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featherandferns · 2 months ago

Text

sugar (fic)

ex!jj maybank x ex!fem!reader | set in season 4 without the Blackbeard mystery! (non-canon) | inspiration

content warnings: mentions of/references to sex (m and f receiving; MDNI); drug use; unfaithful relationships

word count: 18k.

blurb: JJ comes back into your life - older, richer and different again from before. Can the past stay the past, and the two of you be friends, or is there too much history there to let it all lie?

Cinnamon Buns

“Where would you like these?” Someone calls out to you. You turn and take in the tray of mouth-wateringly delicious looking cinnamon buns that a volunteer holds. Smiling, you point to a far table on the grassy field.

“Anywhere over there is good! Those look amazing, thank you so much!”

You turn back to the task at hand: organising cans of tinned, chopped tomatoes. To your left is a stack of bags of rice and to your right, bags of pasta. It’s quick work as you separate them by flavour: garlic and herb; chilli; regular…In the background you overhear chatter of fellow volunteers. Where should I put this? Who had the plastic bags? This was your happy place.

‘The Stirring Spoon’ is what you had called it. It was your passion project born out of daydreams. A collaborative, community effort, providing food to anybody and everybody, free of charge. It wasn’t a traditional food drive. Instead, it was like a potluck dinner that you hosted every Wednesday in the late afternoon, running into the evening. People brought whatever dish they had prepared, or any ingredients that they had going spare which you and a handful of other volunteers whipped up into mains and desserts. Tomato soup and lentil curry and meatball subs and rainbow brownies and chocolate chip cookies. You’d even managed to rope a few local establishments into it. Any leftover bakes that they had when the workday was over, or things that were just a smidge out of date by a day or two, you took and offered out. Today? Cinnamon buns that were baked yesterday at a humble cafe in the town centre, just shy of Figure Eight. Food health and safety laws were strict but you could stretch them for The Stirring Spoon. After all, you weren’t technically selling a product so no harm done. People were clued in about the supposed “risk”.

You lift up a can of tomatoes and study the ‘best by’ date on the metal lid. A month in the safe zone. Perfect. As your mind flicks through recipes of what you could cook up, a voice stood out amongst the chatter nearby. It was like a siren’s call; distinct and damning. You could pick it out even when deaf.

“I gotta delivery here for y’all.”

“What’s in it?”

“Fresh sorta stuff. ‘Tatoes and that kinda thing.”

“Over there, I’d say.”

As the footsteps approach you can feel your heartbeat quicken. It taps nervously in your ribcage like you’re sixteen all over again. Your focus remains on the task at hand until a slight shadow casts over you, and you know you can’t stall any longer. Your hands freeze over a can of tomatoes. Looking up, standing in front of you, clear as daylight and bright as dawn, is JJ Maybank. He’s dressed in his usual attire of a worn-down t-shirt and shorts; his fingers and wrists decorated with metal rings and beaded bracelets. If you squinted, it’d be like no time had passed at all. He doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him and yet, he’s entirely changed. In his hands is a large cardboard crate of various fresh produce. You smile.

“JJ.”

It comes out in a breath as though you’re seeing something supernatural before you. In a way, you are. How long has it been now? Two years? Nearly three?

His own surprise mirrors yours on his face. But JJ was always better at hiding his emotions, once he had a chance to catch them. It was like a teasing glimpse before he closed the curtains. His recovery is quick as a smile starts to show, and he says your name like he’s practised it everyday.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask.

“Brought some deliveries,” JJ says, hitching the box. “Kiara mentioned something ‘bout a community kitchen drive y’all do and we thought we could contribute and stuff.”

“Well, that’s nice of y’all. Thank you,” you reply.

You shuffle some stuff out of the way on the pop-up table in front of you to make space for JJ’s box. It’s hard not to watch his arms as he lowers it down, the way the biceps flex and tense beneath the skin. It’s hard not to think of other times his arms have looked that way, wrapped around your body, tugging you closer. You blink the memories away.

JJ’s hands slot into his short pockets. He rocks on his feet. “Looks like it’s a pretty popular thing, huh?v This food drive, I mean.”

You glance around at the bustling volunteers. Smiling, you say, “Yeah, I guess it caught on pretty quick. Could say the same about y’alls tackle-and-bait shop you got going. It’s the talk of the town ‘round here.”

JJ grins with visible pride and it isn’t until you see it that you realise how much you missed his smile. You wonder if he’s surveying your face and body the way you are his, as if looking for some inconsistency or change since the last time you saw him.

“Yeah, it’s coming together pretty nice. Helps having a bunch of us working on it, though.”

“I bet,” you say. You’d heard the chatter on the island about the Pogue’s latest venture. The sneers of the kooks and the curiosity of the locals. Their bets and wagers on whether the business would sink or float. You’d wanted to wander down and check it out for yourself but you always chickened out. Truth was, you’d been avoiding JJ Maybank like the flu, and now here he was in front of you, putting all your quarantining to shame. Your eyes flit down at the crate and you gently rifle through the food for a distraction. Tomatoes and potatoes and bunches of fresh berries and fruit.

“I, uh, don’t know if there’s much in there that y’all need but–”

“No, no, this is great,” you assure him, smiling. “It’s really generous of y’all. Every contribution is appreciated.”

“Happy to help. To be honest, it’s Kie and Sarah you should be thanking.”

“Yeah, I didn’t peg you as the gardening type,” you tease.

“Well, only for the stuff that matters,” JJ grins with a wink. You consciously try to fight away the warmth running to your cheeks. Damn it, you weren’t sixteen anymore. “So…how have you been, then? Since we last…y’know–”

“Baby!”

