#first actual post in forever and its this fucking thing

[bluestarsbumblesocks]

[briefcasejuice]

unfortunately i have the kind of autism that makes people have to explain things to me/i have to bounce my ideas around with people who know things before thoughts become anything for me

[bylertruther]

i don't like season three when viewing it as a continuation of seasons one and two, but i do very much like season three when viewing it as the prequel to seasons four and five... hmmmmm.

[radrobotz]

i think the funniest ocs ive ever had were it was like a next gen crossover au where all webseries (of the 2000s-2010s for reference) exist in the same world but its like the kids of the characters and the main character (and couple) were an eddsworld fankid and a dick figures fankid

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

11x9 is like the most touchy episode its kinda nuts how much theyre touching like this is more in one episode than all of the rest combined

[rainc0at]

I LOVE THIS FUCKIJG FILM SO MUCH EVERYTHING ABOUT IT IS PERFECT

[lapdogchase]

MAYBE IT WOULD STRENGTHEN THE STORY IF THEY GOT TOGETHER ACTUALLY 🖕

[arolesbianism]

hello gamers minor life update I have been doing Real bad lately so I will likely continue to be very inactive, but hey on the bright side I have been fleshing out some eternal gales lore I reworked a while back and I can happily say that Dodie no longer completely contradicts the very nature of reality in eternal gales and the fog tower™ officially has a real reason to exist again so hell yeah to that

[sheepgirlmaidtummy]

man. this whole thing pisses me off because like. even when people talk about staff having a history of hating trans women, that this isnt the first time, without fail black trans women are forgotten to be included again and again. im not surprised this caused such an uproar when the popular white woman gets deleted. nobody should be, its been that way like forever. some cunt in my inbox got annoyed i called rita a sex worker (lol? okay)

but i mentioned that in my post because so many black trans women have gotten removed from this site for their sex work alone, regardless of if it "broke community guidelines" or not, especially when tumblr live and the ads on this website are so fucking horny. idek what to say rn because like. this wont get as many notes as the posts talking about her will. the exploding car thing is gonna get more attention than the trans women on this site you dont actually care about listening to. ive been talking about how unfair it is to be a black tgirl on this site for years and nobody cares.

i love rita, we talked abit the other day and she's doing fine, dont get it twisted and think i hate her or some bs, she's a big fucking reason im not fucking homeless.

but part of why her deletion got to #1 trending on tumblr for multiple days in a row is that she's white

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Actually, I think this does link in with a wider conversation that I have been thinking for a while Tumblr maybe needs to hear.

There's a common meme on this site now that no one here has any reading comprehension skills. The best one is, of course, the original "No offense but reading comprehension on this site is piss poor/How dare you say we piss on the poor" post, which gave rise to the nickname "pissing-on-the-poor website". There's also the "I like pancakes/How dare you say waffles are terrible" one. Both of these are great, because they're silly jokey ways to show two closely related phenomena that are probably the commonest ways to fail a reading comprehension check.

The first is someone reading certain catchphrases or buzzwords in the post, and based on their own biases or prior experiences or whatever else, their brain simply fills in what it reckons the poster is saying on the topic. Instead of reading the rest of the sentence and digesting it, the reader then just uses their assumption as the interpretation, and reacts to that.

The second is closely related, because it also uses biases and prior experiences to to interpret the post, but rather than ignoring what the OP is actually saying, it instead performs a series of gymnastic leaps to construct a whole new assertion on the OP's behalf that simply isn't there.

There's also a third, of course; that one is people being so eager to feel smug and superior over someone they perceive as Bad that they wilfully assume the OP is stupid or being serious when they're actually joking. And if the reader hadn't been so blinded by their desire to get to look down on someone, they'd have seen the very obvious tells, sometimes even including sentences like "Obviously this is a joke." (I think we have all seen examples of these. Also, in a bid to avoid as many reading comprehension fails here as possible, this does not include misunderstandings borne entirely of neurodiverse struggles to parse intentions; but, neurodiverse people are just as likely as neurotypicals to have ego play a part in their misinterpretation of others, and that is what this point is about.)

And the thing is... actually, we are all capable of any of these. I imagine a sizable chunk of people reading until this point were probably thinking "Lol, yeah, people are so stupid," but na, nage, I'm not having that. Literally everyone does these sometimes. And it becomes a particular risk when the topic under discussion is something that might brush against an issue that is a pressure point for you, like a social justice talking point that you are forever having to argue with internet strangers about, for example. Your brain holds schemas! And sometimes it likes to pattern match things before it deigns to tell you about its findings! And that can hit you right in the emotions, which if they are strong enough, really can shut down all rational thought.

But. This brings me to the real point of the post.

Because the thing is, we have all saddled up and gone to war under these conditions, or at the very least been strongly tempted to. And a vital skill that literally everyone has to learn, sooner or later, is:

Before you hit 'reply', double check the post to make sure you fucking understood it.

And that does not mean "simply re-read, confirm your bias, carry on." It means, "Is it possible to read this post from the point of view of someone who doesn't intend it the way I've taken it? If I put myself in the shoes of an innocent, could they still have written these words? Is there another interpretation for these phrases?"

And you do have to do this step. You simply do have to. Because if your desire is to 'clap back' and call someone a gargling knobskin made of garbage, fuck me sideways but you must see that it is imperative that you check if they actually deserve that kind of treatment first. You cannot spend your time claiming that we must all choose to be kind and then not bother doing your due diligence before screaming a person's various and assorted bigotries at them. If you misread it, and they were innocent - you are the raging aggressive cunt in this situation.

It does not matter that you reacted from an emotional place of normally having to defend yourself either, by the way. Sure, that makes the quality of your human soul better than that of the average Redditor who just enjoys anonymously hurting people, I guess? But it's also irrelevant. If you messaged someone and called them a misogynist because you performed several mental somersaults and landed on your own sore spot when they meant no such thing, you are the attacker. You owe them an apology. And yeah, sure, you can explain your over-reaction as the product of your normal experiences if you like, but that is only an explanation, not an excuse. You are still the asshole here. You still need to apologise and mean it.

And you could have avoided it if you'd done that due diligence, as you should have. If you're going to take a swing, make sure it's the right target. This was once described to me as donkey people - they don't think, they just kick. This is admittedly a little unkind to donkeys, who always do their due diligence, but I feel it's an apt metaphor.

TL;DR: If you feel moved to angrily reply to something, first make sure you've interpreted it right. Don't be a donkey person. And if you ask for clarification, people are innocent until proven guilty. Ask nicely. If they are a bigot, you can then smelt them for parts.

[absolutedestinyapocalypsse]

i love how as you read more into tlt, the ninth house seems more and more normal. Like if i'm at an immoral evil government competition, and i use human fat as soap and animate skeletons to do menial labor, i'm gonna LOSE if my competition is the third house, represented by ianthe "who HASN'T eaten human flesh and fucked a corpse" tridentarius. My weird skeleton thing seems normal, suddenly. Well-adjusted, even. It's recycling. They're using resources in a sustainable way. Normal and regular and productive for a post-climate change apocalypse universe.

People go on and on about how Muir drops you into gtn hearing from the person who knows the least about whats happening, and does not hand hold the reader through the crazy shit that occurs, and that's all true. It truly is a crazy writing decision to make your first pov character come from the universe's equivalent of amish fundamentalists. But the reader is actually done a huge favor being dropped into the ninth house first, because we already understand that space is cold and what catholic nuns are, and what goths look like, and what lesbians are. Very little time is wasted in the first chunk of gtn ripping hair out of your head wondering what the fuck is going on, because for all of its strangeness, the ninth house is already the most familiar thing we're gonna get.

Because THEN we learn that this whole universe's medieval chivalry system is designed to groom people from CHILDREN to not only be exploited and used as human batteries for necromancers, but to LIKE it. to wax poetic about it. to confuse it for love, to write fucking academic papers about it! Then we learn about planet flipping, an act so horrific and violent it turns the planet's soul into a massive vengeful monster capable of killing GOD. Like what do you MEAN the animals "change"? Is this why noodle has six legs? I would MUCH prefer to wear skeleton makeup and repent forever if the alternative was to witness my family dog grow TWO EXTRA LIMBS because the planet he lived on fucking died. Suddenly, living in the asscrack of a planet where no light gets in seems like a sweet deal when the whole solar system is lit by a sun that MAKES YOU GO CRAZY. The ninth house's WORST sin, killing 200 babies to make Harrow, a waste of resources and an act so terrible it haunts Harrow for the entire span of her life, is like a BLIP compared to the death count Jod's empire. God even hears about it and he's like, no big deal! The cohort probably kills that amount of people in a DAY.

And its ALSO tragic because you realize that all of this trauma and abuse that Gideon goes through is not really because of the ninth house at all. It's really just an individual skill issue that she wasn't treated with compassion. Nobody hated her because she's jesus or a bomb, nobody even KNOWS she's a bomb. It's just Priamhark and Pelleamena being deeply guilty and scared people that motivates her treatment, and absolutely nothing else.

They did something bad, and they know it, and Gideon survived it, and they can't kill her to cover it up, and that's IT. They killed themselves for pride, because they were afraid of the consequences of their actions (both the baby killing and Harrow opening the tomb) coming back to bite them. You can argue this is the catholicism of it all, and I wouldn't say you're wrong, but compared to the cavalier system, where exploitation is in the very lining of the house's institutions, the ninth house is really removed from the space empire's blood factory. This is compared to the fourth house where they have tons of children to be CANNON FODDER to join the cohort at fucking 14, compared to the eight house uncle nephew fuckery, even the fifth house which actually does seems nice to live on but also seems to have the fourth house in some sort of fucked up political bear hug??? (maybe the fourth house has so many kids in order to fight the fifth's battles? which is EXACTLY what jod's whole empire is about; politely stirring your tea and acting nice while you destroy everything) compared to ALL OF THAT, the cruelty that Gideon faces is really more a bug of the ninth's system than a feature.

There's nothing baked into the culture and everyday life of the ninth house that necessitated that cruelty; in fact, for such a pragmatic and resource-scarce place, it's WEIRD that a strong able-bodied young person was treated like a waste of space and resources. It could just have easily not happened, if Harrow's parents had been different people. Maybe they were products of their environment, but so was Harrow, and she values Gideon's life SO MUCH that she'd literally rather carve out parts of her own brain than exploit her. Gideon grows up knowing really NOTHING about cavaliers, so remote from the horrors of the empire that she develops an idea of what the cohort is from porn magazines. And in a lot of ways, that upbringing was desolate and terrible, and in a lot of other ways it literally DID NOT HAVE TO BE.

