kylosbitch

[kylosbitch]

"ugh, i need him so bad," we all say in unison as the camera pans to reveal a 40+ yo man.

[kylosbitch]

Watch Your Mouth

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel teaches you to keep quiet during sex.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Silence kink. Size kink. Breeding kink. Age gap. Joel is a lot more experienced (!) Finger sucking. Orgasm denial. Soft dom!Joel x10000.

Word count: 1.9k

Maybe a hand was too much.

A kiss to stifle your cries, a tongue between your lips to steal any trace of a whimper before it could ever leave. Joel knew by the way your wet, pliant hole stretched wider and wider for him with each thrust that you’d eventually quiet down—but he needed silence now.

And he’d get it when he clamped his palm over your mouth. At first, your brows lifted with surprise, then pinched inward like you didn’t understand, then twitched again, involuntarily, when the head of his cock cleared a path straight toward your cervix. You whimpered into his hand and made a point to dig your heels even deeper in his back. Joel had promised he’d be better about that.

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled.

Another stab. Another whimper, only louder this time.

“Sorry, baby, I’m—” Joel stopped to fight back a groan of his own, before pressing his palm down with even more force, “—sorry, jus’ need ya real quiet right now, okay?”

You tried to nod, but the weight and stricture of his grip were as heavy as lead against your face. Add to that the soft, sawing motions of his cock going in and out of your cunt and the nudge of his oversized tip at your cervix, and it was all you could do to just lay there and take it. Joel knew this was brand new to you—he’d been your first not too long ago and the only partner since—so he eased back and lifted his hand when you gave it a tug.

Grey stubble was already licking at the corners of your mouth with Joel’s minuscule kisses of reassurance when you giggled and squeezed him tighter between your legs:

“I’m tryin’, Joel. Really, I am,” you whispered.

“I know, sweet pea,” he whispered back, “I know.”

He took the palm he’d used to stifle your moans and smoothed it over your cheek, coming to rest at one side so he could kiss you fully. Maybe a hand was too much.

He’d inculcate restraint some other way, and if it didn’t come easy, a few more fucks on the forest floor like this one would probably do the trick. Your mouth opened up for his tongue just like your cunt would open up for more of his cum and the rest of your body would surely follow suit, learning to control the noises of pleasure as needed.

“Good girl,” Joel murmured against your lips, feeling you clench around him and expel a breath rather than whine. He withdrew himself to the tip, then plunged back in, “Such a good, perfect girl for me, ain’t ya, sweetheart?”

At length, you yelped into his mouth. You couldn’t help it. Rather than reprimand you with words or smother your lips with his palm, though, Joel kept fucking you gently.

“‘S’okay, pretty girl, it’s okay. I know that feels good.”

His mouth was next to your ear now, praises audible to no one else but you. It added a whole new dimension to your pleasure; Joel could tell from the way your walls constricted around him and choked him, sucked him in. The feeling nearly elicited a groan from his chest, but of course, he had all the resolve of a seasoned professional. Decades and decades of practice had done that for him.

“Joel,” you mewled.

Your face was screwed up in a grimace, eyes likely to be brimming with tears any second now. Joel slowed his pace once more, felt a pang of guilt for how big he felt inside you—how those decades and decades of practice set you drastically apart from each other in experience—and this time, he didn’t try to muffle your whines. He just stroked the top of your cheek with one thumb, and with the other, snaked a path between your body and his.

Admittedly, Joel was still learning about yours. He wasn’t sure if the whimpers you’d made were born wholly of pleasure or just a sense of being stretched out and filled. Because you yourself were still learning to be vocal, Joel figured he’d give the latter a stab. He started thumbing your clit in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure.

It worked, and it didn’t.

Your walls parted easily beneath the quiet ministrations of his thumb, opening yourself more to Joel’s thrusts, but they also tore a scream out of your throat—the kind that was liable to stir the leaves on every tree and alert any clicker within a two-mile radius to your presence.

The kind of outcome Joel had been trying to prevent when he’d brought you on patrol with him in the first place. The kind of sound he was trying to fuck out of your body completely; teach you to keep quiet and still for when the two of you inevitably got bored during perimeter watch and rolled the sleeping bag out to fuck.

Joel tensed above you and cast a quick look around. Sure, he’d picked a decently safe spot, but then you—

“Joel, I—”

Without thinking, the man stopped and stuck the first thing he could possibly fit in your mouth: his thumb. Whatever you’d been trying to say to him was promptly lost in a hum against his knuckle, lips enveloping the thick, callused digit like some tangy-flavored lolly. Joel’s hips sank back into yours, slowly, and he felt the reverberations of another moan spill over his finger.

He swallowed and stared. That shouldn’t have been nearly as sexy as you’d just made it seem, especially when your life and his hung in such a precarious position.

Joel dragged his cock back out and happened to graze a sensitive, spongy ridge inside you, which made you moan again. You hollowed your cheeks and gritted your teeth a bit more against his thumb, gripping Joel’s forearm for support as he continued to fuck you.

And, had you stayed like that a moment longer, you probably would’ve seen a shiny string of drool start to pool and stretch and fall out from one side of his mouth. Instead, Joel switched hands and popped the thumb that had been toying with your clit into your mouth, eyes glazed over with desire as they drank in the sight of you sucking his thumb again. The tip was still soaked with your warmth and slipped easily past your parted lips.

Another sound bubbled up your throat when you got a taste—Joel had always been in the habit of kissing you after eating you out, so you were well-acquainted with the flavor, but never had he fed you your own arousal on his finger. This felt obscene, something more than just pornographic as those deep, brown, lust-addled irises remained glued to where your lips closed around him.

“Y’like that, huh?” he said, voice reduced to a whisper once more while you nipped and suckled at the skin.

You bobbed your head to indicate yes, opened your mouth to tell him softly that you liked it so much—loved the taste and grit of his finger on your tongue, in fact. You wanted to show him you could be vocal, too, when Joel’s frame rose over yours a little more and seemed to blanket it entirely. Like he wanted to shield you, in a way.

“Shhhh, shhh…keep suckin’ like that. Stay still, okay?” Joel murmured, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that this was a test. He was nodding, rutting gently between your legs, wedging his thumb deeper inside the wet, velvety contours of your mouth and waiting for a look from you to say that you understood.

You weren’t sure if you did, but you nodded anyway. Joel’s thumb made a wonderful sort of makeshift gag as he continued to thrust inside of you, his body somehow lowering to get even closer to yours. When he’d gotten sufficiently near, he pressed a kiss to the side of your mouth—now stuffed with his thumb and leaking spit—and muttered something about how good you were for him, how nicely you fit around his cock. Then he tilted his hips and proceeded to pound you into the ground like an animal in heat. The only thing separating your ass from the patch of grass underneath it was a flimsy little blanket, and the only thing tethering you to earth, it seemed, was Joel’s cock. Your ankles locked behind his back, and his nose settled next to yours, breathing hard.

Even if he knew how to suppress his moans, the panting and strangled gasps were far beyond Joel’s control—as were the filthy, perverse words pouring out of his mouth.

“‘S’all mine, ain’t she, hon? Tell me this pussy’s mine.”

“Tell me she’s mine to fuck, stuff full’a cum, right here.”

And he gestured to the spot where your body stopped and his began, squelching noises punctuating each new thrust. Neither one of you minded the sound right now, especially when you knew where this was headed next.

Joel was grinning against your skin before he kissed it.

“She wants a baby, doesn’t she, honey? Wants me to put a baby in her and make that belly swell up pretty?”

You knew just as well as Joel that neither of you wanted children in a world like this—thoughts of breeding only occurred to you both when you were about to cum. Particularly when Joel’s thumb was slipping out of your mouth and his fingers were pinching either side of your face in a single grip, lips moving above yours. Making you meet his gaze as he squeezed your cheeks in a pout.

“You want my babies, baby?” Joel mumbled.

You felt a familiar twitch in his cock. You nodded.

Joel pinched harder and shook his head, unsatisfied.

“Say, ‘I want your babies, Joel.’”

“I want your babies, Joel.”

“Say, ‘I’ll be nice and quiet if you cum inside me.’”

“I’ll be nice and quiet if you cum inside me, please, Joel.”

Your voice was already hoarse from how low you had to whisper, how hard Joel’s broad and hefty stomach was pressing into your own, stealing the breath from your lungs and wreaking havoc on your brain as you struggled for air and imagined a world where your tummy was a little rounder. Plugged up with his cum one day and growing bigger with his child there inside you the next. The thought was dizzying in the abstract, enticing to the slightest degree in reality, and if you had to guess from the expression of the man currently sweating, grunting, and rutting into your body, you’d bet he felt the same.

It really was a shame you had to stay so quiet.

But, whether a clicker was five miles away or standing directly over his shoulder, Joel didn’t seem to care at all. Soft, silent reserve cast aside for the time being and hips slamming a bruising pace against your own, Joel seemed fine to let out sounds to show he was right about to cum. Grunts and whimpers were spilling left and right off his filthy, pretty tongue; his eyes were all but rolling back.

Truly, he couldn’t look more magnificent if he tried.

“Fuck, baby, I’m— I’m so close. Gonna fill you up.”

Featherlight clusters of soft grey hair were now darkened with sweat. They rested comfortably across his forehead. Under them, two thick brows furrowed in concentration.

“Gonna knock you up,” he added through gritted teeth.

That part was not a threat, but a promise.

You felt a tug and a pinch in your own stomach, signaling your oncoming release. You spread your legs wider for Joel, pressed a kiss to his jaw when he leaned in closer, made room for him to spill his load just how he wanted, and when it seemed he was a second from his peak—

A twig snapped nearby.

Both of you froze in place.

[kylosbitch]

Name one thing worse than looking up angst and only smut popping up

[kylosbitch]

seeking what is desirable, three: ziti

Joel Miller x f!reader Explicit, 18+ Series masterlist | AO3

Series summary: Albert Camus said that "A man is always a prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them,” and it made me wonder how we justify romantic affairs — if we are free when we enter them in secrecy or only truly free when we have burned the bridges we ran over to reach the arms of the other.

Chapter summary: Could you get a divorce? Could you end it all and start again? Could he? When the opportunity arises for a quiet day with Joel, you both give in to the easy domesticity of a shared fantasy, its comfort, and its desire. You fall into each other so effortlessly, so beautifully, and yet neither of you are free to feel the way you do.

A/N: Many thanks to @5oh5 for helping with my chapter summaries! If you like Seeking, you might also like her plant daddy!Joel fic from Eden, which I consider SWID's less delulu, slow burn sister series 🪴

Warnings: Smut, infidelity, age gap (25/47), no use of y/n, reader is curvy but it's not a plot point, no outbreak AU, reader and Joel are married to OCs, spousal neglect, daddy issues, dick from a man you wish was your father, size difference, size kink, possessiveness, graphic panini description, competency kink, some internal angst, daddy kink, dd/lg dynamics, unprotected PIV, oral sex (m receiving), masturbation (f), sex toys, squirting, slight voyeurism and exhibitionism, let me put on a show for you, daddy

Word count: 11.6k

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“The everyday man does not enjoy tarrying. Everything, on the contrary, hurries him onward. But at the same time nothing interests him more than himself, especially his potentialities.” — Albert Camus

Sometimes you think about divorce — about putting an end to the life you’re living and starting a new one from scratch, from the ruins of your twenties and your marriage. Jeremiah wouldn’t want a mess, wouldn’t want anything tarnishing his reputation, wouldn’t want anything upsetting his mother. He would, most likely, let you off the hook easily, and aside from his ego, he would not be hurt.

It would be tedious, gathering all of your clothes, folding and packing them into your luggage set, probably getting a few boxes as well, having to figure out how many rolls of tape you’d need. Your bathroom would probably be easy to clean out, with the drawers still half empty and the medicine cabinet never opened. If you wanted to, you could sit down now, write a list over all of your belongings, and likely miss less than ten percent. It has never been your house, you have always felt like a long term guest. You never let it get messy, never dirty or unorganized, but sometimes, you wonder who you’re doing it for when he barely seems to notice. 

The inevitable alienation is likely what keeps you confined, perhaps even sedated in some ways, complacent with how things are. Even if you worked full time, and your paychecks covered rent for a small apartment, you’d feel like a stranger to this city, this state. Knowing yourself, you’d feel pulled back towards a home you’re not certain you’re welcome in anymore. It would feel like a free fall, severing ties with everyone keeping you here, and being completely on your own.

Those logistical things always come to mind first, way before the emotional fallout, the inevitable grief and heartbreak for the life you thought you would live. Because, even though you cannot honestly say you love Jeremiah anymore, you envisioned a future with him for several years, and you were promised that future with the ring on your finger.

You saw yourself having his children, you saw yourself taking them back to New Jersey to see your old friends. With your husband and mother in law around, and a child or two down the road, you thought it would make up for the painful absence of your parents, for the stinging silence between you. It had to be enough, your found family, because without them, you would be alone. 

You look out of the window, onto the back yard, and you close your eyes and try to imagine how it would feel to live by yourself. It feels peaceful when you’ve gotten past the logistics. 

So why haven’t you? 

What would I do if we got a divorce? Jeeze, I’d take it as a sign that I have to go and mend my relationship with my parents, tell them I screwed up, tell my mom she was right, that she told me so.. Fuck… I’d owe them that much, wouldn’t I? 

Or— I mean, I assume they’d want to know about it. They still care about me, I know that, I care about them too but it’s just… You ever feel bad for every time you’ve ever been mean to your mom? Like, have you ever felt that shameful, embarrassing stomach ache from remembering every time you told your mom you hate her, as a kid? Imagine that as an adult. 

Like, I never said I hated her or anything, not as an adult anyway, but did my actions express anything other than impulsivity and taking her for granted? I doubt it.. I sacrificed my entire relationship with my mom, for my marriage, like.. She never liked him, at all, she thought he was arrogant and cold and I never listened, I was too infatuated with him and— I don’t know,  I guess I just thought he was really hot and mysterious. 

Now I realize he was just emotionally unavailable and I saw it as some sort of challenge, or— or something for us to get through that would make us closer as a couple  — fuck me, right? It unfortunately makes total sense now, though, cause my dad was almost never there when I was growing up, so I'm used to emotionally unavailable men. He was at work all the time, then when he was home he kinda gave me crumbs. Like, he’d watch a movie with me sometimes and I’d be so happy, then he’d go back to work the next morning and I’d wonder why we couldn’t hang out anymore, why yesterday and not today. 

I just didn’t understand, and he never really said he wanted to hang out either, like… He never talked to me about the movies, he never said he wanted to watch the follow-up or anything. He just acted like it never happened, and he obviously didn’t know that I was sitting there and waiting, every weekend, hoping he’d wanna watch a movie with me again. 

Isn’t that fucked up, Gianna? Being married to someone and wondering if it’s just your daddy issues making you want them? Dude, Jeremiah's barely even told me about his own dad, about his death and all that. He’s told me he was a cheater and that’s that, now his mom calls him a saint all the time and I seriously doubt she doesn’t know what he did at night. 

There’s so much I still don’t know, and I don’t think he has any plans of telling me, but when he does tell me something personal, I feel relieved somehow, and I just sit and wait for him for him to give me another crumb of information about his own past, like I sat and waited for my dad to ask me about school or tell me about work, or his life, anything. If I sit and think about it long enough, I start wondering how well I even know this guy and I’m fucking married to him… Sorry for the word vomit — I’m done after I finish this one, by the way, holy shit. 

Were all of these doubles? Oh my god, I’m gonna feel like ass tomorrow. Fuck me. 

Don’t tell anyone I told you all this… Shit… I’ve been sitting on it for, like, a year, just waiting to tell someone. I could never tell Jade and them, they’d never even think about leaving their cheating ass husbands as long as they have access to their credit cards, so they can’t relate. They’d probably just shun me or something. 

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I cheated, like, if I went out next weekend and met some guy and just fucked him then and there. I don't think I'd even feel bad.. At least I'd get some good dick for once, hopefully... God knows it's been a while, I can barely remember the last time.

I’m going to the bathroom, can you ask the waiter for a refill when he comes by?

—

“You’re home today, right?”, Jeremiah asks while he puts his coffee mug in the sink, checking the time on his wrist. You nod behind your own cup, still sitting at the dining table while you take a sip. “Guy’s coming to do the shower at nine.”

“Mason’s guy?”

“Nah, he got caught up on some other reno — called a local company, talked to some guy named Tommy, sounded like a real cowboy, yeehaw. Him or his brother will be here, he said. Sounded nice enough.” 

There’s no way. Please say there’s no way.  

“Okay,” you chirp, and say goodbye as he disappears into the hallway, telling him to have a good day at work, hiding behind your coffee, feeling your breath go shallow and your hands start to tremble. You wonder if Joel knows, or if Tommy sent him the address and the assignment and he didn’t pay much attention to the name. There has to be more Jeremiahs around here, no? But Joel wouldn’t overlook that, you’ve already felt how observant he is, taking in every word you’ve said to him, noticing every change in your voice and body language, his eyes tracking your limbs at that parent-teacher meeting, watching your hands disappear under the sleeves of your sweater.

You’re pretty sure you can never hide anything from him, not who you’re married to and not how you feel about him already. In your desperation, you’ve already gone and told him you need him — what dramatic wording, as if anyone truly needs someone they barely know. It feels like you already know him, though, like your body and your soul know him and all that remains is factual knowledge about his life, about how he ended up with Ellie in his care, how he married someone who doesn’t take what he seems to give so selflessly. 

It was strange, watching how Gwen looked at Joel as they sat across from you. You’d think that knowing they had a child together would make her look at him with more than half-focused attention. The thought of having a baby with him, no matter if that baby is inside of you or close to leaving the nest like Sarah is, makes you feel a sort of yearning you could never even conjure up in your wildest, most unhinged imagination. To think of a man like that changing you so viscerally, creating cells that would stay in your body for as long as you exist, altering your bone structure, making you a mother — it makes you dizzy with need. You ache to feed a child with his eyes, and yearn to wait for him to come home to you every night. You want to stay awake into the early mornings, listening to him softly snoring while you feed his baby and soothe her to sleep on your chest. 

You don’t think you’d ever be able to look away from him if it were you sitting there at that tiny desk in the classroom, if it was you and his child you were there to discuss. He asked so many questions, wanting to make sure both of the girls were doing well in school and socially. He’s a good father, an exceptional one, so involved and interested and attentive that it hurt to witness — in your heart and womb and your bones. You didn’t see that ache in Gwen’s expression, she only seemed to touch him or pull him closer when he had your attention. But you couldn’t help the way you looked at him and you can’t help the way you feel when you know you’ll see him in only an hour. 

—

When the doorbell rings at nine AM sharp, you take a deep breath, lift your hair back over your shoulders, crack your neck, and stand up from the couch. Your steps are muffled by the fuzzy socks bunched up around your ankles, padding through the kitchen and the hallway to reach the front door. You wrap your fingers around the handle, push down, and with your heart in your throat, you see him. Your pulse skyrockets.

He’s looking out onto the front yard, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he’s wearing a green flannel shirt, different from the blue one he wore the last time you saw him but just as worn and lived in. The fluttering in your chest is almost unbearable, making your hands shaky and your mouth dry. No matter how much you prepared, scrubbing and shaving and moisturizing just to feel your best, no part of you was ready for the visceral reaction you’d have to seeing him in front of you. 

His surprise turns into a reluctant chuckle when he recognizes you, and he runs his hand through his hair, mumbling a cross between a greeting and an apology. You smile and shake your head, holding the door open. “I knew, don’t worry. Jeremiah talked to Tommy and told me an hour ago that you were coming over,” you say, and when you can tell he’s about to ask about the name on the contact information for the job, you hold up your left hand, engagement ring and wedding band sparkling in the reflection of the sun, “Kept my maiden name. I figured Tommy would show up if you knew but I couldn’t really object to anything without an incriminating reason. That, and I wanted to see you.”

He nods carefully and subtly cranes his neck to look past you. “He’s at work — come in,” you nod towards the interior and take a step back, letting him walk up the stone stairs in front of the house and past you as he gets inside the room. 

He seems to hesitate a little as he stands in front of you, tall and broad, so much larger than yourself, but never threatening. The hallway seems smaller with him in it, the ceiling not as tall and the space a little more crowded. His eyes are fixated on yours, and he’s frozen still before pulling you in for a hug. 

“Hey,” he says, with his face in the crook of your neck and your hand on his nape. His cologne hits you immediately, the fresh scent of his body wash and shampoo and deodorant — not as intoxicating as his sweat at the end of a long summer day but enough to make you bite back a smile. Hey yourself, you kiss his cheek the same way you do to your friends. It’s cautious, careful —  you want more. 

“It’s the shower in my bathroom, take your shoes off and I’ll show you, then you can get your stuff or— you have to get stuff, right? I don’t know how any of this works,” you laugh a little nervously. He kicks off his boots with a nod, sounds good, and follows you up the staircase and down the hall, looking at how you slide across the hardwood flooring in your bright blue socks, barely lifting your feet on every step. A chuckle escapes him, and you immediately stop, whipping your head around, “What?” 

He stops in his tracks too, takes a step forward and hooks his hand around your waist to pull you into him, to look down at you and touch your hair. Every room he sets foot in suddenly feels less empty, less cold. The bare, sterile white walls feel less suffocating when you imagine what it might be like to tag along with Joel to work on someone else’s house. It can’t feel much different than this, with Joel leaning in to steal a kiss from you when he should be getting to work, when you shouldn’t be tempted to get in someone else’s bed with him. It’s Jeremiah’s bed, it always has been, and when you feel like a guest in your own home, who is to stop you from clinging to the only thing that has felt familiar in years? 

You feel his hand on your jaw, his thumb on your cheek and his fingers around the base of your skull as he walks you backwards until you reach the end of the hallway and your back meets the wall. He presses up against you lightly, with your hands on his chest and your gaze locked with his.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, and his other hand finds the small of your back to pull you closer, “I still miss you, I still think about you all the time. And I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything, I want you, and I’m married and you’re married and I don’t— I don’t know what to do about that but I need you to myself.” His voice lowers as he comes closer, his lips barely brushing yours, “You belong to me, and don’t tell me you don’t cause you know just as well as I do that you’ve been mine since I had you in that bed. That wasn’t an accident,” his eyes shift between yours as he shakes his head, “That was meant to happen, you know that.”

“I do,” you breathe, closing your eyes and surrendering to his hold on you, “But I don’t think you understand, baby, I’ve been yours since the first time you touched me.” His shoulders relax at the term of endearment, at your fingers twisting in his curls, your eyes opening to see him softening for you, looking at your lips, blinking slowly, kissing you as if it is the first of an immeasurable amount of times that it’ll be just the two of you together, all alone. He gives you his tongue gently, with slow sweeps across your own while the light smacking sounds fill the room. 

You pull him away by his hair and he gives in, leaning his head back like you’re scratching his skin right where it itches. “I don’t wanna mess up your schedule,” you whisper, “I’ll make us lunch in a few hours, okay? Then we can talk. I’m home all day, if you need anything just call my name and I’ll be there. Jeremiah’s working late, he won’t be home till after you’re gone.” Joel nods, and with a soft kiss, slow and tender, with your head and the curve of your hip in his hands, he releases you from the wall and lets you show him what he’s here for. 

“This is my bathroom,” you say, tilting your head to the left, then run your hands down his chest and motion for him to step in first. You follow behind as he looks around the room, at the large bathtub facing the door, the spacious marble countertop, and the ripped up shower in the corner, enclosed by clear doors. “We already had a guy take off the old tiles, and he was supposed to come back and put the new ones in but I guess he got delayed doing something else and… Yeah, that’s where you come in.” 

“Alright,” he says with his hand covering his beard, brows furrowed as he opens the glass door and looks around, then nods as he gently closes it. “Where have you got the tiles?”, he asks, and you take his hand, bringing him down to the garage, where stacks of tiles and mortar are ready, left here by Mason's crew. 

“Tell me if you need anything, otherwise see you at—”, you look at your watch, then back up at him, “Twelve?” 

He nods, smiles, and you head back into the house, sitting down in the living room to grade papers while you watch Joel carry the tiles up the stairs, then the mortar, then the necessary tools. You listen to his truck door slamming shut and wish you could hear that sound every day at the same time, the sign that he’s home and you have him to yourself for the night. You never hear Jeremiah’s car door closing when he comes home, only when he leaves and you’re still eating breakfast. 

—

You leave him alone for the morning hours, going through your to-do list, grading papers in the quietness of the living room, hearing a few soft sounds from upstairs. His presence in your house soothes you like a blanket, it lets you focus and get through the assignments you’ve put off grading since Friday. You can still taste him on your lips, can still smell his cologne when you turn your head and brush the tip of your nose along your shoulder. The soft fabric of your sweater absorbed his cologne so quickly. You absorb his touch even faster, you let his heat seep into your skin and warm you. 

Next item on the list, another one you’ve been putting off; a phone call to the store on the other side of town that you and Jeremiah visited and bought a couch from  — one that looked suspiciously small as it was loaded off the truck and turned out to be entirely the wrong size. You were tasked with arranging the return, Jeremiah too irritated to want to do it himself, one of several phone calls you’ve made due to his lack of time and patience. You dial the number from a card you got from the delivery person and wait for the store to pick up, looking at the front and back of the card as you hear the beeps, until a lady picks up and you break the silence that’s filled the house for the last two hours. 

