’d made decisions for yourself that were immeasurably wrong. That you had been spineless in your silence. That there was a great guilt to bear and that your only victim had been yourself. For how terrible, coming to terms with the fact that this great pain you’d railed against for so long was by a measure, of your own doing.

You wonder on the notion of a fight. What does it mean to fight with a person you love? Truly. 

There’s escape in escaping, and amidst the streets of the Cape and your parent’s gentle encouragement, you search frantically for your old self, attempting to let go of the person you’d been dedicated to so devoutly for so long. 

You read books written only by women with your mother’s name to feel closer to her. You dedicate yourself instead to being a good daughter. You dedicate yourself to your role amidst the entity of this thing he’d so tragically lost and by which all your joint tragedies had followed; family. And you live amongst their worried glances and their encouraging attempts at healing, and in the midsts of the month of February, you start your new job. Returning to the city with frightened cowardice, overwrought by the possibility of running into him on street corners, terrified and certain you’ll find him around every bend.

But the library, like any house dedicated to the written word, becomes a safe haven. You find a sort of gentle but unambiguous understanding amongst the wisdom of the older women there that you’d found difficult to seek out with your mother in the past weeks, out of embarrassment or pain. They battle your silence and your melancholy and after several weeks you find yourself smiling and joining in on lunches and after work drinks, forsaking your anxiety for a few hours of mindless gossip and careful laughter. 

“Why no boyfriend?” Cara, closer to your age than the rest of them, finally asks you one night after one too many cosmos. You flush and stammer, but you don’t tell them about him. Some things you just can’t speak about. 

They hold onto it though, the lot of them. Dog-with-a-bone meddlesome but infinitely well meaning, they point out men in restaurants and bars, through the windows on the street—Oh, he’s cute, honey. Isn’t he? What about that one? And they push and push and are so loud and so boisterous and so lovely and kind that you can’t help but feel normal again. Even if it’s only for a few hours a day. 

As the only man in the group, Moff pretends to be the voice of reason; counseling you to take your time, warning that boys your age aren’t worth the worry, only after one thing. We need a little more time to stew in the vat of maturity, he cajoles one night over Japanese food and amidst raucous laughter.

You find you like having a group of new friends. You like working in a place where the people are kind and fun and interested in you and your life outside of the four walls of your job. It’s nice, cathartic, to let people who have no idea of your history, of all you’d allowed, get to know you. 

And in early March, you start seeing Mark. Two months, Bo says, is more than enough time to get under someone new to help you get over someone old. He works in tech, at an up and coming firm downtown; the swanky sort where it’s unclear if anyone actually does any work or not. His office, located in one of the more impressive pieces of renovated architecture, half eighteen hundred red brick, half glass, steel monstrosity. He’s impressive in a very ordinary way. Handsome and tall and rich, Ivy League. Not as tall as other men…but tall enough. But ordinary, and there’s something safe in that. 

He liked to come into the library on Tuesdays. A meticulous sort of man with his routine: check-in, business, self-help, ending his perusal in the nonfiction section where he’d sit and watch you catalogue and type and fret. Chewing on pencils and chugging coffee until all your teeth would surely start falling out. Every time you’d look up to catch him staring, your stomach would pang with aches and burns. 

“Mr. Ford is here again—Mark,” Cara had sidled up to you a couple weeks into his routine, bumping your shoulder with her own and poking you in the ribs. “He’s here for you, you know. Been asking the girls in fiction circulation about you.”

“What?” You’d hissed, panicked and sweating. “What did he say? What is he asking? You guys better not say anything embarrassing!”

“Oh, relax. You’re so jumpy, my goodness. You should go out with him.” She’d laughed at first, but then in a more sober tone, continued, “I think it’ll be good for you—help with whatever you’re getting over.” She’d given you a kind, sympathetic smile—showing up your farce.

The dates were meticulously planned on his end, just like the library visits. You suspected he really just wanted a girlfriend, didn't matter who she was. But you also didn’t think you minded that very much, either. 

You didn’t want to wonder anymore. You just wanted to know. 

And it was comforting, to have someone text you good morning, someone to recount your tuna sandwiches and burnt coffees to. He’d send you pictures of himself in the gym that you’d gag at a little, he’d take you to dinner and take you to brunch, and he didn’t like hot Irish coffee or watching the ocean much. He said he hated children, he read self-help books religiously. It was fine. 

After three dates, you’d braved his apartment. The physical stuff was tepid at best, truly bad at worst. But after what you’d had, someone who could bring you to the razor’s edge just with his eyes on your tits, finding someone you could kiss without bursting into tears felt like a miracle. You promised yourself you were taking it slow this time, stopping things before they could get too heavy handed, refusing to go all the way just yet. But the truth was, letting someone new into the place that had been someone else’s for so long felt nauseating. You just weren’t ready. 

But he calls, Mark does, every day. And that’s the part that feels good. He doesn’t make you wonder. That is what he has over others. His polar opposite, which feels like revenge and then betrayal. 

Bo emerges from her den of iniquity and true love, deep into March—it’ll almost be spring, and then summer, and then so much time will have passed that maybe you’ll soon have stopped keeping count of the days. 

The two of you go for tacos and margaritas one Friday evening, girls night out and all; Fennec away at a writing seminar in Vermont. She’s trying to write a book of short stories on love. Bo talks for a long time about how much she misses her, about how their house feels wrong without Fen in it, about how she’s happy. 

It’s not that you’re jealous. It’s not that you’re not happy for them, really and truly, so happy for them. You love them both. You can see, like any person with eyes and a notion of who they are as individuals, that they’re meant to be in that novel way, like out of a story and into Fennec’s own writing. They fit together so well. But there is a sort of smallness to be found in looking at the people around you—people that are your friends, that you know well, the people you surround yourself with and who have chosen you in turn for their own lives and must thus have things in common with you that have brought the two of you together—finding partnership like this, when you cannot. It turns you helpless to the onslaught of, well…if they can find it, and we’re friends, so we must be similar in ways, then why can’t I find it, too? 

Why not me? Why couldn’t it have been me? 

When will it be me?

Why couldn’t he have fixed himself for me?

“What’s up with you lately? Still liking the job?” She asks eventually. Once she’s done describing the exact tone of Fen’s snores and how cute they are, and how when she’s more tired they’re deeper and louder, but when she’s stressed they’re fast and high pitched. Like a baby kitten, she says.

Like really. 

“Nothing,” you sigh, leaning your elbows against the bar top, cheeks smushed between your palms as you sip your strawberry margarita from a long straw. “I’m just in a weird place. But yeah, I still like it.”

“You mean a better place without that demon.” 

A limp laugh, “Sure, yeah.” You can’t remember the last time his name had been said out loud. It had become the worst sort of curse word. 

The Knicks game is on the TV, and you wonder if Grogu is watching now, too. He never used to miss them. 

“What’s wrong?” Bo presses, gripping the back of your neck to shake your gaze towards her. “Did something happen? You didn’t lift tail for him again, did you?”

“I hate it when you call it that,” you scowl. 

“There’s nothing else to call fornication with men.”

“Ugh, no. I haven’t. I haven’t seen or spoken to him. His number is still blocked.” But Bo hadn’t seen you since early January, when it had been much worse, worrying, really. She’d been busy falling more deeply in love with her person, making their life together, and so she hadn’t been able to see that your progress had slowly plateaued into a numb, unmoving fugue. You weren’t getting better, you weren't getting any worse. You were just passing through the motions, floating through the days waiting for something. To wake up, maybe. 

“I want to say good. That I’m glad. But I can see…” she trails off, “So, no. I think I won’t.” 

You glance at her out of the corner of your eyes, her intense, concerned gaze. But opt to focus once again on the game on the television, too much of a coward to let her look at your whole face and really see. 

“You’re not supposed to be scared every day,” she says quietly, leaning closer to you, arm going around your shoulder. “That’s not the way it was supposed to be.”

“I know it’s not,” you reply quickly, trying to open your mouth as little as possible lest something worse come out. But then, you can’t help it, “It’s just that I worry there’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s not. I would know by now if there was after all this time,” she tries for cheek, attempting to lighten the mood at the quiver of your chin. 

“I think I’m intrinsically unlovable.” It’s the sort of confession you could only give to her. Something you’re embarrassed to even hold in your own mind when you look at your parents and see how much they care and worry. 

Her arm around you tightens, her other palm coming to grip your hand atop the bar, like she’s bracing herself. “Just because he made you feel that way about yourself doesn’t mean it’s true.” 

You can only manage a small shake of your head, a heat so unbearable rushing up your throat and face your head throbs with it, making you dizzy. How could you possibly tell her that you’d always thought that, though. That sometimes you worried that what had kept you waiting for him to change his mind for as long as you had, was that there was a part of you that was certain it was impossible he could ever do so because it was you that could not cause the change. Afraid that there was something missing in you. 

Mark calls after the next round, and Bo insists you move your night to the swanky cocktail bar across the street. Says it’s her right to meet the man and veto him if she must. You comply because you don’t really care, truth be told. Whether she likes him or not is irrelevant when you’re pretty sure you don’t even like him yourself. 

He’s moussed and coiffed to the nines when he waltzes in. Shiny Rolex and a money clip with BAND$ engraved on it that Bo gags at when he isn’t looking. 

He chugs cucumber martinis while he tells her all about the hot water, apple cider vinegar and green juice cleanse he’s doing, and when he runs to the restroom every twenty minutes like clockwork he calls it the little boy’s room. 

Bo looks at you like you’ve gone absolutely batshit, but all you can manage is a shrug. And on impulse and out of sheer, agonizing misery, you order a tequila soda with sweet grenadine and a maraschino cherry. You try not to cry while you down one and then another and then another, and as you get progressively drunker, Bo following suit loyally and Mark spending more time in the bathroom than he does at your table—you’re pretty sure he’s snorting coke like a mother fucker in there—she starts with the long list of his grievances. The Demon, she calls him. Asshole, dick bag, spawn of Satan. Whore. Lying, cheating whore. Each word is like a physical blow to your system. You nod and nod and nod, not bothering to correct that he’d never actually cheated on you, it doesn’t really matter, and you drown yourself in the grenadine. And if you focus hard enough to the point you can almost feel your brain vibrate, it’s like he’s the one that’s made them for you, it’s almost like he’s the one you’ll kiss and go home with after this. 

“Fuck him!” Bo shouts, clinking her glass roughly against your own, beer and Dirty Shirley sloshing sloppy and dripping over the glass edge. She toasts to the demise of the dick who’d broken your heart, wishing him nothing but the worst. “You’re so much better off now,” she promises again, but you aren’t sure you believe her, if it’s the truth. 

The shit talk feels good in a rotten way, the grenadine and tequila carbonated kisses Mark presses against your mouth later, tepid, but distracting. Distracting in a way that hurts, still connected to him but not directly. In service of him, in imitation. It’s not who you want, the flavor of this mouth. It’s all only your own delusional desperation, something self serving and small. 

You throw up in the alley behind the bar after another round, spewing hot and acidic, burning it’s way up your throat as your body heaves with painful sobs, hot tears squeezing out between your shut eyes. The sight of your sick makes you gag, the way the horrible beating thing in your chest twists, even worse. 

Begging off after that, you take the bus back home, no sweet twelve minute offer for a drive over the bridge and a kiss before you run inside anymore. And if you spend the way crying, with the flavor of someone else’s mouth against yours, well at least it’s all been your choice. 

Right? Right.

The irony isn’t lost on you that choice had always been your excuse with him, as well. 

On March twentieth, five days before Fen’s birthday and the party her friends are planning for her, your phone rings with a call from the bar. His bar. Watching the alien thing buzz and buzz until it goes to voicemail, you stare with wide eyed horror. Your fingers shake so badly you can barely press the notification of a new message in your inbox when it comes in with a hollow chime. Your heart does something so anxiously painful you worry you might keel over and die before you get the chance to listen. 

Eighty four days of dead silence and now—

“It’s me. I—I keep checking to see if you’ve unblocked me. I can’t help it. But…shit—I don’t even know if this is still your number.” His laugh is hollow, horrible, the vowels slurred, a long pause. “But I need to say something I have no right to say. I’m very drunk and I’m in love with you and I’m so sorry for everything. If I was a better person I’d want you to never think of me again. And I—I wish…” his voice whispers, mumbling, and then comes back. I wish… “But I had to—I had to say the words out loud. Even just once. And I’m so fucking sorry. I am. I am.”

Before, it had been difficult because he’d been so overtly careless with you all the time, while you had been so painfully, so strictly careful with everything. The way you acted, the things you said, the way you moved and breathed and existed in front of him. You were never real. It was all a game he’d beaten you at. A game that became too hard, so you couldn’t play anymore. So it felt like you were being ripped in two at all times.

Afterwards, you were both more careful. Tried to do things the way they should’ve always been done, more honest, more yourselves. But there was still something missing. Trust, perhaps. You wanted more, and he couldn't fathom what that more was. You loved him. And at times, you had thought he might love you too, at least as best as he was able to with his broken heart the way it was. But he'd never realized, or couldn’t recognize such a thing in anyone besides his brother. He’d never known what to do with you. You could understand all of that now, could see it more clearly, riding that sick and strange passage of time; a train leaving with half your body still on it. 

But in the end, it hadn’t felt like you were being ripped in two anymore. It had felt like you were being erased. 

What a cruel and selfish thing to do—I’m in love with you. 

For the millionth time, you wish that you could hate him. You wish that you could see all the bad that Bo sees in him. 

You think that perhaps you do hate him. Perhaps you hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone in your whole life. But it’s a sad, weak sort of hate. Because well…because well you love him, also.

Still. 

You move like a ghost in the days that follow those words. Going back to search through old text messages and notes and photographs, desperate for proof that would substantiate them. Fixated on the idea that it couldn’t be true, that you’d hate the idea of him only realizing this once you’d left him. You want to know if it’d always been—this supposed love. If he’d felt it before. And then sick with humiliated, hysterical laughter that you were so unaware about the going ons of your own life and relationship you couldn’t even make sense of what had or hadn’t been between the two of you. Had you ever truly known him? Had you ever truly known what he felt or thought or wanted?

The go around in your mind makes you desperate for action, for movement, for any sort of answer or second of peace. A single moment of warm sun. Anything to distract from the what ifs.

When Peli’s bar is listed on the e-invite Fen’s best mate Boba sends, it feels like cruel and mocking kismet. Bo apologizes profusely, promising she’ll force them to move it, that if you don’t want to go they’ll all understand. But the spinning of your mind, of his words tumbling like those clothes in the dryer, the idea of being in a crowd with him and knowing where he is at all times, wondering if Grogu still loves the Knicks and if he’d won the end of year art competition at school, I’m in love with you, it all leads to anger. Fierce, sticky anger in your brain, poisoning everything so that you’re turned reckless. Maybe even vindictive. 

When you step into Peli’s bar for the first time in months, and he’s just there, the same nose and mouth and eyes, hair longer, pushed back beneath a backwards cap and curling over his collar, it’s like motion sickness, like years have passed in the blink of an eye. And when Mark’s hand curls familiarly over your shoulder, pulling you into himself, when Din looks up and sees you for the first time beneath the hand of another, this revenge feels like kismet too. Like that last chance you’d wished for all those months ago to hurt him just as badly as you’d been hurt. 

You look away quickly, passing around hello’s to the arrived party, not bothering to turn towards the shattering of glass from behind the bar. 

Bo squeezes you tightly, pressing kisses to both your cheeks and promising that she’ll protect you, that it’s going to be a good time, and then passing you off to be kissed and squeezed by Fen, as well. Mark makes his introductions, and you’re grateful that he’s good at playing this part, the charming boyfriend. His laugh is loud and handsome, his conversation easy, if a little shallow. But maybe that’s okay, to have this shiny new toy to show off. 

Your mind is sluggish with anxiety and your hands shake so badly even Mark notices, playing it off to no food since breakfast. 

You feel his stare like a burn slipping against your skin. Tucked between Fennec on one side, whispering gently into your ear, her pretty laugh making it seem like everything’s alright, and Mark on the other, his arm around your shoulder, his fingers playing in your hair, a kiss to your face every once in a while. 

But his words, the tinny sound of his message from last week, they’re a live wire bouncing around the walls of the bar, slithering between the happy people. 

And it’s there, that awareness you’d thought on for so many months, that knowledge of another person in a crowded room, that’s really what makes your eyes pinch hot with agony. That’s really what makes you turn to look for him after an hour of forced, fake, fucking horrible laughter, the light-bulb moment that this phenomena you’d thought on so much was alive and well here between the two of you despite the now eighty-nine days of interrupted silence—being able to find your person in a crowded room. 

Of course he’s looking when you turn—his gaze, unblinking on your face. Piercing. 

It hurts because it also doesn’t. Because you’d become complacent. Because it would always be the same, always good, always half finished, even at completion. 

At your side, Mark whispers something, lips brushing close against your ear, his finger tip caressing beneath your chin and Din’s face—you have reason to say his name again, Din Din Din—it spasms with anger, grief, something sick. Gaze moving to assess the man putting his hands on you while you take careful stock of his face, his clothes, his body. The tip jar next to the register is, like always, filled with half bills, half phone numbers. You used to sit there and pick them out, letting people think you were stealing his cash. The memory makes you smile helplessly. Just a small one. 

And when his eyes come back to yours, there’s a question there, confusion, or maybe an alighting, like he’s realizing he might not know you as he once did. But when he sees your smile, the corner of his own mouth lifts too—oh, oh, don’t do that—the dimpled one that’s your favorite, like he’s also helpless to it, like he’s answering you. And then it’s gone with a blink, being overtaken by that unfathomable look again, melted away. 

Sometimes, the thought that you were a real person that existed in his head, that he remembers and has memories of, that he’d known you and who and how you were, was too much for you to handle. And right now, with that question in his eyes, that wondering, it makes you desperate enough you could rush over and demand he tell you what he’s thinking, what he thinks of you. 

Mark says your name, voice insistent and annoyed now, wrapping his fingers around your bicep and shaking you into attention.

“Sorry, what?” you stumble out of your reverie, faced with the unwelcome sight of his face puckered in irritation at your ignoring him. 

“I said we should shoot some hoops. Don’t tell me you’re drunk already, babe. We’ve barely been here an hour.” Your inability to hold your liquor turns him off sometimes, you know. 