Gideon's MAIN THING is that she wants to be useful, to be needed, to be loved and it SUCKS that she couldn't even get it in the one place where she was actually an invaluable resource, where the death empire had the weakest reach. Gideon can't even blame her lack of love on the fucked up chivalry system like everyone else can because it JUST WASNT REALLY RELEVENT!?!?! This is like if i rolled up to the trauma competition and everyone else was raised in a nuclear warzone by wolves or something and i grew up in like, the suburbs and was raised by teachers and i somehow STILL WON. truly what the fuck guys.

[boygirlctommy]

I TAKE EVERYTHING BACK FUCK THE POST HOOT <- just found out that belos goes goop because he eats palismen

[macfrog]

san angelo | one shot

what happens when joel miller meets his star-crossed lover?

big love to @mrsmando and @5oh5 for cheering me on with this one, and @bageldaddy for being my eyes, my ears, and - only sometimes - my brain.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: it's the summer of two thousand eight. after two weeks following his little brother cross-country on the back of a harley, joel follows him through the doors of a dive bar - where fate delivers him to you. warnings: story is inserted into canon, so cordyceps outbreak happens, sarah dies (off-page), joel dissociates, doomed love, lots of mention of fate, alcohol consumption, reader is a smoker, cursing, drunken one-night stand, oral sex, unprotected piv, joel's cock is massive, a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lil smut to tie it all together. enjoy! word count: 9.8k

moodboard | main masterlist | playlist [in case you wanna vibe in sad] | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤍

Palm lines.

It’s the first thing he thinks as soon as she stops moving in his arms. The second her little whimpers cease, the moment her chest stops heaving and her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, Joel’s little girl weighs more than he can bear.

Palm lines. And he has no fucking idea why.

He closes his eyes and there you are. The whir of the ceiling fan, the tinkling of bracelets loose on your wrist. You have sorta earth hands, you told him. Or, well – they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way. I don’t really know. I’m still learning.

You told him that air hands were long, spindly. And Sarah was always a lanky kid – tallest on the soccer team, head and shoulders above the other girls by the third grade. Her hands, he thinks, must be air. They must be.

Her fingers are still twisted around his right now. Lifeless, slippery with the blood still wet and quickly cooling.

Joel cradles her, squeezing so hard that he wonders whether he might be able to fuse their bodies together. Lock them in some white-knuckle grip so that he never has to let go of her – never has to leave this hill covered in dirt and blood.

His palms are ruined; a maroon river carving its way down his heart line, dirt deep in the groove of his life line. Why does he even fucking remember what they’re called?

Why the fuck are you what he’s thinking about, right now?

“Tommy,” he says, opening his eyes again. “We gotta…we gotta get to…”

She’s limp, draped over his thighs as though she’s nothing more than a stretch of crimson curtain. He looks down at her and begs her to come back, begs her to open her eyes and look up at him again.

But the night is passing and she’s still not breathing. Dawn is breaking and Joel’s daughter is dead.

He sucks in a shattered breath. “…to San Angelo, Tommy.”

The younger Miller stuffs his gun into the back of his jeans and paces over, soles coated thick in shit and grass. “I hear you, Joel.”

“You ain’t listenin’ to me, I –”

“I’m listenin’ fine, Joel.” Tommy hooks his hands under his niece’s arms. “Now, help me lift her. We can’t…” his voice strains, fighting the death grip his brother has on the girl, “…we can’t leave her here.”

Joel’s frozen to the spot; sinking further and further into the earth. Staring at his open hands, the stains like rust on his palms. He says to San Angelo again, and Tommy snaps.

“Jesus, Joel, enough! I’ve heard enough goddamn it! I see your hands, now – we gotta fuckin’ bury Sarah.”

Your fate line, your nail tickled, and Joel held his hand steady, It can change, if something big is coming.

Somethin’ big? he asked. A little younger, a lot more naïve. Still a healthy dose of belief in the world, an echo of the god-fearing faith that raised him.

His hand felt so light, cradled in two of yours. He half hoped he’d never have to let go – just lie there with you forever. Your legs tangled with his, the sheets disturbed; the room injected with amber from the streetlights outside.

You nodded. A big shift, or something.

And he scoffed. He actually scoffed, right there and then. Incredulous. The hell kinda big shift is comin’ our way? he asked, laughing.

You just smiled back, shrugging. You were so fucking casual, that whole night. It would’ve unnerved him, if he hadn’t been so swept off by the sparkle in your eye, the glowing cherry of your cigarette.

Guess we just gotta wait ‘n see.

It’s August thirtieth, two thousand eight.

Almost five thousand miles on the back of a Harley, and Joel just wants to go home.

He arches his aching back, palms flat against the crests of his hips, and blinks in the light from the food mart in front of him. Twenty-six, he thinks to himself, only twenty-fuckin’-six.

It’s ninety degrees out. An uncomfortable heat, for a man who feels ten years older than he really is. For a man who hasn’t had a decent shower in almost two weeks. For a man who’s spent the last six hours tailing the brake lights of his little brother’s bike.

The sweat gathers sticky between his shoulder blades, prickles along the nape of his neck. There’s dust spattered down his bare arms and buried in the grooves of his knuckles.

He’s tired. He’s tired, he’s dirty, and goddamn, he wishes he was back home.

He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, the yellow sky melting to a purple haze. Squinting, he follows the soar of two swallows overhead, looping through the sky, until he’s rubbing the image from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

He’s gotta remember to call Sarah before she goes to bed.

The door opens with the tinkle of a brass bell older and rustier than Joel feels. A swaggering figure splits the glow from the store in two – a figure with a pack of Marlboros in one hand and an already half-empty bottle of water in the other.

Tommy holds them both out to Joel, who swipes the water with a scowl.

“Ain’t killed you yet, brother,” Tommy scoffs, stuffing the cigarettes into his back pocket. He swings a frayed-denim leg over the seat of his Harley.

Joel drains the bottle, panting as he crushes the plastic in one fist. “Damn near tryin’,” he mutters, tossing it in the trash. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Where are we?” Tommy asks. He glances over his shoulder, staring from the cracked roads to the telephone wires overhead. A Syclone pulls into the lot; a dehydrated squeal as it rolls to a halt.

“San Angelo,” Joel says. “Only a few more hours to go.” He settles on his own bike, pulling his leather jacket over his shoulders. “We passed a Super 8 coming into town, if you feel like restin’ up. Or – we leave now, be home around midnight.”

Tommy chuckles. “What’s the rush? We ain’t gotta be anywhere anytime soon.”

And Joel agrees – for the most part.

His mom is watching Sarah while they’re gone, and he reckons she’s hardly missing him. Too smart for her own good, Joel’s realizing: plotting and scheming her way into staying up past her bedtime, drinking Pepsi at dinner, watching Curtis and Viper – and swearing that her dad lets her do it all, too.

But, still. He misses his kid.

It’s the most they’ve ever been apart – time or distance. The longest he hasn’t had her climbing up his back or hanging off his arm. The least he’s been called Dad since he was eighteen years old.

He just…misses his kid.

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the body of the bike. “Tommy, I gotta get back home to Sarah.”

“Look,” Tommy says, and Joel knows that the argument is lost already, “By the time we got back, she’d be asleep anyways. Let’s leave in the morning – first thing, I swear – and we’ll be home in time for breakfast. Deal?”

They stare at one another, a stand-off in the parking lot. Both waiting for the other to break. The swallows gather on the roof of the store, basking in the weak wash of flickering fluorescents.

“Come on, brother,” Tommy pleads, “It’s one more night.” He lifts his helmet, punching it over his mop of shaggy hair, and kicks the bike to life.

Joel growls to himself, watching it drift over to the side of the road.

He considers heading to the Super 8 alone, grabbing a room only to shower and get some food, then hitting the road and leaving his little brother in the dust. Waiting for him to stumble through the door tomorrow morning – tired, groggy, probably hungover – while Joel, fresh as a daisy, drizzles syrup over Sarah’s pancakes and pours her orange juice.

He’s a pragmatic man. He’s a grown-up. Scares away the ghosts and ghouls and monsters of his daughter’s nightmares. Shushes her back to sleep in the crook of his arm, tiptoes as lightly as he can out of her room so as not to wake her.

Things like God, like the universe, things like horoscopes and laws of attraction…for the most part, Joel can do without them. Has done his whole life.

But then – the glow of indigo overhead, and the mysterious shadows lurking behind the buildings. The birdsong tittering in his ears, the twinkle of the sun in Tommy’s helmet – something distant in the dusty sphere.

Something, someone, winking at him from far away.

Something a little heavier than the breeze nudges at his spine, and Joel’s arms lift – fitting his own helmet over his head. He swings the heel of his boot into his kickstand and revs the bike, Harley roaring as it joins Tommy’s out on the boulevard.

Murphy’s is a small, green bar on the corner of an intersection. All peeled paint lettering and buzzing fluorescents – the y burnt out and pulsing.

Joel doesn’t think Tommy picked it for any reason other than the huge Lone Star mural on the side of the goddamn building, the way he tosses his thumb to it as they park up. A squint smirk on his face, muttering something like ‘s good to be home, big brother, as they hook helmets over handlebars.

Tommy leads Joel inside, their boots tacky on the wooden floor. Walls paneled by aged frames and sun-bleached photographs; air hanging thick with a smell like vinegar. The babble of slurred conversation is pierced by the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.

Metal-plate belt buckles snaked through strained jeans; low eyes which shift to size-up the two strangers. They all turn back to their fingerprinted glasses when Joel and Tommy settle into an empty booth.

It feels hotter in here than it is outside, stuffier. A thick humidity which clings to Joel’s bones, humming like the string lights draped from beams above his head.

Tommy reclines between the creaking leather cushion and the wall. He pokes at a yellowing poster of some Western, hums to himself, and then looks across the table.

Joel’s eyes loop once around the room before they meet his brother’s. “What?” he asks.

“First round is yours, old man.”

“Oh, is it, now?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Thought this was your idea?”

A weedy grin stretches across Tommy’s lips. He needs to fucking shave, Joel thinks. Whiskers poking from around his small mouth like pine needles. “’s my birthday trip,” he reasons.

And can Joel argue with that? Does he have the fucking energy? Will it get him out of here and back to Austin any quicker?

“Goddamn it,” he grumbles. He pushes himself to his feet, heels of his palms against the tacky wood.

He wanders over to the bar, tugging on the front of his tee to unstick it from his damp chest. Slots in beside an ivory cowboy hat with a pair of jeaned legs. The man fixes his bolo tie and watches Joel’s hand as he flags the bartender down.

And then he feels it.

You.

Then he feels you.

First, the weight of you – crashing some into his back. He shunts forward from the suddenness of it, knocking his ribs against the bar, and lifts a hand to brace himself on the ledge.