Joel perks up when he hears you from downstairs, freezing while he spreads the mortar over a section of the wall, puts down the trowel and breathes as quietly as he can, soaking up the sound of your voice as you say hello, as you speak to the customer service representative so kindly. He wonders if you’re the one who’s responsible for all of these types of calls in your household, the way he is in his, if you’re the more patient spouse, just like himself, if you’re unlike Gwen who is quick to escalate complaints and never sets foot in the establishment again. 

“Hi!” 

“I’m good, how are you?” 

“Yeah, so, my husband ordered this new couch for his office and we got a two seater instead of a three seater. I don't know how that happened—

“Oh, no, no — it's not your fault, I was just hoping you could help me set up the pickup and dropoff for the new one, yeah.”

“The order number—”

He refocuses, gets back to work, listening to the soothing sounds of your voice from downstairs. He listens to how you thank the person on the other end, how you apologize for the inconvenience. God knows how long it’s been since he heard an apology coming out of anyone’s mouth besides his own. 

You say goodbye and hang up the phone, leaving it on the coffee table as you go to the kitchen to start making lunch. For a moment, you wonder if you should ask Joel if he has any preferences, any likes or dislikes, but just as you consider going up there and asking, you change your mind and step over to the fridge, starting to pull stuff out before plugging in the panini grill. You weren’t planning on anything too interesting for lunch, and you wish you’d prepared for something more complex than a goddamn panini, but it’ll have to do, and you slather balsamic aioli on a few pieces of sourdough, throw on some turkey, sliced tomato, mozzarella and basil before sticking it in the grill and pressing it down, grimacing to yourself a little, hoping he won’t hate it. 

The little light switches from red to green with a click, and you pull the handle up, fish them both out and dump them on a plate before starting the next batch. After pressing the lid down on the next two sandwiches, you step out into the hallway and look up at the staircase as you call to Joel, hoping you don't sound hesitant, “Hey, lunch is ready!” 

He comes downstairs less than a minute later, when you’ve set your plates and two cups of coffee on the dining table and sat down, looking out of the window until you see him in the corner of your eye and turn to face him with a hopeful smile. His brows knit in what looks like concern as he comes up and gestures to the lunch on the other side of the table, “Is this—”

You interrupt him and wave towards yourself, “It’s for you, sit down.” There’s an air of hesitance to him as he pulls his chair out, looking between you and the meal, and you roll your eyes, waving again, come on, come on. It’s just a lunch for God’s sake, not even a special one at that, but he thanks you so sincerely, taking your hand and lightly squeezing it, rubbing his thumb over the inside of your palm.

You try to dismiss it with a wave, pshh, but he insists, and you can’t entirely take in how it feels to have someone truly appreciate the effort you put into cooking for them. It makes the coldness of your husband’s thank you’s sting so much more, the fact that he has never spent a full minute looking at you in awe and thanking you before even taking a bite, never been speechless over a little sandwich you slammed together in five minutes. Enough flattery — you have to firmly insist that Joel start eating before he actually does. 

“First time someone’s made lunch for me in a long time,” he says, rotating his plate around and looking at the cross section of his sandwiches. You have to stop yourself from cracking up at the way he examines his meal, takes a sip of his coffee and nods in approval. 

“Oh?”

“I do all the cooking at home — breakfast, lunch, dinner for me and the girls,” he hesitates a little on the inevitable end of the sentence, “Gwen too but she ain’t really a breakfast person.” 

You nod, interesting, then eat in silence with him for a while, a comfortable silence, listening to the rustling of the leaves outside the kitchen window. It’s a beautiful fall day — the trees in the backyard have turned to burning shades of red and orange, moving slowly in the wind. You look back at him and take a sip of your coffee, the perfect temperature now, taking in the sight of the little creases by his eyes as he looks back at you with curiosity.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Joel? It’s okay if you don’t want to answer, I just didn’t get a lot of information from the school and I— I wanted to understand Ellie a little better, so I was wondering how long she’s been staying with you and your wife. I’ve seen students at other schools stay with their friends’ families for a couple weeks at most, but I mean, you’re going to Ellie’s PTA meeting, all the paperwork gets sent to you specifically, so—”

“Totally fine,” he assures, “She’s been stayin’ with us for about three years. Things were a little rough at her folks’ house, dad wasn't always around and she’s got two younger siblings, much younger siblings, who needed a lot of attention. She essentially had the choice between being overlooked or being a third parent, unfortunately. But she was spending a lot of time at our house at the time — she’d been friends with Sarah for years but I had no idea what was going on until they were both about thirteen.” 

“What happened?”

“Nothin’ really happened per se, but their whole class went on this school trip to Big Bend — you know, the national park?”

“I think— I think so?”, you mumble with your mouth full, eyes shifting back and forth a little. 

“Few hours west,” he says with a wink, and he must be getting lost in your eyes because he sits in silence after that, his story long forgotten as he watches you eat. 

“And then?”

He takes a breath, a sip of his coffee, and then another bite before he continues, “Sarah and Ellie’s class went, and for some reason all the dads were chaperones — us and a couple teachers. If I remember correctly, I think it was some sort of initiative to have the dads a little more involved in student activities cause it was mostly the moms showin’ up to sports and science fairs and all that, but— anyway, Tommy has a son who’s Sarah’s age so he and I were there. Then, one morning, we made pancakes for all the kids, and I guess Ellie’d snuck out the night before and her punishment was to help make breakfast, so she came over and helped us out while the kids were out doing whatever they were gettin’ up to, and all the other dads were watching a game, I guess, in one of the other cabins—”.

Your heart sinks for a reason you really don’t want to acknowledge now, a reason that you’re sure will scare him off and convince him that all you want from him is some sort of pseudo-father, a replacement for the man who you don’t even know well enough to miss. You’ve always been aware of your father’s emotional absence, but it has been an abstract type of absence, one that shape shifts but never latches onto specific instances — not until now, when you can so clearly picture Joel doing the things he never did, being present for Sarah in a way you cannot fully comprehend. It's as if your own father abandoned you, that his presence and absence sort of felt the same, that he was absent even when he sat at the dinner table with you and your mother. 

And now Joel is sitting across from you, having lunch and telling you so lightly about how present he is in his daughter’s life, and in the life of a girl who isn’t even his own but who might as well be by how he takes care of her too, expecting nothing in return. You wish he could take you in as well, to protect you and nurture you. It feels incredibly messed up to feel the desire to be cared for by him as a father while you’re sitting across from him, unable to stop fixating on how handsome he looks, wanting him to fuck you into your mattress until you can’t see straight. Something to keep to yourself, that should never see the light of day. 

“So Ellie came over to our cabin, and we already knew her pretty well but her dad didn’t come along on the trip and she basically told us that he’d left for an extended period of time and that things at home were pretty rough with her siblings. At the time, they were only, jeeze, they couldn't have been more than five and seven? Real young and rowdy, so her mom was stretched pretty thin. She basically asked, like you mentioned, if she could stay with us for a few weeks, just while she had her final exams and all that, but she ended up stayin’, and by the time next school year started, we had a talk and kinda figured out that she felt like she could focus better by staying with us during the week and going home over the weekend. Now she goes back every couple weekends but she’s mostly with us.” 

You look at Joel with a frown marring your brows, and he smiles while he tilts his head — “What?” 

“You made pancakes for all the kids? You and Tommy?”

He chuckles carefully and leans over the table, resting his elbows on the surface, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to show his forearms, decorated with a few specks of mortar from his work, “That’s what you got from that whole story?” 

“Yeah, kinda..”, you admit, trying to fight the urge to spill your issues with your own dad all over the dining table, the want to tell him that you wish your own father was like Joel — an unhinged and likely very fucked up thing to say to someone you’ve had sex with. But when you look up at him, at how intently he looks back at you, how he smiles in genuine curiosity and interest, in a wish to understand you, you can’t hold it in anymore. 

“My dad would never do that,” you mutter and pick at the last half of your panini, scratching the little grill marks on the top, “He’d be one of the dads watching the game and then he’d feel like he’d done a year’s worth of bonding. He’d probably brag to my mom, saying we had such a good time together and she’d believe him, then whenever I’d ask him to do something together, he’d be all ‘oh, well, we just spent that entire weekend together recently’, even if it was months later. I can’t remember the last time we did anything together, even when I used to go home and visit.” You force a laugh, but Joel sees through it, and his face turns serious, a frown marking the space between his brows while your face goes softer, eyes avoiding his, your cheek resting on your palm while you look down. 

“Are you in contact with your parents?” 

“Not really… Not since I moved here.” 

“That’s too bad,” he says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You shrug and pick up your sandwich, looking up again to see him taking your other hand in his and brushing his thumb over the top of it, not wanting to push. You can feel his concern, his want to ask more questions conflicting with the space he wants to give you. 

“Can I ask you a personal question now, since you asked me one before?”

“Go ahead,” you smile carefully, looking at how he touches you so gently, how he rubs the pad of his thumb carefully over your skin, soothing you. 

“Why did you become a guidance counselor?,” he asks, “I know you said someone at the school got canned but you already had the education, so I was curious.” 

You laugh through your nose for some reason, then let your eyes trace up his chest, his neck, all the way to his face, landing on his eyes. “Not every Ellie has a Joel,” you shrug, “Some of these kids don’t have anyone to take them in or help them, so I guess I wanted to be there for students who were struggling with academics or having trouble at home, you know? I already knew I wanted to be a teacher, and I was almost halfway done with my degree, then I had an academic advisor suggest I do this double major in education and school psychology, bla bla, anyway,” you wave dismissively with the hand that isn’t held in his clutch, “Now I’m finally doing both.. For a long time I was just teaching part time, but.. Now I work, I don’t know, seventy five percent, I guess.” 

“Working part time seems nice,” he muses, and you wish you felt the same way. His eyes narrow and his expression changes, grows more serious somehow. “Or?”, he tilts his head, picking up on what you wish he didn’t, feeling his focus and attention wrap around you tightly like vines creeping up your body, unable to get away but not desiring to either, needing to be seen and yet wanting to hide. 

“Uhh,” you clear your throat, avoiding the question or buying time or generally looking for any way not to bring up your husband, then immediately realizing you’ve backed yourself into a corner. “Well, Jeremiah didn’t really want me to work, so to speak, or— it’s not that he wanted me not to work, he just… It was more important for him that the house was clean and there was dinner on the table when he came home from work, so that’s all I did for a couple months, but then that got old fast and I had to convince him that I could do all that and work at the same time.”

“Why doesn’t he help you?”, Joel asks, feeling a sort of resentment that you both seem to carry towards your spouses, a resentment that is inevitably followed by guilt and self-admonishment for feeling that way towards someone he’s made a lifelong commitment to. 

“He works a lot,” you say, voice defeated. 

“So do I,” he scoffs, “And I still do all that — still do all the chores, all the cooking, all the homework help. Work ain’t an excuse for him not to help out. Even if he works late, there’s the weekend, he could do all the laundry or clean, that shouldn’t fall on you, you’re not his maid.” 

“Stop turning me on,” you say with a slight laugh, and he chuckles while he rolls his eyes, taking your other hand too, turning both over and smoothing his thumbs over your palms. 

“That’s all it takes? A little vacuuming and a roasted chicken?” 

“Yeah, pretty much — Jeremiah can barely make a fucking Hot Pocket.” 

He laughs at that, and you know he’s shaking his head in disapproval. It boggles your mind to think about how much you seem to have in common with this man, who is nothing like your husband and nothing like your father and nothing like any man you’ve ever met. 

“Another personal question,” you say, seeking permission in his eyes before you ask, “What would you do if Sarah moved really far away from you? Like.. Several hours on a plane type of far away.” 

“I’d miss her, I’d make her promise to call me here and there, but… I’d let her go, let her live her life.” 

“What if— what if she moved somewhere for someone, and you didn’t like the person she was with?” 

He shrugs, tilts his head side to side in contemplation and looks around. “I don’t know what I would do, it’s hard to say… I can’t imagine I’d be very happy but I’d try to understand and I’d tell her I’m here if she needs me,” he admits, and thinks for a moment before he redirects his attention back to you, softening his voice, “Why are you askin’ me this?” 

“Isn’t that obvious?” 

“You don’t wanna be here, do you?” 

“What do you mean by here? You mean the marriage that doesn’t feel like a marriage, the house where I own nothing or the state I’d never been to before I moved here for someone who would never move for me?” 

The silence between you is deafening, your eye contact intense. “Why did you marry him?”, Joel asks, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. He has spent the last weeks looking for an answer to that very question, unaware that you’ve been asking yourself the same for two years. 

“Long story short, I thought that if I married him, he couldn’t leave me. He made a lot of promises back then, said that if I moved here with him for this job he was offered, I’d be taken care of, and at the time I thought it was a good idea. I was tired, exhausted from school and work… I worked my ass off, I have no student loans or anything. I’d been working since high school, I saved up for, like, three years then got my piece of shit Honda Civic that’s out there in the driveway. I got that seven years ago, I’ve paid for everything myself except this fucking house.

But anyway, by the time I graduated college, I was just burnt out and I got this big sparkly promise of a cushy life in a nice sunny state, and all I asked in return was that we get married, so I could be sure he wouldn’t pick up and leave me somewhere I didn’t know anyone. But now, it— it feels like he did. It feels even worse, actually, cause not only am I alone but he broke that promise in so many other ways.”

Joel wants to ask how, so badly. He wants to know everything there is to know about you in this world, and even though any intimate details about your marriage would make him sick to his stomach, he’s consumed with the need to know. But for now, he thinks better of it. “You don’t have to be alone anymore, if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his face and kissing the tips of your fingers while you feel a flash of heat across your cheeks, too scared to smile and hoping your eyes can convey what you can’t express. 

“What about your marriage?”, you say, voice a little shaky while you feel the press of his lips to your skin, and the silence in the room lets you hear the gentle scratching of your nails against his mustache. 

“Do I seem happy in my marriage?”, he raises an eyebrow, “Does it seem like my wife wants me the way you do?” 

“No.” 

“Then maybe we can be alone together.”

— 

Joel gets back to work after clearing his plate, waiting for you to clear your own, and thanking you for lunch with words and kisses and the touch of his fingers down your spine while you stand on the very tips of your toes to wrap your arms around his neck. You wish you could make him lunch every day. 

You clean the kitchen and listen to the radio, wondering if he can hear it from upstairs. The way he thanked you for lunch could make you cry — how it warmed your heart to see him enjoying what you made him, insisting you were full so you could feed him the last little piece of your sandwich just to feel what it would be like to share, then sending him upstairs with a second cup of coffee. You’re not unhappy with the concept of being married, of being tied to someone legally and financially and emotionally for the rest of your life, and if you imagine that you and Joel are the ones living in this house, that you have lunch together every day and that the rings you wear were exchanged between the two of you, you can’t imagine a better life for yourself. 

Another hour goes by, cleaning and putting on the laundry, dusting and mopping the floor, and you find yourself both bored and curious about what Joel is doing. He hasn’t left the bathroom since he went back up, clearly focused by the scraping sounds you hear from the hallway, so you put the mop back into the closet and slide over on your socks, appearing in the doorway with your sleeves covering your hands and one fuzzy socked foot on top of the other. “Hey,” you say carefully, pursing your lips to hide your smile at seeing him again. 

“Hey,” he says back, “What’s up?” 

“Just bored, wanted to know what you were doing,” you shrug, looking and sounding like a little girl, talking in a voice that is only for him, standing there with big eyes but feeling small in the presence of a man who seems to know how to do everything, “You mind if I watch?” 

“Go ahead, baby,” he says and picks up a tile before placing it on the wall, “Not very interesting to watch but, by all means—”. 

You coo to him as you sit down on the floor, next to the bathtub, folding your arms over the edge, resting your chin on them, pulling your legs in under yourself and watching him work. The muscles in his arm flex under his t-shirt as he spreads the light colored mortar over a section of the wall, his flannel slung over the edge of the bathtub now, close enough for you to breathe in his scent on every inhale, intoxicating whiffs of his cologne after it has developed on his skin and in the fabric of his clothing. You watch his hand, how it grips the trowel, the thick veins bulging out of his skin, the reflection of the lights bouncing off his wedding band. You hear his breathing, even and deep, just a tiny little bit labored if you listen closely enough. He looks back at you, and you can see his lips moving but you don’t register a word. “What?”, you mumble as you snap out of your haze. 

“Are you entertained?”, he asks again, and you nod with a smile, digging your face further into the soft sleeves of your sweater covering your arms. “Want me to tell you what I’m doing?” 

Another nod, and he clears his throat before he tells you. “This stuff is called mortar, okay? Makes the tiles stick to the wall,” he scoops it up and spreads it over the wall, then picks up one of the little tiles, and you suddenly feel terrible for picking such an intricate design for your massive shower. He’s been in here for hours, prepping the wall and aligning all the tiles and the stones that go inside the wall shelf. It’s turning out so beautifully, and you admire it from outside the glass cabinet, nodding when he tells you how he aligns the stones and puts in the levels. You don’t understand much of what he says but you watch him intently, trying to focus on the calming sound of his voice. 

Maybe you could go to work with him every day and just watch him build stuff, watch him install drywall or set tiles or anything else he might find himself doing on a regular day. Watching him is calming, entertaining in a strange way, satisfying as you see the tiling come together just the way you imagined. You’ll never trust anyone else to build anything else for you, other than Joel, now that you’ve seen how meticulously he works, how little mess he makes as he reaches the far corner of the shower, spreading the mortar and sticking the tiles on the wall and on the floor. 

He groans a little as he crouches down to scoop up more of the gray paste, then stands to his full height and reaches the top of the wall, barely lifting his arm. There are gray marks, little specks of mortar, on his work pants and his black t-shirt, and he has never looked better in your eyes. He’s clearly worn them a lot, the color is all faded where they sit tightly over his quads, and you can tell there’s stuff in the pockets on the side. You want to stick your fingers into them and wiggle around to see what’s in there until inevitably swats your hand away. 

“I gotta go pick up some supplies,” he says after finishing the stone arrangement inside the shelf where you always keep your shampoo, “Shower’s a little bigger than I expected so I don’t think there’s enough grout —​​ shouldn't be more than twenty minutes.” He helps you up from where you’re sitting and you look at the dried mortar on his hands, then look into his eyes and thank him. Of course, he whispers and wraps his arms around you, in this shower where you wish he would hold you up against the tiles and fuck you under the waterfall from above. He sneaks a hand under the back of your sweater, brushing the rough calluses of his palm over your skin, pushing you closer to himself, his other hand under your chin to angle your face up — still not tall enough to reach his face until he leans down and kisses you. 

Your nipples go tight and stiff against the top of his stomach as you wrap your arms around his middle, and he notices so easily, he notices every little change in your body, and he cups the back of your head, licks across your tongue and shamelessly lets his cock harden against you. You moan when he bites your lip and he pulls away with a heavy exhale, running his thumb across your wet bottom lip. 

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he whispers, leans in for another kiss, then lets go. 

—

You close the door after him and head upstairs to get a hair tie, ready to get started on another stack of papers waiting to be graded, when you spot Joel’s flannel still hanging over the edge of the tub. Picking it up, you hold it to your nose and inhale deeply, burying your face in the fabric and filling your lungs with his scent. It makes your eyes slide back, a smile tug at your lips, and your damp panties cling to your center, still feeling hot and wet from the way he held you earlier, the way he growled and sucked on your tongue. 

A few more whiffs, trying to muster up the will to fold it and put it on the countertop, but you can’t find it in yourself to put it away, and you slip your arms into it instead. The sleeves hang limply from your hands and you roll them up as you head downstairs, feeling the warmth of the soft fabric draping over your torso. 

It is incredibly distracting to sit at the dining table, surrounded by Joel's scent and the light smell of his sweat from the underarms of his flannel, the sign that he probably wore this shirt another day and tossed it over the back of a chair at night, not quite dirty and not quite clean. You try to shift around in the chair and ignore how sensitive your clit feels, aching and in need of attention, his attention, your body reminded of the effect he has on you. Trying to ignore it, your attention is forcefully directed back to the paper in front of you, taking in sentence by sentence, correcting slowly and keeping Joel at the periphery of your mind.  

You look over at the time to see that twenty minutes have gone by, then thirty, and when forty five have elapsed, you figure that something has come up and that he won’t be coming back, and decide to take a well deserved break from grading to relax and take care of the persistent, aching need you’ve been fighting since Joel pinned you against the wall many hours ago. Your pencil is tossed on the table and you run upstairs to start running the bath, then head into your closet, all the way to the very back, where you pull out your box of toys and select one made of glass, not nearly as thick as what you would like to have inside you, but just as warm after submersion into a hot bath. 

The text messages from Joel on your cell phone, left on the dining table, go unnoticed while you strip off all of your clothes and dim the lights as the water fills up, throwing your outfit to the other side of the bathroom before you dip your toes in, gradually getting used to the heat before you sit down, lay back and and start to brush your fingers over your nipples. 

“Hey, sorry I was a little longer, had to help Tommy unload a truck. Be there in 10.”

You slip the slightly heated glass toy in through your opening, rolling your head back at the sensation of being filled, slowly pulling it out and pushing it back in, feeling the little bumps on its surface rubbing against your walls. The pads of your fingers make contact with your clit, gently start to rub, making you moan and wish so desperately that Joel was there to hear it, wanting and needing his touch, his attention, his love. 

“Assuming you’re still busy grading papers. I’ll just let myself in if that’s OK?”

You fuck yourself slowly, letting go of your clit when the sensation builds too high, getting too close to your release, wanting to prolong the feeling of how Joel arouses you. The subtle waves of the bathwater crash against your skin, soothing and warm, making you close your eyes, and when you open them up again, you see him in the doorway, frozen still, looking at you while his chest heaves. 

“You can come in, it’s fine,” you say as your eyes trail down to his pants, seeing his erection straining the fabric, “You can watch too, if you want, it’s nothing you haven’t seen already. Just being around you all day… It made me a little tense, you could say, started feeling a bit needy.” He slowly puts the container of grout on the floor, but stays where he is, staring at the glass in the water, disappearing into your center and making your hips wind, legs spread with one foot on the edge where the tub meets the wall and the other dangling over the side. You moan for him when the tip of the toy nudges into a particularly sensitive spot, and you watch his eyes narrowing, his hand flexing while the other comes to the back of his neck. 

After a silence filled with nothing but your moans and the sounds of his heavy breathing, he asks in a low voice, “Do you have sex with your husband?” 

You give him a sly smile and shake your head, not anymore, and he continues to look at how you rub your clit, how your hips shift in response to the way you change the movement of your wrist, gliding the toy in and out of you. Last time he saw a woman touching herself like this, outside of occasional porn on the internet, was before he met his wife, many years ago.

The mental image of that one night stand in his early twenties has been conjured up in his mind many times, fodder for the times he’s gotten off on his own, needing the mental image of something erotic, of a woman’s pleasure, uninterrupted and happily shown off. She gave him a show that night, made herself come in front of his eyes before he joined her, and he wondered if he would ever get to see such a thing again. Now he’s standing here, watching you make yourself feel good, with his cock so hard it hurts, and he cannot, for the life of him, understand how a man could possibly not want to have you like that. 

“Who does he fuck then?”, Joel asks.

You don’t even flinch as you answer, “Well, there's one named Bianca and one I believe is named Anastasia.” 

He shakes his head, confused and angry and jealous and every other emotion he might feel at the thought of another man having access to you in this way and yet taking you for granted. His curiosity gets the best of him, envy and jealousy driving his words, “When was the last time you slept with him?” 

The motion of your hands still as you take a second to think. “Around his twenty-eighth birthday, so… Probably a little over two years ago?”  

A few moments of silence ensue, a swallow passing through his throat as he sears the image of you into his mind for later reference. He should’ve been able to tell from that first night, that your desperation was not simply the result of a dry spell, that you were deprived of intimacy the same way he was and still is, driving him towards you with no abandon and no consideration for consequences. He sees you get closer and quickly retract your hand, sensing how well you know your own body, and he can’t help the words as they tumble out of him again, his voice hoarse and his cock throbbing, “So you take care of yourself?”

You smile again, nodding to invite him into your space, “I take very good care of myself. I get massages, not the dirty kind, I take baths, I masturbate, I have toys. I don’t need my husband’s useless dick when I have myself. He keeps himself entertained, and so do I.” He finally comes over then, carefully stepping in and making his way across the dark tiles of the bathroom, over to the bath he kneels in front of. He looks at you as he submerges his hand and finds yours, nudging it away gently to grasp the end of the glass and direct its movements, angling it in a way you cannot, reaching a spot only he has ever felt.  

“Do you miss it?”, he asks, rotating the toy as he slides it out slowly, then pushes it back in, reaching his other hand into the water to return your fingers to your clit. 

“Sex?” 

“Mhm.” 

You watch how his eyes shift as you moan, and you giggle as you answer his question. “I only miss having deeply intimate sex with someone who knows what they're doing,” you tell him, “Like your sex, I liked that — that's worth missing.” 

He makes a rough sound and clears his throat, reaching his free hand down to palm at the bulge in his pants, needing just a sliver of friction to relieve the ache, “What did you like about it?” 

“I liked how you made me feel, how you took care of me. I like how gently you touched me but how firm you were at the same time. It felt safe and intimate and erotic, I could tell you were enjoying yourself too. I like that you don't shave, I like your scent, around your neck and chest, around your cock. I like the smell of your sweat. You're a very masculine man, you know that?” 