“No. I’m not. Sorry, just sleepy, I think.” You squeeze his fingers, trying to inject warmth and some sort of caring into your voice. You don’t want to push him away. You don’t want to lose him, you realize suddenly. If he dumps you, you’ll have to face the fact that you don’t care about him at all, but you’ll also lose your distraction, your cheap get-love-quick scheme. Sometimes you worry you’ve turned into a bad person, but you can’t help how you’d tried to stitch yourself back together. This is what you had. And Din’s gaze on you is triggering enough you need Mark at this moment. You need him to keep you focused on anything but how badly you want to go over there and talk to him. 

The two of you leave the table, and he buys a round each at the arcade basketball machines in the corner closest to the bar. The embarrassment that washes through you is inevitable, like you’re flaunting yourself, your new boyfriend, your body that’s been touched by both of them. Your stomach churns sticky and hot and you try and laugh and engage Mark's attempts at flirtation, angry that you’re letting yourself be so affected. 

You have no reason to be embarrassed. To feel ashamed. You have as much right to be here as anyone, and you’re not going to not be where your friends are just because Din is here. He doesn’t own the bar. He isn’t the boss of you. And you can do whatever you like and go wherever you like and take your new boyfriend with you if you feel like it, and Din can’t say or do anything about it because you aren’t together anymore. 

Mark wins the first round and pays for another, teasing your weak attempts at the game and your bad shots, pinching your hips and poking your ribs. Playful. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. Perhaps picking up on the strange, almost violent energy that sizzles through the night. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bo approach the bar, saying something to Din. She throws her head back in mocking laughter. Cruel with all the contempt you know she has for him. His face is impassive, a mask you recognize well when he’s trying to protect himself. He nods once, turning to fill two pints from the well and handing them back to her. She says something else, and you think he almost flinches, you feel crazy, heart beating in your throat, like you're going to be sick watching your friend berate him. He turns to look at you, immediately finding where you are at the machines as Bo turns back towards the party. And Mark is saying something to you again, voice snapping when he realizes you’re not paying attention to him once again, and then tugging you none too gently back towards the group. Din scowls, brow pulling low, and whips the rag off his shoulder onto the bar top. You feel like you’re wading through mud again, like you did during those horrible early January weeks when the wound was fresh and putrid without the balm of him. 

“Can you pay attention to me for one fucking second,” this man, who you don’t like even a little bit and who you’re suddenly so thankful you never fucked, whines in your ear. He pinches your cheeks tight, almost painfully between fingers that are too soft and well moisturized, jerking your face towards his and pressing a too hard, reprimanding kiss to your mouth. You struggle in his hold, and suddenly hear Bo’s voice call out too loudly and in a tone that’s out of place amidst what is supposed to be a birthday party. 

“If you don’t quit jerking her around, I’m gonna kick you out of my bar.”

Mark pulls his mouth off of yours lazily, giving your face one more harsh squeeze before his indolent gaze moves to Din behind you. He doesn’t give up his hold on you, though.

“And who the fuck are you?” He asks, words all slow and arrogant. 

You struggle in his grip, suddenly feeling that the situation is at a boiling point you need to quell or run away from immediately. 

“You need to get your hands off of her now before I make you,” Din warns again. 

He sounds very calm, and you squirm out of Mark’s hold, feeling like you’re not where you’re supposed to be, like you’re on the wrong side. But Mark keeps his hold on your elbow, tight enough you worry you’ll have a bruise there later, and Din’s eyes catch the harsh grip, jaw tightening at the edge the way it does when he’s furious.

“I’m not gonna say it again.” 

Mark puffs his chest out against your back, still keeping you partially in front of him, like he’s using you as a shield from the taller man in front of him. 

“And I’m going to ask you again—” Mark says, petulant, a boy who’s not used to not getting his way, “who the fuck are you to tell me shit? Just some loser fucking bartender who—”

“Baby,” Din says very slowly, looking down at you, ignoring your stupid boyfriend’s tirade. His eyes are soft, your heart flutters madly. “I’m gonna need you to get the hell out of the way while I kick your boy’s ass right now.”  

Gently, he grips you by the elbow, attempting to move you out of the way while his other hand presses against Mark’s shoulder, trying to shove him back from where he’s got your other arm caught in a vice. But at the same time, Mark reaches behind himself, grabbing the closest thing in his vicinity. The empty beer bottle whistles through the air when he swings it towards Din’s face, knicking him in the brow with a sickening little sound before Din jerks back and out of the way of worse harm. 

“Damn, maybe that’ll finally knock some sense into him,” Bo quips jovially somewhere in the background. 

In less than a second, Din is moving faster than your anxiety-addled mind can compute. Pulling you out of Mark’s painful grip and shoving you behind himself and out of the way. You let out a weak little half-scream, realizing, finally, what’s happening, mind catching up, how Mark had tried to smash a glass bottle against Din’s face and how Din is now shoving him backwards while Mark swings his fist in a pathetic attempt at a right hook. Bo’s loud voice berates the two men, and Fen’s comforting hands are pulling you back and into herself. The security guard that checks IDs at the door is rushing back to help Din throw Mark out. 

You bury your face in Fen’s shoulder, her hands hugging you to herself. Bo’s voice signals her change in allegiance now, as she tells Mark what a fucking douchebag he is. 

“Aren’t you going to fucking do something?” You hear Mark’s voice scream in your direction. You peek out from the safety of Fen’s shoulder to look at him being pathetically dragged out by the security guard. “Huh?” He screeches, perfectly coiffed hair flopping lamely against his forehead, asking the security guard if he has any idea who he’s dealing with. God. “Are you kidding me! This asshole just attacked me, and you’re fucking staying? Fuck you!” His voice is nasty, childish. You’re humiliated you’d even brought him here. 

Din gives him one last hard shove for good measure, and a little slap against his cheekbone that’s more humiliating than anything else that’s transpired yet. “Keep talking to her like that— I fucking dare you,” before Mark is finally dragged out the door. 

When your eyes fall on Din, he’s got a palm pressed to his brow, a trickle of blood sliding down his cheek. You almost choke on your gasp, shrugging off Fen and Bo’s hands as they try and stop you from going after him when he moves towards Peli’s office in the back. 

He whips around when the sound of the slamming office door is stopped by your hasty grip as you slip in after him. The quiet snick of the lock turning is deafening in the silence of the room between the two of you. The months of separation reach a crescendo as you stare at each other, the both of you panting as if you’d run miles just to be here. 

He lets his bloody palm fall limply to his side, revealing the split skin of his eyebrow, and wipes away the slick crimson against the thigh of his jeans. Simply watching you as blood slides down the side of his face. You can't help the thought that it’s exactly what he deserves. Or exactly what you'd needed, to have him split open and bleeding for you. 

“Din…”

“What is it?”

His voice makes you want to cry. The familiar, deep sound; hopeful and fatigued.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re bleeding,” you say again.

“Please. You have to listen to me,” he insists. “I’m so sorry.” 

His face scrunches up with that same agony his voice supplies, wincing when the split in his brow beads blood again. Ah— he hisses, turning to rummage through the desk drawers for the first aid kit, knocking a stack of papers to the ground in his haste, snapping you awake.

You rush forward, “Here, let me,” unthinkingly, taking the little square of gauze from his fingers, gently urging him back to lean against the desk’s edge. “It’s alright. Let me help you.”

You press the little white pad to the cut, watching the crimson bloom spread slowly. He’s breathing fast, panting, your chests almost brushing together with the way you’re leaning into him. Seeing his wide, shocked eyes at your touch, your nearness, you let your own gaze go unfocused in the line of your hand against his face so that you’re not forced to meet his stare. 

You keep the pressure of the gauze light, not wanting to hurt him further. You’d always tried to cause no harm. 

“Thank you,” he says through a swallow. 

All you can manage is a short jerk of your chin, letting your jaw loosen so that you can breathe through your mouth. He smells so good, like cinnamon and warm sweat. You can’t help it, really, when your eyes fall closed, lulled by the heat of his body so near to yours, skin prickling almost painfully, your eyes filling with tears—wanting to touch—and you hear his sharp intake of breath, the creak of wood. You open your eyes to look down at his fists wrapped tightly against the desk edge, knuckles white with the force of his grip. 

He struggles through several more swallows, mouth opening and closing before he finally says, “Did—did you end up liking the library? Did it turn out well?” This question spurned out of nowhere, out of days and days of silence after having known everything about each other for months and years. Or almost everything. 

He’d waited with you, through school and struggle, for you to finally find something to do with your life that was fulfilling, and then he’d gone and missed the actual happening of it, and you’re angry at him for it. Amongst so many other things. 

“Yes. I like it.”

That’s good. “That’s good.” His nervous nodding dislodges your hand at the split in his skin, and you take hold of his jaw firmly, holding him in place, freezing him up.  “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” he chokes out.

“Yes. I made friends.”

“That—That’s so good. I’m so glad to hear it.” He sounds like he really means it. Entirely out of your control, marionette on a string, your hand moves to cup his shoulder. The jutting wing of his clavicle pressed against the most sensitive hollow of your palm. 

His breath skips once, twice. 

“Did you get my message?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Your breath seems to go round and round, trapped at the hollow of your throat. 

“I know.” He tugs gently at your hair in soft reprimand. “So that’s a yes.”

“Yeah, I did.”

You take a small step closer, your knees between his knees so that when you reach for another pad of gauze, the curve of your hip presses into the muscles of his hard stomach. 

Pinpricks of heat move up and down your back at the sound he makes, and your hand shakes as you press it back against the cut. The blood flow is stopping, soon you’ll have to move away and mentally scramble for an excuse to stay close. 

The only thing you can come up with is to kiss him. 

It’s thoughtless, out of your own control. You still haven’t really looked at his eyes, and your mind has gone so far away, back to January perhaps, back to missing him worse than you’ve ever missed him before. 

Here, stood before him, with his hands on you once again, for the first time in eighty nine days, you feel lonelier than you had ever been. 

This is the only solution. 

Teeth clicking, it’s slippery, uncoordinated, pressing too hard against his mouth as you throw yourself at him, his grunt of pain when your fingers press too roughly against the cut on his face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” someone says. 

He tastes like cinnamon, like memory. The way you remembered him during nights when your mouth felt full of salt. The tug at your hair is more insistent now, the only place he holds you, jaw hinging wide so that his tongue can slide fully against your own, he leans forward and off the desk to eat at you better. There’s a high pitched, pathetic sound coming from somewhere in the room, and you bring your arms around his neck, hugging yourself fully to him, moaning into his mouth and knocking his cap back off his head to run your fingers through his soft hair. 

He’s yet to put his hands on you fully. 

You pull back, ripping your mouth from his with a wet, smacking sound, “Touch me, Din.”

His palms flutter nervously over your shoulders, wide eyed look on his face, mouth kiss-reddened and wet. 

“We shouldn't do this.”

“Yes, we should.” You kiss him again, licking at his chin, teeth scraping along the stubbled edge. You want to press your hips to his, but you’re scared. “Please,” you say instead. 

He moans and you watch the working of his Adam’s apple, the up and down bob, pressing kisses to his throat and then licking into his mouth again. That out of control feeling from before bubbles inside of you, desperate for action. Desperate for him. 

“Wait—we shouldn’t,” but finally, his hands have reached for you, wide palms around your waist and pulling you into himself. He nips at your bottom lip hungry, kiss turning sloppier, uncoordinated, his mouth working desperately at yours. “We should—we should talk,” he struggles.

“No. Let’s just do it.”

“You’re going to hold it against me afterwards.”

“I won’t. It doesn’t matter.” 

Your mouth slides against his. Your hips meet, and you can feel him half hard and thickening down the leg of his jeans against your thigh. It makes you careless. 

“I don’t want you to hate me anymore,” he begs.

But with a grip on your bum, he grinds against you while you clutch tightly at his hair, his desperation at odds with his refusal, trying to pull each other closer. Some horrible sound of want pulses up from your belly and out your mouth like vomit. You want it so bad your cunt hurts. 

He’s saying stuff about how he doesn’t want you to be mad at him, about how he doesn’t want to hurt you, asking what it is you really need, asking to wait, to talk, but you aren’t listening anymore. You want him. The feel of his body, the way no one else will ever be able to give it to you like this. The way sex is good and real between the two of you because you love him and now he’s said he loves you too. You want him to erase the past eighty nine days with his hands and his mouth and his cock, and you don’t care how it’ll make you feel afterwards. 

“I’m in love with you, too.” 

You slip your never before said words onto his tongue. His whole body shivers and jerks. And you press your pelvic bone against the thick ridge of his erection, grinding frantically. 

“Fuck—”

“I love you,” you say again. “Please, fuck me.”

“We shouldn't.” But he’s still kissing you back, straightening off the desk to walk you towards the couch against the wall. 

“We should. We should. Please, Din,” you beg. 

In the center of the room, in the midst of Peli’s green shag rug, he stops you. Pulling back to cup your face in both of his wide palms, he looks between your eyes. You have that desperate need to know exactly what he’s thinking of you again, to know how he sees you, but it’s overridden by the fear of what you suspect he might actually be seeing. A desperate girl who hadn’t learnt her lesson, come back for a second walloping. 

“I don’t want you to be angry with me after this,” he says again. He sounds so sincere saying it, but you don’t know if there’s an alternative. 

“I won’t be. This is what we do.”

His eyes shutter, once, twice. You think pain flashes there, but you’re not certain you care. You wonder again if you’ve become a bad person after all this. 

“This is what we do?” His voice morphs into something hollow in the way he turns your words into a question. 

“I want you so badly. I’m so wet for you.” You pull him back towards your mouth, “Please—please, don’t deny me this also.” 

He hesitates only a second more before he’s kissing you again, laying you back against the couch as you cling to him, trying to climb your way up his body. 

Jesus, fuck— he curses when his hips fall in the cradle of your thighs, nothing but the flimsy cotton of your panties and fluttery sun dress keeping you from him. He pulls at your waist while he devours your mouth, hips rutting against the heat between your thighs. 

Taking a strong hold of your jaw, he holds you in place, restraining your squirming, palm cupping your bottom to lift you into his thrusting cock. The kisses he presses down the column of your throat turn slower, steadier, longer, and when he reaches the junction of your shoulder and throat, he tells you how much he’d missed you, and the way he says it, the way his voice comes up out of his throat, you know he’s telling the truth and you can’t help your sob of grief. You can’t tell him you’d missed him too, the words sound too small for the horror you’d endured the past months. 

Clinging to him, you wrap your legs around the small of his back, sandals lost and discarded, pressing kisses to his temple, his ear, his cheekbone. He kisses down your chest, in turn, pushing your cardigan back over your shoulders, pulling your dress low to find you braless, breasts hot and bare for his mouth. When he pushes the hem of your dress up your stomach to kiss the soft curve of it, tongue tracing around the ring of your navel, you think you’ll come just from that. 

When his whole mouth covers the curve of your sex, when he kneels on the ground between your thighs, sucking on the pink cotton turned translucent with your wet, you change your mind and tell him you’d missed him too.

He growls against your clit, dragging his teeth along your mound, all “Pretty little cunt. I fucking missed you—thought about this constantly,” as he pulls your panties down your thighs. 

Not so far gone you miss the way he tucks them into his jean pocket when he thinks you’re distracted by the spear of his tongue. 

The orgasm he sucks out of you is painful with how fast it comes on. Twisting in your belly, and wrung out of your cunt in a way you’re unaccustomed to after months of celibacy. Your knees shake around his ears, and you dig your heel into the meat of his shoulder, trying to grind against his face and kick him away in equal measure. And the sounds he makes between your thighs are obscene, the wet slurping, his groans as he palms the hard cock between his legs, humming when he sucks on your clit and presses the strong, flat muscle hard against you. 

When he crawls up the length of your body, kisses smeared with the sweet salt of your arousal, he whines into your mouth, unzipping his jeans and only managing to shove his pants down enough to tug his cock out. It hangs thick and heavy between your spread thighs shiny with your slick, making your insides heat, your cunt clench. Gently, he rubs the pad of his thumb against your clit, slippery and hot from orgasm. 

Spit, he demands, and when you do, head turned towards his hand, he not so gently shoves two fingers inside, deep and in one go, smearing your sex with your saliva to ease the way further.

It’s gross and so fucking hot. It hurts. 

“Oh, fuck—baby. This is not going to last long, I’m sorry.” Hand twisting, making room for himself, he pulls his fingers from you, little hole fluttering madly around nothing and slicks his cock in your wet, the dripping tip smearing against the inside of your thigh, against your sex. 

It’s okay, it’s okay, you tell him. Arching your hips to urge him inside of you, needing that heaviness to stretch you until you can’t take it, tugging him closer by your fingers twisted in the sides of his shirt. He pushes one knee to your shoulder, trapping it between his side and the couch-back, hooking the other one over his elbow so you’re caught and immobilized, folded in half as he starts to slick the wide head from the base of your spine all the way up to the swollen bud of your clit, the entire wet curve, pressing there hard once, making you cry and then circling your opening. 

He’s looking down at the wet mess between your thighs with what looks like open mouthed awe, and your eyes roll backwards, spine arching tight when he pops the head in, your breath coming in fast little pants. 

“Oh, fuck, finally,” he whispers, his long lashes fluttering shut.

“Ah—go slow, go slow. Fuck—gentle, please.” You dig your fingertips into his ribs.

“Yes, baby. Yes. I’m gonna be gentle with you. Fuck—” He pulls out, lets the ridge of his head pop out, catching on the rim, stretching it, and then back inside a couple of times, loosening you up before sliding in further just a tiny bit. With his thumb to your clit, he rocks slowly in and out, nudging deeper in small jerks of his hips, making sure it never really hurts. Being careful of the delicate muscles. You can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, sliding beneath your bottom and onto Peli’s couch. God. 

“Is your period soon?” he asks breathlessly, a tiny nudge of his hips following. It’s like all you are is a bundle of nerves as you feel him slide further inside of you, a beating heart. 

Hmm— you mumble nonsensically, sweating, trying to wiggle closer to him despite the way he’s got you hooked open. You don’t want him to be careful, you change your mind—you just want him to fuck you. “Please, Din,” you whine. 

“Your period—it’s the end of the month—”

“What? No—no. It moved.”

Fuck—he grunts, drawn out and guttural, pulling all the way out, “Look. Look down. Watch how I fuck you. God, you’re desperate for it, hungry little pussy—” You can see the way your sex clings to him, dragging wetly so that a creamy trail of you is left slicked along his cock. 