And then – heat, like an iron. Like every hair and freckle on your skin is branded into his the second you come into contact with him. A feeling like the roll of a wave against his spine, a hand hooked around his forearm when he begins to turn.

“Shit,” you hiss, steadying yourself on the curve of his shoulder. You glance down at your feet, clicking between your black boots. “I’m sorry, that was…that was my bad.”

“’s alright,” Joel says instantly. He holds his arm still until you let go and he sidesteps – though only a little. He watches, dumbstruck, as you rest your elbows on the bar and lean forward. His eyes linger on your back, trailing the crisscross straps wrapped tight over your spine.

You squint up at the menu pinned above shelves of crystal bottles. Your eyes move back and forth across the chalkboard, slowly descending until they’re meeting his in the speckled mirror opposite – a sweet smile growing on your lips.

It runs like whiskey through Joel’s veins: warm and dangerous.

And the way his head spins, the way the world blurs for a moment into one swipe of color around you; the way your cooing laugh echoes between his ears long after he’s heard it –

Joel’s already intoxicated.

He’s still staring when you pull back and motion to the bar. “You can go first, by the way,” you say, waving a hand. “I wasn’t cuttin’ in line. Just trying to read the drinks.”

“I’ll wait,” he replies, remembering how to be polite, how to be charming. Old cogs long out of use jerking to life inside him again. “Can’t read any of ‘em, either, anyways.”

It draws from you that same little laugh, a puff of air from your nostrils. You nod, biting your bottom lip.

He’s quickly forgetting why he’s stood in this room, why he’s in this city. He’d probably forget his own fucking name if you asked him right now what it was.

“’nother drink, darlin’?” a low voice interrupts, and you’re turning away.

Joel’s eyes follow you – a moth chasing something golden and radiant – as you face the wiggle of a snow-white mustache poking from beneath the brim of that ivory cowboy hat.

You shake your head, lifting two fingers with a bill slipped between them. “I’m good, thanks, George. Maybe next round.” You wave to the kid behind the bar – some name that Joel’s too fucking mindless to hear. Too distracted by the glint in your eye, the sparkle of your crescent moon earrings in the light.

If only he knew this feeling. If only he could put a name to it. As familiar as the sun and yet, brand new like dawn. His stomach swirls in a fleet of butterflies – as though he’s fifteen again, bumping elbows with his high school crush.

You nudge him, thumb pointing in the direction of the bartender.

Joel shakes his head. “Ladies first,” he says, heart skipping when you hold his stare.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, “Told you I ain’t jumping in.”

He asks the guy for two beers, barely taking his eyes off you. “Alright,” he leans in, lowering his voice, “Then let me buy you a drink. Make up for gettin’ in your way just then.”

You prop your chin on your knuckles, grinning as you push your twenty around the wooden bar top, dodging pooled rings of alcohol like it’s an arcade game. “I don’t do that,” you say, eyes tracing the slick trail left by the bill.

“Do what?”

“Accept drinks from strange men in bars.”

His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, the taste of humor honey-sweet. “Yeah? ‘n how long have you known…” he nods to the – what is he, sixty? Sixty-five? – year-old on your right, “…George?”

Your gaze lifts, eyes wide. Apparently as impressed by Joel’s confidence as he is himself. “We’re actually in a very serious relationship. Marriage proposal imminent.”

“Damn,” he mutters as the bartender reappears with two Coors, “And here I thought I had half a chance.”

You hum to yourself, studying him. Looking from his jaw across the span of his shoulders, his wide-knuckled hands and then back to his lips. Curious and wary, judging the strange animal stood before you.

And he knows he’s weathered from the weeks on the road, and all the years before that. Dirt under his nails and the light sheen of sun on his forehead. The flecks of gray through his thick, brown beard.

You take a deep breath, eyes twinkling, and tell him, “I’m here with my friend.”

“Ain’t that lucky?” Joel glances at Tommy. “I’m here with my brother.”

You look across to the dirty blond, sat tilting a glass candle in his hand. “He single?”

Joel nods. “Is she?”

You nod.

“Alright. You wanna come sit with us?”

Your smirk answers his question. You take the beers, rings clinking off the glass. “Rum,” you call over your shoulder, wandering off, “I drink rum.”

Joel’s gaze lowers to the sway of your hips. “Rum it is,” he says, turning back to the bar.

“So…a cross-country bike trip, and you wound up in San Angelo?”

You’re on your fourth drink, the first one Joel hasn’t paid for – and he only allowed it because it’s a Diet Coke (and maybe you got to the bar first, held his wrists with one hand so he couldn’t stop you from slapping your own money down).

“Yep,” Joel replies, pinching the lime from his drink and dropping it onto a napkin. “Just passin’ through. Shower, sleep, then head on home.”

“Where’s that, then? Home?”

“Austin.”

“Austin,” you pout, “Nice.”

Joel smirks, licking citrus from his fingertips. “Is it?”

“I’ve never been to Austin,” Brooke chirps, fiddling with the umbrella in her piña colada. She twirls the paper canopy and glances up to Tommy.

He snaps out of his slack-jawed gaze when he realizes what she’s implying. “Oh – yeah, well…” his head wobbles as he stutters, “…you two ever come down that way, we’d be happy to, uh…show ya ‘round, huh, Joel?”

Joel doesn’t reply, staring back at his brother with the same amused expression you are.

You’ve been an inch apart all evening – doused in the dive bar darkness, the shrouded conversations and muffled TV static. The tip of your nose and curve of your shoulders lit only by the luminous signs dotting the walls.

Tommy and Brooke are already deep in conversation again about the best car Tommy ever owned. Joel watches as your eyes flit between the pair, entertained by the way they trip over each other’s sentences. Your cheeks lift when Brooke lays a hand over Tommy’s, and he squeezes her fingers back.

Where did you come from? Joel’s thinking. He takes a swig of his whiskey, feeling your eyes on him. As he lowers his glass, you lift yours. When he turns in his seat towards you, you’re already facing him, back against the wainscotting. He smiles, and so do you.

Every movement feels choreographed, some merry dance only you two know. You’re in your own little world.

Where did you come from, again, and where have you been my entire fucking life?

“So, what about you?” Joel asks instead, swallowing – all warm-bellied and brave. “You grow up here?”

You shake your head, taking another sip. “Nope. Just liked it enough to hang up my coat for a few months. I grew up in Phoenix.”

“You travel a lot?”

“I’ve been around. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I was a kid.”

He thinks of home: of Austin and its silver-snake river, burnt-orange jerseys and the pleated bunting lining Sixth Street. He thinks of late nights on lawn chairs, nursing a beer and shooting the shit with his brother. Keeping their voices lower than the buzz of the cicadas, looking more at the dusky sky than at each other.

“You don’t ever get tired of it?” Joel asks. “Of moving around so much?”

You scoff, breath clouding the inside of your glass. “Three weeks on a motorcycle starting to get to you, huh?”

He breathes a laugh, loose again. The cicadas fade from his ears.

Your head tilts in a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess the universe keeps on surprising me.”

Joel doesn’t do this. At least, he hasn’t done this since he was a teenager – crate of beer under his arm and a chest full of courage. He’s long forgotten the feeling of heat blooming in his cheeks, the twitch of his heart anytime you look at him.

But fuck, if there isn’t something about you. Something in the way you move, the way you look at him. Something in the way you play with your straw, knocking ice cubes around and chewing on the plastic once you’ve drained the glass.

Something – though it’s a little too early and Joel’s a little too tipsy to tell just what. He tries to remember that he’s pragmatic. A grown-up. He chases away the monsters in his daughter’s –

“Oh, shit,” Joel says suddenly, scrambling to pull his cell from his pocket. It’s nine thirty. He was supposed to – “I forgot…”

A miserable tone from his Motorola cuts him short. The screen flashes an empty battery before fading to black. He jams a thumb into the keypad a couple more times, cursing at the winking symbol.

“Someone you gotta call?” you ask.

He meets your eye and winces. “Yeah, I’m…I said I’d call an hour ago.”

“You wanna use mine?” You twist around, fishing in your purse for your own. “We can go outside.”

“No, no, it’s…it’s alright, I’m sure she won’t mind, she –”

You shake your head. “Shut up. Come on, let’s go. I could use some fresh air, anyways. Be back in a minute,” you tell Brooke – who nods and turns straight back to Tommy.

Joel extends his hand to help you out of the booth, then follows you to the door. The cool air tugs every nerve in his body to attention, pin-sharp when he steps out of that lazy heat. Under the emerald glow of the Murphy’s sign, he settles his glass on a window ledge. “Next round’s on me, alright?”

You roll your eyes, pushing the phone against his chest. “Just call, Joel.”

One last apologetic glance, and then he’s dialing. He makes to wander along the curb, the tone already pulsing in his ear, when he notices –

“You ain’t brought a jacket?”

You’re sitting on the ledge, clutching your elbows. Swatting midges from the light you’re bathed in, charms on your bracelets jingling. “Hm?”

He tuts. “A jacket. Here.” He shrugs his own off, sitting it around your frame. It’s warm from the bar and from Joel’s body heat, and you sink into it – letting the dark leather drown you as you rummage through your purse again.

“Nice,” Joel’s eyes narrow, “Fresh air.”

You hum into your hands, flicking your lighter. The cigarette trembles when you murmur, “We all got our skeletons, I guess.”

He turns on his heel when a familiar voice picks up.

“Hey, hey, M–Yeah, sorry it’s late…Yeah, we got held up. My phone died, so I’m using…Is she still–? Can I–? Oh, Sarah. Hi, baby.”

His little girl begins chattering down the line immediately, telling Joel everything she’s been up to since they last spoke this morning.

“…and then, Emily thought I was one of the Armadillos – I don’t even know how, ‘cause they play in red, remember Dad? – but she did, and she slide tackled me so bad that Coach Thomson had to sub in Akari for me so I could ice my ankle. Grandma was kinda mad about it, but she took me to Burger King after to cheer me up, and…”

Joel wanders back and forth, smiling to himself and scuffing the heel of his boot along the concrete – barely able to squeeze more than two words between her chirping. It’s all, Yeah, baby? and Wow, sweetheart; all uhuhs and mhms until she finally quietens, excitement plateauing again.

“Alright, well. You know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah,” Sarah groans. She knows it all too well.

Bedtime.

“…But you didn’t call when you said you would, Daddy, and it’s Saturday, it’s –”

“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry. Just…somethin’ came up. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where’s Uncle Tommy? Can I talk to him?”

Joel turns to face the bar. “He, uh…I’m not with him right now, sweetheart. I’ll tell him you asked after him, though.”