Joel nods subtly, feeling a shy heat across his chest, beginning to understand it himself now, as he observes the difference between your hands, the marks and small scars on his own, from age and work and manual labor, so rough compared to your delicate fingers and long nails, shining under the water. “How does it feel?”, he asks, starting to work at the buttons and zippers above his crotch with one hand, unable to hold back any longer. 

“Good,” you purr, “Better with your eyes on me… You wanna watch me come?” 

“Are you close?”, he undoes his zipper and pushes the band of his boxers down, freeing his hard, leaking cock from the confines of his clothing and wrapping his hand around the wet tip, shuddering when he begins to stroke it slowly and sees how you watch him, nodding as you moan, rubbing your clit faster and tilting your hips up to let him fill you more deeply.

“Come for me then,” he murmurs, speeding up the movement of the bumpy glass inside of you, and he could lose it from the sound of you moaning his name while you climax, throwing your head back and letting out the loud, breathy moans he knew you held back in that stranger’s bed. His strokes get faster, squeezing around his shaft as he drags his palm along his erection, precome seeping out from his slit and spilling down to his fingers. 

“How about you?”, you ask, feeling the waves of your orgasm beginning to taper off, enjoying the internal sensitivity brought on by your climax, “Do you fuck your wife?” 

“Rarely,” he huffs, completely uninterested in thinking about her now, about her lack of interest in him that he has tried to understand, tried to mediate and work around but never seems to change. The rejection he has faced for the past year doesn’t matter now, it doesn’t even sting, now that he has you in his hands again, knowing it is only a matter of minutes before he’s inside of you again — the sensation he has missed and yearned for and needed for months. 

You sit up, gently circling his wrist to pull the toy out of you and let it fall to the bottom of the tub with a clinking sound, then push his own hand away from his dick, though you could watch him stroke himself for hours. “Does she suck your cock?”, you ask, wrapping your much smaller fingers around his shaft and gently moving up and down, watching the subtle twitches under his skin from your touch. 

He’s simultaneously thrown off and aroused by your vulgarity, rubbing the back of his neck as he tells you that he can’t remember the last time she did, not daring to say any more. His eyes trace a droplet of water sliding down your chest as the cold air makes your nipples harden, goosebumps spreading across the skin of your chest, your breasts tightening. You give a few light licks to his tip, thinking back on how he groaned and thrust his hips the only time you ever had him in your mouth, then ask him, while you kiss around the crown of his head, “Do you like it?”

He nods, and almost sounds reluctant to admit that yes, he does, he does like it, he enjoys the sight of plush lips wrapped around his cock, the feeling of a soft, wet tongue running along his underside, fisting his hand in her hair and gently fucking his pretty girl’s face — who wouldn’t? 

“What do you do if you dont fuck your wife?” 

“Jerk off, I guess,” he shrugs, huffing a laugh and watching the sparkle of your nails as they move along his length. 

“Do you watch porn?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“What do you watch?”, you gently suck on his tip, lick his frenulum and stroke his base, thread your fingers through the thick hair at his root and splay your hand across his pelvis, “Describe it to me.” 

“Well, I, uh—”,  he clears his throat and wraps your hair around his hand while you take him into your mouth, letting him slide in and out at his desired pace, swallowing around his head and gagging just enough to make a bead of precome drip down your throat, “I only watch stuff where the woman is enjoying herself, so I guess— I guess I watch her.” 

You let his tip rest on your bottom lip as you look up at him, “And what does the guy do to make her feel good?” 

“The same stuff we did.”

You smile at that, “That's the best sex I've ever had, you know.”  

“Really?” 

Mhmm, you purr before taking him into your throat again, feeling his other hand come to the back of your neck, pulling your face close to him and pushing you back, watching his spit slick shaft glide out through your lips and moaning at the sight of your hand as it swivels around his thickness. The diamond on your finger catches the light as your wrist moves, up and down. You don't take it off, you let the gold band heat up from the friction between you. His eyes flutter closed, his head tips back, his breaths heave. He comes back to himself in a moment of clarity and looks down at you, loosens the grip of his hands and tilts your chin up, the tip of his cock coming to rest on your wet lips again. “Do you ever feel like you want something you can't have?”, he asks, and you nod in response, smirking and raising your brows as if it’s a trick question. 

“Don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” he concedes, forcing your mouth open to slide his head back in, growling when it hits the very back of your throat and you start to drool, “I want you and I can't really have you — I shouldn’t have you.” 

Keeping him in your mouth, licking and sucking him, you reach over and unplug the drain, letting the water start to lower as you urge him to fuck your face just a little more, until you swallow more of his precome and you let him slip out, kissing the underside of his head before you stand up and grab your robe off the hook on the wall. You wrap it around yourself, let it sit below your shoulders as Joel stands up and helps you step out of the tub. Holding the robe closed with one hand, you reach the other up to his face, tracing your nails down his nose, his cheeks, his lips as you ask him, “Who said you can't have me?” 

He takes your hand from his face and threads his fingers between yours, feeling both of your rings scraping against each other. “It’s true that you shouldn't — I shouldn't want you either — but you can have me,” you whisper, and pull on his hand as you turn and step backwards towards the counter, letting go of his hand, discarding the plush robe onto the floor, then hopping up on the counter and spreading your legs, planting both feet on either side of you and leaning back onto your hands — his to do with as he pleases, soft and wet and ready for him. “You can have me right now,” you run your fingers up and down your folds, spreading them apart and coating your fingertips with your slick, “And I know you want to, I know we’ve both waited for this for months, so put us both out of our misery and fuck me.” 

He swallows, nods, then closes the distance between you in silence, and although he knows he won’t last long, he braces himself and slides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, scrunching his face at the sound of your whimpers, and when he cannot hold it anymore, when he catches at your opening and feels you start to suck him in, he sinks into you fully, a shared gasp filling the air before you grab the back of his neck and pull him in so that your foreheads touch, and you can both look down at how you take him, how you stretch around him and make space for him inside. Your other hand comes between your legs, the pads of your fingers circling your clit, making you tense up around him while he holds onto your hips and caresses your skin with his thumbs. 

“Let me watch you come,” he whispers, looking into your eyes now, bending his knees to fuck up into you a little deeper and gazing at your eyes as they slide to the back of your head. Your fingers move faster, in firmer circles, the heavy weight of his cock stretching you open, filling you, reaching something so tender and sensitive inside of you that you can’t stop the stream of warm liquid that squirts out of you while he fucks you, soaking the bottom of his t-shirt and his groin while he praises you, while he says you’re being a good girl, such a good girl, just for him. 

“That's it, just like that, baby, you feel that?” he coos, holding you still by his grasp on your hips, fucking into you deeper now, another wet stream dripping down his crotch and all over his boxers and his pants, more of your come squirting out between your fingers as you touch yourself and moan for him, daddy, daddy, begging him for more. He won’t last much longer, the rough moans ripping from his throat making you tighten and tense, trying to squirm away from the battering of his cock into your g-spot, so intense you can’t think, all senses morphed into a singular focus on him, him, nothing but him. 

He wants to come inside you, wants to fill you and mark you the only way he can, but reality pulls him back harshly by the scruff of his neck, yanked away like a rabid dog, and he pulls out of you, slots his cock between your folds and comes all over your stomach, coating your skin with ropes of his semen, warm and runny as they slide down your damp skin, crashing his lips with yours and kissing you with a hunger and ferocity he thought he might have released over your belly, but instead rages inside of him like an out of control fire, pushing his tongue into your mouth and groaning at the taste of your saliva. 

Breathing heavily, refusing to move, softening inside your cunt, he reaches a hand up to smush your cheeks together, forcing you to look into his eyes, his beautiful, soft, brown eyes. He stares at you, barely blinking as he holds your attention, and through desperate breaths, he confesses to you, panting as he tells you, “I’m not just fucking you, okay? This ain't just sex. I have real, serious, deep feelings for you.” He looks between your eyes, tilts your face up a little further and moves his hand from your hip to your waist, “I know it's premature but I can't help it — I can't, I think about you constantly, I dream about you, I can't get you off my mind. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever.” 

“I know, baby,” you whisper back, tugging at his thick curls, then scrape your nails down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt, scratching his skin up and down, back and forth, in slow circles. You let him kiss you once more, suck in his bottom lip and run your tongue along it, then pull back to lean your forehead into his, “I feel the same way about you, Joel. I’ve waited for you to come and find me, to remind me that I’m yours again... As if I could ever forget.” 

Twenty minutes must go by on the bathroom counter, between kisses and whispers, between him tracing his fingertips up and down your spine and you nuzzling your face into his neck. You’ve never been in love before, not until now, when you would give anything, do anything, say anything, to spend the rest of the night with him, the rest of the week and the month and the year. You never want him to leave, but you know his family is waiting for him, and although his wife might not be awaiting his arrival, you know his daughters are, and you would never want to take him away from them. 

They need him, but you need him too, in a way you’ve never needed anyone, and you want to relinquish some of your control, over yourself and your life and your body, to him. You want to give it over, let him take care of you and decide what’s best for you. There is a deep trust between you, an understanding and a kindness you have never felt. When he kisses up along the side of your neck, when you feel him smile from the way he makes you giggle, you feel like you’re home. 

But he has to go, he has to tuck himself back into his pants, help you down from the counter, clean you up and dress you in your clothes. He has to dry off his wet shirt and look at the time, then tell you he’ll be back tomorrow at the same time to finish the grout, hopefully seeing you in the door before you head to work in the morning. 

And when you’ve said your goodbyes, when you’ve closed the door behind him and gotten dinner started, when you’ve stared out of the kitchen window and wondered what on earth you’re gonna do about being in love with a married man, a father, a man who is much too old for you — a text message from him pops up on your phone screen. 

“I still smell like you.”

[kylosbitch]

a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do (masturbate and fall asleep)

[kylosbitch]

dude idfk there were so many good fucking fics this year and i'm screaming at just having these few but just know i have so much love for fucking all my fellow writers!!!!

Sex on Fire - @macfrog

Your Summer Dream - @swiftispunk

A Lover's Pinch - @hier--soir

Feelings on Fire - @joelscruff

ICBYPG and HWGR - @walkintotheriveranddisappear

honorable mentions to rendezvous and j miller attorney at law by @chloeangelic especially because that sleazy bitch papa joel lives in my head rent free it can't be helped and also kiss kiss, kill kill and pink by @netherfeildren because oh my GOD ok i'm stopping now

tumblr wrapped

[kylosbitch]

got a itch in my throat only his cock could scratch

[kylosbitch]

Perhaps a Fucksgiving prompt: Joel, in grey sweatpants. (I can't be the only one so affected by grey sweats, right?!) Doesn't even matter what universe it's in because I think it could work in Lavender, Yearling, or NIT. Or something new. Just...have fun with it, lol.

AHHH BESTIE!!!

I love this, thank you so much for this ask. So here's NIT!Joel being an absolute fucking menace in gray sweatpants.

LOVE YOU!!

Fucksgiving 2K23: Gray Sweatpants

Joel makes an... interesting wardrobe choice for Thanksgiving dinner prep. A New in Town BestFriend'sDad!Joel drabble that can be read as a stand alone.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (both from New in Town)

Warnings: SMUT :D No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only

Length: 1.8k

“It’s too early for this,” you groaned, face down in your pillow. “It’s supposed to be a holiday…” 

Joel chuckled, his large, warm hand spreading over the bare skin of the small of your back. 

“You stay in bed,” he pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. “I’m the one who decided to smoke a turkey.” 

“No,” you sighed, turning your head against the pillow so your voice wasn’t muffled anymore. “Not going to make you get up on your own. Just do me a favor and start the coffee?” 

He laughed again. 

“Whatever you say, Beautiful.” 

You listened to Joel getting dressed for a moment before you forced yourself to get out of the warm, comfortable bed. 

You loved Thanksgiving with the Millers. So many traditions, so many delicious foods, so many people you loved who loved you back. But the smoked turkey thing was new and, as it turned out, you’d been a lot more excited about it in theory than in practice. Morning sex was not an option when your boyfriend needed to be cooking before 8 a.m. Joel had gotten you some cute festive pajamas, at least - not that he ever left your clothes on long once you were in bed - and you pulled on the orange plaid pants and matching thermal before toying with your hair enough that it wasn’t a disaster and shuffling to the kitchen. 

The coffee pot’s brew cycle was just sputtering to an end when you got there and you pulled down a mug, pouring yourself a big cup and adding Irish cream before making Joel a cup of his own. You glanced at the clock. 7:18 a.m. Joel was never allowed to smoke a turkey again, you decided. Being up this early on Thanksgiving was a bridge too far. 

“You look exhausted,” Joel laughed as you squinted against the morning light. 

“You’d be exhausted, too, if you’d gone out with Sarah and her high school friends last night,” you groaned, passing him his favorite chipped mug, the one with an owl on it. “I swear, I feel like I’m still in my 20s and then I go bar hopping…”

You made your way over to a lounge chair by the pool and plopped down on it, taking a long sip of coffee. As the caffeine settled over you, you actually opened your eyes and took in the golden fall morning, the sun reflecting off the pool, the crisp air, the smell of wood chips as Joel got the smoker running, the outline of your boyfriend’s huge cock clearly visible through his gray sweatpants. 

You damn near choked on your mouthful of coffee when you noticed it, shooting up from the lounge chair coughing and sputtering. Joel frowned, watching you. 

“You alright over there?” He asked. 

“Oh I’m fucking great,” you coughed, beating on your chest a bit to get the rest of the coffee down. “You’re getting changed before Sarah comes over, right?” 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” his frown deepened. “She’s bringing cinnamon rolls over in…” he glanced at his watch. “‘Bout an hour or so. Was just gonna wear this until closer to dinner. Why?” 

“Because, babe, I’m pretty sure I can tell from here whether or not you’re circumcised and that’s not because I had your cock in my mouth last night.” 

Joel’s eyes went wide and he looked down before looking over at you again. 

“They’re just sweatpants, baby.” 

You snorted. 

“They’re gray sweatpants,” you replied. “Those are an entirely different animal.” 

Joel’s frown deepened. 

“What? Why?” He asked. “They’re… they’re sweatpants!” 

“You really don’t know this?” You laughed a little. He shrugged, still looking at you like you were just a bit crazy. “Oh, babe…” 

You set your cup of coffee down and went over to him, looking him up and down. 

Yeah, you got to see Joel every day. You lived together, after all, and moving in together hadn’t exactly lessened your sex drives. The only day you hadn’t fucked in recent memory was when you had a stomach flu and you were too sick to have anything going into you, including Joel. But you still loved to look at him, at his shaggy, graying hair; at his soft, brown eyes; at his strong, broad chest. Even without the… advantageous sweatpants, you’d been enjoying the view. He might have been in a threadbare Texas Longhorns shirt that was probably the same age as Sarah he managed to look fucking gorgeous in it, the shoulders stretched a little tight and the sleeves a bit snug on his thick biceps, the outline of his soft stomach just visible through the drape of the fabric. 

“Let me demonstrate,” you said, locking your eyes on his and reaching down to trace over his cock through the fabric, starting at his tip with the lightest pressure. He gasped softly when you made contact with him and you smiled ever so slightly. “I can tell your head starts right here…” He moaned a little and you ran your fingers down to the ridge of him, tracing back and forth over the flare of his tip. “And that it ends right here.” 

“Fuck, beautiful…” 

You smiled and moved lower, down his shaft. 

“Can tell just how big you are,” you said, voice breathy. He moaned and you kept going until you were at the base of him, tracing him there, too, before wrapping your hand around him as best you could with the fabric between you, starting to stroke him. He whimpered, dropping his head to your shoulder. “And I can tell that you’re getting hard…” 

“Not giving me much choice in that, Beautiful,” he groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ…” 

You took your hand back. 

“But you’ve got a bird to smoke so…” 

You turned to go grab your coffee again, smirking once your back was to him. But Joel reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into him with a needy grunt. 

“Don’t know where you think you’re goin’…” he growled, pulling you tight against him, so tight you could feel his hardening length on your stomach. 

“Me?” You said, feigning innocence. “I just don’t want to be in the way of the chef…” 

“Shoulda thought of that sooner,” he kissed you firmly, desperately, his tongue opening your mouth and sliding inside. You kissed him back until he pulled away from you, breathless. “Gotta make this quick…” 

He took your hand and pulled you in the house and you laughed as he started tugging at your shirt the second you were in from the cool morning air. He tossed it on the couch and his mouth was almost immediately on your breast, sucking and licking at you as he maneuvered you back toward the couch. He pushed your pants and panties down as he did and you stepped out of them, leaving them in a pile on the floor. You pulled at Joel’s shirt and he almost reluctantly pulled his lips from you as you exposed his chest. He nudged you down onto the couch so you were sitting on the middle cushion and he spread your legs wide before shoving his pants to the floor.

Joel knelt between your thighs and hooked his hands in the crease of your knees, pulling your ass to the edge of the cushion as you let out a surprised yelp. He notched his head against your dripping hole and took hold of your thighs before thrusting fully into you in one sharp, firm motion. 

“Fuck!” You moaned, the stretch of him burning in the most satisfying way. 

“This what you were tryin’ to get me to do?” He panted as he fucked into you, fingers sinking into your flesh. “Tryin’ to get me to fuck you silly? That it?” 

“Fuck, yes!” You groaned and he slid one hand to your lower stomach, his thumb finding your clit as fingers spread wide over your skin. He pressed down on you and the sensation of him filling you grew impossibly stronger. You could feel his hand pushing on where his cock was opening you and your body was already getting tight and hot and needy. “Fuck, Joel, holy shit…” 

“Gonna fill you up real good, Beautiful,” his voice was strained. “Leave you so fuckin’ full of me, make you feel it all day.” 

You moaned at his words, at his thumb working you, at the slide of his thick, heavy cock as he pushed deep into you. 

“I’m gonna come, Joel,” you panted, all but squirming below his touch. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna…” 

“Do it,” he fucked into you even harder. “Come for me, come on my cock, want you to milk this cock, give it to me, Beautiful, fucking come for me.” 

You obeyed, your hand flying to Joel’s forearm and digging your nails into him as your pussy fluttered and pulsed over him. 

“There she is,” he fucked you through it. “Jesus Christ, feel so fuckin’ good, gonna fill you up Baby, leave you so full…” 

He pressed deep, to the very end of you and you felt him spill deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he filled you with rope after rope of his come. 

“Fuck,” he moaned as your orgasms both ended and he collapsed onto you, his head on your chest as you both panted for breath. You scratched your fingers through his hair and you kissed the top of his head, breathing in the fresh, clean smell of him that was now tinged with sex. 

After a moment he sat up enough to kiss you deeply as he pulled himself out of you and he got to his feet. He went to the bathroom and came back with a washcloth, gently cleaning your messy slit. 

“Just because I probably shouldn’t say this around your entire family, can I say that I’m thankful for your dick?” You teased.

Joel laughed, shaking his head. 

“I’m just thankful for you,” he said, leaning over and kissing you. “Pussy’s a bonus.” 

He passed you your clothes before gathering his own. He put on his shirt and underwear but tossed his sweatpants over his arm before heading back toward the bedroom. 

“What…” you began, but he cut you off. 

“Clearly can’t trust you around the gray sweatpants,” he teased. “Better change before you got me worried about a different kind of stuffing…” 

You groaned as you pulled on your shirt. 

“Oh shit, I forgot, you still have to actually get the turkey in the smoker!” 

He laughed. 

“Don’t worry, Beautiful,” he said. “Think that was worth dinner starting a bit late. Might have to make it a new Thanksgiving Day tradition.” 

You laughed, too. 

“We just might.” 

[kylosbitch]

wet joel wet joel wet joel

[kylosbitch]

Fear of God : Masterlist

Artwork is The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: What was monstrousness? What was it, but a certainty that there existed within you multitudes of desires, needs, guilts, impulses – humanity? At the end of the world, when the dust has finally settled, Joel grapples with what it is to take hold of your own monstrosity – your own humanity – and live with it. And what it is to bear that truth in the palm of your hand held towards the person you love, offer it to them, and have it be accepted for what it was. Courage, above all else, it is courage that is necessary to go on.

-OR-

Big bad Joel Miller falls in love and doesn't know how to deal with it.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content: Age gap, smut, angst, grief, PTSD, canon typical violence, discussions of medical procedures/illness, emotional unavailability, pregnancy

Word Count: 55K

Read on AO3

Chapter I: I dreamt that time had ended

Chapter II: Although a monster [Joel] could be charming in company

Chapter III: Your bitter heart, heals my heart

Chapter IV: Mouth full of blood

Chapter V: Love humiliates you

Chapter VI: The indignity of suffering

Chapter VII: For: Before

Chapter VIII: The Fisher King

Chapter IX: What should we believe in next?

Epilogue: Birdie

Birdie's House: Extras

Did the loneliness die that night?

Summary: Birdie and Joel’s first time.

I am a lantern

Summary: Birdie realizes she’s pregnant.

Joel

Summary: Writing exercise, not part of canon story line - Joel passes away.

My Whole Life

Summary: The family celebrates Joel’s birthday.

Updates Blog : Follow and turn on notifications for new fics!

🎶 FoG Companion Playlists:

- Apple Music

- Spotify

(This is not only a compilation of songs that reminded me of the story, but also songs I listened to over and over again during my writing process)

[kylosbitch]

Me: I'm so sad, I need a shoulder to rest my legs on.

Said shoulders:

[kylosbitch]

when joel miller has a mean look on his face reblog if you agree

[kylosbitch]

just binged this whole story in one night ITS THAT GOOOOD got me awake till 4am

'the way we were' masterlist

18+, minors please do not interact, warnings/tags included for each chapter

Paring: Joel x F!Reader, pre-outbreak and post outbreak (no Y/N)

AU (I kept was the outbreak and common characters. Joel's backstory is different, and the way he finds Jackson is different. No Ellie... yet.)

Fic Summary: You worked for Joel and Tommy a few months before the outbreak. When the outbreak happens, you and Joel get stuck traveling the country and keeping each other safe. Neither of you spoke about the feelings you had for one another pre-outbreak, and in a post-apocalyptic world, it seems like survival should be your only focus. But feelings can't be ignored forever.

Fic tags: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Smut, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (m and f), fingering, masturbation (m and f), Language, Themes of death/depression that can be graphic at times, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader is 10 years younger than Joel), slow burn, mutual pining, angst, trauma, SA referencing later but I will put a big warning on those chapters

Status: complete

Look What We've Become - sequel

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen - Extra Scene

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

I think most of these could be read stand alone, I tried to add a brief backstory to these if it was necessary

Chronological Order:

Moving Day

The Contractor

All Yours

Listen

Three Days (part one)

Recovery (part two)

credit to @cafekitsune for the dividers

[kylosbitch]

THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOOOOD I HAVENT SEEN AMAZING WRITING UNTIL I READ THIS

Hello, i love your work omg!! I had a request for another Joel angst <3 I had an idea where reader decides to sell Joel's watch in the QZ and gifting him a new one (obv not knowing the meaning behind the watch) Joel gets angry and reader becomes heartbroken and decides to look for the watch and gets rly injured by gangs in the QZ and Joel gets worried/goes after her!

OMG Hi Bestie!

You sent me this forever ago but I'm in love with this ask and then went totally overboard and ANYWAY here's the angstiest ask I've ever had, I hope you love it as much as I love you!!

The Watch

You try to do something kind for Joel but things backfire in a way you never expected.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: SMUT! Canon-typical violence. I did almost no proofing on this so... ya know. Basically no age-gap, reader is 3 years younger than Joel. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only

Length: 12.2k (LOOK I'M SORRY OK I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME EITHER.)

March, 2010

Sometimes, you weren’t sure you knew Joel Miller at all. 

It was a strange sensation, when you thought about it. You’d known him for almost three years now. You’d first met him and his brother, Tommy, when they moved in a few doors down from you in the Boston QZ. Both handsome, both around your age - Tommy a bit younger, Joel a bit older - both beat down by what the world had become. 

But the last thing seemed to apply to everyone in the QZ. Life now was hard. That’s just the way it worked now, as much as you wished that weren’t the case. 

You’d managed to land a relatively good job in the grand scheme of things. You were a chef before, you ran part of the kitchen at a ritzy banquet hall in the city. You were used to feeding a crowd and FEDRA definitely had a crowd to feed every day, what with guards and all. 

It wasn’t much like it was before. There was very little joy in it, the process reduced to the barest minimum: Feed people so they stay alive. But you liked trying to find ways to make the food good, different from day to day. You still took pride in your work, even as the overly long days threatened to wear you down. You still wanted to try to make people happy with your work. 

Which is how you ended up getting to know Joel and Tommy in the first place. You showed up at their door a few days after they moved in with a few plates of food in hand, still hot below the tin foil they were wrapped in. 

“Yeah?” Joel said, voice gruff. 

“Hi!” You said brightly, not taking his attitude personally. Everyone was gruff here. You were used to it. You introduced yourself before pressing on. “I hadn’t seen you both around the QZ before so I thought you might be new and want a little something while you’re settling in, maybe stretch those ration cards a bit further…” 

“What’s in it for you?” Joel cut you off, looking you up and down.

It was like he was finding every flaw you’d ever been afraid you had, his eyes raking over you fiercely. 

“Nothing,” you smiled, even though it felt forced. “Just wanted to do something nice!” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Joel, you scarin’ the neighbors?” Tommy asked, coming alongside his brother and opening the door wider. 