He pulls you into himself by the back of the neck, pressing in again as he kisses you roughly, sliding almost all the way inside, pressing against a deep hurt like a muted bruise that makes your mind wake up. Fuck— “Condom—you… we need a condom.” He pulls back, pushes in again, there’s a wet slap of his thighs meeting your ass when you roll up to take him better. 

“I don’t have one. Do you?” he asks through gritted teeth, picking up the pace.

“No.”

“Then I’m not wearing a fucking condom.” 

Oh my god, you moan, clinging to him. You’re helpless like this, and Din groans against your cheek, stubble scraping along your jaw, and you sob with every thrust of his hips. The heat in you is overwhelming, the stretch of the wide base of him everytime he bottoms out and presses deeper than anyone else can, grinding there for a few seconds before pulling all the way out and pressing in again and again. You feel helpless like this, thighs spread wide and cunt dripping wet while he fucks you open, shoves against that spot that blinds. Helpless like you’re ruining your own life, like you never want it to stop, like all those months meant nothing, like it’s too much of a too-good-thing so it’s turned bad and rotten. 

You wonder, in a far away manner, if you can want someone too much. If something that was born of a good and desperate heart can turn ugly, easily weaponized—

You wonder who it is that’s wielding that weapon here and now. For some reason, you feel sure it isn’t him anymore, but it doesn’t make you feel good. 

“How many other girls did you fuck?” 

It’s not your fault, his cock is too good, it makes you ask, makes you stupid. 

“None,” he says through clenched teeth. He pinches your clit, a little mean. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear. I promise.” You whine against his throat. “I couldn’t even think of it. I only want you—” He pulls your mouth back to his. 

The too-deep pain of his thrusts brings you to momentary awareness again, back to your previous thought— “You—oh, God, just like that— you have to pull out. You can’t come inside me. I’m responsible now—oh, that feels so good, Din, yes.”

Pressing your knees back against your shoulders, he nods once, jaw tense, intensifying the angle. You look down to watch the way your cunt parts for him, swollen and shiny wet with use, the way the thick of his cock slides in and out, it’s obscene, almost looks wrong, and he shoves in so, so deeply, a humiliating little squirt of liquid spurts from your cunt. 

He groans savagely at the sight, fucking you harder, squeezing the joint of your knee so tight it hurts.

You’re coming. Each press of the tip of his cock against your cervix is a pulse of your orgasm. The twisting heat between your hips moving up your belly to your breasts which you squeeze in your palms, tight so it hurts.

“Yes. Yes— don’t stop working my cock. You're such a good girl coming for me, yes, baby. I’m going to come, too,” he moans in your ear, pressing his hot chest against your bare one, biting down on your neck out of pure, raw instinct. 

“Pull out. Please, please, you have to pull out.”

He withdraws with a snarl, pressing his painfully hard cock to your stomach, sliding his palm over himself until he’s coming with frantic urgency. His spend falling in thick, long spurts across your sex and belly and breasts. The force of his orgasm so strong you can see each jerk of his cock as he grips himself, the tip flushed an angry red. As his pleasure hits it’s peak, he shoves two fingers back inside your still fluttering cunt, his middle finger tightly hooked inside of you, his thumb against your clit, squeezing both fingers tight until another little spurt of fluid trickles out of you. 

Looking at your eyes, he asks, “Who do you belong to?”

And in the aftermath of all this, there really seems no point in lying. 

“You, Din.”

He works his fist over himself fast, brutally, squeezing the head tight enough it looks painful, milking the thick spend out of himself. When he finally pulls his hand away, his fingers from your overwhelmed sex, he’s still half hard, as if unsatisfied he hadn’t been allowed to come inside of you. 

Looking down at the picture he’s painted of you, he hums contemplatively, smearing his come into your breasts, against your swollen sex and then pushing it inside, your cunt fucked open and shivering. 

You whine, wanting to tell him he shouldn’t but unable to manage the lie. When he presses his still half-hard, almost ready to go again cock back inside of you, laying himself over your chest, you start to cry. First a little hitch of your chest, a broken, silly thing, but building into true weeping, heaving sobs. He pulls back, afraid, eyes wide and panicked. 

“What’s wrong? What is it? Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes. You’ve hurt me so much.” But you pull his head back to your breast, hugging him to yourself, letting him comfort you even though neither of you deserve it.

How do you tell him that you’re crying for this soft and helpless feeling filling the cavities of your heart, how you want to feel open and powerless beneath him, how giving yourself to him makes you feel good, letting go of that control, above all, desperate for him to give himself to you. 

What would he think of you if you did?

The question sits on the tip of your tongue, half a mind to ask him without even explaining the question. What would you think of me if you knew how I really feel?

Limp and shivery beneath him, he asks you, “Why are you doing this?” his mouth brushing against your nipple—crying, letting him back inside, hurting yourself or the both of you—who knows. 

“I don’t know. I can’t help it,” you tell him honestly. 

Eventually, he pulls you off the couch, and onto his lap on the floor, his cock gone soft with your crying, but still tucked safely inside of you. He lets you cry all the tears you need to cry, his mouth sliding soothingly over your temple, petting the crown of your hair. You stay like that long enough his cock starts to fill out again, and those deep inner muscles, accustomed now to months of disuse, flutter and twinge around him, making you whine softly. 

Christ, baby. “You’ll be sore,” he rumbles in that deep, sleepy voice. 

And the thought of that, the thought of that—of your body having to go through the physical healing process of forgetting him, marks fading, soreness healing, period coming, that’s what wakes you up. That re-lived horror, that physical loss—it’d been one of the worst parts of losing him.

You tense.

His sigh, one of recognition, of hurt, is long, before he’s shifting, pulling you off his cock and helping you to your feet. 

Why did I do that? What’s wrong with me? you mutter, spinning to look for your discarded dress you hadn’t even noticed he’d pulled off of you, your panties that you’ve now forgotten you won’t find because they’ve been stolen away in his pocket. 

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

His only response is a groan of frustration. 

You find your dress, pulling it roughly over your head. You can hear the sound of clothes shuffling behind you as he puts himself to rights, as well. 

“Was that a test, us not fucking, that I failed?” You whip around, turning on the offensive.

“It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t—You’re the one that came in here—we should've talked. We need to talk, and you said this is what we do. You said this is all we are.”

“Well am I wrong? Did I lie?” you yell at him. It feels good. 

“Yes!” 

Jesus Christ—he groans, pulling his palm over his face, hissing when he meets the forgotten cut on his brow. 

“And that out there?” He flings him arm towards the door, “Your boyfriend, or whatever the fuck that clown was.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, sure. God. Fuck that—of course it’s my fucking business. Everything to do with you is my goddamn business.” He stomps towards you, jerking you up into his grip, giving you a little shake as if to jostle some sense into you. 

You stand barefoot before him, entirely unwilling to make this easier than you already have. You want to be difficult. You want to continue being careless. You want to make him suffer. 

“I don’t care.”

He blinks once, that hateful, indecipherable look, and lets you go. 

“That was really fucking embarrassing for you out there.”

The way he says it— “You’re being mean, Din,” makes all your bravado flee. Makes you small and scared in an instant.

“Does he fuck you like I just did? I doubt you get that wet for anyone besides me.”

“You’re being mean, Din,” you say again. 

“Am I?” he laughs once and humorlessly. “Then fight with me! Say something. Say anything. I am so sick of this goddamn silence!” 

“For what? Not that it’s any of your business,” you’re stupid, senseless mouth, “But we haven’t had sex. I’m taking it slow. I’m not going to make the same mistakes anymore.” He gives a real laugh at that. Jackass. “And why should I fight with you? Are you going to change? Or will you just say you’re changing and then do nothing—stay exactly the same and we’ll continue on as we’ve always done and I’ll have laid down and rolled over for fucking nothing? Hmm, tell me.”

He looks at you for a long moment in a horrible way, like he sees everything. Like he sees all your shame and all the things you see in yourself that you hate so much.

“Stop looking at me. I want to leave.” You’re horrified with yourself, sudden and sharp. 

“Fine.” His voice is quiet again, the fatigue is back. For a silly moment, you panic like you’ve disappointed him. “Go. Win your fight of nothingness. I’m done.”

“Fuck you. I’m done.” You turn for your shoes, scooping up your purse from where you’d dropped it by the door. 

He trails behind you like something you’d captured. Like a forgotten thing. 

“Why did you even come in here?” You fumble with the lock, crying. “Why did you follow me?”

But you have no answer, and nothing to show for yourself or your own dignity. And like a coward, or that same captured and forgotten thing, you run away from him. A little like a dance the two of you have been playing since you first met him. 

-

There is a phone number that calls the house sometimes. 

When his daughter picks up, she’ll stand quiet for several moments to listen to the voice on the other end without saying anything. When he is the one to answer, he finds the voice of the young man he has come to expect, asking if his daughter is home. His name is Din. The man has been given clear instructions to always refuse the boy—man. To always make excuses for his daughter. 

He’s good at following the direction of his wife. Of listening to the underlying tone of his daughter’s voice when she isn���t as forthcoming with him as she is with her mother, although he knows that this year she has been less so than she’d always been before.

He knows something happened with the boy. 

When she moved back home, there were parts of the man that were glad, happy, to have his only child back under their roof. They’d always been a close family, the trio. Tight knit in that way that two older, desperately yearning parents and their only child could be expected to be. They loved each other, but more importantly, they liked each other. They had always been very close and very honest. 

This year, that had changed. With her return, a pallid melancholy had followed her into the house that was impossible not to notice as much as she tried to hide it. He’d watch her on days when she’d walk down to the beach from the deck of their beloved home, the way she’d sit on the rocky sand, frozen by the gusts of sea-swept winds. Watch her walk back up the path too many hours later, blue in the face and bleak in the eye. 

But the man also understood that sometimes these things of the heart needed time and space to crawl their way out of the soul and let themselves be swept away to sea on their own. There was no easy scheme for a cure, only patience of which he’d always found he had an infinite well of for his wife and daughter. 

He had always been a soft man by nature, tall and thin, but pudgy enough around the middle which belied how good of a cook his wife had always been, how much he enjoyed a lovely glass of vintage and a rich dinner, or a large spot of brandy with dessert by the fireplace in the evenings. They’d always lived a comfortable, indulgent sort of life. They were professors by vocation, the both of them; mathematics and ancient Roman history, his wife and he, respectively. Purveyors of books and art and music, comfortable things. A love of knowledge had always been a thing that brought them together, had been the basis for their relationship, one of the reasons they’d fallen in love in grad school. And they had, truly, fallen very deeply in love. They still were, thirty years later, and they’d always made a conscious effort to show that to their child, to provide a strong example of an honest relationship. And they’d tried to instill the same sense of purpose and being in their daughter that they’d always strived for, raised her to live in her own mind, fed by the things she read, by honesty and kindness and responsibility. You see, the point was that they had been particular in her upbringing, sheltered and cared for and given everything they possibly could to ensure she’d turn out as self fulfilled as she wanted to be, that she was able to make for herself the things she dreamt of. 

He’d always felt that his personality, the things he enjoyed and gravitated towards, had set him up perfectly to serve as the father of an only daughter. A role that could sometimes be delicate for there were so many ways that she could’ve turned out; stoic and independent, anxious, removed, fanciful, perhaps a bit spoiled sometimes, but secretly that’s what he liked best, that’d she’d had a good life full of the things she wanted. But she was also mercurial, his daughter, sometimes, and given to bouts of distraction. She liked to live in her head, get lost in there on occasion, in her own worries and grievances. She was sensitive, too. Something he appreciated, respected, the great depth of feeling and empathy she’d always moved with. She was much like her mother in that sense. 

Given all of this, the man thus knew that whatever it was that had happened with the boy his daughter loved, had been something troubling indeed. Over the course of their relationship, he had been critical of the young man, of his obvious absences at his dinner table and their outings which had always been such a crucial element of what made up the nexus of their family’s core. But over time and the gentle admonishing of his wife, he’d understood that not everything was always as it seemed. 

The man sees this clearly, several weeks into April when the boy comes to their home. 

His daughter is upstairs in her room, unwell again, the way she’d been earlier in the year. Dark circles under her eyes, not eating enough, crawling into the safe space of their bed beside her mother during the night when they thought he was sleeping and wouldn’t notice. He watches from his comfortable leather wingback at the desk in his study as the young man sits in his car for almost an hour in front of their house. He recognizes him for the car, really, stories of the old thing fondly recounted by his girl as she’d tell them about the boy she cared for. The young man clutches the wheel tightly between his fists, rolling the window down, rolling it back up, talking to himself, tugging on his own hair, smoothing down his collar an unaccountable number of times, before he finally gets out of the car, walks around it three times and then finally makes his way up the path to the front door. 

The hydrangeas are out in full bloom in the garden now, one of the most beautiful times of year in the Cape. 

Standing from his desk before the boy knocks, he looks up at where he knows his daughter hides, sure she’s spotted the car already and must be waiting to see what her father will do now, how he will protect her. 

He stands at the door for a few moments after the knock comes, trying to collect himself—he’s wanted to meet this young man for a long time, after all—and makes sure to check the front of his sweater vest for any stray crumbs of the rum cake he’d had after lunch, before he pulls the door open. 

The young man looks terribly frightened. But also terribly brave. 

“Can I help you?” he asks in that patient voice he uses on students when they’ve come to beg for extra credit for their failing grade. 

“Hello, sir. My name’s Din. I’m looking for your daughter. I was wondering—well, I just…” He splutters, “If I could speak to her, is all…”

“I’m sorry, Din. But she isn’t home right now. Perhaps you could give her a call later and see if she’s in.”

His jaw works several times, a flush of embarrassment bleeding across his face. 

“Of course. Of course. I should have called first,” he says, which he had. The man had been the one to pick up the phone this morning and give him excuses. 

He considers for a moment, before he says: “She works at the main branch of the library in the city, perhaps you’ll find her there.” Deciding suddenly to have pity on the sad sight taking up space on his doorstep and in his daughter’s heart. He’ll make it up to the girls later, this aid to the other team.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe—yeah. Maybe I’ll try that. Thank you, sir.” The young man shuffles awkwardly, running his palm over the back of his hair, turning to look back at the front garden. He sees his eyes catch on the flowers.

“Do you enjoy hydrangeas? I tend to them myself.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, they’re great. Really beautiful.”

“Soothing practice, gardening.” He tells the young man that he’s trying to teach his daughter, but that she hasn’t taken to it so far. 

Din laughs at that, familiar in a way, with her tendencies. “No, I wouldn’t imagine she’d have the patience for it.” There’s fondness there, he can see. Maybe even love, too. It makes the man feel suddenly very sad for his girl and for this man, neither of whom can seem to find their footing with each other. 

“What year is that?” he asks then, tipping his chin at the old car.

“Two thousand eight, sir.”

“Ah, not so bad—good model. It’ll last you a while yet, if you take care of her.”

“Yes, sir. She’s been reliable.”

“Always a good thing to be.”

“Yes—yes, sir,” he trails off awkwardly, nodding, but he lets the silence sit for a moment, never one to mind a lack of chatter. There’s much to learn in the silences that sit between people. “Well, okay. I’ll go, then. Goodbye. And thank you. And I’m sorry, sir.” His voice is grave. 

“It’s alright, Din. Maybe next time,” the man tells him gently. 

“And I— I just wanted to say that… that it’s really good to meet you.”

“You too, Din. I’m glad I got the chance to meet you, too.”

“Alright, goodbye.”

He turns to go, walking down the steps, when the father calls, “Good luck, son.” There’s gratitude, also heartbreak, in the boy’s face, when he nods back at him. 

The man follows him down the steps, waiting to watch him get in his reliable old car and drive away from the girl that hides in the house upstairs. Turning to look at their home, the old New England build on the waterfront that he’s always been so proud of, the home where they raised their daughter, where he and his wife will grow old and die together, he sees his girl’s face, just there, in the window of her bedroom. Peering down the street to where the car has disappeared, perhaps waiting to see if the young man will turn around and try again. 

-

Through the month of May, you go to the beach every day. You’ve always been a little afraid of the ocean, of water you can’t see the bottom of. The water is never warm, but every day you manage to make it a little further out—trying to face your fears. 

You’d not been able to set any resolutions in January, no energy to think of anything better on your horizon. But now, with the dawn of summer and warmer months coming into bloom, you make this your goal—to make it out into the water until it reaches your heart. 

Each day you make a little bit of progress, and afterwards, you return home to your mother, a little sunburned but cheerfully tired. At moments, there is cheer to be found—while you wade in the ocean—even if the bruise of Din still remains. 

And eventually, as you’d always suspected, change comes because things always change.

It had come on a Wednesday afternoon, picking up tomatoes for your mother after work. You’d seen an old man shopping alone. He’d been choosing his produce very carefully, a little hunched, fingers gnarled and liver spotted. For some reason, the sight of him had stolen your attention. And afterwards, in the parking lot, you’d seen him again, carefully stowing his groceries in the back of his little car. It had been a randomly chill day in April, wind swept in from the sea over the Cape, and he’d had no one to help him, a plaid scarf wrapped around his throat in the middle of spring. He’d been wearing two too big shoes, the orthopaedic sort, and his pleated trousers were tucked into the back of them, a little funny looking. He’d taken a bushel of bananas out of one of the brown paper bags very carefully, turning them this way and that to make sure they were unharmed. His movements, careful and precise in his aloneness. 

It’d made you cry for no reason, and you’d had to sit in the parking lot for thirty extra minutes, making sure the puffiness in your face had gone down before you’d been able to drive home to your parents. 

And the thing was, that you were very tired, that you didn’t want to be sad anymore. You didn’t want to cry in grocery stores ever again. 

Or, perhaps, it was that after that brief, harried space of time in a locked office, you’d realized you’d been using him as a sort of excuse, Din. That you’d thought on the measure of a weapon, on the significance of a fight, how a person or a love could be turned into something self harming for no reason at all, how for some silly or broken fault in your character you didn't think you could ever deserve to keep him for yourself, and so you’d kept your rules and your distance the same way he’d always kept his. And everyone had ended up hurt and alone anyways. 

There was no rhyme or reason to it. You had never seen that in your home, been given reason to believe that you were a person that could not deserve a good thing, and yet, you did sometimes. 

And you didn’t want to be like that anymore.