Sarah concedes, and then begins asking questions Joel knows she’s only asking to stay on the line a little longer – to stay awake a little later. But still, he answers each one – humoring her and, at the same time, letting himself listen to her voice just a little more before he has to let her go.

He thinks of scooping her up in the morning; thinks of being slumped on the couch after dinner with her head on his stomach – fast asleep with whatever movie she chose droning on in the background.

Despite the thousands of miles and close to two weeks between them – she makes him feel closer to home. She always does.

When Sarah asks where he is, he glances your way. Clocks your flat expression, the half-burnt cigarette hanging from your fingers.

You flick ash to the ground. Eyes unreadable beneath low brows, a tiny crease between them that Joel’s only just seeing for the first time.

“Uh…” he clears his throat, “…just a little – a little north of you, baby. Home first thing, I promise.”

He tells her he loves her and she says it back, and he tells her to sleep well and she says that back, too. And then he’s hanging up – Alright, see you soon, bye, Sarah, bye-bye, byebyebye – and pressing his thumb into the red button.

He wanders back over to you – ears flat like a guilty dog, though he isn’t quite sure why. He mumbles a quiet thanks as he passes the phone back, then stuffs his hands in his pockets.

You lean back, ankles crossed, studying him. Swirling what’s left of the cigarette in your fingers – the smoke lifting like a winding snake to the dark sky. “So,” you pout, “What are you doing flirting with me, if you got a wife and kid back home?”

His jaw ticks, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. “I don’t have a wife,” he says.

You stare blankly, filter back against your lips. “Okay, then – a girlfriend. Does she know you’re out tonight with us?”

He shakes his head. “No wife, no girlfriend. I don’t have an anything.”

“But you have a kid.”

Joel nods once, tongue in his cheek. “Uhuh.”

And then the penny seems to drop. A small oh; your jaw slack and eyes wide. The cigarette smolders between your fingers. “Fuck,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, hey,” Joel steps closer, “You didn’t know. It’s alright.”

He straightens the jacket on your shoulders. When you finally look at each other again, you snort.

“Sorry,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Is she okay? Your daughter – is she…?”

“Sarah,” Joel says. “She’s…she’s fine. Thanks.”

You look down, stubbing your cigarette against the brick. Voice quiet, you ask, “Her mom’s not around anymore?”

Relief settles in his chest: you’re softening to him again.

Joel slots onto the ledge at your side. Shoulder to shoulder. He reaches behind and lifts his drink. “Not since she was a year old.”

Your mouth pulls in a wince. “Jesus. That’s rough.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to – you’re not asking him to explain – and he doesn’t want to, either.

You’re not stupid – you’ve seen enough of the world to hear what he’s really saying. The darkest, dustiest corners of it – all the places no one ever wants to look.

You don’t seem disturbed, barely even moved by the reality that…well, shit happens. People leave, families break; a two-car driveway is suddenly taken up by just a pick-up truck and a little pink bike with tassels.

He figures you get it. You don’t need to know how can that be? – you just…know that it can.

“So, uh…” you look up at him again, “…my apartment is, like, five minutes away if you wanna…you know. You can charge your phone, can shower – if it’s bugging you that much.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”

You simper, eyes thin. “Really.”

“Charge my phone ‘n shower?” He stands, palm flat against the wall above your head, and leans in. His face is inches from yours.

You look up, mirroring his expression. “Yes,” your voice curls in a half-truth, “What’s the big deal?”

“What a goddamn line,” Joel says, smirking. “How long you been sittin’ on that one for?”

His blood thrums faster, harder, louder in his veins when you stand up, hands on your hips.

“It’s not a line, I’m serious –”

“I didn’t take you as the type, baby, I really didn’t – but if that’s how you wanna play this, then –”

He feels you before he sees you moving, like he’s stood at that bar all over again. Your hands on his jaw, your chest pressed to his. Your lips – soft as satin, with a tinge of sweet rum and smoke – against his.

Joel barely misses a beat. He closes his eyes and lifts a hand to the back of your head, kissing you back. It’s dizzying, the taste and feel of you so close; the wet of your tongue on his. The little scratches of your nails in his beard, the moans caught in your throat.

Dizzying – and fucking perfect.

You break apart and lean in to each other, catching your breath. Joel’s hands slip beneath the heavy leather of his jacket onto your waist.

“Unless…” you whisper, pulling away from him, “…you don’t want to. In which case, I’ll just…” You twirl back towards the door, batting your eyelashes.

Joel smiles. He catches your wrist and reels you back into his body. “I want to,” he breathes, kissing you again. “I want to.”

“Let’s go.”

You make it to your apartment door, fumbling with your keys – and Joel’s hands are glued to your waist.

You miss the lock over and over as he kisses your neck, grazing the skin with his teeth. Anything to satiate the hunger quickly taking over, the tightening in his jeans.

He pulls you against his hips – rough denim grinding into the curve of your ass. He can smell your flowery perfume, a strange melding of peony and menthol sharp in his nostrils.

It’s the hungriest he’s ever felt, he thinks – a starved animal pinning his prey to her flecked apartment door. He pauses, bottom lip damp against your neck; breathing a liquor-laced laugh over your skin.

You jam the key into the lock. The door finally shunts open and you spill inside, dragging Joel with you.

Your place is dark. Angled strips of streetlight thrown high up the bare walls and across the ceiling, splintered by tilted shades. The spill of a blanket draped over an empty couch; a pair of sneakers left on the rug. Joel’s knees brush by a houseplant guarding the door – heavy leaves which pfft when they sway out of his way.

It’s half-decorated. Temporary. Caught somewhere between home and away. Little fragments pieced together into something the shape of home: a mosaic vase that scatters light across the surface of the coffee table; a beaded curtain pinned around the closet doorway.

Like you’re a little magpie, collecting trinkets of silver and gold until your nest feels like yours. Bags dropped long enough to keep a Monstera plant alive, not to put nails in the wall for the frames propped against the skirting board.

You shrug Joel’s jacket off, dropping it over the back of the couch. When you spin back around to him, he lifts your chin with two fingers and presses his lips to yours. You lead him down the hallway, tumbling into your room.

He follows you over to your bed, collapsing onto a tousled mess of sheets with his hips between yours. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs, bunching around your hips and revealing a flash of pink lace underneath.

The world around him seems to sober up for a second, sharpens into focus. It begins to seep in: the realization that he has you – some girl he met no more than two hours ago in a bar – pinned to your mattress. A slick gathering in your underwear and a weight building in his.

Right now, he should be sinking into squealing bedsprings in a Super 8. Bathing in the flicker of a television set twenty years too old. He should be showered and rested – ready to head home at sunrise, if not sooner.

But then something led him to you, and – well.

There’s no fucking helping him now, is there?

Joel’s fingers hook around your panties. He pulls down, leaving a trail of kisses along your bare leg, until that same pink lace is dripping from your ankle.

His eyes flash up to yours, love-drunk and sparkling. He pushes your knees apart, watching your velvet folds open for him, and – oh, he thinks, staring at the glistening arousal smeared around your cunt. Such a slick little mess for him already.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he licks his lips, “She’s so pretty.”

You hum, hands lowering. Your fingers separate, spreading your pussy for him. Your middle finger swirls around your clit, dips along your seam. And the n, silky and shining, you lift your hand again and slip your fingers into your mouth.

“Tastes even better than she looks,” you murmur, dappling your fingertip along your bottom lip.

Joel growls. He pushes down on your thighs, ignoring your little yelp, and drags the tip of his tongue through your slit.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, back arching. Your fingers knot in his hair, twisting and tightening. “Shitshitshit.”

“Mhm,” he hums against you, tongue pushing inside.

Fuck, you’re just so perfect: so soft and warm and fucking dripping for him. He laps at your sweet center, wet already spreading all over his mouth and beard.

A dampness blooms in his boxers. He’s throbbing, fucking aching the longer he goes untouched. He grinds against the mattress, denim rough against his solid erection.

He lifts his chin, panting – satisfied by the way you squirm under the weight of him. “You like that, huh?” he asks, a sodden kiss to your mound. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He spits a thick bead of saliva, watching it dribble down your folds to your ass. His tongue swipes it back up, circling your clit, all slippery and swollen.

“Fuck, Joel,” you moan, tugging on his hair. Your legs spasm, hips lifting.

He loves the sound of his name when you say it. Broken in two, a lilt to it as it rolls from your tongue and down his spine. Like it’s yours as much as it is his, now.

He sucks hard on your clit, his tongue flicking. And he can tell you’re close; can feel your hips starting to lose rhythm, see your back desperately arching higher and higher.

Joel groans, pushing up to hover over you. He cups between your legs, dabbing two thick fingers at your entrance, and pushes in.

Your pussy draws him in knuckle-deep. Your chest lifts, the loose neckline of your dress exposing more and more. You grab your breast, pinching your nipple – a roll of pebbled flesh between your fingertips.

He lowers his lips to your ear – watching as you toy with yourself. “Come on, baby,” he grits his teeth, “Give me one. Let me feel this pretty cunt.”

Your head rolls back into the pillow; a high sob as your orgasm crests. Clamping tight around him; a warm flood down his fingers.

Joel kisses you as you come. You look so pretty, he thinks, with ecstasy behind your eyes and his fingers between your legs.

Christ, he wants to be inside you so badly. Wants to feel your cunt do all this around his cock instead.

The blood rushes between his hips.

His fingers slip in and out, bringing you back around. Joel’s lips are on your neck, murmuring, “Good girl, that’s my girl,” as you resurface.

Your eyes open again – glossy, glazed with the aftershock of your high. “Fuck,” you breathe, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean. Whips the tee over his head in one motion; another kiss tucked under your chin as you peel your dress from your body. He tosses it to the floor.

Still dazed, your body still trembling, you ask, “Do you have a condom?” All dreamy and distant, your hands trailing along his belt.

Joel pauses. Tilts his head, frowning. “I’m on a road trip with my brother, baby – the hell would I bring condoms for?”

You roll your eyes, sighing. It’s the cutest thing Joel thinks he’s ever seen. You thread the belt through the loops of his jeans. “In case you meet a really cool girl at a bar and wanna take her home, maybe?”

He lifts his eyebrows, impressed. He slips his salty tongue over yours again.

You moan at the taste. “It’s just I’m…I’m all out.”

His belt drops to the floor; buckle clinking against hardwood.

“Well, shit,” Joel whispers.

It’s not exactly a scenario he predicted, setting off from Austin. Meeting you wasn’t on the bucket list for the trip. It’s another three, four, probably five things to add to the list of shit he doesn’t do, shouldn’t do, wouldn’t fucking do if it hadn’t been for you.