“Not at all,” you smiled, a little more genuinely this time. 

Tommy introduced himself and Joel, who just grunted at you. 

“I brought dinner,” you said, holding the plates out. “Just thought you might want a break after getting here is all.” 

“That is real sweet of you,” Tommy smiled, taking the plates. He lifted one to his nose and breathed deep. “Smells real good, too. You a cook or something?” 

“Or something,” you smiled. “I used to be a chef but now I just cook for FEDRA. This is better than that, though. Anyway, I hope you like it and welcome to Boston!” 

“Thank you,” Tommy smiled broader. “Hope to see you around!” 

You started coming back to see Tommy. He was kinder, he seemed like he was happy to see you. Which you appreciated. You didn’t have many people in the QZ, it was nice to have someone who felt like a friend who lived so close. 

You’d come by twice more and chatted with Tommy for a bit the next time you saw Joel at all. You knocked on their door with a loaf of bread in hand and Joel opened it, frowning at you. 

“He ain’t here,” he said before you had a chance to say anything. 

“Oh,” you tried not to look disappointed. It seemed like that would be rude. “Well, I made a few loaves of bread today. I thought you might want one!” 

You held it out, an offering. 

He took it. 

“Still not sure why you’re doin’ this,” he said, almost sneering. “You just never work? FEDRA jobs that kush?” 

“No,” you frowned. There was the familiar pinch of tears at the back of your throat. “No, I work 12 hours a day six days a week, I just… I like to share.” 

You turned to go before you started crying in front of him, like an idiot. You’d always been overly sensitive, too open-hearted your mom had always said. It didn’t serve you well in the apocalypse. 

“Wait,” he said. You stopped but didn’t turn around, tears starting to slip down your cheeks. “Shit, I… Look. I’m not trying to be an asshole, OK? Just… Haven’t exactly had many people be nice for the sake of bein’ nice in a while. Feels hard to believe. Would… would you want to come inside? Don’t exactly got much at the moment but there’s coffee. Could make us some.” 

You dried your eyes on the back of your wrists and hoped he didn’t notice. 

“Yeah,” you sniffed a little before turning around. “Yeah, OK. Coffee sounds good.” 

It was awkward at first. Joel was stiff, clearly not used to having someone else around who wasn’t his brother. It reminded you of when you’d adopted a dog from the shelter when you were in your 20s. You brought him home to your apartment and let him off the leash and it was like he didn’t know what to do. He could recognize that this was a home, that it had a kitchen and a living room and a couch. He just couldn’t find his place in it. An interloper. Something that needed a map to help navigate a new yet familiar land. 

“How are you liking Boston?” You asked after a few minutes of awkward silence. 

He shrugged. 

“Fine,” he said. “Still tryin’ to figure out if it’s better than out there or not.” 

You nodded slowly. 

“I’ve wondered that, too,” you said. “But I’ve never been out there. I’m just not sure it’s worth it to try and figure out the difference.” 

He was almost kind while you were there. Well, definitely kind by Joel standards, almost by anyone else’s. But you’d take what you could get. Especially since you imagined that would be the last time something like that would ever happen. 

You were wrong. 

When you made pasta a few days later - the sauce surprisingly good for something thrown together from leftovers from the guards’ mess hall - you brought plates a few doors down and Joel answered. He invited you in again, even as you tried to just leave the food and go. 

The conversation was unlike anything you’d ever really had before. It wasn’t small talk - Joel seemed to find that sort of conversation excruciating - but it wasn’t anything personal, either. It occupied an nebulous third arena, deep and intelligent - discussing things like depictions of the end of the world in fiction and what they’d gotten right and what you thought might becoming because of it - but without offering a glimpse into the core of the other person. 

You weren’t sure what to do with any of it. But you liked it. You liked Joel. 

It happened a few more times over the next several months, you ending up in an obscure conversation with Joel in his apartment every other week or so, until, one day, things went bad on your walk home from work. 

One of your cooks was too sick to work - which said a lot with FEDRA breathing down your necks - and you’d stayed late at the kitchen after, getting things reset for the next day.

It was raining and cold and miserable as you trudged home, looking forward to a hopefully hot shower and your bed, when someone stepped out of the shadows as you turned a corner. . 

“Well well,” the man said, making you jump. There was a knife in his hand. You swallowed. “Look what we have here. A FEDRA bitch.” 

You looked around quickly, about to take off back the way you came when there was something warm and large against your back. 

“Don’t even think about it,” the man’s voice was harsh. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, your hands shaking. “I’ll give you whatever you want, I have ration cards, you can have them…” 

You felt the man behind you laugh. 

“Hear that?” He said. “She thinks we want her ration cards.” 

He sneered the last words, taunting you. 

“I just…” you began but the man in front of you spoke now. 

“We’ll take the ration cards,” he said, stepping closer. “Take a lot else, too. FEDRA killed my sister. Seems only fair we take a few of their bitches in return.” 

“Please,” you said softly. “Please, they won’t care, I’m just a cook, they won’t even notice, I’m so sorry about your sister but I’m not…” 

The one behind you grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, making you squeal. The other punched you across the face, making you cry out in shock as much as it was pain. 

“Then we’ll start with you,” he said. “And take a few others, too. We’ll just take and take and take until they have to pay attention. Won’t we?” 

“Yup,” the man at your back put his mouth next to your ear so you could feel his hot breath on your skin. “We could get creative with ‘er. Know you wanted to gut her but now I’m wondering if I could make her choke to death on my cock…” 

Your heart was racing, beating so hard against your ribs it felt like it should be bruising from the force of it. 

“Please,” you were crying. “Please, I haven’t done anything to hurt anyone, I just…” 

“You’re FEDRA,” the man in front of you said, curling his hand into a fist. “That’s plenty.” 

You flinched from the blow you knew was about to land, tried to remember what you could about throwing a punch, when a sharp voice broke through the night. 

“Hey!” 

You opened your eyes just enough to see Joel stalking up. 

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” He demanded. The man at your back released your hair. Joel didn’t slow down. He just shoved the man in front of you back. “Think you can just fuck with whoever you want around here?” 

“You FEDRA now, too, Miller?” He snapped. “Fuckin’ kill you too, maybe make you suck my dick first, too…” 

Joel punched him, hard, across the face. So hard the man collapsed to the ground in one hit. The man at your back grabbed you and threw you to the ground and you landed in the mud as he lunged for Joel. He dodged the man easily, throwing a punch to the man’s torso before he grabbed a knife from his belt and thrust it into the man’s stomach. He gasped at it, his mouth agape in shock as Joel pulled the blade up through his gut to his ribs before shoving him to the ground. The man he’d punched first had managed to roll over, trying to get up. Joel held up the knife. 

“Try it, Pickett,” he said. “Fuckin’ dare you.” 

The man stayed down. Joel nodded, bending to wipe his knife on Pickett’s pants before putting it in the sheath at his belt. He pulled his leg back and kicked the man, hard, in the stomach, right where he’d stabbed the other one. 

“She’s under my protection,” Joel snapped. “Tell your fuckin’ friends. I catch any of you fuckin’ with her, I’ll kill every last one of you. Understand?” 

Pickett just groaned. Joel dropped to one knee next to the man and took his face in one hand, his fingers sinking harshly into the ruddy flesh of the man’s cheeks. 

“Asked you a goddamn question,” he snapped. “Expect an answer or you’re too useless to leave alive. She’s protected. Fuck with her, you die like your fuckin’ buddy. Understood?” 

“Understood,” the man managed. Joel freed his face and he slumped down into the mud as Joel straightened back up. 

“Good.” 

He left the man in the mud before kneeling next to you. 

“You alright baby doll?” He asked, his voice weirdly gentle. You sniffed and nodded. “Alright, let’s get you up, get you home and cleaned up….” 

He put his hands on you delicately. You realized suddenly that Joel had never touched you before. Even when you handed him food or he gave you a cup of tea or coffee, his fingers never even brushed your own. Now, his hands were fully on you, all overly large and delicate and warm, guiding you into sitting up and then standing. Once you were on your feet, one of those large hands gingerly took your chin and turned your face this way and that, so different parts of your skin caught the light. 

“Fucker got you good,” he said, shooting the man who was still alive in the puddle another glare. “C’mon. We’ll get you home, get you all cleaned up. You’ll be OK.” 

He tucked you below his arm, guiding you away from the carnage behind you. You turned to look at it, anyway, the still living man crawling through the mud and the rain to his dead friend. 

“Don’t,” Joel said, voice oddly gentle. He delicately tucked your head against him, making it so you couldn’t look back. “Don’t need to see that. They don’t fuckin’ deserve it.” 

“You killed him,” you said, hating how small and weak you sounded. “Joel, you killed that man, he’s…” 

“Barely counted as a fuckin’ man,” he muttered. “Got what he deserved. Don’t worry about it. C’mon, almost back…” 

You were strangely numb as you let Joel guide you back to your building. He led you up the stairs and to your apartment door, something that shouldn’t have surprised you - you only lived a few doors down from him and Tommy, after all - you just hadn’t thought he’d ever paid attention. 

“Gimme the key,” he said, his arm still around you. You obeyed, your hands still shaking as you got the key from your pocket and handed it over. He unlocked the door and flipped the lights on. You were glad you’d picked your apartment a bit the day before so it was at least neat and relatively clean - at least by QZ standards it was, anyway. 

Joel lowered you gently into a chair at your kitchen table and pulled up another one next to you. You frowned. 

“What are…” 

“Fuckers got a good hit on you,” he said, looking at your face in the light, frowning. “Should’ve just killed them both but that don’t work as well for sending a specific goddamn message….” 

It seemed like he was talking to himself, at least in part. You just watched him examine you, his face drawn, eyes tracing over your skin. 

“Go get cleaned up,” he said, sitting back from you. You frowned. “You’re covered in mud. Won’t do a damn bit of good to bandage you up now if you’re a mess.” 

“Right,” you said, looking down at your body. You’d almost forgotten that part of it. “Um…” 

“Be here when you’re done,” he said. “Get you patched up. Go shower.” 

You took a last look at him, acutely aware of the mud dripping onto your carpet, before you went to your bathroom, stripped down and climbed in the shower. You tried not to think about the fact that Joel Miller was just… sitting in your apartment. 

It didn’t make any sense. It was Joel. Why had he even bothered to stop? Why had he intervened at all? He seemed to think of you as little more than a nuisance but he saved you. Killed a man for you. Told another that you were under his protection, all but told him to let the whole of the QZ know it. And now he was just sitting at your kitchen table, waiting for you to get out of the shower so he could take care of you. 

You stayed under the mercifully warm water longer than you needed to trying to come up with an answer. The best thing you could come up with was that he felt like he owed you for all the food you’d brought over the last few months - though murder seemed like a high price for some bread and dinners. 

In your almost dazed state, you hadn’t thought to bring more clothes into the bathroom with you, a fact that occurred to you when you were still in the shower. You groaned. At least there was a robe in the bathroom so you wouldn’t need to dart across the hall to your bedroom while wrapped in nothing but a damn towel. 

But when you stepped out of the bathroom in a haze of steam and wrapped in a terrycloth robe that went almost to your ankles, Joel was standing at the mouth of the hall. He looked up at you and blinked twice, frozen where he stood. You froze, too. You weren’t entirely sure why, if maybe you felt like prey under his gaze, a rabbit hoping that stillness would keep the wolf from gutting you, or if the heat inside you made you want to be cracked open wide to the very center of you and consumed. 

“Better,” Joel said after a moment before jerking his head toward the kitchen table. “In here, where it’s light.” 

“But…” you tried to protest, overly aware of your own nakedness below your robe. 

“It’s fine,” he cut you off. “C’mere.” 

You kept your eyes on him as you obeyed, moving slow and cautious for the kitchen table, never turning your back to him. You still weren’t sure why. 

The seat you were in before had been cleaned, as had your floor, no sign of the splatters of mud. Instead, there was a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and cotton balls and gauze on your kitchen table. 

“Sit,” Joel ordered. You obeyed without hesitation. He took the seat close to you again, reaching to the leg of your chair and jerking you forward, the wood groaning as it scratched across the linoleum of your floor. He took your chin in his hands again and examined your skin, his face close to yours. You could smell him, the rain water on his skin, the remnants of laundry soap, the bite of something wild that you couldn’t place but seemed to blend with his rough beard and flannel shirt. “Not exactly a doctor but don’t think you need stitches. Just gotta keep you from getting infected. Unless you’d rather go to the damn clinic…” 

“No!” You said it quickly, probably too forcefully. You cleared your throat. “No, I… No clinic. I don’t want to cause any issues and I don’t want them to ask too many questions…” 

You didn’t want anything that would tie the dead body that was going cold in the rain a few blocks away to you or Joel. 

“Good,” Joel said. He dabbed the rubbing alcohol on your cut cheek, making you hiss in pain but you held still. His fingers were surprisingly gentle, even with the rough callus of them. “You’re doin’ good, baby doll. Almost done.” 

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, his brows drawn together as he concentrated on you before picking up the gauze and taping it over the injured skin. 

He released your face when he finished and sat back in the chair. You crossed your arms over your stomach, watching him for a moment. You’d always known that Joel was handsome. That was a simple fact, anyone with working eyes could see it. But it had always been a somewhat neutral statement. He was handsome but he was also cold and gruff and seemed to barely tolerate you outside of the unusual conversations you had when you brought something by and Tommy was unexpectedly absent. Even then, you’d gotten the impression that he was humoring you for Tommy’s sake, not out of any kindness or affection toward you. He was handsome but you’d never had anything more than a passing attraction to the man because thinking about how he must look at you, see you, hurt. 

But it was like a switch had flipped since Joel had saved you. Like the only thing that had been keeping you from looking at him and wanting him had been the idea that he wouldn’t want you in return. Some kind of protective measure meant to save you from getting attached to something hopeless because, at the end of the world, what was the point of attachment without hope? 

“Thank you,” you said when you realized you’d been quiet for too long. 

Joel shrugged. 

“Anyone fucks with you again, tell me,” Joel said. “Idiots should know better now, but…” 

You nodded slowly. Joel watched you for a moment before getting up and going to your kitchen. He got a towel from a drawer and filled it with ice before coming back and moving his chair closer to yours and pressing it against your bandaged skin. Your fingers covered his, meaning to take the ice pack from him, but he left his hand there, cradling it to your face. Your eyes met his, all dark and deep and wounded and you swallowed, hard. 

“Why did you do that?” You asked, whispering more than fully talking. Like it was a secret you were asking at all. 

“Didn’t deserve what they were about to do to you,” he said. His eyes were still on yours. You were closer to him than you’d ever been before. Your hand slid from his down his arm to his elbow, fingers twisting in the fabric of his sleeve. You watched his jaw tense for a moment. “Didn’t… Couldn’t see you hurt.” 

You leaned into him. You couldn’t help it, drawn into his strength and warmth, the comfort of his safety and sudden kindness so overwhelming it was a force unto itself. It was almost a surprise when you kissed him, that his lips were on your own. 

The kiss was only soft and gentle for a moment. Just long enough for Joel to drop the ice pack to the floor, his hand gently holding your bandaged face, ensuring he kept your mouth at the right angle. His other hand went to your waist, grabbing you almost roughly, pulling you sharply onto his lap with a surprised squeak. You were straddling Joel and damn near naked doing it, the only thing between you his jeans and the robe that was caught between your thighs. 

You froze as his fingers tightened on you, his lips growing more insistent, the heat in you building and burning but you weren’t sure what to do with it all. 

But he wasn’t slowing down or pulling away. His kiss deepened and the hand that was at your waist moved to the small of your back, adjusting you so that your core was pressed tightly to his growing length in his jeans. You moaned into his mouth, involuntarily rocking your hips against his hardening cock. Your arms went around his neck and you pressed yourself closer to him, dipping your tongue into his mouth to taste him. Joel’s hips pressed up against yours and you could feel his bulge against you, the heat of him making your core tighten and ache. 

Joel’s hands left your face and your back, coming around to the knot on the front of your robe. He pulled his lips from yours and looked down at your body as he untied it. He looked you in the eye - a silent request for permission, it seemed - and you didn’t stop him as his hands slid inside the fabric and pushed it away from you. 

Your skin was still warm from the shower and the shock of the cool air against you made you shiver. Joel didn’t seem to notice. His hands moved almost reverently for your waist, then your breasts, his callused fingers running over your soft, smooth skin, cupping the heavy globes of flesh, running his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. 

“Fucking Christ,” he breathed before kissing you again, your tits still in his hands. You pulled him closer, tighter, not caring if you seemed like some kind of rabid whore as you ground your leaking slit down on his still clothed cock. 

His hands ranged over you as he all but devoured your mouth, grip getting harder, kiss getting more desperate before he separated from you once more, panting for breath, pupils blown. 

“Let me fuck you,” his chest was heaving. He didn’t say it like a question or even a plea. He said it like it was a foregone conclusion, that he was going to have you and this was a formality. 

You could only nod and he shoved your robe to the floor before taking you in his arms and carrying you to your couch. He ripped his shirt over his head and cast it aside before hurriedly stepping out of his boots and shoving his pants and underwear down and off, his cock full and hard, making your eyes go wide. It’s not like you were a virgin or anything, you’d been in your early 30s when the outbreak happened, you’d had your fair share of men. You’d just never seen a cock quite that thick. 

Joel looked down at you on the couch, one of his hands wrapping around his length and stroking it once, twice, before gathering the precome leaking from his head and spreading it over himself. 

“Joel,” you swallowed hard as he adjusted your legs and climbed between them. “I don’t think…” 

“It’ll fit, Baby Doll,” he was still breathless as he jerked himself. “I’ll make it fit. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry…” 

You nodded, not really sure you believed him, but the gnawing need inside you was overwhelming any resistance you felt as he lined his fat, almost purple head with your weeping hole. You sat up on your elbows, watching where he was going to enter you - or try to enter you, at least.  

“Already so wet,” he ran his head up and down your slit, gathering your slick. “Make you feel so good, fill you up so good, promise baby…” 

He pushed himself inside you then, a grimace on his face until his head almost popped into your tight channel, pulling a shocked gasp from you. He was hardly inside you but you could still feel the burning stretch of him. His thumb went to your clit and brushed it at first, making you shudder, before working you in tight, firm circles. He fucked just the tip of him in and out of you, keeping the pressure on your sensitive nub as he did. You rocked your hips against him, you couldn’t help it, your orgasm already closer than you’d expected it to be. 

“See?” He panted. “Told you I’d take care of you.” 

With that, he thrust into you the rest of the way, making your eyes go wide and a high pitched whine leave you. You couldn’t look away from where he was filling you, the stretch unlike anything you’d ever felt before. He was so big you could see the outline of him between your hips, a foreign swell where he’d made space inside you to fill. 

“Joel,” you whimpered below him. You could feel him twitch inside you, like he was inches away from orgasm already. “Fuck, I need a minute, you’re too big, I need…” 

“Fuck,” he groaned, tipping his head back, his hands finding your waist. But he was still inside you even though you could feel that he wanted to fuck you hard and fast. Your body adjusted, the almost painful strain of taking him fading to an overwhelming fullness that had you starting to rock your hips against him, desperate for more stimulation. “Fuckin’ Christ, gonna lose it with you doing that, Baby Doll, I need to fuck you, I gotta, won’t hurt you promise I won’t…” 

You nodded but you weren’t sure it even registered with him. His grip on your waist tightened and he pulled back from you - slow at first - before thrusting all the way back in, the force of it knocking the air out of you. You groaned as Joel started to fuck you, hard and fast and needy, his thick cock stretching you with every motion. 

“Knew you could take it,” he panted. “Told you I’d make it fit.” 

You just whimpered, one of your hands finding your clit, the other your breast, working yourself in both places as he pounded into you. Your channel grew tighter around him, your orgasm close. 

“There you go,” he kept up his almost brutal pace. “Fuck yeah, make yourself come on this cock, come all over my fuckin’ cock while I wreck this little pussy, do it, fucking come for me.” 

You couldn’t help it, you came so hard you cried out with it, your hands stilling as you pulsed over Joel and he fucked you through your orgasm. He never stopped, never even slowed. If anything, he slammed into you harder and faster and your overwrought pussy almost hurt with it. 

“Fuck, can I come in you?” He asked. “Please… fuck… please, gotta come in you, need to come in you, fuck Baby I’m coming, gonna fill you up, fuck!” 

He pressed himself deep and exploded inside you there before you had a chance to tell him either way, the hot ropes of his come coating your inner walls. He collapsed forward onto you, his head over your shoulder and pressed into the cushion of your couch as he caught his breath. You could feel him leaking out of your spent hole as he went soft inside you. You slowly, hesitantly put your arms around him, stroking his back for a moment. Part of you was unsure what, exactly, had just happened. If it meant anything at all. 

“Fuck,” he sat up from you and pulled his cock from your body. He was glistening with the blend of you and him together. He looked down at you, still a little breathless, as you were splayed out before him. You remembered, suddenly, what it was like to look down at a chicken you’d split while butchering, all hollowed out, its only remaining purpose - to be consumed - laid bare. “Fuck, I… I don’t…” 

You sat up on your elbows again and looked down between your legs. His come was leaking from you. You looked back up at him, acutely aware of your vulnerability but hiding anything from him felt wrong. 

“It’s OK,” you said quietly. 

“No,” he shook his head. “I… I’m sorry, I…” 

He stopped and got off the couch, getting his clothes from the floor. He pulled his underwear and jeans on quickly before retrieving your robe from beside your kitchen table. He lowered it gently onto your stomach. You stared at it for a moment before sitting up and sliding it on. You cinched the tie around your waist. 

“Are you…” he trailed off as he shrugged back into his shirt, his brown eyes ranging over you again and again. 

“I’m fine.” 

He nodded. 

“Right,” he said. “Right, OK…” 

He stepped into his boots, not bothering to adjust the laces. But then, he only lived a few doors down. 

Oh God, he only lived a few doors down. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly after he was fully clothed again. “I… I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” you said, getting up and crossing your arms over yourself, thankful that your robe was long and covered most of you. “I… I wanted it.”

“Right,” Joel nodded. “That… we can’t do that again, OK? It’s not smart. Probably best if we…” 

“Sure,” you just nodded again. “Yeah, OK.” 

“Good,” he said, going for your door. He stopped to look at you. “Take care of yourself. Let me know if you run into any more trouble.” 

“I will,” you nodded. “Thanks, Joel.” 

He gave you a nod and just left you there, his come dripping out of you and his bandage on your cheek. 

That was the first time you fucked Joel Miller. 

It wasn’t the last. 

You came by a few weeks later, almost positive that it would just be Tommy home but it was Joel who answered the door. 

Once you got through the awkwardness of the hellos and the handing off of biscuits, you tried to leave, even though your core was tight and achy being so close to Joel again. Like he’d imprinted himself inside you, the shadow of him still there as a reminder. But Joel wasn’t having it. He grabbed your shoulder and pulled you around to face him before pressing you back into the wall and all but shoving his tongue into your mouth. He fucked you right there, against the wall of his living room, and when your thoughts weren’t blinded by orgasms you were just praying that his brother didn’t come home and find the two of you like this. 

When it was over, he stepped back from you, his eyes wide as he panted for breath and said over and over that it couldn’t happen again. That it wasn’t smart, not when you were neighbors and you were all stuck here like this. That he didn’t want any kind of anything with anyone. That it was a waste of time. 

It took until about the fifth time for Joel to stop saying it couldn’t happen again. For him to just accept it. He showed up at your door most nights now. He had for more than a year now. You weren’t entirely sure what your relationship actually was. You slept better when Joel was wrapped around you, even when he jerked in his sleep as nightmares plagued him. If you had an utterly miserable day, he sometimes listened to you vent about it before he fucked you silly. He brought you things he thought you’d like when he made smuggling runs outside the QZ, like a magpie who sought out books and baking equipment. You made him dinner and cut his hair when it got too long and didn’t ask questions when you bandaged up his knuckles at the end of a long day. 

But Joel had never so much as told you that he liked you, let alone anything close to love. Even though you loved him. It had taken you some time to realize that you had. You’d become numb to a lot since the outbreak. Love was a risk, one that your subconscious mind seemed itching to keep you away from. Especially from someone as distant as Joel. You’d been fucking no one but him for more than a year now and you’d only learned within the last month that he was a contractor before the end of the world. 

You wanted to do something nice for him. Something that might let him start to love you. At least like you as something more than someone to fuck, anyway. And you had the perfect thing in mind. 

That day, Joel rolled you over in the early morning hours, kissing you deeply in the dark, enough to start to wake you up. 

“Have a good day,” your words were slurred and mushy in your sleep but he seemed to get the picture. 

“Think you’ll have an easier time of it, I’m on sewer duty,” he kissed you one more time, just a peck on the lips. “See you tonight.” 

“Mmmm.” 

You waited until you were sure Joel was gone for the day before you turned on the lamp beside your bed and found Joel’s watch on the nightstand. 

He never took the darn thing off except to sleep. He always wore it, every day. Except the days he was on sewer duty. He left it at home or at your place then, the face of it cracked and the mechanism so broken it didn’t work anymore. But he still wore it every damn day. He’d never told you why. 

You ran your thumb over the broken glass of the face for a moment before setting it back down and getting dressed in your kitchen uniform and pocketing the watch.