You didn’t want to use Din as a vehicle of that belief anymore. You wonder if the two of you had ever approached the other without the intent to sabotage. You wonder if he hadn’t, if you’d even have been able to recognize it. 

It had been like waking up one morning, hearing a dog bark, knowing you're in your parents house, remembering your own history and who you are and meeting that limit of pain which you will put up with for love, reaching that line and knowing it cannot be crossed. You’d met that limit within yourself, and after that there was only a great fatigue to settle into. 

You wanted to be sunburnt. You wanted to be content. You wanted to let go of the things that served you no purpose. 

On the mornings you’d go out for a swim before work, your father would set up a portable radiator in your room for you to come home to and warm yourself from the ocean chill. Now, you sit on your bed wrapped in a towel after a warm shower, letting your hair drip cold down your back onto the duvet. 

When your mother comes in, a gentle knock preceding her, she sits down next to you, her soft hand on the warming skin of your back. The little radiator from your father belches hot air across your shivers. 

“Breakfast?” Her voice is quiet—sometimes you worry she’s afraid of you. 

You nod your head slowly, eyes out the window and unseeing, stomach full of a grief that you finally feel prepared to purge. 

“I saw Din,” you tell her instead. 

“I figured as much.” She waits for you to say more, and when you don’t she can’t help but press, “And?”

You shake your head, shrugging. “Nothing. Stupid…”

“Something happened?”

“I just got my hopes up. I’ll do better next time.”

“Daddy said he came here. That they spoke.”

“I know.” 

She pets your hair, brushes water droplets from your shoulders. 

“Would I sound…” you continue, “Would I sound crazy if I said I can't understand how it ended?”

“What do you mean, baby?”

“I wish I’d been stronger. More honest. I thought I’d hold out longer.”

“You tried for a long time.”

“But I don’t think I was ever honest.” You finally turn to look at your mom. “He isn’t bad.”

“I know he’s not.” She smiles at you kindly. You’re ashamed you’ve tried to hide from her all year. 

“He isn’t bad,” you say again. “He’s just…I don’t know. He’s a lot of things. Heartbroken.” You look away, the heater finally churns to a slow stop and your skin tightens with the drying water. “I think he needed me to hold out longer.”

“I don’t think you’d love him the way you do if he was bad. You’re my sweet girl, I know that sometimes you’re unsure, but I know your heart is honest even if sometimes your words don’t come out the way you’d like them to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the truth about our feelings. Sometimes, people say things that aren't easily understandable because they've never been taught how to say it another way. ”

“But I was taught. You taught me.” 

She shrugs, shaking her head, still smiling. A sort of well, what can you do? type of look. 

You can’t understand why you’d taken so long to talk about this out loud. Perhaps you’d been ashamed, perhaps it was more of that unsure self doubt that had kept your tongue locked away. Terrible, festering insecurity. But you realize now that the only solution is to take better ownership of the things you feel, the things you want. 

“It’s just that it’s hard because all this time has passed and all this silence—we were never honest with each other, and I was so hurt and it was all just so terrible. And anyways, still, I’d do anything for him. And I’m so worried I’m never going to find anyone else I love as much as I love him. That I’ll never find anyone to be with the way you and Dad are together.”

“That’s not a reason to go back if you don’t really want to, though,” she says gently. 

“Sometimes I think that if he came back, and he’d changed completely, I’d take him back then.”

“If you’d change him completely, then maybe you don’t really love him.”

“Maybe. Maybe I only love parts of him.”

“You can’t fix a person, my love. They have to choose to do that for themselves.”

You wonder if she might not be talking about you. 

“But also…part of what it means to be a partner is helping them fight for that fix. And fighting—conflict—I know you’re afraid of it, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You don’t always need to be so afraid—holding onto that much fear will hurt a good heart. You have to let it go. And sometimes to fight, to fight for something you love, it’s a good thing. It’s a concession or an admission, a dedication and a strengthening of that love. Don’t be afraid to fight.”

“I think he wanted that—to fight with me.”

Tears slip down your face and she wipes them away from your cheeks. 

“Then go fight with him. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes it’s okay to try one more time. It doesn’t make you weak or naive. All it means is that you tried again. Sometimes we all need one more chance.”

That Sunday, you wake early and go for a swim. It’s warm outside, and the rocks are sun baked when you step carefully over them toward the water, letting them burn the soles of your feet. You start slowly, first only your ankles, then up to your knees. The Atlantic is never warm, no matter the time of year, and when the saltwater reaches your thighs you’re wracked with gooseflesh and shivers until you’re up to your hips and decide it’s time to abandon all fear. You wade forward until the water has finally reached your heart, but you don't need to go any further. You have no interest in being swept away and lost anymore.

Your feet are firmly planted in the sandbed. 

You let yourself sway there, jerked by the waves until the morning sound of children’s laughter fades and then it’s just the water. 

Sun high in the horizon, the water is dark ahead of you, and looking back at the time you’d met him, you’d been so young. So naive. So ready to let yourself be hurt. So ready for failure, desperate for it, even. Neither of you had been prepared for the intensity of what it was you’d find together or the struggle it would be to work through your respective faults. And you’d insisted for so long that it would all end in nothing, shattered glass left on the table cloth, looking for the end of everything in photographs. Sure that it could never work. 

But look at you now, unable to move on even after that very failure.

You’d read books, you’d starved your body. You’d tried to be closer to God, to understand your mother. Still, you could not purge yourself of him. 

You swim back to shore. Your shoulders are sunburnt. You get in your father’s car, and you drive to him. 

You tell yourself that if he’s not there, it’ll be your sign from God and that’ll be your answer. There will be no more wondering, no more second chances, no more glances back at the past. And you repeat your mother’s words like a prayer, some things are worth fighting for. 

Standing in front of his door, twelve minutes and some later, it really is a lovely drive, you hold your five fingertips up to the face of his front door and you don’t wonder whether you’ll do it or not, knock, because you’ve already decided on his second chance, but there’s a strange part of you that wishes he’d just suddenly know you’re out here and come open it without having to. 

But there’s no crowd here for him to find you instinctively in. There’s only just the two of you, separated by all the things you could never say. You make a fist, you rap your knuckles, and there he is. 

He pulls the door open and he doesn’t say anything at first but neither can you. What’s there to say to the person you’ve decided to love again with honesty? To the person you want to give all your second chances to and who you hope will give them in return. To the person you want to fight with. Because faced with him, the imagining of seeing hearing touching tasting again when faced with the corporeal reality is almost fragmentally unimaginable, makes all your carefully planned words scatter at your feet. 

He’s right where you left him.

The specter-like-hologram of that terrible night made reality, but with something else equally intangible or unbelievable which you can also now tell is different. That tells you something has changed here, that it isn’t exactly just as you’d left it. 

He gapes like a fish for a few seconds, you've taken him by surprise. And then he flushes bright red, scowling angry all of a sudden. 

“Are you ever going to unblock my number?” he demands, furious. 

It makes you want to laugh, which you do, and then cry, just a little. Yes, you think, fight with me. 

The sight of your laughter throws him for a loop again, but then that helpless thing, and he’s smiling back at you, too. 

“My father really liked you,” you tell him. “He wants to know if you’ll come to dinner Thursday night.” This is your second chance, Din. Take it. “And I’m here to fight with you, too. Just so you know. I want to fight. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, smile blooming bright and real. “Can I bring Greg?” His perfect, true smile. Pulling you inside by the wrist, he takes your face is his hands and he kisses you—fuck, I love you. Maybe it’s a moment of mutual understanding, that everyone deserves a second chance. That everyone deserves a chance to be honest just one more time. 

From the back of the house, you hear Grogu’s gleeful shriek of your name, screaming that he can’t believe you’re back. Din kisses you again, deeply, like he loves you the way he said he does. And you finally feel prepared to believe him. 

Later that evening, after hours of dinner-time conversation where half a year of school time shenanigans and art projects and the highs and lows of loving the Knicks have been recounted, you and Din lay together in bed. You don't know what time it is. You’ve promised yourself that tomorrow, you won't look at the calendar, you won't count days ever again. There’s no reason to be a keeper of time any longer. 

With your nose and mouth pressed against his throat, the humid wash of your breath fanning against his skin, he gives a nearly drunk sounding purr of satisfaction. Exchanging honesties and apologies and self doubts, his fingers travel up and down your naked back, and you tell him that the day you met him never ended for you. He tells you that you had always felt so far away, so far removed, but that he only felt alone when you weren’t with him anyways. 

A second chance is not an easy thing to earn, but it doesn’t have to be a difficult one either. Sometimes, it’s easy to just be grateful, to just bask in letting yourself have the thing you want. 

You drift in and out of sleep in his arms, and when he turns you over onto your belly, stretching himself out over your prone body to cup the swell of your stomach and the weight of your breast, pushing inside of you again, it feels easy to be grateful for the chance to be here.  

And he tells you: “If you give me the chance, I’m going to make you happy every single day. I’m going to try harder every single day.” You tell him that you will, too.

The cricket song comes in through the open window, and you believe in each other. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[abbonation]

thinking about fucking your lieutenant without taking any of your clothes off. (18+)

let's get one thing straight--it's not that you don't want to take your clothes off. it's that ghost doesn't.

he hasn't gotten over it. you're not sure what it is, but you felt it when you tried to put your hands under his tact vest for the first time--the tension of his body, the flinch that had you pulling your hands back as if your touch had burned him. you drool over your lieutenant, you have fucked yourself to stupidity many nights just thinking about him, but you don't want to cross any lines.

you did the mature thing--you asked. you asked him what it would take. what he might let you do. what he might be comfortable with. he swallows, voice low and gravelly, and he tells you that you can do whatever you want with him, but he doesn't want to take anything off.

fuck it, you think. suit yourself.

you can't help the noises. you're throwing your hips back, hands braced against the bedframe as you straddle your commanding officer. ghost is underneath you, knees propped up and boots planted flat on the bed, and he has his gloved hands rooted to your hips as you fit yourself right over his middle and bounce. it's a lot of effort to get off this way. with the added layers of clothes, you really have to put your back into it to get any stimulation on your clit, but once you found that sweet spot, the tip of his cock nudged against you just right, you found the momentum to give it to him good.

"fuck--" ghost chokes. you're so hot. your shirt is bunched up a little around your waist, and the neckline has dropped, and he's watching your tits bounce with your grinding hips as you chase your orgasm. he could tell you were close. as soon as you dragged your clit over the fat tip of him and found it, you became a fiend. your pace picked up, and he squeezed your ass with appreciation, and he couldn't look away from your tits, but he was sure you were wetting his cargos even fully-clothed.

"'m gonna come," you whine, and ghost fits his hand between your ass and squeezes, appreciating the fat of you as you show him just how good you'd ride his cock. your hips are working so hard, smooth, quick grinds that make his eyes roll back in his head.

"yeah? tha' good, innit?"

"oh--gonna come, gonna come--"

"give it t'me--"

you're shaking. you drop your weight on him, seeing stars, and you're buzzing with a dopey smile as you slow your hips. you kiss him through the mask, sticking your tongue out and licking over where his lips are before kissing him nice and sloppy.

when he turns you over, you just watch as he lowers himself down your body. with wide eyes, you're enraptured by the way he shoves your legs apart. he gazes down at you, mesmerized to see a wet spot on your cargos, and he hums before hiking the mask up over his nose and licking over his teeth.

"w-wait, ghost, what are you--ah!"

you jerk when a fat glob of his spit hits the seam of your zipper. he does it again, soaking the fabric, and you can't do anything but throw your head back and whine as he opens his mouth wide and shoves his face between your thighs.

it's really not so scary anymore. and now he needs the real thing.

[abbonation]

A Joel Braiding Your Hair Blurb

Features a reader with lengthy hair who is meant to be chubby. Something to chew on while I come to terms with the fact that I can’t write more than a two part series and try to finish up another project before winter break is over!

Warnings/tags: Joel Miller x Reader, girl dad Joel, non-canon compliant, Sexual thoughts and references to smut, low word count

He tries not to look, feeling dirtier with each stolen glance, despite his efforts to wash in the river downstream from you.

After a harsh March and early April spent without somewhere warm to lay your head each night, over a month of a wet washcloth and re-wearing your jeans; the first true thaw was a savior to your psyche. Joel had promised that as soon as the ground is thawed and the river ain’t frozen, we’ll wash and take a good long rest.

You had been crying at nothing, so overwhelmed by the feeling of dirt caked under your nails, among the rest of the stress daily life in the harsh northern winter presented. It bubbled out of you a few days before, Joel had rubbed your shoulders, not wanting to overstep, and tried to comfort you the best way he knew how. With his words. By promising to take care of it.

As if his promise set it into motion, the sun peeked from under its grey blanket soon after, and in a few days ground was just warm enough to make the small drip of the river turn to a distinct trickle.

It would be just another couple of days until your duo with Joel reached Jackson, ending the weeks long trek into the wilderness to a hospital in search of antibiotics and other medical supplies.

You unloaded your pack, and draped our jacket out on the bank, along with your socks and boots. Your jeans and shirt are next, piled beside the water for you to wash. By now the routine is well known, just don’t turn around unless you want to see whoever you’re bathing next to- it’s a lot of trust, but really, most things at the end of the world require more trust than people realized.

You had seen Joel shirtless a handful of times, as had he you- out of necessity or accidentally. Not on purpose. Though you would occasionally remember on purpose. Tanned, soft skin stretched for what seemed like miles over his muscled torso. Joel had the kind of body that you could only get from decades of real work, hard work.

He split the small chunk of lightly scented bar soap in two pieces and gave you half. You had but a tiny container smaller than your palm of hair cream, made by a woman in Jackson; used very sparingly you could condition, detangle and brush your hair with what you had packed.

You washed and sudsed and scrubbed until you were squeaky clean, giving your scalp extra special attention with a massage.

It was then that Joel accidentally on purpose stole a glance at you over his shoulder. As he raised his hand and scrubbed his armpit he turned, seeing the outline of your heavy breasts peek out from behind your upper half. Everything below your hips was underwater, but the line of your back, long flowing hair and strong shoulders worked as you washed your hair. He imagined your eyes were closed in bliss, and he quickly turned back around.

Your clothes got washed and laid out in the sun, and you laid out to dry right next to them on the bank. The sun and promise of coming summer coaxing your brain to let up for a little while.

Baring a still damp tee and mostly-dry underwear you went to plop yourself in front of Joel, who sat in his boxers on the ground a few feet down the river.

“What’s up?” He squinted through the sun at you.

“Joel, can you braid hair?” You ask, brushing your fingers through your lengthy strands.

“Been a while, but it’s probably like riding a bike, ‘reckon,” he motions for you to scoot between his legs.

He breathes heavily. This back and forth with you was tough on him. He didn’t want to push you to be more, but this partnership didn’t feel like just a partnership. It was things like this that kept him wrapped around your finger, and sometimes he hated how at your will he was.

He brushed your hair over your shoulders and smoothed the remaining hair cream into the length. He began brushing it with his fingers as best he could, not able to get out every tangle.

“Did you braid Sarah’s hair?” You asked, quietly.

It catches Joel off guard, but subconsciously he had been searching through his memories with Sarah and Tess to remember how to do this in the first place.

“I did.” He states gruffly.

He feels you swallow. He had been working on being more comfortable talking about her. Coming to terms with the trauma he lived through.

He huffs a breath. “I um- I braided her hair sometimes. Usually I took her to a salon in town since she liked to have fancier styles than I could do by myself.” He remembers the beads Sarah’s braids would occasionally have, little butterfly barrettes and bows. His throat starts to close up when he feels you rub your hands down his calf, staring ahead into the mountains as you try to comfort him with your grounding touch.

He carefully splits your hair into three sections and begins pleating them. Left, middle. Right, middle. Again and again down your back he works. Each turn of his fingers working him closer to you.

He breathes and you rub his skin and he is okay. He ties the end with your elastic and tucks the stray hairs behind your ears.

Unexpectedly, he pulls you back and kisses the crown of your head. You tense for a moment, and then relax into his embrace- leaning on him.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

[abbonation]

This is so so sooooo great!! What an incredible first chapter, I am so excited to keep reading. Your skills at capturing the scene and vibes are spot on, I was totally immersed!

cherry

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 7.2k

summary: Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [m!receiving oral], reader is a sex worker, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, smoking (r and joel), loneliness, joel struggles a loooooot with guilt, mentions of grief and past romantic relationships, smoking, r is referred to as cherry due to not giving her actual name out (only used once, will be used sparingly), first part in a series though this part can be read as a standalone, new parts every tuesday

a/n: yeah, yeah, yeah, we've all read it before, age gap, etc. but this is my version of this kind of trope. this is the first part in a series that is mostly completely written and that I've dropped and come back many, many times, edited to hell, and then rewrote. It's like, my baby and exactly what I want from this type of relationship. write the fic you want to read and all that. let me know what you think if you read!

Curiosity ruins your life. 

It sets a wheel in motion that you are powerless to stop, unable or just unwilling you might never know, like a cat that sees a sparrow beyond it’s window and decides prowling along a too high, too narrow branch, is worth it. 

Your sparrow looks like a man, handsome and sad and weathered and just a little like a cowboy if you use your imagination. If this were a saloon and not a club, if there were some jaunty tune being played on a twangy piano, double swinging saloon doors at his back, not the pulse of too deep bass and the flash of girls’ teeth in the dark. Pulsingly red, dim lighting, the shadows of dancers on the walls, sticky floors and reaching hands, neon lights. 

He doesn’t belong. 

You watch one girl lean against the bar, proposition him, leave a few minutes later, pouting just a little.

Chastity flounces away from him, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, like she’s a girl again, like there’s something real in her name. You push away from the wall where you watch from the shadows, wasting time, decidedly not making any money though you can’t seem to help it. 

You’re entranced; you need to know. 

You catch her elbow as she passes by.

“What happened?” 

“Just not interested, I guess.” There’s a glow in her eyes, lingering on the surface of her skin. “He’s kind, really. Not like they usually are, thinkin’ they’re doing you a favor.” 

“Why does he keep coming here, then?” 

This is the third week in a row he’s sat there, pretty and unavailable. You’d considered it a waste of time and put him out of your mind the first two times. 

She shrugs, giving a flirty wave to someone over your shoulder. “One of my regulars is here,” she says. “I don’t know, I get the sense he’s real lonely. Maybe he just wants to sit and have a drink.”