No, Joel thinks, groaning as you palm the solid shape of him – he didn’t bring a goddamn condom. Jesus, the most he has in his pockets right now is fifteen bucks and a stick of gum.

You unzip his pants, shrugging the denim loose. “We can just do it…without,” you offer.

Joel stares down at you. “You sure?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Just pull out, right?”

“Just pull out…” he echoes. Your hands are cold on his heated skin, but he’s not about to fucking stop you.

You tug his underwear down with his jeans, following the darkening hair from his navel down. Another quiet pull out passes your lips – your voice dissolving when you spot the thick base of his dick.

Joel’s shaft springs free, heavy against the inside of his thigh.

“Holy shit.” You push yourself up on your elbows, eyes flooding black.

His tongue runs along the bottom of his teeth. He thrusts forward into your hand, a glassy drop of precome dribbling from his slit.

Your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, fingers wrapping around his width. You roll his balls in your other palm, massaging and squeezing just the right amount.

“Easy, easy,” Joel whispers. Too much, too soon. He can’t come yet, not until he feels your fluttering cunt around his cock.

Instead, you reach up – snaking an arm around his neck. You pull him back down, his naked body flush against yours, and hike a knee over his hip.

He grinds into you, his cock nudging between your legs. They fall apart for him – pliant and keen, like petals unfolding. He covers himself in your slick, his tip catching below your clit.

“Pl-ease,” you whine, scratching at his shoulders.

Joel nips at your damp neck. “Please, what?” he taunts.

Your breath is hot against his cheek – a stifling request which curls up in the shell of his ear. “F-fuck me.”

And his hips roll into yours.

“Jesus f…” your face buries into his chest, “…you’re…you’re so fucking big, Joel, I can’t –”

He nudges between your walls, groaning into your skin. You’re even tighter around his cock, even cozier. “I know,” he pants, “I know. Take it, baby, know you can take it.”

You stretch around him, opening up the deeper he pushes. “Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, the thick hair at his base finally brushing against your clit. “Fuck, Joel.”

“Look at me,” he taps your jaw, “Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”

You exhale, hot and shaky across his lips.

“Good, that’s good.” Joel nods. He holds you by the waist, lets you adjust to his size.

He pulls back, your cunt clamping around him. Halfway out, and then in again. Feeling you open up, inch by inch, until he builds a steady rhythm.

“Jesus, baby, she’s so…” he moans, “…she’s so goddamn tight.”

You drape an arm over his shoulders, a hissing pain where your nails dig into his skin. Yelping each time he bottoms out, your leaking cunt wrapped snug around him. “So – goddamn – big,” you whine, a ruined smile on your lips.

He slams his body into yours again, watching the way your tits bounce. Nipples hard, skin tacky and shining with sweat. Your pussy pinches, and he starts to unravel.

Fuck the road trip, Joel thinks, fuck all of it. This is where he should be: in the middle of your bed, burrowed deep between your legs. This is the only place he wants to fucking be, right now.

So he fucks you harder; the headboard hammering against the wall. A fistful of the pillow, his knuckles whitening. He guides his cock when he slips out – a filthy sound as your clutch sucks him back in.

“Fuck,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard he worries he might bruise you. His thrusts become sloppy – quick and desperate.

“So close,” you gasp. You’re squeezing him so tight that he sees stars. “I’m gonna – I’m…”

Perfect, Joel thinks, watching you bloom. You’re so fucking perfect.

He coaxes you through it. Slows enough to feel you come around his cock, your warmth as it gushes all over him. “That’s it, baby, I got you. Shit, you’re gonna make me come.”

He pulls out just in time to coat your stomach; a throaty groan as he comes. He pumps his shaft, covering from your sternum to the plush of your tummy. It dribbles down your waist, spurts between your breasts.

He collapses over you, pressing his forehead to yours. His dick, soaked and softening, smears the ejaculate across your skin.

You giggle, leaving sticky kisses along his beard.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, and his tongue dabs at the inside of your lips. You taste like sex and sweat – sweet and salt.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed. He feels you follow, your lips featherlight on the curve of his shoulder.

You make to stand – going to clean yourself up, he reckons, your tummy dripping with his semen – and he locks a hand around your bare thigh.

“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough – sex still smoldering. “Let me get you a towel.”

You smile, resting your chin on his shoulder. Your fingers link around the other side of his waist. “I’ll get it. Just relax.”

And for a minute or two, you stay like that. Hooked onto one another, tired eyes closing over, breathing in rhythm. Your cheek on his shoulder, your knee brushing against his tummy.

It’s simple; quiet and still. Joel feels like half a person – the other half tracing her chipped nails along his bare thigh. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth holding back a grin that she thinks might give her away.

Eventually, you move. Shimmy yourself down the mattress, swipe a crinkled tee from the ottoman – and slink off to the bathroom.

Joel lies back against the headboard, body sticky hot. He watches the shadow of your figure stretch across the open door. His eyes drift upwards to the looping ceiling fan – only half as dizzying as the sound of your humming in the next room.

And just when he starts to think he might be fucking missing you, you reappear in the doorway. Leant against the frame, some worn band tee hanging from your shoulders. Arms crossed; smiling back at him.

A rush of words floods to the tip of his tongue. You look beautiful. Your makeup’s smudged, chains of your necklace twisted; your shirt is frayed and splotched with faded stains – and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He holds his arms out and you prance over.

You crawl over his figure, kissing your way up to his lips, and then turn in his lap. Cradled against his broad chest, your head nuzzling into the dark threads of hair between his pecs. You clasp one of his hands in two of yours.

“Offer’s still there for a shower, if you want it,” you whisper, kissing the pads of his fingers.

Joel tilts his head, mumbling against your temple, “Will you be in there with me?”

You answer something shaped like a tease, just as sharp with wit – but he’s too busy watching your nails trace his open palm. Too distracted by the sweet scent of your skin: a fresh burst of fruit, singed with the edge of tobacco.

“What do you do for work?” you ask.

He makes some sort of sleepy sound – a grunt, a hm? into your skull. “Oh, uh – I’m a contractor,” he says.

Your chin lifts. “That why your palms are all…?” Your thumb strokes light as lace against his worn skin.

“Probably,” Joel admits. He draws shapes on your thigh with his free hand.

“Do you sand the wood with your bare hands, or somethin’?”

Joel scoffs. “Alright, alright. You liked my hands plenty, twenty minutes ago.”

Your cheeks lift, a low hum caught in your throat. You angle your head to let his lips trail along your shoulder, pressing into the hinge of your jaw. A dark nail following the landscape of Joel’s skin – each score and divot, the callused pads at the bottom of each finger.

“You have sorta…earth hands, I think.”

It sits in the air for a few seconds before Joel turns to you. “What?”

“Earth hands. Or, well – I guess they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way.” You open up his hand, fingers stretched. “I don’t really know. I’m still learning.”

He looks down at you. Feels the now-steady pulse of your heart on his sternum. “Learnin’…hands?”

You snort. “Palm reading, Joel.”

His brows draw tight. He licks the inside of his whiskey-stained cheek. “You’re into all that hippie sh…stuff?”

You knock your knuckles against his chest, still staring at his hands. The hills and their valleys, the ravine-like lines; the worn skin and hatch marks.

“Let’s see…Your heart line,” you whisper – more to yourself than Joel, but he’s listening all the same. “It’s pretty deep, which means the relationships you’ve had have been…important. But it’s kinda…it tails off right here, see? It’s broken. So…I guess they didn’t end too good.”

Joel raises an eyebrow – playful, encouraging your timid smile. Keep figuring me out, he thinks, stoking the curious flame behind your eyes. “Alright,” he says, “Now tell me something you didn’t already know about me.”

You gawk, holding his wrist up. “You don’t see that? The way it breaks up? I’m not bullshitting you, Joel, it’s –”

“Naw, I see it,” he nods, squinting a little at his palm, “Just – tell me more. What’s all these other lines mean?”

“Well,” you adjust between his hips, “you got your life line right here. Short, which means –”

“Don’t tell me that part.”

“No,” you roll your eyes, “It just means you’re independent. You never needed much from anyone. And it runs past this mount – these are called mounts – right here. Venus: all to do with love and sexuality.”

Joel holds your open palm next to his, comparing them. He takes less than a second’s look, lines his lips to your ear and says, “Seem like a pretty good match to me.”

You wriggle when he tickles your ribcage, trying to twist out of his grasp. You’re laughing again – the same laugh he’s been hearing all damn night. The same giggle that’s had his stomach somersaulting since he first heard it.

The room seems to light with it, this glow he feels from you – as if you’re the sun. Spent and still half-drunk; lazing with a stranger in the middle of her bed. Tracing the lines and scars on his palm, telling him how logical and grounded he’s supposed to be.

As if the world orbits around you – everything you touch turning to molten gold. And for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Joel looks at you and wonders: Where the hell did you come from?

You hold your hand against his, folding your fingers perfectly together. The evidence of your night flaking from Joel’s knuckles; sweat still simmering on the nape of his neck.

He hasn’t done this for years. Hasn’t felt this gentle aftermath. It’s usually a rush, a hastened zip and clink of his pants. An awkward dance, plucking clothes from the bedroom floor and pacing back to his truck.

It’s never like this. Talking and laughing, holding and kissing. Questions about his parents and yours; his biggest dream as a kid, or the time you broke your arm falling out of a tree.

He tells you stories about growing up with Tommy; tells you Sarah’s favorite flavor of cake. He tells you about the time they tried to make it for a school bake sale, forgot to turn the oven off, and almost burned the damn kitchen down.

You snicker and tell him that never would’ve happened if you were there.

Yeah, well, Joel smiles, I wish you were.

He notices you’re drifting off, despite your slurred protests and your weak grip on his wrist. He pulls you under the covers, curving his body around yours, praying that the quickening drum of his heartbeat won’t wake you.

His nose nuzzles into the curve of your skull, his hands link in front of your tummy. And he wonders whether his body was made with yours in mind.

He glances out at the sky – light starting to bleed from the horizon – and wills the turn of the sun to slow. Only a little; just let him stay here a little while longer.

Just a little while.

Dawn forces her way in eventually – more unwelcome than ever before.

There’s a throb between his temples which swells to life when the light floods past his pupils. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, face turning back into the pillow. He gives you a gentle squeeze and then pushes up from the mattress.

You roll to the middle of the bed, still sound asleep. The sun spills golden all over the valleys and crests of your body. The bedsheets carve pathways up to your hips, dipping at your waist.

Last night, there was something so mystical about you – so otherworldly. Joel felt himself drawn towards you like a compass needle shooting north, the second he felt your weight crash against his spine.