Your shift started in an hour and a half, giving you what you hoped was enough time to get the errand you’d been planning done. You had to venture most of the way across the QZ to do it, traveling to the black market shops where you knew a lot of what Joel smuggled in wound up. It was still early there, people setting out what was on offer, and you found the one person you knew of in the QZ who dealt in things like jewelry and watches. Even though he’d always struck you as slimy every time he’d talked to you when you’d walked by his stall when on the hunt for something else. 

“Hey there pretty lady,” he smirked. “Finally coming to see me?” 

“I was wondering if you could fix something for me,” you said, getting the watch out and handing it over. “It’s my… it belongs to my friend. The face has been broken forever and I don’t think it tells time anymore. Think it’s fixable?” 

He took it and frowned down at it, turning it over in his fingers. 

“Kind of a piece of shit to waste the energy on fixing it,” he said before looking back up at you. “Could find you something better, get you a deal…” 

“I’d rather get that one fixed if you can,” you smiled. “I don’t mind the price.” 

He nodded, looking back down at it.

“Well, it’s beat to shit,” he said. “But I’ll give it my best shot or find something good to replace it with, how about that? Even buy this piece of crap off you, I’m sure I can use it for parts. Give you a discount on the watch itself.” 

There was a twinge in your gut at that, the idea of maybe trading Joel’s watch away. It must have sentimental value if he wore the broken thing that much. Or maybe it was just force of habit? He didn’t have one that worked but felt naked without it? 

“Sure,” you smiled. “When do you think you’ll know?” 

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Come back, see me. I’ll let you know what I can figure out.” 

You walked to work excited to see Joel that night. You were sure he was going to like the watch thing. Maybe it could be the start to something new, something good. After so long of living in limbo with him, you sure hoped it was. 

***

Joel fucking hated sewer days. 

They paid the best but it was disgusting work. The only worse job, in his opinion, was burning infected bodies. At least the sewer didn’t have dead kids. 

Otherwise, it was worse.

He went by his apartment first to shower and get cleaned up before heading toward yours. 

Joel was reluctant to admit it even to himself - especially to himself - but he’d grown attached to you over the last few years. 

He’d never meant to fuck you. 

It had been an accident, the first time. Or, at least, as much of an accident as fucking someone could be. He’d always thought you were pretty. You were beautiful, truly. Beautiful enough that he couldn’t pretend that you weren’t. So he moved on from that fact. But you were also sweet and kind, nicer to him than he deserved. He tried to keep you at arm’s length but you’d somehow managed to insert yourself into his life in ways he hadn’t expected. He liked being around you, he liked to look at you, he liked to imagine what it would feel like to be inside you. Falling into fucking you had been easy, so damn easy.

It helped that you didn’t ask anything of him. That you put up with shit from him that he doubted you’d have tolerated in the before times. But you were lonely here, that much was clear, and Joel was someone. He took advantage of that fact, he knew. He knew he should be better for you. Try to be more. Try to be something at all. But he wasn’t sure he had it in him anymore, if it had ever existed for anyone but Sarah at all. It seemed like it would be cruel to both of you to try. 

So he didn’t. 

He was lucky that you seemed fine with that. Even if he really wasn’t. 

He beat you to your apartment. Not surprising, sewer shifts started early and ended early, and he let himself in to wait for you, going to get his watch off the nightstand first. 

Joel felt naked without it. Almost like he was betraying his daughter when he didn’t wear it, that he’d somehow decided the last thing she’d done for him wasn’t good enough anymore. But wearing it on sewer jobs was too big a risk. If it fell off there, he’d never find it again and he wasn’t sure he could live with himself if that happened. So he left it wherever he slept the night before - as likely to be your place as his anymore - and always put it back on the second he got cleaned up. 

But it wasn’t on your nightstand. He frowned, looking on the bed - you made it every day, like that shit still mattered - but it wasn’t there. He got down on his hands and knees and looked around the nightstand, below it, under the bed. He ripped the sheets off and shook them out, took the pillows out of their cases. His heart was pounding. It had to be here it had to. 

He went to the bathroom next, maybe he’d taken it off in there the night before even though he never had before but he searched there, too. He was taking all the cushions off your couch when he heard your key in the door. He kept searching as you came in, not even looking up at you. 

“Joel!” He heard you drop your keys and your bag and then your hands were on him, pulling him back from the couch and making him stand up straight. He was breathless. He had to find it, it had to be here. Fuck, what if he put it on this morning and it fell off on the job and he hasn’t noticed? What if it was gone? “What are you…” 

“My watch,” he said, looking around the room for where to search next. “I… my fucking watch, left it here this morning, almost positive I left it here but I can’t find it and I need that watch, Baby Doll, I gotta…” 

“Joel,” you smiled a little, putting your hands on his forearm. “It’s OK. You did leave it here but… well, it was supposed to be a surprise…” 

His stomach dropped.

“What did you do.” 

You took your hands back, smile fading at his tone. Your eyes went a little wide. 

“I noticed that it’s broken,” your voice was quiet. “And I thought it was something that might be fixable…”

“What the fuck did you do?!”

You shocked back from him. Joel had never so much as raised his voice to you before and he was screaming now. 

“I took it to a man across town,” you said quickly.  “He said he might be able to fix it or find a good replacement and…” 

“I don’t want it fucking fixed!” He screamed, pressing closer to you and you flinched back. “I want it the way it was! I want it the way it was when my daughter fucking died!” 

You stared at him for a second. He’d never told you about Sarah. He didn’t talk about her. It hurt too much to even consider it, he kept her to himself, her memory saved for quiet spaces where he could let it overwhelm him. 

“Your daughter?” You whispered, reaching for him. He stepped back from you, couldn’t handle your fucking hands on him, not now. “Joel, you never… I didn’t…” 

“She gave me that watch!” He wasn’t yelling now but there was a tremble in his voice, the barely contained rage slipping through. “She gave me that fucking watch and the day she died she got it fixed for me. It got fucked up by the bullets that killed her because I didn’t do my fucking job as her father, I didn’t protect her! That watch is all I have left of her and you…” He shook his head, his resolve cracking and yelling again. “You fucking gave it away! How could you be that fucking stupid? That fucking careless? What the fuck were you thinking!”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. You were crying, voice shaky. “I… I didn’t know, I just wanted…” 

“You think I give a shit what you want?” He yelled, towering over you. “Think I give a shit about you? You’re just some stupid fucking girl I use when I need to get off and you…” 

You were cowering back from him and he knew he was scaring you but he couldn’t feel anything past the sharp pain of loss enough to care. 

“I’m sorry,” your voice was so quiet he could barely hear you. “Joel, please…” 

He glared at you with so much force it made you flinch and stalked out your front door, not bothering to close it behind him. 

Joel took the stairs down to the street two at a time and set off, walking quickly as night fell and rain started in a steady drizzle over him. He could think of a few places you’d probably try to take the watch. If he could find it in time… with all the fucking smuggling connections he has in this godforsaken town. He had to be able to find it. He had to. 

But he searched all night, went to every goddamn black market dealer he could think of. He was only able to find about half of them, some out who the fuck knows where, and none of them had the watch. 

It was daylight again when he returned home, soaking wet and exhausted. He glared at your door as he passed, going to his place to shower and try to warm up. 

But without the distraction of searching, the desperate drive to do something because he could, he was forced to feel while standing in the steam and the water. 

The pain of the loss of his daughter was there, sharp and acute when he realized he may never again touch something she had also held. The permanence of that somehow making her loss more real than it had been in years. It was gutting. He’d rather be shot or stabbed or have the shit beaten out of him than feel this. At least that was tangible, something he could heal from and not this constant, consuming pain. 

But there was also you. You, who had become the only bright spot in this goddamn place. You, who held him when he woke up in a panic and told him that he was safe and that it would be OK. You, just about the only thing that had made him smile in years and who looked at him like he was something worth wanting. Looked at him like there was still a point to him at all. 

You’d tried to do something nice for him. You hadn’t known any better, he knew that. He’d just never let you in. Never even told you Sarah existed let alone about the way that she died. How he’d held her, how Tommy had to drag him away from her body, how all he’d wanted to do was join her and he couldn’t even do that right. He’d never told you any of it. He couldn’t blame you for that, not when he was already afraid of how much he cared about you. He was even more terrified of what he knew he could feel for you if he just let himself. It wouldn’t even be hard. Not feeling it was like fighting against gravity. It would only take one slip and he’d fall into it, he knew that. 

He got out of the shower and sighed, trying not to think about the watch. About the things he’d said to you. He’d been so panicked, so angry. He had tried to hurt you. Said things he knew were cruel because if he was hurting he wanted you to hurt, too. 

But he wasn’t proud of that. He didn’t want you to hurt. He wanted to take care of you and protect you. You were kind and thoughtful and this fucking place hadn’t chewed you up and spit you out yet. He wanted to help you stay that way. Instead, he’d tried to hurt you. 

He sighed and got dressed before going to knock on your door. It was your day off, he expected you to be home. Probably reading or baking something. Because apparently cooking all day during the week wasn’t enough, you had to do it on your day off, too. 

“Hey!” Your next door neighbor came outside but her face fell when she saw Joel. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were…” 

“I’ll tell ‘er you’re looking for her,” Joel said, looking back at the door, waiting for you to answer. But he didn’t even hear you inside. He frowned. He had a key, it just felt wrong to use it after the way he’d spoken to you but maybe he’d need to…

“Thanks,” your neighbor smiled, a plate in her hand. “She’s always making things for my daughter, I finally had enough extra to return the favor but I haven’t seen her since she left last night and…” 

“Last night?” Joel’s frown deepened. “What do you mean, when last night?” 

“Kind of late,” she frowned back. “After dark, I was just coming back home when I ran into her. Seemed like she was in a big hurry, looked like she might have been upset. I told her I had something for her and she said she’d be back later. I don’t think I missed her but…” 

Joel’s heart sped up and he shoved his hand in his pocket, finding his keys. He tuned out the neighbor and had to fight to keep his hands from shaking as he opened your door. 

Your apartment was still torn apart from when Joel had been searching it, couch cushions still all over the floor, coffee table askew. He ignored it, half walking, half running to your bedroom. 

“What happened?” Your neighbor hovered in the doorway. Joel ignored her, too. He looked in your room, still in total disarray but empty, your uniform on the floor where it hadn’t been before. Your bathroom was empty. 

“Fuck!” Joel smacked the wall. You’d left, gone somewhere and not come back. But you’d planned to come back, you’d told your neighbor that you were going to be back later and you hadn’t come home. He went to the woman in the doorway, her eyes still a bit wide as she took in the mess he’d made of your apartment. He took her by the shoulders and she blinked up at him in surprise. “Where was she going? Did she say? Tell you anything at all?” 

“N-no,” she stammered, frozen in Joel’s grip. “She didn’t, I’m sorry, I don’t…” 

Joel released her, running his fingers through his hair for a moment. Had you gone to try to get the watch back? He’d been so upset, so cruel… You must have. It seemed like something you would do, immediately go to try to fix it. He turned back to the woman, cursing the fact that he didn’t know this about you, that he had kept his distance from you so he wouldn’t know things about you and fall into you in the way that was so tempting to do. 

“Know what markets she goes to?” He asked. “Especially for any contraband shit?” She just blinked at him for a moment and he resisted the urge to yell at her. That’s what got him into this situation, losing his fucking temper at someone who didn’t deserve it. He took a deep breath, keeping his voice calm. “I think she went to look for something but I need to know where that would be so I can go find her. Do you know?” 

“Yeah,” she nodded after a moment. “Yeah, there’s one across town, in the south end. I’ve run into her there before…” 

Joel was out the door before she finished talking. It was one of the places he’d gone the night before but hadn’t found anyone to talk to. He certainly hadn’t seen you there. But it was at least a starting point. He’d find you. He had to. 

***

You stared at your open door for a few minutes after Joel left, in too much shock to move. 

Joel had a daughter. A daughter who died. The watch had been from her, of course he wouldn’t want it fixed, of course he would wear it every day. And you’d given it to some slimy guy in the contraband market. 

After a while, you could make yourself move. You closed your door and went to your room. Joel had turned that upside down, too. Of course he had. Because he was desperate and you’d made him that way. 

You got changed quickly, leaving your uniform in a pile on the floor, grabbed a handful of ration cards in case you needed to buy the watch back, and headed out. 

“Oh, hey!” Clara, your next door neighbor, almost ran into you on the stairs, her two-year-old on her hip. “I was just going to pop over, I made…” 

“That’s so sweet,” you cut her off. “But I’ve gotta run, I’m so sorry. I’ll be back later and should be around tomorrow…” 

“OK!” She called after you as you took off. “Be careful out there!” 

You moved as quickly as you could manage toward the market, hoping that you could find the man, that he hadn’t started doing anything to the watch, that everything would be OK. Even if Joel hated you now, he shouldn’t lose the one thing he still had from his daughter because you hadn’t thought to ask him about the damn watch. 

You breathed a sigh of relief when the man was still there, closing up shop, when you ran up. 

“Why hello again,” he smiled, a smile that was smug and lecherous. “Haven’t been home to check my stash for parts yet, pretty girl, but if you wanted to come back with me I bet I could find a way to give you an even bigger discount…” 

“That’s OK,” you said, a little breathless. “I actually just want the watch back, just the way it is…” 

He frowned. 

“It’s still pretty useless…” 

“That’s OK!” You said quickly. “Just… please. Please say you still have it.” 

He sighed and opened a box, rifling around in it for a moment before pulling it out. But he held onto it, running his thumb over the face of it. 

“I was expecting something for fixing this,” he said, glancing up at you before looking down at the watch. “Had plans for those cards…” 

You pulled a few ration cards from your pocket and held them out. 

“Please,” you said. Even though he hadn’t done any work. You didn’t care. “The cards are yours, just give me the watch.” 

He looked almost surprised that getting cards out of you had worked but he took them and gave you the watch. You looked at it for a moment, the broken glass in the face, the time frozen  at 2:15. You tucked it in your pocket, the fist that had been clenched around your heart loosening. 

“Thank you,” you smiled. “Just… Thank you.” 

You started at a more reasonable pace back for your apartment. You’d go to Joel’s, return the watch, apologize again and hope that he wouldn’t still hate you once you fixed it. At least you hoped he wouldn’t be hurting as much, he didn’t deserve that, not after everything he’d been through. You could fix that for him, at least. You had to. 

You were so relieved at getting the watch back that you weren’t paying close attention to your walk home. Yes, it was dark and raining and late but you knew the way and, since that day more than two years ago when Joel had saved you, everyone seemed to know you were protected. That you weren’t someone they messed with and expected to live. In hindsight, it made you feel like the QZ was safer than it was. So safe that you were fine walking home alone from a shady corner of town, far from FEDRA guard posts and people you knew. 

It was a stupid mistake. You realized that when you heard a voice in the dark. 

“Well well.” 

The sound sent a chill down your spine. You recognized that voice, the voice of the man who had tried to kill you once. 

You froze, eyes wide, an animal caught in a trap. 

“If it isn’t Joel Miller’s little FEDRA bitch,” Pickett emerged from the shadows, his hands in his pockets, a few men at his side. Your eyes darted between them. There were six of them that you could see. There was no way you could fight off that many. Hell, you probably couldn’t even fight off one. You’d never been a fighter. “Awful far from home aren’t ya?” 

“Heading there now,” you said, voice shaky. “Joel’s expecting me…” 

“Well that’s too bad, isn’t it?” He prowled closer. “Guess you’ll have to keep him waiting just a bit longer.” 

“You don’t want to do that,” you finally were able to make your legs move, backing away from him. “You know what he said…” 

“But he isn’t here, is he?” He smirked. “And he’s the one who left his little toy out for just anyone to take. If you mattered all that much to him, don’t think you’d be out here all alone at this time of night.” 

Your eyes darted, looking for the best way to run, but your mind was distracted. The man was right. You didn’t matter to Joel, he’d told you as much, that you were just some stupid girl he used when he needed it. You were just some stupid girl and you were going to wind up dead in the shitty part of the QZ and he’d never get the watch back, the one thing he had left of his daughter, because you’d been too stupid to ask about it. For some reason, that part hurt more than the thought of dying. There wasn’t much to life in the QZ, certainly not much that made life worth living. Joel had become the one thing you looked forward to. It was hard to mourn your own destruction when there wasn’t anything left that was really worth living for. 

You tried to run, slipping in the mud as you went. But you were turned around, too panicked to look at street signs or pay close enough attention and, when you wound up at a dead end, you were cornered, the men closing in on you as you backed into a wall. 

“Please,” you whispered. “It won’t make a difference to him or to FEDRA, if you want to hurt them, I’m not the way to do it and…” 

“Maybe not,” Pickett smiled in a way that was more like the bearing of teeth than an actual smile. “But you sure will be fun.” 

Your eyes were so glued to his that you didn’t even see it coming when the first blow sent you to the ground. 

***

Joel made it to the market in record time, out of breath and bones reminding him that he was in his 40s now and he’d spent his life breaking his body to survive. He scanned the stalls quickly, finding the man who was the most likely one you’d have gone to, watches and jewelry out on a table in front of him. As if anyone could afford that shit now anyway. 

“How can I help you?” The man asked, smiling up at Joel from his seat behind the table. “Looking for something special for a lady friend, perhaps?” 

“Looking for my…” he paused. Technically, you weren’t anything to him. “My friend. She would have come here yesterday with a watch…” 

“Oh,” he laughed. “Yeah, I know her. Such a pretty thing, a little disappointed she only decided to give me the time of day when she needed something…” 

“She was here?” Joel asked, brows raised. 

The man smirked. 

“Answers are gonna cost you.” 

Joel ground his teeth for a second before shooting his arm forward and roughly grabbing the back of the man’s neck, shoving his head down and slamming it into the table, the man giving a yelp of pain when his nose crushed against the wood. 

“Fuck!” He swore as Joel pressed his face against the table. He squirmed but Joel held him down. “Jesus Christ, man!” 

“Was. She. Here.” Joel’s teeth were clenched, his chest heaving. 

“She was here!” The man cried out and Joel released his neck. He panted for breath for a moment and sat up cautiously, cradling the back of his neck. “She was here, last night, she came by, wanted the watch back, she seemed desperate.” 

“Where’d she go from here?” Joel demanded. 

“What?” 

“Where!” Joel screamed, hand curling into a fist, ready to beat the answer out of him. 

“Back the way she came!” He covered his head with his arms. “Same place you came from what I could see, please!” 

Joel stepped back. 

“When was it?” 

“Late!” The man said quickly. “Late, she came by late. Right at the end of the day, I was closing up shop, it was dark and raining…” 

So you’d made it this far. You just hadn’t made it back home. 

“Anyone who runs around here who would give her trouble?” Joel asked. “Keep her from comin’ home?” 

“Plenty of people,” the man looked at him like he was insane. Joel glowered at him again and he flinched. “But most likely, Pickett’s gang, saw a few of them last night prowling around, they’ve been causing trouble around here lately. If she ran into trouble, it’s probably with them!” 

Joel nodded slowly. Pickett. He knew him. That was the man he’d saved you from before, the jackass had been building up a following of FEDRA hating idiots who seemed bent on causing trouble and hurting people as a way to feel strong by being cruel. 

He knew where to find them. 

Joel ran there, a crumbling building FEDRA hadn’t done anything with yet that he and Tommy had run drugs to a few times. He pulled the knife he kept at his belt free before he pushed the door open. Whether you were here or not, these were men he wouldn’t care about killing. 

The first one was just inside the door. Probably meant to be standing guard but not paying attention, flipping through an old Playboy instead. Joel caught him off guard. He wrapped his hand around the handle of the knife and used it to bolster his punch, the blow landing so hard the man fell backwards off his stool. Joel kicked his gun away and kneeled on the man’s chest, putting the blade to his throat. 

“Your boss bring a woman here last night?” Joel asked. 

“Not your business, is it?” The man sneered. Joel ground his teeth, covering the man’s mouth to muffle his screams before taking the knife in his hand and thrusting it into the man’s shoulder. Joel waited until he quieted some, gasping below his palm, before he spoke again. 

“Scream and I’ll gut you like a fuckin’ fish,” Joel snarled. “Now I’m just about done askin’ nicely. Did your boss bring a woman here last night?” 

“Yes!” He said, pleading. “He did, she’s still here, I think she’s still alive, they’re on the second floor, please…” 

Joel freed the knife and thrust it into the man’s throat. He didn’t need him anymore. He picked up the gun. 

It was easy, finding you then. He shot men as they approached, only half a dozen or so between him and you. But none of them were Pickett. 

He found the room he was sure you were in, two men stationed at the door who fired at him when he came around the corner. He ducked out of sight, readied his stolen weapon and exposed himself just enough to shoot. He dropped them both before they could land a shot on him. He took their ammo and changed his clip before listening at the door for a moment. It was quiet. 

Joel opened the door slowly, cautiously, but he didn’t need to. You were the only one inside, on the ground in an unnatural looking position. He holstered the gun and ran to you, kneeling beside your prone form. There was a rattle in your breath and you’d been beaten to hell. Even in the dim light, he could see the cuts on your skin, the parts of you he could see swollen and discolored. They’d savaged you, your body broken and bleeding, and you’d only been out here because of him. Because he’d been so angry at you for something that wasn’t your fault. Fuck, you were the only thing left he cared about besides Tommy and you were bleeding because of him. If you died because of him, if he’d failed you the way he’d failed Sarah…

“Please,” you rasped, trying to lift your head but giving up, your eyes closed. Your voice surprised Joel, he hadn’t expected you to be conscious. “Please… I don’t…” 

“It’s OK Baby Doll,” Joel said, his voice thick. “It’s me, you’re OK now. Gonna take real good care of you, you’re alright…” 

“Joel?” You lifted your head and managed to open one eye. The other was swollen shut. “Joel, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” 

Before he had a chance to stop you from moving, you reached a shaky hand into the pocket of your jeans and pulled out the watch. You held it out to him, your fingers bloody. 

“I don’t think it’s any more broken,” you winced. “I tried to protect it, I’m sorry…” 

He took it from you, your blood on the face and the band, a tightness in his throat he was struggling to breathe around. 

“S’OK Baby Doll,” he said, putting it on his wrist quickly and reached for your head, to try to brush some bloody hair back from your skin, but you flinched away from him. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, it’s not your fault, none of this is your fault.” 

You took a deep, shaky breath like you were going to argue with him, but you didn’t get the chance. 

“Look who it is.” 

Joel stiffened, getting to his feet slowly, turning to face him. 

“Almost expected you to not show up,” Pickett smiled. “She seemed damn sure she didn’t mean anything to ya, swore up and down that you wouldn’t even notice she was gone.” Joel’s stomach twisted. “Took you so long I was starting to believe her.” 

Pickett prowled closer. 

“Course I’d hoped she’d be enough to draw you out,” he said. “Getting tired of tip-toeing around you and your fuckin’ brother. But if she wasn’t, at least she was fun. Didn’t even get a chance to let my guys have the real fun with her yet, though. Figured I’d see if we could knock her teeth out first, bet she’d suck real good then. But looks like you took care of them, so I guess she’s off the hook.” 

Joel roared and lunged for Pickett, swinging for him as he did. The other man had either underestimated Joel or overestimated himself, because he tried to dodge him and failed, Joel’s shoulder catching him in the chest and sending him sprawling to the ground. Before he had a chance to even get his bearings, Joel was on top of him, screaming as he pummeled him, raining the blows down on his face again and again and again. 

For the first time since you’d disappeared, Joel felt like he was really doing something. This man had taken you, hurt you, was going to do more to you. Joel was doing what he was supposed to do. He was protecting you. He felt it in every blow he landed on the man’s face, in every collapsing structure below his skin, in every splash of blood. It wasn’t until he had stopped breathing and the blood had stopped pouring from his open wounds that he stilled, panting for breath as he looked at the mangled face of the man below him. 

He stood, flexing his hand and looking at it, the split open knuckles, the mix of your blood and his own and Pickett’s on the watch. He wiped his hand on his shirt and went back to you, kneeling again. 

“Joel,” you whimpered. 

“He’s dead,” Joel said, his voice thick. “They’re all dead. Warned ‘em. Told ‘em what would happen if they fucked with you.” 

He watched you work to swallow around your damaged throat as you nodded. 

“You’re safe now,” he said softly, fingertips gently tracing your face where you didn’t look battered. You flinched at first but relaxed. “Need to wait a bit to take you home. Too bright outside right now, FEDRA fucks would stop us…” 

“Don’t need to worry about me,” you struggled to sit up for a moment before giving up and going limp on the floor. “It’s OK. Already did more than you should have. Go home in case FEDRA comes poking around and…” 

“Not leaving you here,” he said gruffly. 

You winced as you swallowed and fought to open the one eye you could. 

“Don’t put yourself at risk for me,” you managed. “I’m not worth it, you know that and…” 

“You’re worth it, Baby Doll,” he said softly, his hand on your face. “About the only thing in this fuckin’ place that is.”

You flinched as you frowned. 

“No,” you shook your head a little. “No, you said…” 

“Don’t matter what I said,” he cut you off, trying to ignore the stabbing guilt in his chest. Fuck, the things he’d said to you. “I didn’t mean it, didn’t mean a fuckin’ word of it. I was pissed at myself, I was hurting, I took it out on you and I never should have said or done any of it, Baby Doll, never. I didn’t mean it, not a word of it and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back, I wish I could take all of it back…” 

He lay beside you, delicately holding your face, his eyes tracing over you. He memorized the damage done, the signs of all the pain he knew you were in. All because he hadn’t told you about Sarah, because he’d hurt you, because he’d failed you. He wouldn’t do that again. He was not going to let you suffer because of him again. You tried to move closer to him but he put his hand on your hip and held you still, instead moving toward you. You winced as you pressed against him but it didn’t stop you. He held you gently, feeling you breathe against him. 