Weren’t there better places to just have a drink, to feel less lonely? 

He’s good looking and seems sad, and, well, there’s something about him, repeatedly u internationally reeling in women he apparently doesn’t want. 

It’s a waste of time. 

It’s impossible for you not to walk over, sidle into his space at the bar, close but not too close. 

“You look lonely,” you greet, leaning against the counter next to him. Close enough to lean in and smell his cologne, close enough that he won’t have to work to see down your shirt. 

“Howdy,” he answers, eyes flicking up to yours briefly before fastening to the bartop again. He’s nursing a drink that’s long gone warm and watery. 

You eye him for a moment, the sharp line of his jaw, the lines by his eyes, the way his t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. He looks tired up close, drawn in a way that points your compass toward grief. “You look like you could use another drink.” 

His eyes slide up again from the cherry red wood of the bar to meet your gaze. He blinks and settles back on the stool. There’s surprise in the pretty depth of his eyes. A brown color, cast darker, maybe, because of the low lighting. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I already said no to your friend. Chastity.”  

He says her name so gently, it makes you smile. 

“You remember her name.” 

“Well I just talked to her.” 

You shrug and hop up on the barstool next to him, adjusting your skirt as you go. He might be surprised at how little a girl’s name, fake or otherwise, mattered to so many men. “Oh, sweetheart, trust me I know. I’ve been watching you all night. I won’t bother you for long, I promise.” You can’t waste your whole night with someone who won’t pay you anyway, no matter how enticing the flutter of their wing. 

“Huh,” his eyes flick over you again. “Seems like there’s plenty of willin’, uh, customers, to go around.”

The way he says it makes you want to giggle, and one slips out before you reign it in. He’s oddly polite, and strangely shy. Maybe even awkward, but in a charming, warm way. 

“There are,” you say and wave down the bartender, gesturing at his poor excuse for a drink with one hand. “But you’re different.” 

“How d’ya figure that?” 

You don’t answer for a moment, smiling at the bartender when he sits the drink down in front of you.

You push the whiskey in front of him and then slide the much held onto glass from between his loose fingers. His hands immediately circle the new glass, like it’s some kind of fucked up security blanket. It’s hard not to notice how nice his hands are, thick fingers and broad palms lined and scarred from work. He wears a watch on his left wrist, the green band worn and stained in places. His hands tell a story, that he works with them everyday, blue collared and tired, tanned from the sun, a tiny sliver of paler skin peeking out from behind the watch face. 

When you look up, you find him already looking at you. At your face, surprisingly. When you push out your chest, elbows narrowing subtly in towards your waist, his eyes don’t move. You tilt your head at him and he raises a brow. 

“Every girl on this floor thinks you’re a widower,” you explain with a shrug. “They have since you first came in three weeks ago. And, usually widowers out looking for a girl treat them a certain way.” Your mouth twitches up into another smile, “So you’re special.” 

You glance up and meet his eyes. “And I won’t ask, but I kind of agree with them. You have that look.” 

He breathes out sharply. “How’s that?” 

You tip your chin against your palm. “Sad. Like you’re ashamed to be here, and really lonely, but not in a desperate way.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters and takes a sip from the glass. He makes a face and pushes it away. “All that just from me sittin’ here?” 

You blink and tilt your head at him. “Well, you’ve been coming back. Was I right?” 

There’s a long pause, like he’s considering not responding or agreeing. But then he says, almost defeatedly, “Yeah. Most of it, anyway.” He releases the lowball glass to slide one hand down his face, fingers scraping roughly over his beard before cupping his chin. 

“Sorry to hear that.” 

He just nods. 

“All right, well, I was being honest about not bothering you and I���ve satisfied my own curiosity. I’ll leave you be, and I’ll tell the other girls to leave you, too, if you really don’t want to be approached. I could suggest somewhere better though, where you won’t be bothered, if you only want a drink,” you lean in, brush your hand against his arm. “And, if you take my word on nothing else, take it on this: the drinks here are shit.” 

His skin is warm beneath yours; there’s a scar along the top of his forearm, a scrape and pull of hair against your nails when you let your hand slide off and turn away. 

Before you can vacate your seat, his hand covers yours, and you pause. 

The touch is brief but warm, and enough to make you stay. You can suddenly feel the eyes of all the other girls working that night on your back, hot with jealousy, holding their breath, curious as the cat finally stepping off the window ledge, that much closer to the sparrow. 

You cross your legs and prop your chin on your fist again, watching him spin the glass on the bartop and not drink it, not say anything. “You don’t really look like you belong here,” you murmur, reaching out to trace your nails along his forearm absently. “You don’t really fit in here.” 

In fact, no one has ever looked more uncomfortable. Nervous, you see that all the time. But not this. 

He clearly wants something that he doesn’t know how to ask for. Or, maybe it’s the shame and the loneliness again, tangled up and impossible to unravel. 

“We could just talk, you know,” you say gently. “Or. . .sit together. You don’t seem like much of a talker. And sometimes it's enough to have another warm body in the room.” You don’t say it, but you could pet him like this too, nails against his wrist, catching at the dark hair on his forearm. 

He fidgets with the watch on his wrist, looking down at it like it holds the answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask. After a long moment, he scoffs. “Startin’ to see why I’m special.” 

You nearly backpedal, but the gruffness is directed inward, not at you. The last thing you need is to offend him, not see the swing of a fist and flinch fast enough. 

You nod, knot between your shoulders smoothing away again. “Yeah. It’s usually about the. . .companionship more than anything else. You’re missing someone and that’s okay. I can fix that. Or, ease it, at least.” 

He turns to look at you fully then, eyes flicking over your form, and you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. This isn’t a place you really fit in. Like him. There’s something different about you, that’s not like the others that have approached him. 

You just smile at him again, run your nails along his arm again. 

“Do you have somewhere quiet we can go?” 

His gaze casts away, and he clears his throat. “Yeah.” 

“All right, sweetheart. Ready to go now?” 

A tendon in his jaw jumps when he clenches it hard, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. You’re afraid for a moment that you read it wrong, his tone and the shape of his shoulder, and he is about to hit you, but the turmoil seems to be turned inward once more. 

Instead of answering, he tosses back the rest of his drink and stands, offering you a hand as he goes. “You’re right about the drinks.” 

“Gentlemanly of you,” you say and take his proffered hand, balancing heavily on him as you stand. “And I usually am.” 

His fingers are light against your spine as he guides you out of the dim interior of the club, the pulse of light coating him in harsh reds and blues before you push through the doors out into the parking lot. “Not a compliment I usually get.” 

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” you coo as he directs you across the pavement. “You are exceedingly polite.” 

This is usually the scariest part, getting into a car with a man you don’t know. By the time you get to their room you’re settled, but this is where you’re always reminded of the risk you’re taking, the very real danger you could land yourself in. That anything could happen to you, and that probably no one would know or care if something did happen, that no one would look for you. 

He stops beside an older pickup truck and opens the door for you with a squeak, hand offered for you to brace yourself on again. “Well I’d like to know who isn’t calling you a gentleman,” you say with a smile as he releases your hand. 

It earns you another amused huff, before he closes the door and rounds the hood. 

The interior of the cab is worn but clean. In the dark, you can only make out a few details. A tree shaped air freshener hangs from the review mirror that no longer puts off any smell. There’s a woven mat spread over the leather bench seat, a friendship bracelet knotted around the gearshift, a tangle of straw wrappers in the side of the door and an empty pack of cigarettes on the dash. 

The dome light flickers back on briefly when he opens his door. 

You’re plunged into shadows again just as quickly, but the flash of light is enough for you to see the box of cassette tapes by your toes that you’d missed. 

The truck rumbles to life beneath you, a calming purr against the bare backs of your thighs. It reminds you, just briefly, of evenings spent in a different truck. More rundown than this one, more likely to break down on the side of the road than get you to your destination, the smell of cigarettes and your mother’s perfume thick on the air, billowing up from the stained fabric seat. 

Pushing the memory away, you point to the box. “Mind?” 

He inclines his head slightly. “Go ahead.” Then, “Seatbelt.” 

“Who bothers with seatbelts?” You ask, crossing your ankles delicately, plucking up the box to deposit on your knees. 

“Me,” he grunts.

Well, so do you, but the men you find yourself with usually don’t. They want to put their hand high on your thigh and talk about their car as they drive. They want you to lean over and suck their cock. 

This man puts one hand on the steering wheel, the other along the back of the seat, as he reverses out of the parking spot. 

Jesus, he’s good looking. The relief of his face is sharp, plunged into shadow and light as you pass beneath streetlights. 

When he pulls out onto the highway, lined with scrubbrush and cacti and hot red dust, both his hands anchor on the wheel. He doesn’t even glance over at you, and remains quiet. It unsettles your nerves further, just a little. Either he’s nervous and worried about what his dead wife would think of him, or driving you to the middle of some open plot of desert next to an emptier stretch of highway to kill you. 

You pick through his cassette collection as he drives to calm your nerves and try to glean something about him from it. He asks you twice if you’re cold, despite how hot the night is. “I’m fine,” you say. “Really. It’s actually a little warm.” He rolls down the windows so the sweltering summer air filters in. 

You’re grateful for the warm air, for the soft caress of the late breeze against your face. 

It feels good on your skin, chilled from the air conditioning at the club. He must have noticed your cold hands when you touched him. 

At a red light, you hold up one of the tape cases. “You have good taste.” 

Johnny Cash, Garth Brooks, Pearl Jam, Metallica, Halican Drops are only a few you skim over. 

“Well, ain’t all of it mine.” 

“Whose are they?” 

He hesitates for a long moment. “My daughter,” he answers eventually. “She left ‘em in here.” 

You nod. “She has good taste then.”  

The light flickers green and the truck rolls forward again. His pretty face is still, unmoving, revealing nothing. You admire it anyway, the curve of short graying hair behind his ears, the scar along the bridge of his nose, the way he blinks hard, thinking something over, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “That don’t bother you?” 

“What?”

“That I have a kid?”

“Does it bother you?” 

He doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tightens again as he runs a hand over his chin. 

Thinking again, you suppose, as you cross from one side of town to another. It’s a wealthier area, usually you only see the inside of the motel down the road from the club. 

Eventually, he pulls into the parking lot of a hotel, imitating Spanish style vistas in a way that feels real, the front entrance manicured and clean. 

It’s a nice hotel, one of the locally owned ones with charm, not a soulless chain. He kills the engine and looks at you through the dark, through the yellow light of the buzzing streetlamp on the corner. 

“Yeah.” It takes you a moment to realize he’s answering your question, if it bothered him that he has a kid. You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already out of the cab, door slamming behind him. 

He’s at your side of the vehicle before you have a chance to reach for the handle, holding your door open and offering you another hand. It’s strange; you try not to think about it. “Why?” 

“I figure you two must be about the same age.” 

Ah. Still, surprising for a man to care. 

“You must have had her pretty young.” 

He doesn’t answer you again, hand pressed lightly to your back, like this is a date and you’re a lady he’s taking home, guiding you toward the brightly lit, glittering facade of the hotel. 

It’s very odd and sweet and totally unexpected. This isn’t how this usually goes, how any of this usually goes, and it almost makes you resent him. 

As much as you can resent someone you just met and who you’re about to fuck and forget and be paid for the privilege. Still, it stings, persistently itches at the inside of your skin, in a way that makes you wish he’d just be rough with you instead.

“You’re never going to see me again after tonight. I’m just an ear, sweetheart. You can tell me and I’ll keep all your secrets.” You say it low, leaning into his side; intimate and just a tad sweet, a secret between lovers. 

“Sweetheart,” he repeats. 

Oops. Maybe the familiarity was a mistake. 

“What’s your name?” You course correct as he pulls open the heavy front door for you. “Doesn’t have to be your real name. Just need something to call you if you don’t want me calling you sweetheart.” 

The hotel is different, too. 

You’ve become accustomed to flickering neon motel signs seen though tattered window shades, rough, threadbare carpet beneath your knees, rust stained shower drains, furniture a decade or so behind the times, a persistent smell of mothballs and grease that permeated the lobby, if you even got to pass through it. Most times there was no need, a parking space right in front of a too flimsy door, a chain lock that hasn’t been attached to the wall in at least a year. The belch of refrigerant that only ever served to make you sneeze and cool down the room not at all. 

“Never said that,” he grunts. 

“Okay.” 

The lobby is cast in a strange white, gold light. A quiet kind of elegance seeps in around the edges of your vision, deep green walls and softer cream accents, dark woods and crystal that you fear might be something more expensive. 

Plants thrive in the front window, lending an air of carefully curated locality to the space. The employee at the front desk greets you as you go by, not a hint of judgement in her carefully schooled features. “Good evening, sir,” she inclines her head at the pair of you.

“Ma’am,” he answers, just as polite. You like how he sounds, how his voice touches the farthest reaches of your lungs when it reverberates against you. You feel bad for it, but you can’t help but notice how at odds he is with the place, and wonder briefly what he does for work. 

The rest of the lobby is deserted. 

There’s a bar, you notice, and a restaurant, empty at this hour.

The warm ghost of his fingers against your spine again urges you slowly along through a dark wooded archway and then up the stairs. 

He seems mindful of your heels and how short your dress is as you ascend. You wouldn’t mind if he tried to look up your skirt or touched the back of your thighs, but he doesn’t. 

“Joel,” he says when he unlocks the door to room 202 with a keycard. 

“Hm.” The room is intimate but not small, dominated by a large bed, sheets a crisp, clean white. The furniture here, too, is dark and quietly luxurious. It smells nice, not like cheap disinfectant and dollar store room spray. “Joel,” you repeat, and perch on the edge of the bed, cool against the backs of your legs. “That’s a nice name. I don’t even mind if it’s not your real one.” 

Joel fidgets with the lock, then slowly sits down next to you. He seems tired. “You got somethin’ I can call you, darlin’?” 

“Darlin’,” you say, imitating his drawl. The sound of his voice is comforting. It reminds you of the people you had grown up around, of your mother; your own accent shaken like a bad habit when you finally got away from them. “I like the sound of that.” 

“So you don’t got a name?” 

“Not really, no.” 

He leans close to you, there’s a hint of laughter in his voice for the first time. “That’s a damn lie.” 

You smile, flutter your lashes down, just a tad of innocence. “They call me Cherry.” 

“Cherry,” he repeats, trying it on for size. “Why?” 

“Why not? They have to call me something.” 

You aren’t fond of it, in truth, but you were loath to pick something like Chastity or Divinity or something worse. At least Cherry had a meaning, connected to something more. 

“Hm.” He looks like he’s thinking it over, eyes on the far wall and then back on you, watching you curl your legs up on the bed, palms braced on the mattress behind you. “I think darlin’ might work better.” 

“You’re giving me a name?”

The beginning of a smile tugs at his mouth. “I reckon so. There a reason they call you that?”  

You lie back on the bed. “Doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you want, Joel. I don’t mind.” 

He looks at you, eyes flitting over you again with a sudden clarity. The crease between his eyes deepens and then something firm settles in his gaze. “You mind me askin’ how old you are?” 

You blink hard, surprised, like cold water was thrown over you. “How old do you want me to be?” 

Something pained passes behind his eyes. That’s a first for you. That coy little response usually gets you a laugh and a worryingly low number as a reply. “That ain’t—I really want to know.” 

“My real age?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?”

When he doesn’t answer you slide your hand across the bed, rest your finger tips at the base of his spine and work into the tense flesh. If anything, he goes more rigid, so you let your hand drop. “My, my you are riddled with guilt.” 

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, if my wife knew I was with a woman half my age she’d crawl out of her grave to take me into it with her.” 

You shrug. “But she doesn’t know. And we aren’t really doing anything uncouth.” 

“Uncouth,” he murmurs, a huff of reluctant, almost laughter on his tongue. “You are somethin’ else.” 

You aren’t sure where to place that assessment. Supposing it’s a compliment, you pay him one back. “Well, I don’t think I’m half your age.” 

“You gonna tell me how old you are?” The question is barbed on his tongue, a sharp rebuke to your teasing. This is serious to him, and means the difference between spending the night with him, or wasting time getting back to the club, finding another john. You need the cash, you need him to decide. 

You have only a brief moment to consider if you should lie or not. But really it’s an easy choice, older is clearly going to soothe him. You tweak it and add a couple of years. If it soothes his conscience, let him relax, the lie is worth it. 

Besides, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll never see him again, after tonight. 

“I’m twenty-seven.” You press one hand over your heart, “Scout’s honor.”  

He squints at you. “Serious?” 

“If you were a different kind of man I’d guess I’d tell you I’m freshly eighteen and you would believe it.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters, not laughing. 

“I look. . .younger, I guess,” you say, earnestly as you can. That is true, at least. “Which is important in this line of work. I also don’t think men can really tell how old women are, most of the time anyway. I’d show you my ID but I think that’s bad business practice.”

“No, I believe you.” 

“Why? How old did you think I was?” 

He thinks for a moment, and then finally sinks down beside you. He stares up at the ceiling, fingers threaded together over his stomach. “At least twenty-two is what I was tellin’ myself.” 

“So if that’s half, you must be. . .forty-four?” 

“Try fifty-two,” he grunts. 

You think for a moment. “So not half your age, exactly,” you murmur, tentatively reaching out to touch him, waiting to see if he tenses up again when you stroke your fingers over his beard. 

He really is unfairly handsome. 

It’s no wonder all the girls had tried with him. A pretty, sad, lonely widower that just needed someone to talk to. 

Still, you wouldn’t mind if he did want to fuck you. 

“Close enough,” he says. 

“Is that why you said no? To Chastity?” 

Chastity, as far as you know, really is freshly eighteen.  

Those dark eyes meet yours. You can see streaks of gold in them, even in the dim lighting. He doesn’t stop you when you move your hand from his face to his chest, slowly rubbing back and forth. “You’re real good at this.” 

“At what?” 

“Gettin’ me to say more than I should.” 

“It comes with the territory. Besides, isn’t that the point? You can say it to me, and it won’t matter in a couple of hours. Like speaking into a void. Wishing it away.” 

He swallows and looks back at the ceiling, covering your hand with one of his own to pause its path. You can feel the echoing beat of his heart against your hand. It’s an oddly intimate move and for a moment you’re taken aback and unsure what to do. “One of my daughters is older n’ you. Than all of them girls that—” He glances at you. “Hard not to feel like a dirty old man.” 