A figure behind a cloud of smoke, like the mountaintops disappearing into a thick mist. And now, blood drained of alcohol, you’re just you.

Your shirt is twisted around your shoulders. Your lips puffy, mumbling to yourself in your doze. Makeup smudged like chalk under your eyes, and still – just as beautiful. Just as radiant as you were ten hours ago.

Joel rubs his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinks down at his bare feet, the morning sharpening into focus. As he lifts his phone from the nightstand, the cable drops – hitting the wooden floor with a snap.

He pauses, shoulders hunched. Hears you stir over his shoulder, and turns around.

The earth of your body shifts beneath cotton hills, clouds of sleep clearing from behind your eyes. “Hey,” you whisper, voice pretty and broken.

A little bird in the palm of his hand – that magpie curled up in her nest of gems and trinkets.

“Hey.” He leans down and kisses your cheek. “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You wrap your arms around his wrist, tugging. “Are…are you…leaving?”

Joel feels a pang in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. He takes a deep breath. Your scent fills his lungs and steadies his heart. “I…” he sniffs, “…I gotta go home, baby.”

You give a slow and heavy nod. “S-Sarah…”

He strokes your head with his thumb. “Yeah. Shh, go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

He glances at his phone – it’s just after six. He knows Tommy will be waiting for him, parked outside the Super 8 and wondering where the hell Joel is. He knows Sarah will be, too – sat by the living room window, listening for the rumble of their bikes.

And still, he thinks – How do I fucking leave you? Leave this?

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. He has a kid waiting for him back home; soccer practice, packed lunches, homework and bedtime stories. He has work to do, bills to pay, a roof to keep over their heads. It’s all waiting in Austin, two hundred miles away.

As though you can see the question flipping in his mind, you pull him closer. A weak finger in the palm of his hand, drawing circles. Your bleary gaze meets his, and you whisper, “In the next life.”

Joel smiles. Twelve hours ago, he’d have laughed at the idea of it. Now, he’s not so sure. He kisses your knuckles, muttering, “Promise.”

Another wave of sleep washes over you, and you’re gone again.

Joel pushes himself from the bed, reaching for his clothes. His back twinges as he stretches, pulling his T-shirt over his shoulders. He steps into his jeans; pinches his belt between two fingers and lifts it from the floor.

He leans over and tilts your shades the opposite way, dulling your bedroom. He unplugs the charger, neatly winds the cord, and sits it on your nightstand. He fixes his side of the sheets: folds them over the mattress, tucks them in at your back.

With a deep breath, he makes for the door.

His jaw turns, eyes still low. Your dress is in a heap at the foot of the bed; a tube of lip gloss lying next to it. He looks up, following the landscape of sheets – the slope from your ankle to your hip. Your hunched shoulders, your cheek smushed into the pillow.

If he looks too long, he’ll never leave.

The image burns golden into his eyes. He hopes for half a heartbeat that you’ll wake again and pull him back into bed. Kiss him all over, whisper something sharp and sweet in his ear. Touch him and graze him and wrap yourself around him – anchoring him right here and now.

But you don’t.

And Joel slips out of the room.

Jackson stirs to life over his shoulder.

A white lump in the snow-covered valley, the settlement seems so far away now. Tommy sets off up ahead, leading the way to the outpost. The blizzard is picking up – it almost swallows the silhouette of him whole.

Joel had tried to warn him: the weather would be too bad to see five feet in front of them, never mind any infected. But Tommy argued with the same determination that dragged the pair of them into that dive bar thirty years ago, and Joel didn’t have half the energy nor the will to argue back.

He’s thinking about you. He always is.

Your searing gaze over the rim of your glass; the weight of you against his chest. The tickling of your nail on his palm, severing each line and changing him forever. You and your palm lines.

You were just learning to read them. Joel didn’t know a thing about any of it, and he told you so. You took his hand in yours and said, Here. Let me see.

He runs a thumb down his fate line, swaying in time with his horse. And he shakes his head with a little smile – he still remembers which one is fate and which is heart.

He still remembers all of it. He has earth hands. All salt and soil and solid as stone. His earth hands have gotten him this far, right? Twenty-five years and he’s still here. Gray and grown; stiff joints and sewn-up scars.

His head line has channeled more strangers’ blood than Joel can count. Mounts that’ve stopped breath in the throat of any man who crossed him. He doesn’t think you’d recognize his hands anymore, if your fingertips traced over them again. Broken and bruised and bloody.

And he doesn’t think he’d want you to – doesn’t want you to meet the shadow of the man you knew back then. He’d prefer you remember that same brown-eyed, soft-touched stranger with enough charm and naivety to survive anything. No need for bone-breaking fists or bloodstained hands.

Where are you, he wonders?

The answer knots deep in his stomach: the same old rope twisting into the same old shape. A fist of anger, of guilt. Some terrible cocktail of both, spilling poison through his veins.

He’s terrified to wonder what might’ve happened if he had ever made it back there. What he might’ve found in your apartment – what he might not.

Where would you have gone, that day? Would you have fled, or would you have stayed?

You were smart, he knows that much. He saw the cogs of your mind turning right in front of him, standing opposite each other in that bar. Barely thirty seconds in and he could’ve sworn you had him all figured out.

But – oh, Jesus, you were kind. Open and willing to help a stranger with a dead phone and a tired smile. Would that kindness still glow as bright against the flicker of a world on fire?

A lone hawk swoops down before him, shooting straight between the pines. Joel slips his glove back over his freezing hand.

He thinks about you every day. Every fucking day, and it never eases. Never loosens. It keeps him up some nights – the truth he’s too afraid to look square in the face.

You live now in the back of his mind like a little ghost. His little ghost – still floating around that dusty city; the warm light of life and innocence still bright in your eyes.

Tommy glances over his shoulder. He gestures ahead as if to say, Would you take a look at this goddamn storm?

And Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m lookin’, brother.

All he wants is to go home. Jackson, Austin, the bedroom of your apartment in San Angelo. Just let me go back.

He blinks, and the snow melts to cracked asphalt under a lilac sunset. Tommy’s holding handlebars instead of reins. The horses’ hot puffs of breath darken to clouds of smoke, choking from the exhaust pipes of the Harleys.

You’re somewhere on the other side of town, waiting for him in the faint glow of a jukebox. Sipping what’s left of your rum and Coke, fishing a twenty from your purse for the next round.

Just let me go back home.

He tugs on his horse’s reins and pulls off after his brother.

[transfemlogan]

and i know its like "well u shouldve been nicer revy" i dont owe anyone niceness when they are accursing gay men of being predato— sorry, i mean, uh, "fetishising old men". like. come on now...... i know this topic is just too big 4 ur small brains 2 comprehend /mocking

i wouldve liked 2 reblogged it & shown u guys but they. fortunately. have me blocked. for criticising them. ........ the criticiser cant handle criticism.......? interesting....

[seungfl0wer]

Changbin As Your Boyfriend

Bangchan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Han | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

Contains smut 🩷

Posting this on Changbins birthday🩷 so happy birthday so the very man who got me into stray kids. The loml, the man of everyone’s dreams.

-🩵

•Man is all about you.

•He really just thinks about you a lot.

•The members joke that you’re one of the only people he’ll text back right away.

•Likes to send you gym pictures.

•A lot of gym pictures.

•Just so you’ll compliment him.

•And please do that.

•Do it a lot, because this man just gushes at your praise and kind words.

•The way he just giggles and blushes when you say anything remotely like it.

•Even when you’re together for years he’s still a blushing mess.

•Wants to constantly cuddle.

•You wrapped in his strong arms.

•His favorite thing to do while you’re cuddling is nuzzle his face into your neck.

•Softly leaving kisses as he repeats “Mine, All mine”

•Brings you his clothes to wear constantly because it just melts him.

•He’ll make the comment about “Wow whoever hoodie that is they got taste”

•Loves bringing you to his home with him to hang out with his mom.

•Changbin is so family oriented and to see you and his family together just-

•It makes him wanna cry.

•And the first time you meet his family seeing them love you.

•He’s crying, and he’s crying hard. Holding onto you with a big smile plastered on him.

•Asks you a lot to go to the gym.

•Even if you don’t wanna work out he just likes having your company there.

•Has the Worst photo of you as his Home Screen.

•He finds it so cute and funny.

•He’ll whine when you say you think it’s ugly.

•Because how dare you say that about his partner.

•You guys have such deep conversations.

•He really loves these.

•Just sitting there talking about your future, your dreams, the meaning of life, and how he could make dwaekki could be an actual animal.

•Always texting to make sure you ate.

•He’s always worried you’re not taking care of yourself.

•Has a whole snack box stocked of your faves at all times.

•Also if you ever say anything about something hurting and or feeling sick.

•Mans there so fast to take care of you.

•He’ll be worried until you feel better.

•And if you’re someone who gets periods?

•He’s making sure you have everything.

•Plus make sure to have time to come cuddle you if you need while you’re suffering.

•Has so many files of songs for you too.

•Mans really whipped for you and he wouldn’t have it any other way honestly.

•You both are just each other’s support system. Solving any problems with communication.

•You’re constantly there for each other, in anyway the other needs.

︵‿︵‿୨Smut Below୧‿︵‿︵

•Body worshiping at its finest.

•Kissing every inch of your body, Telling you how stunning you are.

•Lots of praise, So much praise From the both of you.

•”Y/n do you know how good looking you are?” Followed by even more kissing.

•”Binnie my handsome man, aah your lips are so soft”

•His favorite position is definitely one where he’s holding you up.

•Loves showing off his strength of course.

•Plus he loves how you grip on to his arms.

•He has your body memorized, all your sweet spots everything.

•He loves the way you sound- oh god does he ever.

•The way you sound when you are just coming undone around him.

•He wants to save those sounds forever.

•Definitely has a thing for you sucking his fingers.

•Has his hand cupped under your chin, thumb to your lips as you suck on it.

•You ask for anything during he’s giving it you right away.

•”Please Bin- Faster” “Deeper, aah right there”

•He’s giving you anything you want.

•You could ask him to murder someone and he’d probably say yes.

•100% probably records your noises.

•Yeah y’all have phone sex while he’s away

•But nothing compares to the sound of him fucking you into another dimension.

•Although he is very soft for you.

•He fucks you so good, so rough but full of so much love.

•Makes you cum multiple times before he’s cuming.

•God the cuddles after sex though?

•You’re actually just glued together at this point.

•He’s not letting you go for at least 10 minutes.

•And when you finally get up to pee he’s whining.

•Making small grabby hands for you to come back.

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

[notjustjavierpena]

Sucía: Part III - Unrequited

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: So many requests for this one and inspiration finally hit the right spot. This can be read as a standalone piece but I recommend the whole thing.