“I’m sorry, Joel,” your voice was muffled. “I didn’t mean to, I promise…” 

“Shh,” he hushed you, tears stinging his eyes. He’d done this to you. Made you feel like, even this broken, it was your fault. “It’s not your fault. None of it. I’ve got you, Baby Doll. Gonna take care of you. Gonna take such good care of you if you let me. Please let me.” 

You were quiet, passing out against him. He held you like that, letting himself feel for you, letting himself fall into that dangerous place with you. He stopped fighting the gravity of loving you until it was dark enough to safely carry you home.

He got you cleaned up, patching you up as best he could before giving you some pain meds from a stash he hadn’t traded away yet and carrying you to bed. He held you there, too, his body curved around yours, shielding you from anything that could hurt you and promised himself, silently, that he’d never see you like this again. Because he was going to take care of you. He was going to protect you, he was going to love you, until there was nothing else left of him and he was dead and gone. 

He ran a gentle hand over your head and pressed a kiss to your hair, the glass of the watch reflecting the light of the moon, sending fractured splotches of light on your wall. He wasn’t going to fail again. That much, Joel knew. 

[kylosbitch]

"Not all men..."

Yeah your right José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal would never treat me like this

[kylosbitch]

as a feminist i would let him ultraviolence me

[kylosbitch]

Red Light [landlord!joel miller x f!reader]

The men you keep bringing home are no good for you. It's up to your landlord Joel to protect you from heartbreak. 

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: AU - no outbreak/modern day, obsessive!joel, dark!joel, but also soft!joel, landlord!joel, violence, death, murder, stalking, jealousy, truly creepy behaviour, unprotected sex (lead by example; just not mine), creampie, dubious consent, reader’s serious lack of self-preservation, sexual tension, abuse of power, spanking, spitting, squirting, praise kink, degradation kink, joel is a munch, somnophilia, possessive behaviour, dirty talk, a smidgen of gaslighting, the general filth you should expect from me by now, a spoonful of genuine intimate connection™️, implied age gap, submissive reader, dominant joel, daddy kink, knives, mild torture, light anal play, voyeurism, unreliable narration, inappropriate use of a necklace, panty sniffing, ambiguous(?) ending

word count: ~ 15.8k (uh, oops!)

read on ao3!

hello, all! this fic has been tossing and turning inside the proverbial sheets of my head for a while now. when i tell you it's darker than anything i've written, i mean it, so please, please mind the tags. this story does not depict a healthy relationship; joel is a total creep and both he and reader are heavily delusional. with that said, please enjoy this (super long) one-shot!! xoxo

PREFACE

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires. — Macbeth, I.IV

~

THE TENANT

You're beginning to think it’s a built-in bad luck charm. A microchip implanted in your skin or a flaw you have yet to pick out. Every single one of your prospective boyfriends has disappeared off the face of the Earth since you moved into town. 

It isn't you. It's not. There is nothing wrong with you. It isn't your fault that either they decide after one date that you aren't worth seeing again, or they stand you up before the date can even begin. Your profile pictures are decent. You followed the rules meticulously: a shot of your face, a group picture to show you have friends, a selfie, a candid. You've examined them time and time again for flaws and find none that a man would care about. You're pretty. Sexy. Confident. They're just intimidated. Fuck, you're turning into your mother.

And yet—

Since moving into this apartment—this beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime deal of an apartment—your luck with dating has abruptly ended. 

It's a lovely building. A stout brownstone with wrought-iron stairs and an old, but functional, elevator, it's traditional and charming. Perfect for a single woman. 

Six months. This is your first second date in six months. David is just fine. He's handsome in a frat-initiate kind of way, with a nice smile and a good sense of dress. He doesn't ask many questions about you, and he's a little pretentious about films you don't give a shit about, but he likes you. You didn't have a horrible time on the first date: he wasn't afraid to spend his money on you at the nice restaurant. And he has a car. 

Raised as an optimist, you learned to see the good parts of a situation. David can work out. 

On the way out of the elevator, you spot your landlord Joel speaking to the concierge. You instinctively smooth down your hair and wave at him as you walk by, shrugging your purse onto your shoulder. “Hi, Joel. Hi, Sam.”

Sam the concierge waves back, but Joel puts his back to the conversation and gives you his full attention, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. Your heart leaps and your head goes fuzzy with nerves. You barely manage to force a giddy giggle back down your throat. Relief coats your bones when Sam excuses himself to take a call.

Joel Miller’s an older guy, his tousled dark hair threaded with silver on his head and in his beard. One look at him and a person could know that he works with his hands for a living; he’s broad-shouldered, strong, with big arms and a capable air about him. He’s proven his mettle a hundred times over already with the miniscule repairs he’s made to the building. He turned it into a good place to live; he even trims the hedges outside and polishes the doorknobs when they get rusty. 

He’s wearing a green T-shirt today, which is another member of the typical summertime circulation of blue and grey T-shirts, and a pair of jeans. “Evening,” he says, his rich brown eyes sparkling. Sometimes, you can see him smile when his mouth isn’t showing it. It’s charming. Enthralling. “How’s that new lock workin’ out for you?”

You grin. He remembered. Joel installed a new deadbolt on your door last week, since the chain on the last one broke. “It’s perfect,” you tell him. “Are you in a chocolate or lemon mood this time?”

His gaze flickers down your body, taking in your yellow dress, before meeting yours again. “Lemon,” he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Talking to a handsome man feels like tossing your heart in the air and trying to juggle. Flirting with a handsome man is like toeing a tightrope between two mountains and forcing yourself not to look down. Your stomach swoops with the path of his eyes over your body, and you cannot convince yourself that you imagined it. “Lemon squares it is. Thank you again, Joel.”

“Just my job to keep my tenants safe,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. You can see a pair of keys in his pocket along with his cell phone. The mere sight of his belt makes your cheeks hot. Why are you looking at his belt? You’re going on a date with another man, for God’s sake. Relax.

“Helps when I like my tenants so much,” adds Joel, and you forget why you were scolding yourself in the first place. 

“Yeah?” You tilt your head to the side. “Maybe you should be baking for them, instead.”

Joel steps away from the desk, working his jaw as he seems to fight down a smile. “It’s for the best this way, believe me. Can’t cook for shit.”

“Big, strong man like you can’t work a stove?” you tease. Don’t look down. 

“I only fix ‘em.” There’s a crooked smile on his face now, and your heart beats your ribs to shrapnel. “You look real nice. Goin’ somewhere?”

That simple validation calms your nerves more effectively than a half-hour of repeating affirmations into the mirror before leaving your apartment. You give the skirt of your sundress a little swish. “A date, actually,” you say, feeling sheepish. Your landlord certainly doesn’t need to hear about your track record as of late. “He’s taking me to Sunfest, in the park.”

A minute twitch of his brow is the only reaction he gives to the news. “That so?” he says. “Lucky man.”

“More like lucky me,” you say with a small laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. Stop talking, you plead to yourself. Too much information. Shut up, kindly excuse yourself, and leave. 

Joel shakes his head, and now is the first time you notice that his eyes haven’t once left you. It warms your body. “He’s the lucky one. Trust me.”

“Okay. I concede.” You chew on your lip for a moment and, sure enough, his gaze hones in on your mouth. The air in the lobby crackles white-hot. You clear your throat, turning your head to find David’s car parked on the street outside. “I should go. But I promise I’ll get started on those lemon squares soon.”

It’s a possibility that you only imagine Joel’s eyes flitting from the car outside back to you when you turn your head back to face him. “Do me a favour?” he says, a scrape to his deep drawl. 

“Anything, Joel.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Be safe,” he says. “You have my number if anything goes wrong.”

You give him a grateful smile. “I’ll be safe, Joel. And if I’m not, you’re the first person I’ll call.”

“Good. That’s…” He trails off, still watching you, his eyes trained in their path across your face. “You’re good. Smart, beautiful, good. You deserve to have somethin’ real.”

The simple, small praises melt your bone marrow and recast it in the shape of him. The old chandelier hanging from the ceiling casts him in a soft light, stark against the hard muscles and profound depths in his eyes. He's breathtaking. You've always known it, but…

He sees something in you, too. 

David honks his horn and makes you jump out of your stupor. You walk backwards out of the lobby just to keep looking at Joel for as long as you can. “For the record,” you say, “you’re a good man, Joel.”

“Don’t be so sure, honey,” he replies, his tone playful. 

You laugh, hurrying out to David’s car as the door closes behind you. 

“This place is beautiful,” you said to Sam, the concierge working the front desk of your prospective apartment. The appropriate paperwork was in your arms, your eyes scanning every inch of the old building. Of all the places you'd seen in and around the neighbourhood, this was the most promising. You hoped to get a glimpse at a unit before you signed, though. Assuming the landlord even wanted you to live here. 

Sam smiled at you. “Lots of people just see the cracks.”

“There's so much character,” you replied, admiring the crystal chandelier. The walls were a calming, aged white, the floors genuine hardwood. The lobby was decorated with plush chairs upholstered with burnt orange fabric, the corners filled with real potted plants. 

The door opened behind you, and you turned to see a handsome stranger, dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and mud-caked shirt, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Behind you, Sam said, “This is Joel Miller. The landlord.”

“Oh!” You were flustered, floundering to stretch out your hand to shake as you introduced yourself. “I’m sorry to catch you at a bad time. This building is gorgeous. You've done a great job with it, Mr. Miller.”

The landlord did not once look at Sam, his eyes fixed solely on you as he wiped a hand on the cloth slung over his shoulder and shook your hand. His hand engulfed yours, warm and rough. The touch jolted you like an electric shock. Your hands must have been clammy and shaking with nerves, but the contact steeled you. 

The intensity of his gaze, however, made you shift on your feet. He didn't waver, didn't stray, like a man set on a mission. Nothing about him was shy. He drank in the sight of you, indulging without shame, his eyes travelling to the next destination once they'd had their fill. It made you feel stripped to the bone.

“It's nice to meet you,” he said. “Sorry for the dirt. Just finished weeding.”

You shook your head in dismissal. “You really take care of this place.”

“It's good work,” he said plainly. “Serves me well. I like gettin’ my hands dirty, fixin’ things.”

“Where were you when my sink broke every week at my old place?”

“Fixing the sinks in this one.”

You laughed. “Well, for what it's worth, the outside is beautiful, too. Not a weed in sight.”

“Pleased to hear it,” said Joel, his dark eyes glittering under the chandelier. 

“You're from Texas!” you said suddenly. Oh, God, kill me now. I sound like a stalker. 

But Joel smiled, a raspy laugh leaving his mouth. You wondered if he laughed often. He looked like a serious man. “You familiar?” 

“I was born there,” you supplied. “Left when I was young, but my dad lived there all his life.”

“Lookin’ good on you already,” he said. “It’ll be nice havin’ another one of us around.”

“Does that mean you're considering me?” you couldn't help but ask. Fuck, you wanted this apartment. 

“I've already considered,” said Joel, his eyes sweeping your body. “You're the only applicant.”

Your hands were trembling and your heart thrummed with excitement. “Oh, God, thank you!” you gasped. “Joel, thank you.”

You could swear his chest swelled a bit at your graciousness. “I can show you the unit, if you’d like. It needs some TLC, but I’m happy to help with the process as best I can. Unless you have someone to…”

You realised what he was hinting at and shook your head. “Oh, no, it’s just me. I’d love to take a look.”

You noted the slight drop of his shoulders and followed him into the elevator. A part of you was surprised to see there was no gate that closed you in; they were plain, somewhat modern elevator doors. “Fixed it last month,” Joel said, looking sideways at you. “Just in time, apparently.”

You grinned at him, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Nice to see there's no creepy operator in here.”

“Just me.” He punched the button for the third floor and rode with you to the top. 

This was the start of your new life. 

You shut the passenger’s side door and situate yourself inside David’s Lincoln. He’s dressed in a pair of black shorts and a clean Henley. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss you across the console. 

You hum, smiling against his mouth. “You clean up nice, too.”

He places a hand on your thigh and pulls away from the curb. He's a touchy person, which is perfectly fine considering how long your latest dry spell has lasted, but at least he isn't inching his way up your dress to cop a feel while he drives. 

The festival is bustling with people, tented stands, and the smell of fried dough and beer. It’s almost dinnertime, and your stomach growls. When was the last time you ate? You spent hours agonising over what to wear until you were sweating and had to shower all over again. You wish you’d snuck an apple into your purse. 

David pulls you into him as you both walk through the winding paths between vendors. “It’s a beautiful night,” you say breezily. 

David squeezes your waist. “Mmm. You’re beautiful.”

A bit too corny for your taste, but you let it slide. “Don't tell me you're allergic to powdered sugar, because I’ve been eyeing the elephant ears.”

“God, if I eat that shit, I think it’ll set me back a month at the gym,” he laughs. “Let’s get one for you, though.”

Great. Now you're the expensive date who eats while her date watches her stuff her mouth with an elephant ear. “Uh. Maybe later.” 

You stop at a jewellery vendor and spend a good while eyeing up a beautiful gold necklace and the heart-shaped pendant dangling from it. David doesn’t notice your staring and breezes by with your hand firmly in his. “Let's check out the grand stand. My buddy’s band is playing before the fireworks display.”

“Sure,” you say, turning your head to watch the necklace disappear slowly from view. 

The gigantic domed stage houses a group of musicians currently tuning up their instruments. David sidles right up to the front and releases your hand to execute an elaborate handshake with his friend, who’s fine-tuning his bass. 

“Hey, man,” greets the bass player. “Good to see you. Who’s this?”

You open your mouth to introduce yourself, stretching your hand out, but David says, “My date for tonight. Baby, this is Ray, of Uncontrolled Bleeding fame.”

The bass player shakes your hand politely. “Very nice to meet you.” 

Because it doesn’t seem to matter much to David, you decide it’s worth the time to tell Ray your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray. I’m excited to hear you play.”

Not that you've ever heard of a band called Uncontrolled Bleeding. Still, Ray seems nice enough, and you're on a date. You should give them a chance. 

David squeezes your waist and kisses you lightly on the temple. “You mind if I go backstage for a bit to say hi to the other guys? Won’t be long.”

What?

“Oh!” you manage to eke out over the great swooping nosedive your heart has just performed. He’s here to see his friends. He’s not on a date. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll just… walk around.”

David departs with Ray for a personal backstage tour while you bite down on your tongue and turn back in the direction of the main strip. A few vendors catch your attention, and you take your time because God knows David is taking his. A little bit of you revels in your own petty victory when, a half-hour later, Uncontrolled Bleeding begins to blare their metallic, screaming anthems across the park and you haven’t returned to the grand stand. 

You find your way back to the jewellery vendor to ponder over your favourite necklace some more, but your night gets worse when you find that it’s disappeared from the headless display mannequin. You solemnly slide your wallet back into your bag and pause when you hear your phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” It’s David’s voice, presumably, though it’s so loud on the other end of the line that you can barely make out his words. “I can’t… where… left?”

You plug one ear and look vaguely in the direction of the grand stand across the park. “I can’t hear you very well, David.”

“… afterparty… downtown… going… Uber home?”

You press your lips together and look down at the ground: at your pretty sandals, your new dress. Your entirely wasted potential on a guy who wanted you to find your own way home. “Yeah, David,” you say tightly. You don’t particularly care if he can hear you. “You have fun with your friends.”

“Can’t hear… talk later… okay?”

You hang up and wander back toward the vendor selling elephant ears. 

~

“Miller.”

“Hi, Joel.”

“Honey, it’s loud. Can barely hear you. Are you safe?”

“I’m safe, Joel, I promise. It’s just—Uncontrolled Bleeding.”

“What?”

“No, I mean, the band. They’re really loud. I hate to ask, and I know it’s late, but—”

“What do you need?”

“I, uh… I need a ride home. I can’t get a cab, and all the Ubers around are taken, and the busses are rerouted all the way—”

“I’m comin’ to get you. You just wait for me at the entrance, okay, baby girl?”

“Thank you, Joel.”

“You know I said you could call me for anything. I meant it.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh! Wait—”

“What? What is it?”

“Do you want an elephant ear?”

~

Joel is white-knuckling the steering wheel when he arrives to pick you up. Despite the congestion around the festival grounds and the fact that your apartment is at least fifteen minutes away, Joel makes it to you in a mere five.

“Did you blow every red light to get here, Mr. Miller?” you ask with a playful smile as you secure your seatbelt and settle on the truck bench.

“I was in the area,” he says with a crooked smile, looking your way. “May have pushed forty a couple times, though.”

You sheepishly extend a cardboard takeout box filled with fried, powdered dough. “Will you take this as my sincere thanks, or will you expect a separate batch of lemon squares?”

Joel answers by dipping his head and taking a bite of the flattened, doughy bread. You watch every minute movement, his strong jaw working as he chews, indulging you even though he’s already done far too much to get you out of this rut. He doesn’t once break eye contact while he eats; you begin to chew subconsciously on your bottom lip.

“Ain’t bad,” he declares at last, and your shoulders deflate with a kind of relief, “but if you let me take you for some real dinner, I’ll forget about that extra batch.”

You tentatively reach for his mouth and swipe some powdered sugar from his moustache with the pad of your thumb. You feel his eyes scanning your face all the while. “Look at me, the lucky girl,” you say softly. “One date goes wrong, and there’s a strong, handsome man waiting to take me on another.”

From the very first day, Joel Miller has always taken his time when it comes to looking at you. It’s a penetrative stare that makes your skin heat up from the tips of your ears down to your chest. His eyes are so dark, pools of warm melted sugar, and you feel yourself leaning, trancelike, slow, into that cavernous gaze. Your body is not your own. It seeks the subtle warmth, the familiar scent—sawdust, coffee beans, rich, dark cologne—and the violent torrent of sensation that erupts from the contact point when he cups your cheek in one hand. 

You’re in the throes of attention, warm as a candle weeping fat waxen tears.

“Told you before,” says Joel, his thumb sweeping fondly across your chin, “you deserve somethin’ real.”

“Yeah,” you sigh happily, feeling all-too complacent under the touch of his rough palm, “maybe I do.”

Behind you, a car honks its horn, and Joel curses, pulling away from the curb. He takes you to Turner’s, a bar by campus that would be crawling with students if it weren’t for the festival. Joel comes around to the passenger’s door and opens it for you, helping you hop out with your hand enclosed in his. His palm is a steady weight on your back as you both walk inside the dim, stuffy bar. 

The back is bustling with activity—drunk folks playing pool or watching the Huskies’ football game or splitting their attention between both—but the bar itself has enough spaces open to fit the two of you. Here, the light is burnt orange, and it makes the strands of grey in his hair shimmer gold. His eyes observe his surroundings with a military precision before they flit back to you, magnetic.

“Shame to waste this dress on that asshole,” says Joel, sweeping his gaze down, back up, barely perceptible. “You’re too goddamn pretty for any of ‘em.”

You’re deliciously abuzz with the incisive way he compliments you. It feels like being punctured down to your very soul; you will never forget the shape of the stain his words leave. “Do you spy on all my dates, Joel?”

He smirks. “Don’t need to spy on ‘em, baby. They’re a bunch of obnoxious kids.”

You huff, resting your cheek against your palm. “I just don’t get it. I thought David was just fine. Then, he takes me on a date just to abandon me for his friends and tell me to find my own way home.”

Joel shakes his head, scoffing as he runs his fingers through his beard. He does that when he’s frustrated sometimes, and you wonder if his hair is soft or coarse. “Piece of shit doesn't know how good he got it.”

“You must know something I don’t,” you say mirthlessly, watching the bartender approach from the other end of the long honey-oak block. “I haven't been able to get a second date since I moved in.”

Joel is silent, eyes still firmly fixed to you, until the bartender arrives, a charming middle-aged woman with a particular Texan twang you could recognise from a mile away. “What’ll it be, Joel?” she asks, giving him a sweet dimpled smile. “Hi, honey. This old man botherin’ you?”

“Only in a nice way,” you reply, squeezing his shoulder. 

Joel hides his grin with a swipe of his fingers over his bottom lip. “Coffee for me, Rina. Drivin’ home.”

Rina’s eyes slide to you, and you ask for the same. You don't want to drink alone. She reappears moments later with two small, chipped mugs of dark roast in her hands. Setting them in front of you, she takes your food orders: a BLT for Joel and a veggie burger for yourself. It’s almost ten o’clock now, too late to eat, but your eyes droop sleepily and your stomach growls for a taste of real food. The powdered dough, shockingly, did not suffice. 

“You ever miss Texas?” Joel asks once you're halfway into your respective meals. You notice that he only digs into his sandwich when you aren't eating, and abstains briefly to watch while you take your bites. It's an exchange of energy, a steady vigil by your side, the hypnotic pull of his warm body. You cannot scoot any closer to him, but your leg brushes his where you rest your foot on his barstool. 

“I wish I remembered more of it,” you tell him. “I grew up a big city girl. Even lost my accent a year into being away. My dad would tease me about it all the time. Said I’d been gentrified.” You fondly shake your head. “Miss him like hell.”

“I can still hear it sometimes,” says Joel, tilting his head to the side, “when you get all passionate about somethin’. Like the time I installed your deadbolt and you tried to explain away your Backstreet Boys CD.”

You put your head in your hands. “Oh, God. I thought you'd forgotten.”

“Nuh-uh, baby, you ain't easy to forget. And I like when you get excited. You get this look in your eye.”

“Yeah?” You slide your foot up his ankle and bring the leg of his jeans with it. Up, down, you keep going, letting the relative darkness embolden you, his sweet little pet names and his silent adequacy enabling what is most definitely inappropriate behaviour. “Tell me about this look, Joel.”

He rests his elbow up on the bar and squares his broad shoulders to you. They eclipse all the other patrons behind him. “You've got pretty eyes,” he tells you. “First thing I noticed when I met you all those months ago. Saw how they lit up when you smiled. Heard your happiness when you told me about Texas. It was nice to be the reason you smiled, ‘n’ I just wanted to make it happen again. I couldn't say no to you. Don't know how any man ever could.”

The revelation stuns you in your seat. His expression telegraphs little save for his attentiveness, his posture locked parallel with yours, singularly focused on the way you react to him. 

You try for a joke. “And I was the only applicant.”

It crumbles, sand in your mouth. Something has shifted. Joel isn't the type to shy away from a conversation, but his gaze hasn't once shifted from your face. It feels like flames licking your cheeks, the heat of that look pushing in on both sides, inescapable. You find that you enjoy the way his attention makes you preen; you want him to look at you. 

He thinks you have pretty eyes. 

“You know that ain't the reason why,” he says, whisper-quiet and gruff amid the vague chatter in the bar. 

“Why, Joel?” you ask, spine straightening, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. As you suspected, his eyes flick down your face, lashes obscuring the precise shade of his irises. 

His Adam’s apple dips. “‘Cause I like you,” he says, the feeling of it like the slide of suede down your spine, “and I wanna keep you safe.”

You shrug slightly, giving him a smile. “I feel pretty safe.”

Joel’s hand drops to the bar top and his fingertips brush yours. The touch jolts your sleepy mind awake. “You're too good for every single one of those assholes you bring around. You know that, right?”

“I’m beginning to understand.” 

“You deserve someone who's gonna be good to you. Give you all the attention you need. Make you… happy.”

You swallow thickly, the candle flame pressing in, sucking the oxygen from your lungs. “Thank you, Joel.”

His fingers begin to creep up every ridge of your knuckles, slowly turning over your palm so it faces the ceiling. The rough pad of his thumb traces the long lifeline inside. 

“Repeat it.”

His eyes lift to yours, and for a moment, there’s something in them that ignites an instinct inside you to flee. There's danger in those eyes: the careful, measured restraint of a man who knows more anger than he lets show. A flicker, brief but incandescent, passes through your head, an electrical current. 

He’s the reason you never had a second date. 

It disappears the instant it comes, the Paterian glimpse of an idea in its entirety fleeing for the horizon, and the instinct recedes in favour of the warm, melting sensation his fingers disseminate through your bones. 

“I deserve someone who will be good to me,” you repeat, like a mantra. “I deserve someone who’s going to make me happy, and keep me safe.”

“That's right,” says Joel, brushing his thumb along the veins in your wrist. You feel the shiver, but you're locked to him, your eyes unable to take in any information apart from the way he feels, looks, smells. “You're a good girl, baby.”

Your lashes flutter and a sweeping rush of pressure descends on your core at the way those words sound on his tongue. You picture him directing you to your knees and calling you a good girl while you take his big cock between your lips, imagine the way he would hiss through his teeth, good fuckin’ girl, that’s it, baby girl, while he fucks you from behind, merciless. Hands and tongues and limbs would mould into one another, amalgamate, becoming indistinguishable. 

He would be good to you. You know it. He’s always been good to you. 

“Joel?” 

“Hmm.” Fingers still make idle patterns on your forearm. 

“I think you should take a look at my sink when you get a chance. It might be broken.”

No amount of coy suggestion could make him ignorant to your desire for closeness. You can feel your body screaming for it, grasping at him with buffed claws. Joel smirks, looking down at your foot making a path up and down his ankle. 