“You’re a dirty middle aged man at worst.” 

A grunt of surprised laughter leaves him. “You’re funny.” 

“I know. It’s part of my charm.” You move your hand again and he releases your fingers to let you, eyes closing. The tension pulling at his neck and shoulders loosens as he finally relaxes. “It’s a good age though, really.” You notice the sheaf of little gray hairs starting to creep into the hair at his temples, a few in the bristles of his beard. It’s more honest that you usually dare to be, that you usually can be. 

You like older men; like the lines by Joel’s eyes and at the curve of his cheek when he smiles, the worn, steady quality of his palms, the gray hair, the not yet faded strength in his shoulders. “A handsome age. Girls like an older guy, you know.” 

“Uh-huh. Now you’re just sayin’ shit.”

You mean it though. He’s a dream, in more ways than one. You wonder what he’d think of you if you told him this isn’t your day job, that this is simply a means to an end, that you are more than this, a girl literally and figuratively on her knees. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to at least take my clothes off?” You offer. “I promise I’m pretty.”

He laughs again, still that slightly surprised huff, and the lines by his eyes crinkle up. “You’re plenty pretty right now, darlin’.” 

“See? A goddamned gentleman if I’ve ever met one.” 

He chuckles, there’s a looseness in his limbs now. You’ve satisfied something at least, enough to have him relax. 

You don’t ask, but he tells you a little of his wife, then. It wasn’t a love marriage, it seems, but convenience. She had a child from another man, him, a daughter from another woman, and it made sense for them to be together. Logistically and realistically and for tax reasons and trust reasons. But they lived together and shared everything, adopted a third kid together. His kids moved out years before, and now he’s alone so much of the time, now. They were companions and partners and he loved her in his own way, even if it hadn’t been strictly romantic.

It had been complicated, tangled. He seems like he still isn’t sure what they really were together. But he misses her, loves her still. 

“So you’ve never been in love?” 

He blinks. “No. I guess not. Not like that.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

“You? Really?” 

“It just doesn’t seem to find me.” 

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean by that. 

You listen and touch him, tracing the thick veins in his arms, the minute wrinkles by his eyes and the lines in his forehead. His is a face you’ll never forget for how long you’ve been gazing at him. It’s a face you won’t want to scrub from your memory the moment you leave the room. 

It’s nice to know you were right, that he is just lonely, just unused to being alone. 

Joel is a stranger, but it doesn’t really feel like you met him just hours before. You move his shirt and feel the outline of a scar on his side, the coarse hair on his belly, and he doesn’t stop you. 

He acquiesces when you tug it further up and then over his head. Some of them don’t like to be kissed on the mouth, so you don’t, pressing your lips along his neck and chest and belly. You listen to the hitch of his breathing, the sigh of his lungs. He closes his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounds nervous.

It’s impossible for you not to notice when he gets hard. Your skimming fingers and the close heat of the room seem to have been enough. “It’s all right to want this,” you murmur. You cup the bulge of him and squeeze gently. Air hisses through his gritted teeth. “Relax,” you coo and look into his face for a moment, his closed eyes, rubbing him gently through the thick denim of his jeans, relishing in the harsh breath that leaves him. 

Joel opens his eyes and meets your gaze. His stare is heavy and watchful, but he nods. 

With deft fingers, you unbuckle his belt. You have to look away to get the button undone and slide his zipper down. His breathing hitches when your fingertips brush his lower stomach, the dark thatch of hair that draws your hand lower. 

He groans lowly and threads one arm behind your back, tugging you into his side when you circle your fingers around the base. He’s bigger than you expected, thick. A whine spills out of his throat when you move your hand down him slowly and then back up, thumb sweeping over the already leaking head. 

“You like that, huh?” 

“Damn,” he mutters against your hair; the brush of his facial hair against your temple is a delicious little scratch. 

You turn your head to suck a harsh kiss against the side of his throat. He tastes like the salt of sweat there. Familiar and somehow new. “Been awhile, sweetheart? Is this all it takes?” You squeeze a little tighter as you twist your hand up.

He takes the teasing in stride, but shutters in your grip all the same, arches into your hand. It’s desperate, and he’s trying to keep it in.  

You like them like this, shivery and needy, and had not expected this man to be that way. You move your fist along his length, warm and heavy in your palm, pulsing with need in your grip. It makes you feel powerful in a way this moment usually makes you feel dirty.

You curl your fingers softly through his hair, watching him closely. There are spots of color high in his cheeks, eyes clenched closed. “Let go,” you murmur. “It’s just me and you here,” you assure. “Don’t keep it in.” 

He grunts softly, a breathy fuck whispering past his lips when he suddenly covers your hand with his. For just a second, he guides your fist, then stops. “Hold on. You sure?” It’s a panted question. 

“Sure?” You tilt your head, confused. 

“It ain’t what we agreed on, necessarily.” 

You laugh and sit up, stroking him from root to tip slowly, twisting your wrist. “Do you want me to stop? Kind of already in the middle of something here.” 

“Christ, no,” he grunts. 

His palm moves to press flat against your spine when you sat up. You expect it to wander, but it stays in place, warm against the naked expanse of your spine exposed by your top, like he’s supporting you. 

“Mhm.” 

He arches into your hand again when you move your hand faster, eyes fluttering shut. It really must have been awhile for him, or he’s incredibly sensitive, and you aren’t sure which is better. Warmth pools heavy between your legs, a formless ache that twists in a curl up into your gut. 

You want to touch yourself, and wish Joel would be a little more handsy, that he’d slide his fingers beneath your skirt and push your panties aside. His hand arcs from your hip to your spine and back again. 

Instead, you lean over and take him into your mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers, one hand against the back on your head now. “Warnin’ woulda been nice.” 

You pull back and spit lightly against him, rubbing the tip against your lips, and keep stroking him, fast and firm. You glance at him and then shift to move to the floor between his legs, not stopping the movement of your fist. “I’m about to suck your dick,” you say. “Unless you don’t want that. Is there something else you want from me?”

You slot yourself between his legs, curl one hand on his stomach and squeeze the other around the base of his cock. “Please?” A whine slips into your voice that you don’t work to put there. “You taste good.” 

There’s an oddly conflicted look on his face, lust tangled up with that earlier guilt, the shame of what he’s doing.

You slow your hand and rub his thigh. “Don’t feel bad about it. I promise I don’t.”

Sometimes, you have to lie. You do feel gross and disgusting and used. 

You aren’t lying to Joel now; there’s no need to. 

He covers your hand, big palm running up your arm to cup your elbow as he sits up. It’s surprisingly, so strangely, tender.

He surprises you again by reaching back with his other hand for a pillow. “Here,” he says and drops it on the floor. You want to tell him this is nothing, you’re used to kneeling on much rougher surfaces, fiberglass laden carpets that haven’t been vacuumed in years, scratching and leaving a rash that persisted until the day before you found yourself back there again. 

Instead, you wriggle forward onto it, the cool relief on your knees immediate, twisting your hand up his shaft as you go. 

Joel cups your cheek and presses a thumb over your mouth, spreading the shine of spit and precome left there against the seam of your mouth. You part your lips, and he touches your tongue, depresses the pad of it there until you close your mouth and suck gently, curling your tongue around him and let your eyes flutter closed for a moment. 

“Hell,” he mutters, caressing your cheek again when you release his thumb, waiting patiently for you to open your eyes. “Look at you.” 

A shiver tightens at the base of your spine. The light praise punches you squarely in the chest. You want him to keep looking at you like that, a songbird in a cage, a docile thing to do what he asks, for him to say that again. 

You let him lower your head to slide your tongue against his balls before flattening your tongue against the base of him, licking slowly up to the tip. You suck lightly, not looking away from him, running your tongue along the slit. He tastes like salt, a clean muskiness.

“Can you take all of it, darlin’?” 

You pull back with a little gasp and cough, feel the cup of his palm slide to your chest. “Yes,” you murmur, rubbing your thumb against the sensitive tip until he hisses through his teeth. “I can try.” 

You take his cock down your throat slowly, relaxing your esophagus, stroking what you can’t take yet. His palm is against the back of your head, guiding you down and then back up. “Good girl,” he mutters, the glow of that praise taking up residence in your chest again. “Takin’ me so well.” 

A fiery need pulses through your pussy, an ache that sits hollow between your legs, as you bob your hand, taking a little more of him each time, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. “C’mon, baby, you’re almost there. Know you can take it all.” 

The praise settles itself deep in your chest, thick and welcome. He guides you back and you take a gasping breath, coughing and looking up at him through tear webbed lashes. For one horrible moment, you think he might kiss you, but he just rubs his thumb against your lips again. 

You jerk his cock, not looking away from his eyes, the sound of your spit and his precome squelching in your first. 

His head tilts back, lips parting. You’re treated to the sight of his throat working, thick muscle contracting, veins standing out in a prominent green against the sheen of damp, golden skin. Joel’s hand slides to the back of your neck, then the top of your shoulders, palm flat against your spine. 

You lean down to suckle at the head again, and take a breath before sliding his thick cock down your throat, until your nose nestles against the thick thatch of hair at the base. The burn makes you choke around him, but you hold yourself there, tongue sweeping out against his balls. 

“Good girl,” you hear him mutter, the sound distant, throat contracting when you swallow around him. “Good job, darlin’.” 

You draw slowly up, and then look at him, releasing his dick with a pop. “I want you to come in my mouth.” 

Fingers curl against your jaw and draw you down. He hisses when you circle your tongue around him, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge of his orgasm. His body strains against you, hips bucking up to follow your mouth when you pull back. “Please,” you whine and lick the pulsing vein. “Please, Joel.” 

He grunts and then moans when you seal your mouth around him again. He pulses in your mouth, bitter and warm but not altogether unpleasant. You swallow it all, sucking until he makes a pained noise and pulls you up. 

You lick your lips and watch him flop back against the bed, hands beneath his head. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Just me.”

His laugh is exhausted and weak.  

You crawl up beside him, taking the pillow with you from the floor, ignoring the agony between your legs, how soft the bed feels beneath you.  Just the slightest brush of his fingers against you would probably make you come. The need is so intense your thighs ache, muscle spasming in little jumps. 

Still, you lie next to him and watch him breathe, chest rising and falling evenly. You brush a hand against his chest, the wiry curl of hair like lightning over your skin. He’s falling asleep and trying not to. “I can go.” 

He blinks and looks at you and the expression on his face tells you he forgot for a moment. He forgot that you’re whore, forgot even, maybe, that you aren’t his wife. 

“Do you smoke?” You say, to soften the blow of it.

“Not usually.” 

“Do you smoke right now?” 

“Sure.” 

You turn and scrabble for your purse, fishing in the depths for the carton of cigarettes. His fingers brush gently against your curled legs, against your ankle and calf and then jerk away, remembering himself with sudden alacrity. “Here,” you murmur, flopping on your back next to him. You flip the package open and pull out a cigarette and the lighter you stuffed inside earlier. 

You light it, blowing smoke toward the ceiling and hand it off. 

For a while, you pass the cigarette back and forth, fingers brushing, shoulders pressed together, before you curl over his stomach and put his soft dick back in your mouth. This time it only takes him a few minutes to come, sensitive and too spent to hold off longer, panting quietly into the warm air of the room.

You sit up, after, and peer in the mirror across the room to make sure you don’t look too much of a mess.  

Joel smokes again and then stubs the cigarette out in the tray on the bedside table, shifting to search for his wallet.

He has the gall to still look a little embarrassed. 

You take the cash out of his hand, doing a quick count, smiling, before you throw a leg over his hips and push him down, bracing your palms against the mattress by his head. You take a long look at him, knowing you’ll never see him again. Too guilt ridden, loneliness soothed for the moment. Shame will keep him from ever returning. You memorize his face, his shoulders and arms, the feeling of his wet cock between your legs, pressing against your underwear where your skirt had ridden up. 

“Don’t think about this too hard, okay?” 

“Think about what?” 

“About needing something.” 

He blinks and you shake your head. “It was okay. To need this. You’re welcome to come find me again anytime. Goodbye, Joel.”

With that, you roll away, adjust your skirt, and slink toward the door.

You hear him shift on the bed as the door snaps closed behind you, and sense there was something he wanted to say. But you don’t turn back. 

You ask the woman at the front desk to call you a cab back to the club, to your car. Joel tipped so well, or maybe just overpaid so much, that you don’t need to go back inside.

When you get back to your tiny, shitty apartment that you can barely afford, there’s no other face that you can conjure but his when you finally touch yourself in the darkness of your too hot bedroom, fingers working quickly, not bothering to hold back the moan in your throat. The sound of his voice, his praise, won’t soon fade. It loops on repeat in your mind, imagination trailing to what his beard would feel like on the inside of your thighs, if his cock might feel good inside you. 

Sweat beads at the backs of your knees and under your breasts, hips lifting toward an invisible mouth. 

When you come, you feel like you should mourn it being over. 

You decide you will not think about him, about why he affected you this way when none of the others ever had. 

[abbonation]

pretty kitty

[abbonation]

Cannibals : 1. House of Fools

An At the Restaurant story

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: It's two days til Christmas, and the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, giggling at one another for absolutely no reason other than it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours.

It's two day's til Christmas, and one of the more bizarre aspects of life is how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship to real love AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alternate Universe; Modern AU Din Djarin; Holiday Season AU; Fluff and Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotionally Unavailable Idiots; But Also, Idiots in Love; Complicated Characterizations of Imperfect People; If that's not your thing, click away dear reader; Grief; Unprotected Sex; So Down Bad it Makes You Look Stupid; Commitment Issues; Found Family; Self Esteem Issues; Insecurity; It's Called Fuckboy Conversion Therapy Look It Up; Toxic Relationship

A/N: Happy New Year, beautiful people.

Word Count: 7.5K

Read on AO3

House of Fools

Glass shattered on the white cloth  Everybody moved on Help, I’m still at the restaurant

The tree is set with multi-colored lights and tinsel and care. It’s a good tree, the one the two of you put up together as his little brother cheers you on. Too tall, fluffy and charmingly droopy, shoved into the corner of the two bedroom bungalow you’d helped them move into months ago. 

Three years is a long time to know a person. It is an even longer time to love someone. 

And yet, sometimes, it remains a half-full sort of love. 

You watch as he lifts his brother’s small frame above his shoulders to set the star atop, final touch sparkle, and you’re still looking in through the window of this honest and heartbreaking home of two, even from your seat within their warm living room. 

Finally, Din turns, and gives you that pink-glow smile, the one you love. Right corner of his mouth, pulling upwards—a dimple, tan skin and the flush of his appled cheek, and he’s really beautiful, sometimes yours, dedicated to many things before he is dedicated to you. But you’re here. And you’re grateful. The spaces for the shiny red ornaments you’d been assigned, carefully chosen and hung on the tree. Your imprint is there, in this small decision. Your mark on their home, on their Christmas tree. Your handwriting, looping and careful on the tags on the gifts you’d helped him wrap beneath the branches. Grogu, not Greg, thank you, written out with all the care and consideration you feel for the small boy who you’ve come to love as much as you love his brother. 

The two of you had come to some sort of staid agreement in the past year. Together. That’s what you are. Afraid of each other, too. Perhaps. Afraid of what you feel, of what could become of it. But aware enough now that you can both understand you can not be without one another, so that any sort of lingering fear or trepidation was forced to become secondary. There were eggshells still, to be treaded on. A carefulness about the way the two of you approach one another day in and day out. An awareness on your part, that there is so much past loss and even more future responsibility awaiting him so that he’ll always live his life afraid and with bated breath for the worst still yet to come. On his part, the awareness of an easily broken heart and a willingness to give more of yourself than is right. And a promise to be careful with those things. Or at least to try. 

But you’re together and it’s not easy, per se, but it’s necessary, and you don’t ask for more even though you want it. Even though there’s still that small bit missing. And every time you look at him, every time he’s sweet and considerate and so aware of you it’s almost overwhelming, and when he touches you in that way that is so delicious it should be illegal, you’ll say: I like you so much, Din because you’re afraid to say the stronger word out loud. 

You prepare for the holidays with frenzy. In between classes and your thesis and a reading list so long you’re afraid your eyesight will never recover this finals season, you still find the time to do your gift shopping and help him with his. The three of you go out one evening in early December to buy their tree. Taller than Din, is Grogu’s stipulation and the decree that leads to the slightly hunched behemoth with the lopsided star held on by the sheer force of a zip tie’s will. 

The two boys meander slowly amongst the evergreens while you trail behind, watching them. The way Din towers over the young boy, occasionally bopping him over the chunky green hat with the droopy knit ears, listening intently at Grogu’s excited chatter. The sweater Din has on had been carefully chosen between you and your mother for his birthday, navy blue half-zip knit that makes him look so sexy and is so, so exciting to unzip, bearing the sharp edges of his collar bones, keeping him warm so that when you slip your hand beneath the hem and up against his hard stomach his skin almost burns. 

Or maybe it’s just you, the burning. Maybe it’s what you make together. 

Grogu had vetoed seven trees thus far—not fat enough, not tall enough, too wimpy, doesn’t have the right “vibe”. The kid said it needed to be wide enough so that all the naked little angel babies he loved to collect, and for which he’d been soundly sent home from school two weeks ago for—and this is a direct quote from the principal Mrs. Armorer as per Din—‘enabling a covert trading ring as if these artifacts were the most insidious of contraband being distributed amongst the most derelict of city streets’. An exaggeration surely, but Din’s own hatred for the little angels only reinforced the gravity of the boy’s crime. And as he’d so eloquently put it, “When I looked up in the shower the other day to find twenty of them watching me wash my dick, I knew we had a problem.”

If only he also knew you were the one constantly buying them for the kid. 

When you blink your daze away, resurfacing from your thoughts, the boys have disappeared. You can hear the sound of Grogu’s voice in the distance, high pitched and laughing, and when you look up at the dark night sky, the first flurries of snow are starting their spiral fall. The warmth of the cocoa the three of you had bought at the entrance of the Christmas tree farm has long since left you, and you burrow further into the damp warmth of the scarf wrapped around your neck, suddenly unable to catch any sound but the rhythm of your own breaths. 

You take a few more steps forward, peering through the trees and seeing no one—there had been so many people just minutes ago—when a strong tug at the back of your puffer pulls you between the branches of two of the larger evergreens. 