Summary: Somewhere along the way, you end up in a situationship with Javier Peña. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18, unrequited love, situationship, fuckboy!javier, alcohol consumption, various pet names, papi/daddy kink, dirty talk, degradation, praises, so much making out, pussy eating, desperate and rough sex, piv sex, possessive sex, face slapping, fingersucking, creampie

Word count: 4.9k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48859147/chapters/123256180

Unrequited

After you spend a whole night and day in Javier's arms, a month passes, but it never repeats itself, never becomes as tender. You start to think that it might have been a way to lure you in, a highly intelligent skill developed in a predator who wants to keep its prey around for as long as possible. Instead of dating the cop, you become entangled in some sort of strange arrangement and everything about Javier Peña tells you to run for the hills; the handsome forever bachelor with an apartment that has never had the touch of a woman, the man who rests a cigarette so effortlessly between his fingers but never wants to hold your hand. This is despite how you think he should be at the age where men start to panic about not having settled down. He seems so desperate to stress that this isn’t love, even when he coos your name so gently when he takes you in his arms after making your whole nervous system go into overdrive. 

Yet, there’s something about him that makes you keep coming back, makes you ignore the insistence of the warning bells in your head because Papí always takes care of you, right, Nena (babygirl)? And perhaps, it’s the way his hands run through your hair while your back arches, the way he touches you as if he is reaching inside your chest and pulling at your heartstrings, or how his dark, intense eyes watch you as you give yourself to him without hesitation, his gaze peeling back every layer of your insecurities about your physique and making them fade away during the nights you spend together. 

Despite his evident desire, his praises of your body, and your eagerness, he never says the things you actually want to hear. There are no declarations of love, no promises of forever in his moonlit bedroom other than the way he tells you that no one fucks him quite like you or the post-orgasmic vulnerability that makes him let you in on what he did before coming back to life in the Lone Star State. It causes you to make excuses for him; he is a man who has been hurt in the past, who’s built walls so high around his heart that not even he knows how to tear them down. Because he has had to. And now, he is a man who is content with the rough edges of life rather than the soft embrace of love. 

Your friend Hannah, your confidant, tells you to end it, that he is a loser. Your mother and father don't know about him, and when you lie about whose sheets you spend the night in, you convince yourself that it’s for the better. No one who cares about you would want you in this situation, so why do you keep doing it? Maybe the danger is covered by the thrill. Maybe there’s something exciting about the idea of holding your relationship out for everyone to stare at, desperately trying to stress that you should have seen him in the beginning when he first had me!

You are at his door again in the late evening, having dropped everything as soon as he called and changed your jeans and t-shirt into a miniskirt and crop top. It is only so he thinks that this is how you normally dress, wanting to keep up the illusion that you are enticing and alluring even when he doesn’t see you, that he needs to hold onto you otherwise you’ll be snatched out of his grip. 

Maybe you’re the loser here.

Javier opens the door and takes you in, looking like someone repressing a question about where you’ve been since you’re dressed up like this. Nothing in him seems to acknowledge the obvious fact that you want to look nice for him, so he doesn’t compliment it and just takes a step back. His eyes, however, do soften as he watches you step into his home. 

“Can I get you something? A beer? Whiskey?” He asks nonchalantly as you enter the living room and then follow him into the kitchen. His shirt is untucked from his jeans, the knot on his tie loosened, and his hair is slightly tousled from his own hand running through it. You notice the kitchen window has been opened and the ashtray on the breakfast table has a half-smoked cigarette in it. 

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” you say, saving the pleasantries; you know why you’re here and so does he. You just need an in, a way of getting things rolling, so you lean back against the kitchen counter while watching him take out a beer for himself. He takes a long swig of the bottle, a single drop threatening to drip from the corner of his mouth and causing your own mouth to run dry. 

“Long day?” You ask as he swallows his drink, the gorgeous column of his neck peeking out from underneath the collar and tie. You’ve kissed him so many times there. You tilt your head, noticing that it’s definitely not his first drink, “Catch any bad guys?”

Javier nods but doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he sets his beer down on the table before walking to stand in front of you. You feel a bit of annoyance at his silence, so you rest a hand on his wrist when he tries to undo the first button of your cropped shirt, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He tenses up at the invasive question even if you meant nothing by it, simply using it to make him word what he wants from you. He furrows his brow, mouth becoming a thin line for just a second. However, when he opens his mouth, and you’re sure he is going to retort, his voice has gotten a rougher edge, “No, I want you, Princesa (Princess).” 

You know what the use of that pet name means and it’s what you want too, what you keep coming back for if it means his eyes roaming over your body like they do right now, hungry and possessive. You’ll gladly play the part to be worshiped for a night at a time. Your hand falls from his wrist to his belt buckle, your other hand joining to undo it until it makes a clinking noise as it opens. You let the belt hang down to the sides, going straight for the button and zipper instead of wasting time with getting him fully undressed. 

Javier, however, stops you and seems determined to get at least your top off first. He continues unbuttoning it until it hangs open, swearing at the sight of your lack of a bra. His palms go underneath the fabric and grope at your sides, sliding upwards until he can cup your breasts. 

“Papí,” you breathe softly when his thumbs skim over your nipples, and the tension in the air from before seems to evaporate completely. He leans in until you are pressed against the edge of the kitchen table and then captures your mouth in a needy kiss. It is fierce and hungry, taking your breath away from you as you give in to him once more. He makes you squeak into his mouth as he pinches both your nipples, tugging slightly until it stings just a little. It’s a punishment, you realize, for trying to crack the surface of him.

“Don’t ask me that sorta question again,” he says when he needs a mouthful of air, his breath hot against your lips. He stares into your eyes, not scared of holding your gaze this up close, and you can feel yourself shaking your head with wide eyes. He swallows and speaks again, “You don’t want me like that.”

“I know,” you reply with a trembling voice that betrays you in your lie. Just a month ago, you were so certain of yourself and confident in what you wanted from him but the yearning for his touch has only made you weaker since he invited you into his bedroom for the first time. Clearly, he feels it too because his hands remove themselves from your body to lay flat on the kitchen table. 

“You know I can’t,” he whispers while his eyes roam over your face, settling on your mouth that has fallen open. You miss his touch but his hands are immovable on the kitchen counter, almost like he needs you to initiate everything again so he doesn’t feel like a prick. 

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you promise as you reach up to cup his face, dragging his mouth to your open one to make him kiss you feverishly again. He makes you so wet that it is ridiculous, brushing his tongue against yours in a way that reminds you just how great he fucks you each time. Is that all he thinks he is good for? 

“Tell me to stop,” he continues, his mouth descending on your neck, leaving a trail of spit in its wake while his hands slowly inch closer to your body again. He settles them on your waist, thumbs digging into the soft and exposed skin of your stomach. 

“I can’t, Papí,” you moan with each mark he leaves along the column of your throat and gasp in surprise when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter. He stands in front of you, not fully in your embrace yet, and his breath is hot and heavy against your damp skin.

“And why is that?” He almost seems to be taunting you. He nibbles along the spot where your blood courses through your veins and he can feel your pulse the hardest.

“Because,” you swallow as you realize how hard it is to let him go despite knowing you probably should before you get your heart broken. You’re still here, taking whatever scraps of himself that he’ll offer, “Because I don’t want you to stop.”

“Then tell me you want me like I want you,” he sounds like he is pleading you to slip into the role you usually inhabit. You try not to think about what those words mean to the both of you. His hands lift off your skin. They hover for a moment as if giving you one last out, but when you stay frozen, waiting for more, he places his palms on top of your thighs. He pushes them apart, pulling out the big guns to make your brain stutter in its train of thought. You know what’s coming before he even sinks to his knees. 

You let your head fall back as he disappears underneath your miniskirt with the gaze of a worshipper, one hand having gotten there just moments before to drag your panties to the side. He drags his lazy tongue through your soaked folds, letting it delve into your cunt for a second just for a taste. You are sure you have already made his mustache shiny with your slick, dripping obscenely from merely kissing him because you are so pathetically obsessed with him. You reach to yank your skirt up, needing to see if wetness is smearing his chin too as he moves closer to your clit. 

“Oh fuck,” you thread your fingers through his hair to yank his head up too. He smirks up at you, eyes perfectly dazed with how drunk he is from mixing his liquor with going down on you. The sight of his shiny, satisfied face makes your pussy clench and release on its own, a little moan leaving you even when he isn’t doing anything to you except staring. You know that your meaningless noises are exactly what he wants instead of your attempt at connection. 

You grip the counter with your free hand when he dips his head down again and wraps his lips around your pulsing clit, his cheeks hollowing with how he sucks on the little nub like it is a hard candy. He continues staring up at you through his lashes as he does it, pupils blown wide with desire until the brown in his beautiful eyes is almost completely replaced with black. You watch him eat you out enthusiastically, and you whimper feebly from how each of his licks and sucks is a step further toward your undoing. He loves going down on you but there’s a certain urgency in his work on your clit as if he wants you with scrambled brains so you won’t annoy him again with your feelings, your need of digging deeper. 

You have a suspicion that he only calls you when he is in need of distraction, of replacing the loneliness and frustration he feels in his empty apartment with something that’s bound to end in euphoria. You wonder how his day has actually been. Does it even matter? No one has ever made you feel this way. This wanted. Desired. 

Beneath you, Javier pulls back for just a second and your heart skips a beat, the timing with your racing mind making you fear that he might have read your thoughts. However, he simply heaves for breath. 

“You taste so fucking good, bebita (baby),” he murmurs only to dive back into your cunt with newfound energy. His tongue glides across your clit again, presses harder, and you moan louder, the sound scratching the back of your throat. Your head bumps against the kitchen cabinet behind you, your fingers tightening in his short, dark hair to keep up an illusion of control over his power over you. Yet he just responds with a filthy open-mouthed kiss to your clit as if he wants to remind you who’s really in charge. 

“That feels so fucking good,” you gasp towards the ceiling. However, when you think it can’t get any better, he pauses only briefly to push your miniskirt all the way up to your hips so your thighs can be dragged onto his shoulders. He places a hand on your side, his thumb just below your ribs, and bobs his head slightly while his tongue is tensed up as it flicks expertly against the little nub. You can hear his breathing grow heavy through his nose to keep himself from needing a break and then he works towards making you come. 

When it hits you, it’s almost too much. He latches onto your clit as it happens, coaxing out each little twitch of it while you see stars, body shaking on the counter. You tug on his hair gently, arching into the sensation of him slurping up whatever you give him. and cry out his name in the quiet space. He makes you feel completely overwhelmed and sated at the same time. 