“I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

~

It’s two o’clock in the morning when a shuffling outside your bedroom door guides you out of a decent sleep. In total silence, the most minute noises can be deafening. But it sounds, to your sleep-addled brain, like the hasty retreat of footsteps. 

You blink awake, shifting onto your other side to peer above the darkness of your doorway. Through the bleary haze in your eyes, you notice a tiny red light in the upper corner of the room.  

You squint, rubbing your eyes furiously to pry them open wide, but your vision is the static grain of an old television, and your eyes refuse to adjust. Instead, you grumble, pulling your comforter over your head, and go back to sleep. 

You’ll tell Joel tomorrow.

THE LANDLORD

He cannot wait until the morning.

The nighttime, he discovered long ago, is a friend. It’s the gentle descent of darkness, the horizontal fall of the golden-hour sunlight scanning the entirety of the apartment before it at last succumbs to silent, tar-black night. Occasionally, a car will pass below, or the honk of a horn will tear jaggedly through the quiet, but most times, Joel can sink comfortably into the dark and assume his post.

Six months ago, he showed some restraint. 

Of course, the connection was instantaneous—the pretty girl standing in his foyer with a radiant smile on her face, drinking in the chipped paint and ancient railings and furniture imprinted with years of use, arrested all movement of his heart. You wore a white dress and a pair of strappy sandals, not suited whatsoever for walking the city but perfectly tailored to make an impression. You arrived punctually, all smiles and handshakes and Southern politeness despite your insistence that you'd left it all behind. You shone. And when Joel slid his rough, work-worn hand into yours, dipping his gaze to watch the way he dwarfed your fingers, he felt a tremor roll gently from your body to his, thunder over a mountain. He wanted to chase the next lightning strike. 

It began leisurely, like a hobby, something he could go to when life got a little much. He watched you come home, examining the way your shoulders rounded slightly when you were upset and the way you wiggled your fingers in a wave to those passing by when you were happy. He watched, typically from the garden out front, as you pranced about your balcony on cool mornings to the electronic croonings of Britney Spears, curled up in a chair with a blanket over your legs and a coffee mug warming your hands, or watered your thriving plants from where they hung in the direct morning sunlight. Your day-to-day became his day-to-day. 

And then, he was doing more than merely watching. He was following. 

Your favourite coffee place by the apartment building, just a block away. He lingered far behind that first morning, his fingers twitching in your direction before the rest of his body steered him. The neighbourhood wasn't so great back then, prone to muggings and the like. He wanted to keep you safe. That was all.

You ordered something cold, too sweet for his tastes, and sat for a while as you worked. The barista spent the rest of your time there eyeing you up whenever he could. Joel scoffed. He wouldn't know what the fuck to do with you. Just a goddamn kid. 

He followed you to work and back, on those rare days he wasn't occupied maintaining the grounds. You sat in a corner cubicle with a decent amount of sunlight and typed away on your laptop all day. Joel monitored the company’s publications just so he could have a glimpse of the way you wrote; he wasn't interested in makeup, but he bought a subscription to Viva because he wanted to trace his fingers over your name in those small italic letters. MANAGING EDITOR. 

Your writing is clean, efficient, and smooth. It reads like velvet. He keeps a pile of magazines and newsletters tucked in the back of his bookshelf. For the August edition, they printed your interview with a local prizewinning novelist; you beamed in the picture, photographed in your favourite coffee shop, so happy and so generous, sharing your talent with others. 

He was so fucking proud. 

Five months ago, he watched you bring a date home for the first time. 

It blindsided him. He could not prepare, plan, or sabotage. He could not do a thing as you guided the man—a fucking kid with a too-big ego, grinning smugly for his imminent conquest—inside the elevator. Joel could only watch helplessly, wiping his brow from his precarious place on the ladder, as you walked past him with no more than a soft, sweet smile. He never forgot the painful imprint of that smile on his eyelids. It still burns his eyes late at night, when he stays awake inside his office, monitoring his dual screens. He will pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes just to replay the memory of that look. 

The kid left the next morning, before you woke. He never contacted you again. You trudged into the lobby that day, a weariness in your eyes that did not match the vibrant colour of your dress. You spoke idly to another woman in the elevator about your broken thermostat, hugging yourself to keep warm. 

It was working perfectly a few hours later, and there was a bouquet of roses waiting for you at the concierge’s desk. Fiddling with the red ribbon, tears welling in your eyes, you asked who the admirer was. Sam shrugged his shoulders, but when you turned to look out the front windows, you saw Joel tending to the red roses in the garden bed. 

It earned him the first taste of your baking. Biting into one of those moist, warm brownies felt like melting a little piece of you down and moulding it into the shape of his mouth. It felt like taking a piece of the girl he’d coveted for weeks and rolling it over his tongue, keeping it. Swallowing it down. There it rested inside his stomach until the next time he did you right. 

He wanted to tell you no. To insist that he would do anything to make you feel good even if you wanted nothing to do with him. To make it clear that he did everything for you, not for some feeble professional relationship between a landlord and his tenant. He breathed you. He needed you. 

So, four months ago, he began to watch you through the cameras.

They’re small, discreet, tucked into holes in the wall that have been spackled over, repainted, re-sanded. He ran the wiring while you were at work, listening to your CDs on loop to get a better sense of the earworms you hummed on your way out the door every morning. One in the living room, one by the entrance, and one in the bedroom. 

He could keep you safe this way. This way, he would know if those men you brought you home were treating you right—fucking you like you deserved. 

You were so goddamn pretty when you came. For months Joel had sat in his office, slicked-up cock in his hand, jerking himself hard and fast to the pictures of you in Viva. For months he’d spilled over his fingers, on his belly, on the glossy pages of the magazines. The heady, cloying scent of his own sweat and cum stuck to his nostrils. It wasn’t enough. He could imagine wrenching open your tight little pussy all he wanted—the slow, heavy drag of his cock between your hot, wet walls and the sweet noises he’d steal from your tongue—but it wasn’t the satisfaction he needed. 

Joel needed you. Your body, your smile, your voice. He needed to wrap you tight around every vein, a tourniquet, squeezing until all feeling was lost.

You would be his, in time. He just needed to make it so.

The first time he watched you pleasure yourself, rain pattered gently against the window panes and thunder echoed in the distance. A couple grids had already lost power, and Joel had a backup generator if the apartment was next, but you did not seem to mind one bit that the storm drew closer. You clicked off the television, retired to the confines of your bed and its soft white linens, and slipped your hand beneath your flimsy shorts. Joel sat upright, his back creaking in protest, his knuckles white around the edge of his desk as he watched, unblinking, the way your fingers gently circled your clit. 

He didn't touch his cock once that night, no matter how deeply his own need tugged at him. He couldn't look away from the camera feed for fear that he may miss the moment you reached your orgasm. 

When it arrived, it was delicious to watch. Your back arched, your lips parted, and your eyes fluttered shut, fingers rapidly rubbing your slick pussy as you seized under your own ministrations and slowly settled, melting into the mattress. He needed to see more. He needed to be there. 

You were a chiaroscuro of savoury, sultry magnetism and the ichor of the morning sunlight. You were kind and thoughtful. You were gentle, patient, attentive. You were one hell of a baker. You were so fucking sexy it made his tongue prickle with the prospective taste, the anticipation of touching your soft skin engulfing any sense. Reason had no place in Joel Miller’s mind when it came to the sweet girl upstairs. 

Three months ago, you had recovered from the evident betrayal inherent in expecting more from your date than a one-night stand. The next man was older, a partner at a law firm, and took you to dinner at a nice restaurant. He asked questions about you and reciprocated your enthusiasm for good cuisine. He was kind and treated you well. But an incendiary rage ignited in Joel at the sight of the bastard’s hand on your lower back. Another man was touching you. Another man was getting close to you, making you smile, whispering in your ear. Another man was attempting to claim what was rightfully his. 

Joel followed your date home that night instead. He lived in a high-rise downtown, the sort of building that had a doorman and a valet. 

Joel followed him down to the underground lot with a lead pipe in hand. 

“‘scuse me.”

He shut his car door and turned around, giving Joel a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”

A calculated sheepish scratch on the back of his head. “Just… ah, shit, I don’t mean to bother, but my engine isn't turnin' over and my phone died. Mind if I used yours?”

He patted his pockets for his cell and gave it enthusiastically. Joel did not take the phone. He used the proximity to pull the man close and bring the pipe down across his head. 

Blood bloomed, pretty and potent and rich as the roses he planted for you. The body made little noise, the skull shattered upon impact, the legs crumpling. It could never have been much of a man, going down so fucking quick. Should've put up a fight. 

The man must not have liked you very much to let himself die. Joel, whose eyelids were tattooed with your radiant smile, would have crawled his way back out of a certain grave. Joel loved you. You belonged to him. This was a necessary consequence. 

The pipe was dented by the time he was finished. Joel sank to his knees once the body fell, bringing it down again and again, the meticulous arc of the rusted metal uniquely stirring. It felt so fucking good, battering the skull to pieces, blood and brain and bone fragments accumulating on the ground and the pipe and his face. It felt good knowing he had kept another man from betraying you, hurting you, fucking you only to leave in a blur. He was being altruistic. He was becoming a good man for you. 

Joel, kneeling in the pool of warm blood until his jeans were soaked crimson, rubbed his hand down his face and smeared the blood across it. Chest heaving, he let the grin stretch his face. 

He had found his calling. 

Two months ago, he slipped inside your apartment while you were asleep.

You had a rough day. Your boss insisted the company could not afford to give you a raise despite skyrocketing share prices and all the fucking work you’d done for them. The rain started just before you left the building, holding back tears, and a car splashed icy, muddy water on you during your walk home. Salt in the wound. You were sniffling as you let yourself into the apartment, your hands trembling with the effort of shouldering your bag and your misery. Joel approached you from behind and lifted the bag onto his shoulder. 

“Hi, Joel.” Sad and soft and still so polite despite it all. 

“Hey.” He opened every door for you on the way to the elevator and rode it up with you for good measure. “Wanna talk about it?”

You just shook your head and sidled up next to him, your cheek resting on his shoulder. He held his breath, overcome with the sensation that if he moved an inch, the spell would break, and the comfort you sought from him would slip between your fingers. Your arm brushed his, your dewy lashes fluttering as you finally let yourself relax. Joel inhaled, and the scent of you cleaved him down the middle: rain and perfume. 

“Would you give me a raise?”

He looked down at you and smiled. “For a batch of those cupcakes, I’d give you whatever you like.”

It was a half-truth. He’d give you whatever you wanted, cupcakes or no. The sound of your laughter dripped into his bloodstream, saline. It cleansed him of the wrongs he'd committed. He was doing what needed to be done. The world had to realise it turned for you, and then all would be right. 

Hours later, when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, shrouded by distant skyscrapers, he sneaked his way inside. His master key made easy work of the lock, but he had to pull the chain lock off with a pair of pliers because his hands could not reach between the gap. He made clinical work of it and stepped inside. 

There was a chair in the corner of your bedroom for days you felt like reading by the window. Joel lowered himself into it and began his vigil. 

It was a science to study the way you slept. He began to learn the patterns of your breathing, the minute movements of your limbs and how they translated to the moods of your dreaming. The amount of times you turned around, groaned, or hummed correlated directly to the sort of day you'd had. He began to map your tells in his head, drawing them out, formulating blueprints of the simple things that made you. 

To Joel, it was like connecting a red string between thumb tacks, like pouring the varnish over a finished painting, sealing a promise, closing an envelope. He enjoyed the satisfactory slotting of each puzzle piece into place, creating your image, finally knowing you.

By then, he’d caught the virus. He’d let himself get close, and now he was infected with it—that insatiable need to be near, to watch, to admire from mere feet away. 

He continued to acquaint himself over the weeks with your sleeping self to supplement the time he could not spend with you while you were awake. On more than one occasion, he got careless, letting himself succumb to sleep in that corner chair, joining you in the dream world. In those dreams, you were wrapped up in his body, warm and soft and tight, and he was taking. He was behind you, on top of you, beneath you, forcing you to look in the mirror as he spread you open on his cock and wrapped his fingers around your throat. In those dreams, your eyes rolled back and your lips moulded to the shape of Joel, yes, oh my God, and he'd whisper back to you—my sweet girl, my good fuckin’ girl, all mine. 

And you were. You were his. 

Tonight, he followed you to the festival. 

He watched you make a beeline for the necklace you wanted only to pout when you saw it had disappeared. He watched your face fall as David’s rejection sank bone-deep. He reeled in his own gnawing rage, pushing deep down that urge to storm right in and rip out the asshole’s throat with his goddamn teeth, and waited until you called him. 

He knew you would. You trusted him. You needed him. You needed a strong, capable man to take care of you the way you deserved. So he waited inside his truck by the phone, happy to at last hear your sweet voice on the other end of the line. 

Thank you, Joel. 

He tucked those words under his ribs, letting them flower and spread. Those words gave him purpose, made him buzz with erratic energy, validated all his actions. He was doing everything right. 

Your dress was so fucking pretty. Jesus, he wanted to slip his hands under the hem, finger the waistband of those pink panties he knew you were wearing, and bunch the fabric up around your hips as he stuffed you full of his dick. Fuck, he would fill you up with his cum and tuck your panties back over your abused pussy, keeping all of him safe inside. You’d be so happy. You’d get drunk off his cock, begging for it, crying for it. He’d give you everything. 

You do feel safe with him. You said it yourself. 

Now, leaning against the doorway in your bedroom, Joel turns the heart-shaped pendant over and over in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the smooth gold surface. It’s cool and quaint and will kiss your skin beautifully. But he needs to wait for the right time. He needs to make sure you’re ready. 

The sense memory of your fingers on his skin, gracious and gentle, the way you always are, is pushing at the edges of his control. 

There's no one like you. He’s never been more certain of anything. 

You're so goddamn sweet in those tiny silk pyjamas, your body curled up on the bed and your leg slung over a large pillow. You may feel cold and lonely at night, but that's only for now. He won't let you feel alone much longer; his body calls to you, singing your name. He has only so much restraint, and he's been waiting for six months. 

Your lips are slightly parted, your face smooth and serene under the spell of sleep. You're the reason he fixes what's broken. The world needs to be better for you. It needs to be safe and bright and perfect. 

He planted tulips today. You’ll appreciate them, he thinks. He wants you to wake up to vibrant colours every morning and go to sleep knowing that he thinks about you. 

You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft moan leaving your mouth as you hug the pillow closer. Joel straightens in the doorway, wondering if your mind can sense him nearby. He doesn't know what he would do with himself if you were dreaming about him. His eyes move from your pretty face down your chest, barely concealed by the tiny top you're wearing, to find the apex of your thighs, temptingly spread on the mattress. 

He won't. He can't. You’ll never trust him if he loses himself to desire. Joel grits his teeth, his cock achingly hard in his jeans, and unbuckles his belt as silently as he can. He pulls out his dick and squeezes himself at the base, staving off what he knows will be a too-fast orgasm. You move again, your body stretching out on the bed. Joel spits into his palm and begins to stroke his cock. 

He can see a sliver of your waist where your shirt rides up, half of your ass where your leg is slung over the pillow, and your tits smushed together just over the hem of that scrap of a top. You're all of his fucking fantasies rolled into one. Joel breathes hard through his nostrils, his fist tight around the tip of his cock. 

He wants to shuck down those little shorts and put his face in your pretty pussy. He wants to grab your hips and guide his cock inside you. He wants to slide into your addictive cunt until you forget your name. Until you forget every name but his. Your soul will be stained with him. His has never forgotten your shape.

God, your tight pussy would feel so fucking good around his cock. He jerks himself roughly, bracing his hand against the doorframe when a little whimper leaves your mouth. Fuck, he mouths, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw begins to ache. He fucks his own fist, sloppy and unrefined, eyes fixed to your waiting pussy between creamy-soft thighs. His cock dwarfs your slit, eager to spread you open—he’ll fix so nicely once he gets you ready. 

Joel feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up, his jaw taut as he brings himself to a high over your body the way he has so many times. He switches so he can jerk off into the hand around which his gift to you is coiled, spilling his cum all over his fingers and the necklace as he bites into the heel of his palm. His spine decompresses and his cock slowly softens in his hand, the tension briefly relieved. His fist gradually loosens around the cum-slick necklace; the heart has imprinted its shape into his palm. 

You stir, turning over in your bed, and Joel hastily departs, tucking his cock back into his jeans. He has enjoyed this brief interlude, but he has work to do. 

Besides, he’ll see you in a few hours. He knows damn well the sink works just fine, but he’ll take any excuse to see you again. And it seems you’ll do the same. 

~

Joel keeps him in a spare apartment in the building, one whose walls have been padded for soundproofing. 

Joel’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he's occupying the chair across from David, who's taking his sweet fuckin’ time waking up. Joel’s been pacing for a half-hour, rubbing his fingers over his bottom lip, contemplative, but the bastard won't move. 

So Joel takes a seat, grabs a fistful of the kid’s hair, and yanks it forcefully so he’s staring him right in the face. 

One eye is already blackened—Joel got a little carried away. The sedative worked perfectly, but David has a punchable face. It took all he had not to keep going. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” says Joel as the kid slowly blinks awake, bleary and unfocused. “Eyes on me, now. Don't want you slippin’ away again.”

David only stares for a moment, gears grinding gently to life in his brain Once that animal instinct kicks in, the kid starts writhing against his restraints, bucking hard in Joel’s unrelenting grip. It's useless, of course. He’s tied by the wrists and ankles. Helpless. 

Good. 

“What—why the fuck… let me fucking go, man, please,” groans the kid. 

“You made a mistake, David,” says Joel. “Think I’m gonna forget about that?”

David whimpers, flexing his hands subconsciously as pain undoubtedly prickles his scalp. Joel hasn't let go of his hair. “Please just let me go, man. I swear I didn't do anything. If you want money, I’ve got money.”

Joel smirks, a scoff slipping out. This is rich. The delectable flame licks up his throat again, indistinguishable from the pleasure of a good meal, a good fuck. It's craving. It’s darkness. He sinks deeper. 

“You think it's manly to leave your date for your friends and leave her to find a way home herself? You think it's funny to treat her like a little toy and then leave her when you're done?” Joel sneers. “You didn't even call her back, David.”

He whines out another please, his ankles ineffectually kicking out. “I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Just let me go. Fuck, it hurts.”

“You don't know,” says Joel, repeating it, slow and savoury, rolling it around in his mouth. “You wanna know the most insulting part, David? You don't even care. You made her upset, and you didn't get on your goddamn knees to beg her forgiveness. You didn't do everything in your fuckin’ power to get her back.” Joel brings the knife from his pocket and idly pushes the tip into David’s cheek. “You think she ain't worth that, David? Tell me the truth, now.”

David shrieks, hysterical, the terror and pain so fucking delicious that Joel gulps it down and yet still wants. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? No bitch is fucking worth it. She was cute, but that's it, I swear. I didn't know she had a boyfriend. I wouldn't have—”

The knife digs, gouges, splitting skin and prodding muscle. Joel can feel the edge of the blade slot between the kid’s teeth. He howls, screaming for help to nobody that can help, not quite gone enough yet to realise his utter hopelessness. Joel will have to rectify that.

“Oh, I ain't her boyfriend yet,” Joel says calmly. “But I am hers, way she's mine. And you hurt what's mine. I can’t forget that.”

The knife retreats to admire its handiwork. The cheek is split, the edges jagged, spitting blood. The kid’s tears slip down his face and dip into the wound, salty enough to hurt. He screams and he cries and it’s beginning to get on Joel’s nerves.

“Please stop,” he cries, watching his assailant rear back and grip the knife tight, like an ice pick. “Please… fuck, please—!”

He’s getting real sick of that word. Please. A mere please can’t excuse the look he put on your face last night. A please will not absolve him of the cardinal sin. 

No one—no one—makes you frown. 

Joel sinks the knife into David’s knee, using both hands to drive it to the hilt. The kid’s face is ashen, white and grey as clouds rolling in, and his frail screams begin to peter out; he’s losing consciousness. Joel won’t have that—not until he’s finished.

“Stop whinin’, David. A real man falls in front of his woman and makes things right. A real man fixes what's broken. And a real man”—he twists the knife, gorging, glutting on the feeling of making amends on your behalf—“does everything in his power to show her he loves her.” 

“Please…” The final, feeble attempt of a doomed man to return from the cliff’s edge. 

Joel stands, adjusting his grip on the kid’s hair, and brings his knife just beneath his chin. When he drives it upward, he can see the shimmer of the blade through David’s slack, open mouth. 

“I told you to stop whinin’.” 

~

He’s in your bedroom again. 

He felt the need calling to him, vibrating with a particular intensity he could not ignore. He rarely comes to see you twice in one night, but now that he's here, he knows it was the only way to settle his nerves. 

You're asleep, lips parted against your pillow and a piece of hair fluttering in front of your face with every exhale. Joel approaches your bedside and tucks it safely behind your ear. You don't wake, but you hum sleepily, hugging your pillow closer. Joel smiles, satisfaction sinking deep and assured into his core. He's done right by you. You’ll go happily to him. Moth to a gemlike flame. 

He wanders around the edge of the bed, gaze lazily indulging in your body as he goes. His cock twitches again with a need he cannot yet meet, the desire to move your panties aside and fill you with him. He does not. He kneels at your bedside, closest to where your legs have scissored apart beneath your sheets. The temptingly sweet call of that warm place between your thighs has Joel shifting your comforter aside and ghosting his fingers across the soft skin of your calf. 

Your breathing deepens slightly, like you're sucking in a long mouthful of air, and then you settle. It's the only indication you give that you can feel his presence. And then it’s gone, and he’s hooking his fingers in the waistband of your pretty panties and bestowing upon himself what he's only seen through screens for months. 

You're spread open and glistening, an indication of some preceding dream or fantasy playing out in that keen, busy mind. Your body is wholly pliant, so soft and glowing in the faint silvery light streaming in from the window, and it would be so easy to—

No. He will not taste you. If he does, he won’t stop. You need to trust him. There is blood on his hands that hasn’t yet washed clean, and he will not imprint those rust-red fingerprints on your body. You’re his world—what kind of man willingly imparts such pain onto a world he loves?

Some infinitesimal fractal lodged in Joel’s head obliged him to return to you tonight, to cleanse himself of the events that transpired under the illicit cover of night. The very sight of you reminds him what he’s doing this for. He crushes his nose into the wet spot that darkens your panties and inhales deeply, acquiring some sense of what you will taste like. The smell makes his head go fuzzy, intoxicated, tang and sweetness and impending gratification. In your sleep, you sigh, melting against the mattress.

Joel brings your panties back up over your pussy and thinks, Tomorrow. 

THE TENANT

You're miserable when Joel knocks on your door the next day. 

“He hasn't called me,” you tell him, letting yourself stew, sulking from the feeling of yet another man deciding you weren’t worth a follow-up phone call. “Am I repulsive? Am I a total freak? Is it something in my perfume?”

Joel looks down at you, lips parted as if on the precipice of a response, sweeping his gaze up and down your body. You’re wearing a simple sweater and skirt, but fuck, he can make you feel naked. His gaze penetrates deeper than flesh. It’s only then you realise he’s holding coffee. 

Two cups of coffee. 

“Oh, Joel,” you sigh, licking your bottom lip. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” he says with a crooked smile, his voice a bit raspy, as if caught off-guard. He hands you your favourite drink—caramel macchiato, double espresso—from your favourite place down the block, and you could kiss him with how good it feels to hold the cool, condensation-slick cup in your hands. Your entire body deflates with the first sip. 

“You’re my hero,” you tell him. “I mean it.”

Joel shakes his head fondly. “You got a funny sense of heroics.”

“They taste exactly like this,” you say playfully, tracing the rim of the plastic cup. “Thank you, Joel.”

He swipes his thumb across your chin. “It’s only coffee, baby.”

Since last night, something is inexplicably different. A new, once-forbidden boundary has been crossed. It may be technically inappropriate for your landlord to bring you coffee, touch you so intimately, call you baby. But it makes you feel like warm melting honey, and who is to say a feeling like that is wrong?

He’s wearing a blue T-shirt today. His hair is tousled like he slept on it, and your fingers tingle with the anticipatory sensation of how it would feel to take fistfuls of his locks in your hands. He’s stunning. And you catch yourself staring too late, tearing your gaze away the way one retracts their hand after burning it on the stovetop. Your heart skittering, you direct Joel to the sink and plan some excuse in your head for why it has miraculously fixed itself overnight. 

But he doesn’t even spare a glance toward any of your appliances. He’s only looking at you. 

“I got somethin’ else,” he says, almost shy, reaching into his pocket for a tiny box. 

He grimaces when your eyes, wide and obviously panicked, meet his. “Jesus, I didn’t really think about how this looks. I’m not… proposin’, I swear.”

You both release a nervous laugh, but you cannot deny that your nerves are still fluttering at the sight of that simple suede box in his big hands.

He opens the lid and you gasp. It’s your necklace—the very same heart-shaped pendant you had been eyeing up at the festival. It’s shiny and polished and precisely, undeniably, the same one. “Oh my God,” you whisper, gently sliding your finger over the cool golden pendant. “It’s beautiful. Joel, how did you…”

“Turn around,” he says softly, the gentle direction guiding you better than any hand could. You obey, and Joel steps forward until his hard chest is flush to your back. He’s warm and sure and smells so good—cologne and coffee and mint and something potent, like iron—and all your questions fizzle to sparks in the air. You can no longer grasp for them. You reach out and you only find him.