His breath is warm on your face, you can smell the sweetness of the chocolate and marshmallows, but his lips are cold when they press against the corner of your eye, pulling you in close against him, pushing you deeper into the pines.

“Kiss me. I’m cold,” he pouts, another flutter of lips to the apple of your cheek, the point of your chin, and then he’s licking against your mouth and his tongue is hot as sin, sweeter than the chocolate. You open for him, pulling him against yourself as tightly as he pulls you, pressing up on your tippy toes to get even closer.

“I couldn't find you. Din—” you gasp, kissing him again, again. 

“Can’t get lost in the snow, baby.” The puff of his laugh is warm against your face, the tip of his cold reddened nose nudging against your own. You cling to him more tightly, feeling unfocused, almost drunk—the tip of his tongue against the arch of your cupid's bow. There are snowflakes catching in his eyelashes. The deep green of the trees, the sky, dark and falling above you, the cold everywhere except for where he touches you, presses against you. 

“Need this kid to pick out a tree so we can go the fuck home and get in bed,” he says, shivering and grouchy. “Still gotta strap it to the car, lug it inside…” He buries his face in the warm space between your throat and scarf and whines. 

His hair is long enough right now it sticks out the back of his beanie, curling against the edge, and you tangle your fingers in the soft locks, holding him there pressed against you. You can hear Grogu sing-songing your names, coming up behind where you’re embracing with loud stomping gallops, bulldozing into your back hard enough he’d knock you over if you didn’t have his brother there to hold you up. The boy wraps his arms around your waist, shaking the two of you out of your daze, demanding you stop making out and get moving. 

“Don’t whine, I’m going to help you.” You say it laughing, fond and grateful. Grateful that you get the chance to be here with the two of them. 

-

“You use laundry softener?”

 Wham! plays softly through the overhead speaker of the empty grocery store. It’s early on a Friday, and both of you had found yourselves with the rare treat of being off work and out of classes at the same time. It would be a busy weekend for him, the last home stretch before Christmas. The 23rd and he’d be swamped at the bar the next two nights, facing the revelers returning home for the holiday, eager to get drunk on booze and merry joy. 

“Yeah. Don’t you?” He turns to press his mouth against your temple where you cling to his arm, slumped over the shopping cart he's been slowly pushing through each aisle. He has a list he’s not looked at once, throwing things into the basket thoughtlessly. When you get home, you know he’ll complain he got too much he didn’t need, but you keep quiet, happy to see him have his indulgence. 

“I do. Yeah.” You don’t know why the sight of the lavender scented softener makes you pause—the same one your mother buys for your parent’s home. Maybe because in some moments, the reminder that Din is also someone’s mother is more sobering and obvious than others. 

“Smells good,” he says as he reaches for a box of Scooby Doo fruit snacks. Two boxes of granola bars go in next, peanut butter protein for himself and double-chocolate puff for Grogu. 

Pressing your face into the hard muscle of his shoulder, you inhale deeply. Silently agreeing with a nod of your head, pressing your fingers into the swell of his bicep beneath the thick fabric of his dark hoodie. 

Tipping his chin, he gives you a sly, knowing look. “What?” He asks—half-crooked smirk. But you can’t even say, and anyways he knows. You drag your fingernails against his muscle, tummy going tight, hiding your face in the warm cotton, shaking your head. 

His laugh is soft and gently teasing. 

The post office is a mess after the grocery store, and the two of you stand in line for forty-five minutes, waiting to buy stamps and post the last minute Christmas cards to your friends you’d entirely forgotten about in the mania of turning in the final draft of your thesis to your advisor. Another thing that was in the home stretch—your fight to get your masters had been a long journey of indecision and self doubt, but you were so close to being done you could taste the freedom. Your edits were going smoothly, and your advisor, Luke, had been a great help this past year. Disheveled beard and mind in a million places at once, a little bit of a hippie, but always patient and kind and in tune with your wants and ideas when you were really desperate for him to be so. Din had been so supportive, as well. Staying up late with you when you needed to study or write, perfecting the art of a BLT and keeping you fed, because as he put it, there was much more to the construction of it than just bacon, lettuce and tomato. Even though they always ended up being nothing more than just that, it was the action that counted. 

You’d be presenting at the end of January, and you were looking forward to being done with school once and for all and being able to work. You’d been offered a position at the public library as the junior librarian over heading the non-fiction department, and you were more eager than words could express. It wasn’t only the idea of leaving behind your little job at the bookstore and being able to come home with something more than a meager paycheck, it was also the notion that you’d finally done something. You’d made a decision for your life, and you’d seen it through, and come January 19th with no extraneous tragedies, you’ll have succeeded. It wasn’t something you were used to, making a sure decision and seeing it to completion. Throughout the course of your program there had been so many times when you’d felt as if it was all a play-act, a game you were taking part in through each step and that eventually, the rouse would be up and you’d realize you weren’t actually passing your classes or enjoying the field you’d chosen for yourself or doing well at this thing you’d so agonized over the decision of. 

But here you are now. You’d committed to something and you’d seen it through and not only had you not coasted by, but you’d excelled to a degree that had gotten you a job you were extremely happy with. 

And amidst all this, there was also something about doing this and having the people in your life see you do this—having Din see you do this. Having Din see you commit to something and stick to it with your whole heart. You wanted him to know you were capable of such a thing. 

After the post office, he obliges you with a wander through the frantically busy Old Port streets. Picking up some last minute wrapping paper you’d been eyeing for the little box of earrings you’d gotten your mother, delicately hand-painted trees and golf leaf holly, some cigars for your father’s stocking. You purchase a box of assorted salt water taffy when his back is turned, large enough it should last him at least half the year, hopefully, considering the way he goes through it. And you stop to get a little cup of gelato to share between the two of you despite the twenty degree day. You walk slowly, your arm looped through his and your hands twined together, your fingerless gloves folded warmly into his fleece covered palms, protected. And this is how you best love being with him—sharing bites of sweet cream gelato from the tiny spoon held in his long fingered hands, he feeds you every other step—when he feels so yours. When he’s most like your boyfriend, and the whole world can see that the two of you are together so that it’s real, so that there’s proof and witnesses you can revel in. 

Perhaps it’s insecurity, this feeling. Low self esteem that demands constant reassurance. Perhaps it’s pride. Candid and unashamed elation you feel when people see the two of you on the streets together and know you belong to each other. 

He drives you over the bridge and into the Cape after lunch to pick up a package from your parent’s house that had been mistakenly delivered there. The place is quiet, neither of them home yet, but you can see the Christmas tree lit up and sparkling warmly through the large bay windows in the family room, your mother’s heirloom hand-blown ornaments backlit and glowing.

The kid is at a sleepover tonight, the last Christmas celebration for him and his friends before the 25th, smores and ghost stories and a game of white elephant. Making the most of your freedom, the two of you pick up large coffees before heading to the North Viewpoint to sit together for a few hours before Din has to head in for his shift at the bar. The sun begins to set at about four this time of year, and you’re able to catch the last fiery burst of it slipping beneath the water’s edge before you’re left in the murky darkness of the oceanfront. The horizon turns to a purple grey frisson you feel imitated in the over-eager beat of your heart. All there is to hear is the sound of your synchronized breaths and the furious salt spray crashing against the rock cliffs. It’s like you’re the only two people left in the whole world. 

It’s been a perfect day so far. 

Twin splashes of the Baileys you’d nicked from your parents house while Din hunted for your package, go into your coffees, and the two of you settle into a contented silence. The heater is on full blast, warming your frigid fingers and toes, while your Irish coffee melts you from the inside out. Makes you go all soft. The sweet of the drink makes you tipsy fast, and you eagerly go for a second helping from the thermos he’d prepared while he paces himself for his shift later. 

Frank Sinatra’s I’ll Be Home for Christmas comes on the radio, and Din drops your fingers he’d been playing with to turn up the volume. 

“This is my favorite one,” he says softly, reaching for your hand again and bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss against the quickly warming skin. Your fingertips buzz and tingle, suppressing a heart-set-to-burst sigh, and you want to say that it’s your favorite too, all of it. The two of you here together, the overwhelm of the water, so dark if you were to fall in you’d surely disappear off the face of the earth never to be found again. The suspended stillness of you sitting here before it. 

This is the neighborhood you grew up in, the exact spot you’d had your first kiss at thirteen and then clumsily gone to second base a couple years later with your highschool boyfriend. Din had found that small piece of your history endlessly fascinating, knowing he was sitting in the place of your ‘historic first fingering’. You’d tried to throttle him when he’d said that, flushing with embarrassment from head to toe, and then a flush of a different sort when he’d made you come on his own hand afterwards. And in record time, lest he be outdone by the competition of your teenage past. 

But it was true, this was a place significant to your history, and now, it had become a place the two of you found yourselves at often, together. The playground of your upbringing you’d been able to share with him as much as he’d allowed. All the times he’d driven you over the bridge to your parent’s house to spend the night—never coming in, but always kissing you soundly and waiting to drive off until you’d made it safely inside. It didn’t hurt your feelings, you wouldn’t let it, his not coming in. And anyways, you’d never formally asked him except for that time your father had thrown your mother’s fifty-fifth birthday party. A large and extravagant thing because he claimed double fives were lucky. Din had played dumb until the last minute, and then politely refused, sending flowers in his stead. You hadn’t been upset because you’d expected the refusal. He’d claimed he couldn’t find a babysitter, lied, but you knew it was a hard limit for him. The metaphorical line that could not be crossed. Whether that was because it would inevitably be a hallmark simply too serious and devoted to come back from. Or, and more devastating an option to consider, because it was too hard for him to see the happiness that still lived through your family, the care and love you and your parents had for each other. The closeness. You knew. You know. You could see it in the look in his eyes when he dropped you off once a week for family dinner and a sleepover, wine nights and board games and things he couldn’t understand. Saw the way he’d look up at you the moment before you’d open the front door, eyes full of yearning and hurt for parents who would never again be. A look that said he didn’t think he could ever belong to something like that. 

His twelve minute drive to drop you off was enough. It meant more to you than perhaps it meant to him, his bringing you to the doorstep of your home full of love and parents who were still alive. So you didn’t, wouldn’t, let it hurt your feelings, his refusal to join you. 

And anyways, your mother knew all there was to know about him. Your father, aware of his existence but unwilling to extend the benefit of his doubt or any sort of grace because he held it against Din that he’d never shown his face in their home. He couldn’t understand, thought that getting the chance to be with you should’ve been enough to cure whatever past trauma kept Din from committing himself fully to his little girl. Your mother was keener, though, more understanding. Especially after you'd run into him once at the grocery store together. He’d had to run in unexpectedly for last minute cookie supplies Grogu had conveniently forgotten to mention he needed for school the next day. And the way Din had blushed and stammered, shaken her hand no less than three entire times, babbling about how he was so glad he’d gotten the chance to meet her, the glaze in his eyes when he’d looked at you, like he was begging you to see how pleased he was, how ashamed, how confused and hurt and shy and out of his depth. How desperate he was to be approved of but how unwilling he was to let himself be. 

Your mother had held your hand afterwards, in the car on the way home, while you’d been unable to hold back a few helpless tears for the heartbroken boy you couldn’t help but love. And still, you promised yourself your feelings weren’t hurt. You promised yourself it was enough and that you could understand. 

He takes a long pull of his warm drink, and you watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, pressing your thighs together to assuage the tight heat in your belly. His cheeks are flushed with bright red splotches from the bite of the cold outside and the blasting heat of the car’s vents, the spike of whiskey, and you can see his eyes swing from one end of the dark ocean to the other. Wondrous, almost. You’d tell him you feel the same if you didn’t want to keep him. 

“What’re you looking at?” He says without turning, half smile and the flash of a dimple. 

“I think I’m buzzed already,” you mumble, cheek smooshed against the seatback. 

He laughs softly, corners of his eyes creasing so endearingly that your heart gives a stupid, pitiful throb. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Finally, he turns to look at you. You cross your legs tightly, can’t help it, and his gaze flashes briefly, knowingly, to your legs. “My little light weight. Can’t handle shit.” He chucks you under the chin, voice full of fondness, pinching the soft skin to pull you towards himself. 

“You know whiskey makes me drunk fast,” lashes fluttering as he presses a bitter sugared kiss to your mouth. 

“That’s your excuse for everything we drink.” You pout against him, breathing a don’t tease against his mouth when he kisses you again, changing the angle, deepening it, giving you his tongue. “It’s alright, I like you just the way you are.”

The sound of his favorite song throbs in your ears before it floats away, and then it’s just the sound of your heavy breathing again as you tug him closer by the collar of his sweater, wanting to pull him over the console and on top of you. His mouth slides a wet path over your cheek to suck on the sensitive spot beneath your ear he loves best, humming deep in his chest at the taste of you. 

Nothing has ever felt better than touching him. 

The hand at the back of your neck moves to your front, slowly pulling the zip of your jacket down; the sound loud and shocking amidst the heave of your panting. Despite the heater, you’re wracked with shivers as he pushes your jacket open and over your shoulder, cupping your breast as he sucks on your neck. 

“You gonna get in the backseat and fuck me?” He murmurs between wet kisses and a soft bite. 

He pulls you across his lap after your mad scramble between the seats into the back of his little 2008 hunk-of-junk Corolla, silver and shitty but reliable, according to Din. The space is too small for his tall frame, and the burst of biting cold that’s let in during his thirty second spin to join you in the back has you shivering against his broad chest. Long legs bent against your back and spread wide but allowing you ample space to sit on strong thighs. Now it’s your turn to taste him, scraping your teeth against the hard edge of his jaw while your cold fingers sneak their way under his hoodie, dragging your nails over the hard planes of his abdomen, pulling a gruff whimper from his throat. You spread your thighs wide, grinding down against the hard bulge in his jeans, finding the perfect angle to press your clit against the seam of denim. 

“Fuck, baby. Fuck me—” he moans your name and it’s the greatest sound in the world. Worth everything. 

Your kisses turn sloppy, desperate, fingers twisting tightly into his hair, pulling his mouth against yours until it hurts. And there’s something about the fact that no matter how many times the two of you do this together—whether it’s hard and fast in the back of a shitty car in the freezing cold or slow and deep and helpless, when he wakes you in the middle of the night, warm and naked in his bed, sliding over you and between your thighs, tasting your cunt before he’s pressing inside, needing inside of you—it’s always, always bursting with a sort of frenzy. A desperation, even in the slow, that helps make up for other things that might be missing—that proves a point. A promise in the way he touches you, like he’ll never get enough, like he’ll always want more, even if it’s just of this. 

When you pull him from his jeans, hot and heavy in your palm, his breathing goes ragged and the flush in his cheeks meets the hot splotchiness of lust crawling up his neck and over his jaw. His moan is broken, needy, head falling back against the seat and eyes rolling backwards, the soft curls around his ears damp with sweat. You lick your palm, gripping him tight and slick, twisting at the thick head as he tries to fuck himself into your fist, hips jerking helplessly. He’s yours like this. Gorgeous and vulnerable in the palm of your hand, moaning that you make him feel so good, that you’re doing it just right, that you’re his good girl. He wants you so much like this, gripping your hip with one wide palm, the other clutching at your ass to pull you in closer. You wrap your fingers halfway around the wide base, squeezing, other hand concentrated at the tip, working him round and round. You’d make him come like this, quick and sloppy in seconds if he’d let you, show him how good you are and how quickly you can make him feel better than anyone else ever has. 

But soon he’s demanding, “Inside. Want inside your cunt,” and shoving you sideways to rip your boot and one side of your leggings off, yanking the center of your thong aside to slick his tip against your swollen wet before he’s pressing against your entrance. All “Let me in. Let me in. You’re fucking perfect—” Chest heaving. 

He works himself inside slowly, in stuttered thrusts of his hips, moaning while he goes. Clutching at your hips and rocking you forward while he forces his way in from below. The sticky wet sound of your grinding against him, your clit rocking against his pelvis until you’ve taken him so deep the pressure is just this shy of painful so that you know you’re going to come quick and hard and wet. 

His hand snakes it’s way beneath your sweater, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he makes his way up your back, gripping tightly at the nape of your neck, squeezing, his other palm flat against the base of your spine to hold you imobile. Allowed nothing but the helpless jerk of your hips, chasing your pleasure, desperate for your orgasm while you feel him throb against the deepest part of you. 

“Please, Din.”

“Wait. Wait. Not yet. You feel so fucking good.” 

The sex is messy. He tells you he wants more. The wet sound of his thighs slapping against your ass as he starts to thrust again, gripping the swell of your bottom to bounce you on his cock, meeting each other on the up and down. In tune with one another’s bodies in a way you've never been with anyone else. Your cunt clenches tight, it almost hurts, and he laughs, bends his head to bite at your breast over the thick knit of your sweater. Please, baby, I want more. Hold on just a little longer. Your face and throat flush hot, burning, you can feel the sweat collect at your temples and along your spine as he tugs gently at your nipple with his teeth, fucks into you with snapping hips, the rock forward of your clit sliding against his hard stomach. 

It’s dizzying. You can’t help it. You come with a cry of his name, clutching him to your breast, wrapping your arms around his head as his bite turns reprimanding, “Fucking lightweight, I told you.” Another laugh that turns into a strangled moan when the heat of his come fills you as your muscles clench tightly around him. The gruff sound he makes: masculine, vulnerable again—the way you wish he’d always be—a mix of your name and a whine. Now that, that makes all the rest of it worth it. 

-

You’re supposed to meet Bo and her girlfriend for drinks at a new wine bar at half past eight. A cosy little place tucked into the cobbled streets of downtown you’ve all been desperate to try. She’d mentioned the plan every day for two weeks, giving away her nerves at the prospect of the three of you getting together. Likely afraid of your reaction at what you’re sure will be the announcement that she and Fennec are planning to move in together, news you've been expecting for a while and which you’ll take more than happily. They’re in love and your friend, who had always been known to be light and wandering as a butterfly in love, was ready to settle down and commit herself to someone she truly wanted to be with in a real way. There was never the possibility of your being anything but happy and excited for the two women. After all, you and Bo had been waiting for this for a long time, steadiness, commitment, a forsaking of that fear of forever you’d always found camaraderie in. 

And it only added to that keen sense the past few months had brought along, that the two of you were growing up in a real and immeasurable way. Your lives were changing, moving on, who you were as people was evolving. Leaving behind the last vestiges of your frivolous youth full of too much partying and more fun than anyone should probably rightfully have for something steadier, more reliable. Grown up. As much as you’d miss your friend, your housemate of the past five years, this move spoke well of what was to come for the both of you. 