He only pulls back when you start whimpering for him to stop. He sits back a little on his feet, rubbing your thighs soothingly with his face shining in the overhead lights. He doesn’t say anything yet, waits for you to come down to earth with him once more. 

The buzz he has left in your lower body makes you giggle. You cup his face, high on the tingling in your spit-slicked clit, “You eat pussy so fucking well, Papi.”

“And I love eating this pussy out, Princesa (princess),” he replies with no hesitation, seeming ready to spoil you further from hearing that nickname out of your mouth. Gently, he removes your legs from his shoulders so he can rise to his feet again. He leans in, capturing your mouth in a heated kiss, letting you taste yourself on his lips until you are breathless all over again. 

You can feel his hands sliding up your sides until they pull your already-open blouse off your shoulders, dropping it onto the kitchen counter as if it belongs in the room. He dips down for another kiss, one that’s just as desperate, just as thorough in wanting you but a realization hits you square in the chest. The intensity between the two of you isn’t just passion; it’s sadness, a mutual understanding that whatever this is, it is all it will ever be. No promises of a future together. 

You moan helplessly when Javier slips his tongue into your mouth, holding your hips tightly while you remove his tie and unbutton his shirt rather hurriedly. You can’t help already aching for more, feeling as if you’ll perish if you don’t consume everything he is willing to give you. He barely gives you time to drop his tie onto the floor, doesn’t give you time either to take a breath before he scoops you up, his broad hands sliding under your thighs to hoist you up. 

Instinctively, you wrap your limbs around him and cling to him. Your fingers thread through his hair like earlier, dragging his mouth over yours again while he takes sure steps toward his bedroom. He is so close like this, the front of his chest rubbing against your bare tits until you whimper from how your nipples harden at the simple touch. He is so hard in his jeans, straining against your barely covered sex. You think he must be aching by now, desperate with his head swimming as much as yours with each step he takes towards the end goal that is his bed. 

You’re right. He doesn’t even reach his bedroom before he has pushed you against a wall, his hips crashing against yours and eliciting a loud groan from his throat. He doesn’t stay on your mouth, moves his lips down the column of your neck until your belly twists with burning desire from each nip of your sensitive skin. 

“Shit, Javi,” you groan as he thrusts his hips into you again, your nails scratching his shoulders until the fabric of his shirt bunches up between your fingers. You yank it down his arms, hoping to have him more undressed soon. 

“Needed you so fucking bad, had to call you,” he murmurs while inhaling the skin of your neck as if he can smell the dopamine on you. He soothes a hickey with his tongue, panting as he repeatedly presses his hard cock into your core. The rough fabric of his jeans against your soaked panties makes you moan, unable to think of anything but him. 

“Take this off,” you push further on his shirt, barely coherent with how your sensitive clit throbs, “Fuck, I want you so much.”

Javier obliges and holds you up by leaning his weight into you. His pulse beats hard in his chest, able to be felt against your own heated skin. He lets the sleeves of his shirt slide off one by one until it finally lies pooling on the floor. It is rare you get undressed with this intensity, almost symbolic of how he is leaving breadcrumbs of you and him in his apartment. 

“I need you to fuck me, Papi,” you beg with a few hungry kisses when it becomes too much to be so continuously empty. His cock is right there and you long for it to stretch you open. He shushes you as you whine and then nods without words.

His grip around your thighs tightens as he hauls you off the wall, using his foot to push the door to his bedroom open. He makes his way for the bed, lowering you carefully onto it when he is right by the edge. 

“Get those clothes off and spread your legs,” he commands while vaguely gesturing for you to hurry up. He stares down at you while you shimmy out of your miniskirt and panties, his eyes heavy-lidded as his hands find the zipper on his jeans in the meantime. He hisses as he drags his pants and underwear down in one go, the graze of his cock looking like it is almost too much with how hard he is. Your head floods with what it will feel like when he finally slips into the heat between your legs. 

“Please,” you let your thighs fall open because you want to see if the delicious images in your head are real, inviting him to join you when the sight of his generous erect cock makes your chest heave. 

“You’ll do anything for it right now, won't you?” His tone drops to something condescending and he climbs onto the bed, slotting himself between your legs. You nod frantically because of how you see him reach down between your bodies to guide himself to where you need him the most. You feel how he doesn’t slide into you yet but instead teases your slick folds until you try pushing yourself down onto his length. He chuckles darkly, satisfied by your eagerness, and dips the head into you with a ragged breath, “Puta (slut).”

You moan and shake your head, “No.”

“Then why did you just squeeze my cock as I said it, bebita (baby)? You dirty girl,” he taunts, finally pressing fully inside of you with a sigh of satisfaction and relief. You groan alongside him when he kisses the very back of your cunt, your slick walls welcoming his girth even if it stings. 

You grab at his shoulders as if clinging onto dear life, your nails creating crescent-shaped marks in his skin, but Javier gathers your wrists in a firm grip to pin them above your head. The loss of control makes you dizzy with lust, a pleading look on your face as he thrusts experimentally. Once again, the two of you groan in unison at the sensation of finally melting together. 

Javier holds himself up on his elbow, free hand cupping your face to stroke his thumb across your cheek. He kisses your lips in sweet contrast to his name-calling as he starts rolling his hips into you, the lewd sounds of sex filling the room. 

“Mine,” he growls under his breath. 

You find yourself reeling from how completely he fills you up, moving inside of you like he is made for it, and continuously slamming into that one spot that has your vision blurring. God, what is the point in wanting more from him? In needing love that might send him running when no one could ever fuck you like this? It’s a dangerous addiction. He is the only one to make your body sing like this so you nod in agreement. You’re his and you let him know with a loud cry. 

“Tell me who owns this whore pussy,” he demands, not satisfied with a simple nod. His maddening thrusts become sharper and punctuate his words while he stares down at you, waiting for your answer with dark eyes.

“You, Papi, it belongs— fuck, it’s yours,” you gasp, your voice trembling with how well his cock works you open. Your back is sweaty from your raging and rapid heartbeat, your body clinging to the sheets as pleasure builds impossibly fast. 

“You fucking bet it’s me. Can’t you feel how I’m beating her up real good? Fuck, she’s weeping for me, pobrecita (poor thing),” his hips snap impossibly harder, his cock sliding in and out of you with obscene sounds that make your toes curl and your back arch. 

“You’re so deep— oh my God, fuck, Papi!” You squeak underneath him, your head thrown back at a particularly hard thrust. He makes a sound of disapproval, even if he can’t stop himself from kissing the exposed, stretched part of your neck.

“Ojos aquí, Princesa (eyes here, princess),” he commands you but when you don’t immediately react in your cockdrunk state, his hand slips down to harshly grab your chin. He yanks your gaze back to him and your breath hitches at the sight of him. His eyes are burning right through you, filled with authority, and sending a ravenous shiver down to your pulsing cunt. He lets out a guttural moan as you choke his length then smirks in triumph, “That’s it, Don’t make me ask again.”

You’re wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights of a car, nodding your head repeatedly while he fucks you open with a tighter grip on your wrists. He tests your obedience, caressing your cheek sweetly with his free hand for a second before letting it come down in a smack. You whimper and moan at the surprise-sting, brain scrambling to process the mix between pleasure and pain but you don’t let your gaze falter. Your instincts keep your eyes on him even if you want to close them. Instead, you furrow your brow but no more than that, chewing on your bottom lip to deal with it all. 

“Fuck, you’re so good for me. Such a good girl,” he praises, soothing your warm cheek with his thumb where he has just struck you, “Look at you taking my dick so well, keeping those pretty eyes on me like a good little slut. You’re perfect, baby.”

Not removing your eyes from his, you turn your head slightly until the tip of his thumb pokes into your bottom lip. You part your lips, swollen from kisses, and suck on the digit like it is his cock. It’s a lewd sight, your cheeks hollowed while he presses slightly down on your soft tongue until you drool. 

He groans low in his throat, his breathing suddenly sounding like he is much closer than before. He loves it when you’re filthy and he rewards you by finally removing his hand from your wrists. His calloused palm trails down your side until he can slip it under your back to rest it right at the bottom of your spine. The way he pushes your pelvis slightly into the air causes your toes to curl, the new angle making him hit even deeper. You thank the finger in your mouth because you start screaming as you come. 

Despite your arms free, you can do little else but helplessly hold onto the headboard of the bed, feeling as if it is the only thing anchoring you to the bed. Your nails claw at the wood, your mouth falling open enough for a gargled version of his name to leave it. 

Javier pants at the way your walls clamp down on him, squeezing his cock rhythmically as you cry feebly through your intense pleasure. He breathes deeply in through his nose, the way he sometimes does when teetering on the edge of his own orgasm, and kisses your open mouth filthily. His thumb slips out as he does it, smearing saliva on your cheek, and his thrusts become relentless. It almost hurts when you’re so sensitive but you take it until he stills his hips.

“Dios mío, así (my God, like that),” he groans into your mouth but then his head drops to your shoulder as he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he pumps you full of come. The warmth of him fills you, and you whine as heat spreads inside of you, your body shaking from overstimulation and aftershocks. 

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing, his weight on top of you so heavenly as you both come down again. 

“You okay?” He murmurs gently, his voice almost sounding concerned due to affection. 

You nod beneath him, swallowing thickly around the lump in your throat. The question twists like a knife in your chest because it isn’t really what he is asking. What he really wants to know is whether you are still playing by his rules, if this is still casual to you. It’s not. It hasn’t been since he dried your post-orgasmic tears away a month ago. 

“Yeah,” you nod, wishing he wouldn’t ask you that while he is still inside of you, “I’m fine.”

He kisses you softly but the softness is fleeting and a few kisses later, he pulls out of you with a slight hiss. He rolls off of you, leaving you bare in his bedroom and causing you to freeze. 

“Good,” he replies monotonously. There’s a pack of cigarettes on his nightstand, and he reaches for one and his lighter. 

You want to say those three little words so badly but the risk is unbearable. Is it better to have this than nothing at all? Sometimes, you wonder if he feels it too, the hollow ache that settles in your chest each time you untangle, or if he’s already moved on. 

“Stay the night,” he states or suggests as he takes a satisfying drag of his smoke. He turns his head and looks at you, stealing the air from your lungs when he looks like he wants to say something more. You prepare yourself but then he slips out of bed with that easy grace, and you’re left with the fading warmth of where his body has been.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. You know he just doesn’t want to be alone in his apartment.

Still, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be the one to break through all his barriers, to be the woman of his dreams who could make him stay in every way. You imagine it sometimes during the quiet moments when he’s finally asleep beside you, his face soft as he has his guard down momentarily. You imagine what it would be like if he really let you in but he always checks out before you can even begin to think of demanding more.

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