His touch is careful. The heart-shaped pendant settles against your breastbone and shimmers in the afternoon light. Your chest briefly shimmers with the thought that you were made to wear this necklace. His large, rough hands ghost across the back of your neck as he secures the clasp, and you shiver. A single knuckle trails slowly down your spine, bumping every vertebrae on the way. 

“It ain't your perfume.” His deep, grumbling voice is equivalent to the scratch of his beard against your temple as his jaw moves with each word. “And you're nothin’ close to repulsive. Look in that mirror and tell me what you see.”

There is a mirror, a full-length one by the entrance to your apartment, and it's surreal to watch your own body turn to face it, to watch yourself defer entirely to the man behind you. It feels nice to just let him steer you every which way. 

“I see you,” you tell him, your hand lifting to the pendant on your throat. “And this.”

Joel clicks his tongue, his nose sliding up your temple. “What else do you see?”

You watch your lashes flutter, your head listing slightly to the side. “I see myself.”

“Hmm.” It’s a sound of approval, his palm now sliding around your waist and his arm banding across your body. He presses his hand to your hip bone and pulls you back against him. “Such a beautiful girl in that mirror. Ain't that right?”

“Joel, I…” You can feel his swelling erection prodding your ass and your head feels hazy with a heady, lustful desire you can no longer ignore or dismiss. “I don't think we should be…”

“No?” His mouth curves against your temple and you shiver at the coarse scratch of his moustache on your skin. It feels deliberate, premeditated. “I won’t tell a soul,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your hip right where the hem of your sweater begins to inch upward. You can see a strip of your own bare stomach in the mirror. He’s making your eyes droop, your lashes flutter, your body light up from one nerve ending to the next, a closed circuit.

Oh, God. His touch is measured, gentle yet barely restrained. It is dipping a finger into the water just as it nears its boiling point. Months of staring and dreaming and retreating to your bed to touch yourself to thoughts of someone you cannot touch have led you here: his necklace, his gift to you, sitting prettily on your throat, his capable hands moulding you slowly to the shape of him. He’s touching you. 

“You like me?” His voice rubs hard on your ears, sanding you down, smoothing the rough edges. He lets you linger on the precipice, a firm grip on your hand, letting you make the choice: to let go, or to reel yourself in. 

“I like you,” you whisper, snapping the tether and plummeting to the warm, wet earth below.

You watch Joel’s eyes close in the mirror, something like a prayer falling from his lips. It does not take the shape of words—it is gruff and yet soft, hardly loud enough to discern over the ringing in your ears—but it’s so reverent that you can picture yourself falling to your knees at the sound of it. 

His hand skims up your waist until he finds your throat, gently pinching your jaw so he can direct the turn of your head. You go easily, tilting your gaze back to rest your temple on his shoulder, as his other hand slides up from your hip to your ribs, grazing the underside of your breast. “You like me enough to touch you like this?” 

You gasp, finding an anchor in the deep brown—nearly black, now—of his eyes. They’re warm  but they’re dangerous; once you look, the cage door slides shut, and you’re trapped. 

This must be one of your many dreams.

“Yes, Joel.”

“Mmm.” He smirks, teasing his tongue across his plush bottom lip. You watch the movement and feel yourself tightening, want want want a chorus in your ears. “You wanna kiss me, baby girl?”

Silently, you nod, your fingers gently sliding through his silky locks while your other hand seeks the strong balancing force of his shoulder. His smile sobers to a deep, stunning severity, and you cannot think to let it frighten you when you’re already slanting your mouth over his. 

It starts slowly. His mouth is soft, his hands deftly returning the fervour with which you hold him, cupping the back of your neck with his other hand warming your ribs. A small gasp escapes you, and a rumble of satisfaction passes from his chest through yours, and it flips an ineffable switch inside him. 

Joel turns you in his arms, his chest pressed to yours, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall as he walks you back toward it. Sufficiently cornered, you let your body melt into him, his palm now warming your lower back, his tongue feverishly seeking the seam of your lips. You let him pry you open, tasting the coffee and mint on his breath and inhaling the rich scent of him, sticking it with greedy hands to the walls of your brain. You’ll never tire of him, of this. 

He kisses you like a glutton seeking more fulfilment, like an aesthete seeking that exhilarating, fleeting moment in time, desperate and unwavering and famished. Tongues slide together, hands grope and wander, fabrics shift. You can feel your sweater lifting at the same time your fingers finally find the hem of his T-shirt, but he beats you to the chase. You’re dizzy by the time he breaks away to remove your shirt, but you dutifully lift your arms to help him. 

You seek his mouth again to resume the kiss, but Joel is decidedly feeling pious. He kisses his way down your throat, the necklace dangling from it, your sternum, your belly, sinking to his knees as he goes along. His hands are firm on your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place, while his mouth draws a map of you, eliciting the honeyed sensation of warm water dripping down your body.

“Oh, God,” you whisper, your head knocking back against the wall. It's so much. You've never been the object of attention quite like this, the marble statue at which the devout kneel, obsessive in their worship. You've never had a man fall to his knees to put his mouth all over you. 

Has he wanted you as long as you’ve pined for him? 

Joel grunts, his lips dragging open-mouthed kisses from one hip to another, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your skirt and yanking it down. You yelp, grasping his shoulders. 

Joel only growls into your skin, his hands dropping to your ass and kneading you while he continues down past your hips. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he grumbles. “So goddamn pretty. Don’t know how I waited this fuckin’ long. Jesus, baby girl, you're perfect. Goddamn perfect.”

His ramblings are poison. Every word infects, squeezing out your healthy cells, replacing them with the delicious scrape of fire against the ceiling of a room. The scratch of his beard. The sweet nurturing sound of his voice. The cared-for sensation of being kissed and touched and spoken to like you're someone worth a second date. Like you're worth the price of all the world and a couple stars, too. 

And so the words slip out, shy and whisper-quiet and your cheeks burning hot enough to blister. 

“Please, Daddy…”

Joel’s hands tighten on your body, a fractional movement that kicks up the frantic beating of your heart. He tilts his head back to gaze up into your eyes and you feel more naked with that single stare than ever before. 

“That what you need, sweet thing?” he says, pressing his lips to your inner thigh. “You need Daddy to make you feel good?”

“Mhm,” you whine, the pitch of your voice pathetic and needy. You watch him crush his nose into your inner thigh, nipping at your sensitive flesh, and his name leaves your mouth in a sob. 

“‘m gonna need words,” he commands, biting you again in reproach. “Talk to me, baby girl. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to make me come,” you plead, grasping his soft greying hair in your fingers. “Please.”

“You gonna call me what you wanna call me?” he prompts, smacking your thigh. “C’mon, baby, lemme hear it.”

“Daddy!” you cry out, your hand tightening in his locks. “Fuck, Daddy, please make me come.”

Joel growls, bringing your soaked panties down your legs. Your knees nearly knock together, but he’s shouldering his way between them, bringing one up onto his wide shoulder. You're spread open like this, bared plainly for your landlord to feast upon at his will. The sight of his lips parted, waiting and ready to take your pussy into his mouth, has you trembling. 

He gives a slow, experimental lick, sliding the flat of his tongue through your wet slit. You shudder, your head lolling against the wall. One teasing drag of his tongue and you’re butter, humming and whimpering for more, Daddy, please as he takes his fucking time tasting what you have to offer. 

“Goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, his blunt nails digging crescent moons into the flesh of your ass, pulling your body flush to him. “Waited so fuckin’ long for this.” You watch the fire ignite from red- to blue-hot in Joel’s eyes, his gaze shuttering as he loses himself, devoted entirely to the process of unravelling you. 

The next time he dips his tongue between your folds, he does it deliberately, calculated, as if he has already memorised your shape and now seeks to pry you open. He parts your lips to make way for his mouth, hot and soft against your clit. Softly, you cry out, watching as he presses a featherlight kiss to your pearl. You try to grind against his face, needing more, but a resounding slap to your ass stops you dead. 

“No takin’ what I don’t give,” he says. “You understand me?”

You pout, but you nod your head anyway. 

He decides it isn’t good enough and abruptly takes your clit between his teeth in a scolding bite. 

“Repeat. It.”

“I’ll only take what you give,” you tell him. “I’ll be good.”

Apparently satisfied, he hums, diving back in and finally—finally—sucks on your needy clit. “Oh!” He’s eager, sure, but he’s practised. He’s meticulous in the way he applies pressure to your clit, lapping at you greedily and pulling back to draw your pleasure into measured tidal waves. You crest only to recede from shore, and then his lips suction to you again, his hand snaking around to your front and pressing down on your lower belly. 

“Fuck!” you squeak, your stomach tightening as the dizzying pleasure overcomes you. “Joel, I’m gonna—!”

The orgasm pulls you under, drowning you with a forceful hand, your lungs sucking in mouthfuls of air. You seize, your heel digging into Joel’s muscled back, your fingers fisting his hair, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing, begging to be filled. Joel keeps his mouth on you all the while, licking you through your high, and you think it’s a benevolent act until your orgasm gently fades and he continues to make out with your pussy as if it never happened.

“Ah! Joel, please—” It’s so much. Too much; your pussy contracts relentlessly at the endless attention from his tongue, happily licking your clit and relishing the faint throbbing underneath it. It’s like he’s starved. His eyes are closed, his beard glistening with your wetness, his fingers dimpling your flesh as he pulls you right along to another high. 

Two thick fingers gather up the juices you’ve leaked onto your thighs and push them back into your hole, insistent in their desire to enter. You gasp, your heart in your fucking throat: “That’s only two?”

He chuckles, but the vibration only makes you jump, letting his fingers sink inside your cunt to the knuckle. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Daddy, that feels so good, please make me come again, I need it, please—!”

Joel groans into your pussy, curling his fingers toward him so they press against a spongy spot inside you that sends your head spinning, your mind folding in on itself. All you know is the next orgasm, the best way to get him to give it to you, the fastest way to reach that indelible place once more, just once more—

Joel’s hand applies more pressure to your belly, and you scream, clawing desperately at his shoulder as you give yourself over to something much, much stronger than an orgasm. It’s foreign, the creeping sensation of an invader taking up residence in your body. You cannot see, cannot hear. It assumes control, tearing a cry from your mouth and locking all your limbs tight and splashing your wetness all over Joel’s chin, beard, shirt. 

You think he only stops because you begin to list; he catches you around the hips and presses a soft kiss to your used little clit. “Mmmmm,” is vaguely how you manage to thank him, your eyes peeling slowly open. 

“I know, baby girl,” he says, stroking your hip bone with his thumb. He litters kisses all over your thighs, coaxing you through the minute twitching of your muscles as they relax. “You did so good for me, pretty girl. So fuckin’ beautiful. My sweet girl.”

You shiver in his grasp, watching as he makes his way back up your body. He swipes his forearm across his wet beard and you moan a little at the sight. “Nobody’s ever…”

Joel crowds you, his hand cupping the back of your neck so he can guide your gaze up to him. “That's what you don't understand, sweetheart,” he says. “You can try to find another man to make you happy, but he won't be me. I’m the only one who’s gonna treat you right.”

“Joel…” Sense begins to push at the edges of your brain, but you only slump further into his touch, letting him secure your hair behind your ear. “This isn't right,” you whisper. “I pay you every month to live here. People will know. People will talk about me.”

“People have suffered worse for a hell of a lot less.” 

You have no time to decode his words because he grabs your hand and presses your palm over his chest. Beneath the shirt and the warm, tanned skin, you feel a strong, rapid heartbeat, hammering away at his ribs. He maintains eye contact, the gaze incisive, peering right into the cluster of wiring inside your head that calls his name. “You feel my heart and you tell me this ain't real. You think this ain't love? You think it's obsession? Infatuation? Think I can’t see you lookin’ at me the way you do?”

His words pin you to the ground. They’re possessive, covetous—jealous. He wants you, and he knows you want him. All these months, he’s wanted you the way you’ve craved him; all the comforts and the roses and the baked goods in lieu of payment for substantial repair jobs; the times he’s let slide some late payments because I know it’s tough sometimes, the inexplicable kindnesses in your everyday. 

Joel Miller dedicated himself to you the second you arrived to see the prospective apartment. 

“You’re mine,” he says, his thumb stroking your jaw. “And I wanna hear you say it.”

People will call you a whore. They’ll think you’re pimping yourself out for cheaper rent. They’ll send you filthy looks. But the man in front of you makes you feel wanted. Desired. You’re better than all the dates that failed. You’re better than a shitty boss who won’t give you the raise you deserve. Joel is good to you. He’s always been.

“I’m yours, Joel Miller,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Now please take me to bed.”

He grins, taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. You get grabby straight away, fingering the hem of his shirt with a pleading look in your eye. You can still see the evidence of your orgasm staining the collar. “You can take it off, baby,” he says with that cocky smile, letting you lift the shirt over his head. In the sunlight, the grey in his hair shimmers, and his chest is bared to you. You lick your lips, placing your hands on his broad shoulders just to feel the way your palms contour to his dips and curves. 

You lean in and put your lips to his neck, tracing the shape of him down to the hollow of his throat, He tastes faintly of fresh air and sweat, and he smells like you. Your hands admire the warmth and strength underneath them, his body so tangible when only yesterday it was a distant dream. He lets you indulge, though his hands flex at his sides, and your fingers fumble with his belt buckle. 

“Help,” you mumble against his chest, bumping your nose into him. Joel chuckles, relieving you of your burden and shucking off his belt. It clinks along the floor somewhere nearby, and you can unbutton his jeans to bring them down, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. 

Your mouth waters at the sight. He’s thick and slightly curved, the tip leaking precum onto his belly, his balls heavy with the need to come. During those long nights after long days of work, you would imagine, for hours on end, what lingered just below his belt; the little trail of hair leading down his soft belly to your destination; the way his wide shoulders would bracket your body, shelter you from all the tough shit you could possibly suffer. You would picture all the ways you could thank him. You bite your bottom lip and ready yourself to sink to your knees, but Joel is having none of it. He attacks your mouth, kissing you deeply, his hands sliding up your back as if he's trying to count every vertebrae. He doesn't relent even when your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapse backward onto the mattress. He only crawls over you and pins you beneath his hard body. 

“So pretty like this,” he says, lowering his head and nudging your chin upward with his nose to give himself better access to your throat. He sucks and nips at you all the way down, pausing at your heaving breasts. His fingers gently toy with one stiff nipple while his mouth occupies itself with the other, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. You moan softly, content to watch him explore your body, squeezing your tits before he migrates downward. 

“Daddy,” you whisper, stroking his hair away from his face, your head falling back onto the pillows as his fingers part your folds once more. “Fuck, please, touch me. I need you inside me.”

Joel settles in between your open legs and takes his cock in his hand. You mewl for him, determined in the face of his big cock to fit it nicely inside you. “Mmm, you ready for me, baby girl? You need Daddy to fill you up, use you like a pretty little toy?” 

You’re nodding frantically, the words igniting you. “Please take me.”

Joel slaps the head of his cock against your clit, once, twice, watching your thighs twitch. Spreading the slick wetness from your pussy onto the tip, he finally guides himself to your hole and notches just inside. 

“Jesus,” he utters. “Jesus, you're a fuckin’ dream.”

“It’s real,” you pant, “I’m real.”

He begins to disappear inside you, wrenching you open, your poor pussy disused from going so long without decent sex. You feel the pinching pain give way to a delicious pressure in your core as he eases into you, taking it slow despite his taut jaw, his gritted teeth. Your cunt forms a tight seal around his length, your arousal lubricating his entry, and you feel lightheaded. He’s so fucking big—and he’s still going.

“Oh, my… Joel—”

“I know, baby.” He brings his thumb to your clit and helps you relax with every circular swipe. “I know what y’like.”

You keen up against him, your thighs squeezing his hips. He's only halfway inside you and it feels like being filled up to your throat, choking on the air you breathe. Your head falls back, your hands flying up to your tits and squeezing. 

“Daddy…”

One of Joel’s hands overlaps yours where it grasps your breast. “That’s my girl. You can take me. Always knew you could.” Still, he's panting with the exertion of holding back. 

“You thought about me?” you say coyly, trying to pull him deeper inside you. He obliges, if only because you're being so petulant, and his hips finally knock into yours. You release a bone-deep sigh of relief.

“All I do”—his hips thrust shallowly, baring his teeth as he paws at your thighs—“is think about you.”

You cry out at the angle, the depth he reaches, how thick and heavy he sits inside you. Your pussy sucks him in, begging for more, and Joel obliges by hooking his hand in the back of your knee and pushing your thigh toward your chest. 

Your vision whites, a ragged cry leaving your mouth. “Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, yes, that feels so good—”

“‘s right, baby girl. I’m the only one’s gonna fuck you this good,” Joel grits out, dragging his thick cock along your walls, spreading you open, forcing himself to fit. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust, measured in their intensity, just enough to drive you up the goddamn wall but never enough to sting. “I’m the only one you want.”

Your mouth is open and his pounding urges a steady rush of ah, ah, ahs up your throat. Joel leans over you and tilts your head back with a hand in your hair to slant his mouth over yours. He lets you pour your cries into his mouth and he swallows them down, fucking you so hard that your hips begin to ache. 

He smatters your jaw with sloppy kisses. You lift your hand to his face and trace the patches in his beard, your brows drawn together in your perpetual haze. 

“I dreamed about you,” you whisper, taking his earlobe between your teeth to make him growl against your skin. “Touched myself thinking about you.”

“I know,” he says, his hips grinding hard against yours, rubbing up against your used clit. He answers your gasp by nibbling your throat, and you keep him fixed to you with your hand at the back of his neck. His soft hair is matted with sweat and you want to bury yourself here, etch the shape of him into your stone. He's strong, capable, so present in this moment that your heart begins to throb to the beat of his. 

Joel surges upward and takes you with him, forcing you to sit on his lap. At this angle, his cock reaches deeper, somehow, your mouth falling open and your forehead dropping to his shoulder. His palm is a soothing presence on your sweaty back as he tells you things that make you flush from your chest to your ears. 

“Thought about takin’ you on the goddamn bar last night,” he grunts, guiding your ass in a rolling rhythm along his lap, his cock gliding slowly along your walls. You moan, your thighs shaking around his hips. “Thought about spreadin’ you over my desk and fuckin’ you dumb with my cock.” 

You sob into the crook of his neck, grinding down on his cock, the pressure of his navel against your clit sparking hot in your lower belly. “What else?” you ask, nipping at the strong muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. Your tits are pressed up against his chest, his warmth engulfing you, your body slowly lowering over him as he guides you the way he likes. 

His palm coasts down your spine until he finds your puckered asshole. His name is jagged and rubbed raw on your tongue. 

“Shhh, baby girl.” The pad of his finger teases your hole with just enough pressure to ooze electric ecstasy down your spine. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

Fuck, his voice is so gentle, so knowing. You curl your fingers in his hair, your nose tickled by the locks that curl over his ears. 

“Mmmhmm,” you mewl, lifting your hips as best you can despite the growing aches, telegraphing your desire to be touched by him—played with. 

“Thaaat’s it,” he coos, his nose nudging your cheek as he turns his head. His finger continues to prod your asshole while his hips buck up into you. “Openin’ up for me like a good girl. You’d let me take you wherever I want, hmm? Whenever I want?”

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you moan, your mouth perpetually open against the skin of his neck. You can’t think. You can't breathe. You can only drink down mouthfuls of him and let your body succumb to the delicious weight of his cock inside you. “Yes, I’ll be your little slut. I’ll be whatever you want. You make me feel so good.”

He seems pleased with your babbling, grinning into your cheek as he keeps you spread wide and pounds up into you. His finger continues to tease your tight hole until he feels your body contract around him and apparently decides that he isn't quite through with you. 

“Turn around. Hands and knees.”

Who are you to refuse?

You lament the brief loss of his cock as you shift into your knees, resting your forearms on the bed and teasing him with a wiggle of your ass. Joel hums appreciatively, sidling up behind you and grinding his hard cock between your asscheeks. You jolt forward, but he catches you around the waist and warms his palm at your ribs. 

Something warm and wet lands in a glob on your asshole, and you realise he fucking spit on you. Your head spins, dizzied by your own arousal, and soon, the warm, wet head of his cock slips back inside your hole, and you relish the refuge of being taken by him all over again. 

“You wanna know what else?” He begins to fuck you hard and fast and almost angry in its intensity. His thrusts knock against your ribcage and rattle the bars, your heart floundering for a way back to the surface. “I thought about knockin’ on your door every goddamn day and putting my dick in this pretty fuckin’ pussy. Thought about your tight fuckin’ body every single time I saw you walk by and a long time after. I thought about the noises you'd make and Jesus, I was right. So goddamn sweet.”

You’re drooling onto the pillow, your eyes rolling back in your head, your fingers uselessly clasping handfuls of your white sheets. Joel is an animal, mounting you from behind and taking you hard, deep, the slick squelching noises of your coupling so crude and indecent that they burn through your ears like a lit fuse. It's wrong. You never should have kissed him. But wrong shouldn't feel like this. 

Wrong shouldn’t taste like mint and coffee, shouldn't smell like roses and sawdust. Wrong shouldn’t feel like his cock sitting snug inside your pussy, some obscene jigsaw, seeping saplike pleasure down your spine. 

This must be right. 

His hands are rapacious, one wrapping around your hair and the other guiding the bend of your back, arching you perfectly to fit him while he takes you the way he likes. “Such a tease in those pretty dresses. Such a prim and proper girl ‘til she gets the right dick. You’ll get on your knees for this dick, baby girl, won't you? You’ll beg for it like a goddamn whore.”

“I will!” you moan, your cheek pressed into the mattress. The force of his thrusts have you travelling up the bed in minuscule movements, his thighs slapping hard against yours. “Fuck, I will, Daddy! Please, Daddy, I wanna make you feel good, I’ll do anything.”

“You're doin’ such a good job already, sweet thing,” he says, using his leverage on your hair and your waist to yank you upright, his chest pressed to your back, your ass now firmly sat in his lap. You moan long and low at the new angle, your back arching and your toes curling. 

Joel groans against your jaw, his mouth travelling along the line of it in sloppy kisses that indicate he's about as close as you are. “Yeah, baby. Fuckin’ drunk on my cock. Fucked you good and dumb, hmm? Fucked you so good you can't even think.”

You can only manage a low whine, the sound of it a fleeting puff of air from your lips, the oxygen in your lungs depleting and replaced with the smell of him. You try to bounce on his dick—you really do try—but you cannot remember how to work the muscles in your thighs. You cannot remember what you had for breakfast nor the colour of the skirt you wore today. You can only vaguely understand the shape of the man behind you, the name that belongs to him, the way you curve and fit into him. You’re falling, the technicolour world outside your window fading to the sound of soft, beating wings—that may be your heart, fluttering in your ears—as you seize, yielding to the pleasure. 

You will not recall the sounds you make when you come, grasping blindly at his thighs to keep yourself from falling over, your ears ringing. You feel his moustache scratching your jaw and his cock working you through your high, slowing his thrusts to help you land softly on solid ground. You may cry out his name, and you may call him something else entirely. But it's vibrant. It's radiant as the sunlight now dipping behind the distant buildings. It tastes just as sweet as the golden hour. 

Joel does not stop fucking you when your body goes limp in his arms. No, he resumes his brutal pace, using you like a fucking toy to get himself off. You happily take it, your head lolling back against his shoulder and your eyes drooping. 

“Nnh, fuck… I’m gonna… Jesus—oh, fuck—”

His hips press flush to your ass and he nuzzles his face into your throat, depositing kisses and love bites all over your skin as he pumps shallowly into you, his hot cum filling you up and leaking generously around the seal of your cunt. You gasp, your fingers threading through his already-tousled hair, keeping him glued to you as he flexes against your body and comes hard enough to double himself over. 

He collapses on top of you, forcing you to bend at the hip, little puffs of air escaping his mouth and seeping into you. You whine, your sore hips battered and bruised, your pussy deliciously abused as you pulse continuously around his dick. “Joel, please…”

He comes slowly back into his body, his lips trailing down your spine as he lifts himself upright. “Shit. ‘m sorry, baby girl. You feel okay?”

You hum happily, letting yourself pant into the mattress. “Feels so good.”

Joel pulls out, savouring the tight drag of his cock out of your pussy, hissing through his teeth and watching his thick cum dribble slowly out of your hole. “Such a fuckin’ pretty sight. My sweet girl, all used up.”

You drop your face into your forearm and giggle. Joel smooths his hand over your lower back. “What's so funny?”

“Just…” You sound a bit hysterical as you continue to laugh. “I’m going to be late on rent this month. I put a down payment on a car.”

Joel lowers himself next to you and gently pulls you into him, his moustache tickling your cheek. “Planning on gettin’ the hell outta dodge?” he says playfully, nipping your earlobe. 

Your eyes droop and you sink into him. “Think I’ll stay here for a while.”

“I know you will, baby,” he murmurs.

“Joel?”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you for the necklace.”

~

It’s night when you next wake, and Joel is next to you. 

For someone so stern and strong, he looks utterly serene in his sleep. His lips are slightly parted, half his face pressed into the pillow, his hair curling around his ears and his arm lazily draped over you. You gently sweep a lock of hair away from his face. 

Through the dark, the red light beams, and the arm around your waist tugs you closer.

THE END.