Din makes the two of you a quick dinner before you have to part ways for the night—a creamy mushroom risotto and a crisp glass of white wine for you. The man likes to get you drunk and slutty. Watching him move around the kitchen, lithe and capable, makes you squirm for more of what he’d given you earlier, the sound of his moans in your ear and the wash of his hot breath against your throat while he throbs inside of you. 

The house is cozy, the warmth of the tree, the toys strewn across the living room floor, the precariously leaning tower of Din’s cookbooks at the edge of the kitchen counter, the overflowing pile of laundry on the sofa waiting to be folded and Grogu’s art pinned by spaceship magnets to the refrigerator door. Something you’d always admired in the way Din had taken on parenting his brother, the way he'd nurtured and preserved Grogu’s childhood, giving him the space and safety to be a little boy for as long as he needed without the pressure of feeling like he had to grow up too fast. Not the way Din had. 

He brings your dinner to you on the sofa, presenting it to you with a flourish of steam and his beautifully proud grin, like, look what I’ve made for you, aren’t I a nice boy? And the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, silverware clinking as you watch each other eat, giggling softly at one another for absolutely no reason other than that it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do together, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours. 

Then, one of the more bizarre aspects of life: how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next. 

“You and Greg should come to dinner at my parents tomorrow night.” You don’t know why you say it, or where it comes from. “My mom would really love to have you, and she makes a great Christmas Eve roast.” Probably because it’s simply the truth. You want him there, quite desperately. Both of them. And your mother had asked. Your dad too, why he wasn’t joining you all, why he didn’t want to. 

You suppose you also want to hear why he doesn’t want to. What excuse he'll give. 

He goes silent, fork halfway to his open mouth, and a stupidly shocked expression on his face you could slap off of him. 

Suddenly, you’re angry enough you could cry. 

“My dad got some really nice wine too, something about a two thousand ten harvest—he said it’s something real special,” you press. “Do you want to come? My mom can make up a room for you guys so you don’t have to drive back, and then on Christmas morning we can—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “We can’t. What are you doing?” He sets his plate down loudly on the coffee table, the rattle of his fork making you jerk. 

Your throat convulses around a swallow, your own plate held shakily in your lap. You should stop, but you feel ruinous. Half-full and ready to self implode. 

It had been such a perfect day, resplendent with that knick of time possibility. That maybe forever tease. But in the end, what is this casual intimacy, and why does it always feel like a wait in line for the execution block? He should want to spend tomorrow with you, let it be another perfect day. 

“Why not? Why can’t you?” 

“We have plans already.”

“What plans? You’re just going to be here. My father wants to meet you.”

“Well I don’t want to meet him. What is it that you’re trying to do here?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head quickly in a nod. Okay. Okay. Open your eyes again. “Okay. Then tell me what your parents were like.”

He jerks back in a flinch. “What?”

“Tell me. You’ve never told me about them before. Not really. I want to know what they were like. All I have to go by is a fucking photograph I had to rifle through your drawers for. Do you have traditions for Christmas they left you with? What were they like? Tell me, Din.” Your tone is perfunctory, cold and biting, too fast and not the tender sort a conversation like this requires. 

And he gives you a sort of look—one that asks, are we really doing this? But you’ve already decided you won’t let him get away with it this time. You’ll ruin it all if you have to. And you know he won’t ever tell anyone else, so he might as well tell you. Right? You, who knows and cares and asks. 

Who else will ask you these sorts of things? You want to say. Who else will help you remember? Who’s going to love you like I do?

Your gaze is persistent, and he nods once, swallowing acceptance, finally understanding what it is you’re doing—ruining it all. 

“What is any parent that’s gone like? Perfect in your memory. I don’t know… They were real and busy and kind and thoughtless. All the things all parents are. But they’re absent now. That’s all I'm left with, which I hate. They’re dead, and that’s all they’ll ever be and I resent them for it. What else do you want me to say? What would I do at your parent’s house? I don’t know what I…I wouldn’t belong—We wouldn’t—” His jaw is set in anger as he says it, choking on his stumbled words. 

Your chest aches with a repressed sob, and you refuse to blink and miss a single second of this. 

“What were you like as a child?” He looks at you like he can’t understand why you’re doing this to him. 

“Solitary, but not lonely.” I’m equipped for this in reverse, you think. “And then Greg was born, and I was a kid for only a very short time longer. Why are you asking me this? I don’t have anything for you but sorry answers. Is this really the shit you want to talk about?”

You clutch your plate more tightly. “I want to kn-know you. I—”

“You do!” His voice goes from measured to a yell very quickly. “You know me better than anyone else! What more do you fucking want from me? Jesus Christ—” he spits, shoving himself off the couch to pace away from you, running his fingers through his hair, agitated, angry. You’re never satisfied, he says at the wall. 

It’s true. You’re not. 

It’s helpless. You feel big and greedy. You’re never going to be able to stop wanting more. And you’d always told yourself, tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow, it will—he will—be different. Something will change because it has to, because everything always changes. 

But you realize in this moment that maybe the only change here has ever needed to come from you. 

You realize that you’ve been eating your own illusions for too long, selling yourself snake oil. 

“I don’t want to be alone in this anymore,” you tell him. “I want more.”

“But what? What more is there? You’re not alone, and I don’t—” he makes some choked noise of frustration, “This is all I have to give. Can’t you see that? I don’t know—” The look he gives you, palms out and pleading, like some infinitely lost boy—half abandoned child, half apology. 

“I don’t know either,” you cut him off, setting your plate down next to his with a surprisingly steady hand. 

It’s a lost battle, no more starry eyed sleight of hand, all the cards are on the table. 

When you look back at him you can see the emotion choked behind his eyes. That you’ve pushed him beyond the line of his own reasoning and into hurt. But his comfort had to become secondary to yours eventually. You couldn’t tend to it forever with as much care as you’d always done without hurting yourself. 

And everything has a breaking point. 

“Maybe I wanted you to think of someone other than yourself for once.” You see the blow land. The snapping bone, wrong-thing-said reaction. It’s a lie, after all, you know it. A terrible lie, a terrible thing to say to someone who has so obviously given up everything and their whole life, their youth, for the sake of another, and done so gladly. 

Perhaps a wiser person would take this as reasoning enough for Din’s behavior. For his lack of ability to give more of himself to a relationship. Perhaps for someone more mature or with more experience, with a greater sense of self, it would be obvious, the fact that a person who’d lost so much of themselves so young found it hard to love, to give themselves over to partnership and the sort of commitment needed for a fully functioning adult relationship. But you can’t, or choose not to see it anymore. Perhaps you’re tired of fighting, of working so hard for it. Perhaps you’re tired of waiting. 

His face turns away like you’ve struck him, and for a long moment he doesn't turn back, but when he does there’s anger almost like hate, and his eyes are wet with tears. You wish you could be cruel, laugh in his face, but your own drip from your chin as well. And anyways, it’s so shocking there isn’t any room for cruelty. 

You go gasping fish silent, until he says, “I do. It’s just not you.” The salt lie drips from his long lashes and he moves, turning away from you towards the Christmas tree you’d picked out and decorated together, the gifts for his brother you’d chosen and wrapped with him. 

“What did you want here? From this?” Maybe he means the fight now, but what does it matter compared to the whole mess and lie of this entire fraught ordeal. 

“Well…” you stand, moving for your purse on the kitchen table. There is, in everyone, a limit to the amount of pain you’ll put up with for love. You can’t ever know the limit beforehand, but once you’re there, you know, and then it’s impossible to move the line. “I figured you’d love me.”

The word out loud is shocking, never before been said. 

You hear his stuttered breath, the way your words might make him angry. Throwing this lacking of his in his face—his inability to love the person who loves him. You think you should tell him that you’ll hate him now, but you’ve never been a talented liar. You think you should ask him if it’s such a bad thing, to want his love. But you know he won’t have an answer. You know he doesn’t believe he has it in himself. 

You move towards the door, pausing at the mouth of the hall to their bedrooms. The lopsided ‘Greg’ sign tacked to the kid’s door. The ‘E’ had been haphazardly turned into an ‘O’, a ‘U’ scribbled on at the end, the slip of the shaky marker bleeding out messily onto the wood of the door at the tail end of the letter. Like the child had been hasty in his vandalism and slipped, afraid he’d be caught by his older brother. 

It makes you smile dimly. 

And below that, in a green meld of water colors and marker and crayon, depicted in a manner so lovely it could only come from the imagination of a child, a drawing of the three of you together, stick-figured and holding hands. 

Like a family. 

“We’re eating each other alive,” you whisper at the imagination family. He moves forward, his socked footsteps towards your turned back.

You’re truly crying now, unable to hold back the sob of grief, of too much time wasted and a loss of yourself you’ve yet to fathom the depth of. He’s looking at your face again, finally, and you think, let this be the last time. Let this be the end of it now so that I’ll never have to feel like this again. 

He’s crying too, and you want to be angry at him, at the lie you have to take it for. He cannot cry and not love you back. It’s not possible. 

“Is that it?” All you can manage is a half nod that dislodges the cold tears clinging to your chin. “We had a good run,” he says like an almost question, and looks at you very sadly—tiny flame of struggling hope about to die. A held breath: should I go with grace? sort of look-back. But the gleam in his eyes, like he really might care, like this hurts, like he might feel anything—there are no notions of valor left. 

No benevolence to be found in this moment. You’re very tired. “Did we?” Head cocked to the side gracelessly. If ever you could hurt him the way you’ve been hurt here, now would be the time. The last chance. 

“Maybe not.”

We were so close. We almost had it. You’re so, so tired. You could sleep for an age. 

You take your hurt and go after that, not entirely understanding what it is that’s happened here between the two of you, why you’ve wrought it so suddenly. Also, relieved. That finally, everything’s been ruined for good. That there might be rest now. 

Christmas comes, neither one of you calls, there’s nothing else left to say. 

2. LOVE.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[abbonation]

the new baby you take care of is the cutest baby you've ever met. (a lil dubcon, baby trapping, 18+)

he has a big head with a tuff of little blond waves, and he has the brightest brown eyes in the entire world. he smiles at every face you make at him, and he takes a bottle like a champ and will nap for hours as long as you're quiet.

his father has a strict schedule set for him. when you met that big man for the very first time, you were speechless. your teeth had clacked together with how fast you tried to close your gawking mouth, but it was impossible not to with how much he towered over you, nearly touching the top of the doorway.

he is methodical, down to every minute. tacked onto the fridge, he had shown you his son's current schedule, which he emphasized with a dead glare must be followed to a T.

two feedings in the morning followed by a nap. another feeding. a longer nap. another feeding. another nap. all separated in increments of 45 minutes, with instructions on how to use the bottle warmer and how to measure the formula.

his son does not cry. his father had told you, if he cries, y'r doin' somethin' wrong. and he was right. the baby only cried when he was hungry, and he would fall into a dead sleep as soon as you gave him a bottle.

it's odd, to take care of someone else's baby. especially this man's. there's no woman in the house, as far as you can tell. the whole house is decorated very minimally, cozy and in shades of warm greens and cool blues and browns. there are no heeled boots by the door or pretty fur coats, and whenever you pass by his bedroom, only one side of his bed ever looks lived-in. there are no pictures on the walls, no makeup in the bathroom drawers, and no pads or tampons under the sink.

just a big, unfeeling man and his big, adorable baby.

but you think that your actions to get this big, unfeeling man to like you are starting to have the wrong kind of implications.

it starts with dinner. you start to make it, using the ingredients from his fridge to make stews and buttery mashed potatoes and roasted veggies. the image of you stirring a pot with his baby on your hip has not left him, and whenever you don't have some kind of meal cooking when he gets home, you answer to someone curt, annoyed, and cold, even to the touch.

then it's the decorating. you thought his couch was a little bare, so now there's a few throw blankets laying across the back of it. there's a vase of pretty tulips on the coffee table. you're growing herbs on the windowsill, little pots of thyme and rosemary and basil. you leave house shoes by the door now, and even when you're not there, he sees those fuzzy pink slippers in the foyer, and he can't help the way he chubs up just seeing them when you're not around.

you start to bring some extra changes of clothes. after the baby spit up on you more than once in a day, you bring a duffel bag with you once a week with extra changes of clothes. he snarls when he sees your clothes in one of his drawers; pretty black panties and matching bras, all laid out under your lounge wear right next to his fucking socks.

the toothbrush next to his in the bathroom. the multi-colored chapsticks in the drawers. tampons and pads organized in the cabinet, your moisturizer next to his shaving cream. he smacks his fist against the wall when he sees the finished package of your birth control in the trash because wot the fuck are y'doing taking those things when y'know i want another--

he can see you in the baby monitor. swaying in the dark of his son's room, the baby's head on your chest as you rock him softly. you're singing a little, a gentle hum to soothe him enough that his eyes start closing. he groans a little when he sees your eyes shut as you kiss his son on the forehead, cooing at him as you pat his little back and tell him to have sweet dreams.

you're making brownies when he comes home that night. his son is seated in his high chair, clapping his hands, and you're smiling at him and cooing in that baby voice you do as you take the warm brownies out of the oven. when you see him emerge from the darkness of his living room, you smile at him, taking off the oven mitts.

"hi, simon," you say softly, and his pupils dilate when you slip a hand over his son's head to soothe him. "i made some dessert, hope that's okay. thought you might wanna try my new recipe."

simon comes into the kitchen as you take his baby out of his high chair. you hoist him up against your hip, and when simon comes closer, you giggle as tilts his head to the side and stares down at you both. you tilt your head back a little, blinking up at him, and the flutter of your lashes is enough to have him rock hard in his cargos as his hands curl into frustrated fists at his sides.

"i'm gonna put him down for bed, it's a little late," you tell him. you hoist his son up a little higher on your hip, picking up his little chubby arm and waving up at simon. "say goodnight, daddy."

simon grins under his mask at the soft lilt of your voice. you try not to squeak when one of his big hands slides around your waist to hold you at your back, and he bends down to kiss his son's forehead through his mask.

"goodnight, my boy."

you try not to linger on the idea that he may have grabbed your ass as you walked away. no, his arms are just so long, they grazed you while you passed by him.

the baby always goes down nice and easy. one bottle later, with a full stomach, he's rubbing his little eyes and fussing in your arms as he tries to fall asleep. he's a mover, simon's little one--always grasping around with his arms and flopping onto his side in the bed. oftentimes, after a nap, he's facing the opposite direction and on the other end of the crib when you come to get him.

so you shouldn't be surprised when as he's falling asleep, his little grubby hands reach for you and pull.

your eyes widen when you hear the pop of buttons. you look down, gasping, when you see his son has grabbed onto the front of your blouse and pulled the first few buttons out. they clatter onto the floor in a mess, and you're not able to see where they go with it so dark in his room.

"oh, god!"

you try to be gentle as you set the baby down in his crib. he immediately sticks his thumb in his mouth with his head lolling to the side, and you try to pick up anything you step on as you hurry out of the room, trying to hold your shirt together.

it's useless. you're standing there in the hallway, hastily shutting the baby's room closed, tits out at eight in the evening.

"tha' why he so good ta ya, mama?"

your eyes bug out of your head when you see simon there. he's standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes are focused on your poor open blouse. the bra you're wearing leaves nothing to the imagination--just mesh with underwire, and when simon comes closer, there's virtually nothing separating you when he reaches up with that gloved hand and cups one breast, thumb smoothing over your nipple before he tugs on it gently.

"wha--simon--"

"thinks y'r his mum, pretty tits out like tha'," simon hisses. "'f ya wanted it so bad, why didn't ya just say?"

"simon--"

he tsks, using both hands this time to grip your blouse by the edges and tug it down your arms. it falls around your elbows, and he takes the straps of your bra with it, until it's pooled around your waist and your tits fall free.

"fuckin' hell," he breathes, and your lips part gently as he hikes up his mask and spits on your nipples before sucking them into his mouth. "mmmph..."

you arch your back as he rips the rest of the buttons off with one smooth tug. your blouse falls, and your bra follows it, until you're in nothing but your skirt, backing up into the darkness of his bedroom as he kicks the door shut. you scramble to get him back on top of you when your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you're laying down--grabbing around his shoulders as you try to guide his mouth back to your breasts where he can suckle on them with that filthy mouth of his.

"knew it--" he rasps. "fuck, i knew it--"

your eyes squeeze shut when he ruts his hips against yours. your panties are ruined, slick wet and digging uncomfortably into your folds, but the scratch of simon's jeans have your back bowing at a hard angle, your fingers sliding between your bodies as you reach for his zipper. you gasp when you feel him under your hand, straining against denim, the girth of him tying your stomach in hard knots as you think about what it'll take to get you open enough for him to slip in.

"keepin' me fat," simon murmurs. "holdin' my baby like tha', wot did ya think was goin' ta happen, eh?"

"h-huh?"

"'m gonna make you fat, too, swee'eart," he says, smoothing his hand over your tummy. "saw those little pills in y'r bag. it won't take today, but we'll try again tomorrow, yeah?"

you're drooling as he fucks you. your hips are hiked up, your skirt flipped up as his thighs smack against your ass. you're not privy to the way the fat of you shakes every time he's buried to the hilt, but simon appreciates it, tongue out as he watches you push back against him to try and get yourself filled quicker. he traces your spine with his fingers, leaning over you as he watches your fingers dig into his dark sheets and grip for dear life as he gives it to you fast and deep. it's a mess of wet between you, and you know the bed underneath you will be soaked by the time he's done with you, but you can't think about that when the very thing you've been wanting since the day you met him is so close, so within reach.

you haven't taken a single one of those pills since the first week you met that fat, beautiful baby. maybe simon didn't take too close a look at the dated little pills in your bag and in the bin, the little calendar you used to mark rotting away in a forgotten pocket, gathering dust.

when simon comes, your mouth is filled with saliva, and you gurgle between barely-lucid giggles as your hips sink into the mattress. he's saying something, but you don't hear it. instead you reach down with your fingers and stuff them inside, trying to gather as much of his cum and keep it. when simon tries to cum in your mouth later, you nearly bite his dick off.

how dare he try and waste it?

[abbonation]

babe wake up, Pedro literally gifted us christmas pics and we should be thankful