It’s a reflex reaction to turn at the sound of Mark’s call. He comes bounding over with a wide grin. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and flour is dusted on his khakis. It’s a reflex to close your eyes when he dips his head to plant a kiss to your lips, too. You rub them together after as you prepare yourself for what might be the most awkward interaction you’ll ever go through.

“JJ,” you say, turning to the blonde haired boy. “This is Mark. Mark, this is JJ. We used to…uh…Well, we used to hang out.”

“JJ - pleasure,” Mark says sincerely. He sticks out his hand and for a painful moment you genuinely worry that JJ might never take it. But he does, shaking it.

“Likewise,” he says.

You feel Mark’s spare arm slide around your back, his palm placing itself respectfully on your side. That was Mark: respectful. Righteous but not in an arrogant way. He was kind and caring without judgement, like the sort of Christian boy your nana would want you to bring home. The sort of guy who would bring your mother flowers and play golf with your father on the weekends. The kind of face you’d see flash on the television during the six o’clock news as the reporter relays a daring and heroic tale of saving orphaned kittens from a burning tree.

“This is the guy that’s started the tackle-and-bait shop. Y’know, the one with the surf store and stuff,” you say to Mark. Realisation dawns upon Mark and he wags his finger at JJ.

“Wait, wait, JJ as in JJ Maybank? One of the gang who found El Dorado?”

You roll your eyes at the pure awe in his voice. JJ chuckles somewhat nervously and nods as he says, “yeah, uh, that JJ, I guess.”

“Holy shit! Baby, why didn’t you say!? Oh man, I read all about that. It sounded freaking incredible! I have so much to ask you, I mean-”

You place a hand to his chest and laugh, slightly embarrassed by his fangirling. “Baby, baby! Cool it a second, yeah?”

Laughing, you glance at JJ. And you catch it. That emotion he lets slip just before correcting himself. His eyes dart to yours in a second but they were looking elsewhere before. They were looking at your hand on Mark’s stomach.

“Nah man, it’s cool. You guys should stop by sometime and I can tell you all about it. The other Pogues too, yeah,” JJ cordially replies.

“Oh sick, man. That’d be great,” Mark beams. You smile at JJ and nod.

“I’d love to see what you guys have done to the place,” you tell him. JJ smiles but it falters, like a flickering lightbulb that’s fighting to stay on. An awkward quiet passes and you clear your throat and glance around at the voluntary effort. “Well, I should probably get back to work.”

“No, yeah, course. I ought’a get back to the shop,” JJ replies.

“Thanks for the stuff though. We really appreciate it.”

“You brought this?” Mark wonders, picking a strawberry out of the crate. He pops it in his mouth and hums happily. “Damn, those are some fresh strawberries.”

“Yeah, man. All from our local garden we got going.”

“This place sounds like the dream,” Mark tells you. You smile up at him. He takes the crate in his broad hands and lifts it easily into the air. Being sandwiched between two toned-up guys had you feeling as brittle as candyfloss. “I’ll take this over to Nancy. Nice meeting you, JJ.”

“Yeah, you too, man.”

You watch him wander off a moment before turning back to JJ. He offers you another smile. “I’ll come check out the shop soon,” you promise.

JJ points at you, playfully warning, “you better!” before walking away. You watch him with every step he takes and the moment he’s out of sight your head drops. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your entire body feels as though it’s vibrating; your heart running laps in your ribcage. And the funniest part of all is the strange thought that races around your mind, he’s real. It had been so long since you’d seen JJ, let alone heard from him, that it felt like a daydream. The memories were so hazy now that they’d been painted over in sepia and you wondered if you’d imagined the whole thing. But no, here he was, knowing you and recognising you, and talking to you. The two of you back in Kildare, seemingly for good.

“Baby! Can you give us a hand?”

The call drags you out of your thoughts. Your eyes fall onto your boyfriend. He stands a good head taller than most people. He’s almost lanky in build but not ungainly; broad shouldered and slim nosed. His eyes are those of an otter: nearly black with how brown they are; beady and shining, even from over here. There’s a smattering of freckles over his cheeks which is adorably boyish in contrast to his stubble on the jawline. He’s smiling at you in a way that all girls want to be smiled at. Unashamed in his admiration for you. It grounds you from the dizzying interaction with JJ and you walk over to him, ready to help out in any way you can.

The rest of The Stirring Spoon passes without a hitch or unexpected visitor from the past. It’s as popular as always, with locals and tourists stopping by. The lentil and tomato soup that you whipped up disappears within the first half hour, alongside the nearly stale but still delicious cheese bread. Mark stands by your side the whole time, smiling as he serves. He whispers little jokes in your ear that have you giggling in the quiet periods of the food drive. Then came the evening rush, with people stopping by after work. The culmination of it all meant JJ was pushed out of your thoughts and back into the long-term store, where he’d been haunting before. That is, until you’re tidying up.

“That JJ guy seemed nice,” Mark says from the table to your right. You look up from the plastic snack-bags you’re tidying away. “You said you guys used to hang?”

“When we were sixteen,” you reply.

“How come you stopped hanging out?” he wonders.

You look down at the bags and obsess over the colours of the labels as you debate how best to word your reply. What do you divulge to him? There’s an index of memories labelled JJ and you know not all need to see the light of day, let alone enter the mind of your boyfriend in scarring reenactments.

“We just grew apart. He was going through some stuff, I think, and then he got really into that whole treasure hunting thing,” you tell him. It was true enough to not be a lie. Mark hums in thought.

“That’s a shame.”

You quirk a brow, amused. “Why? Cause I could have cashed in on the gold too?”

Mark shrugs and you laugh. “What!? I’m just saying, some people are worth staying friends with!”

But that was the thing. You and JJ weren’t just friends. Shaking your head, you close the cardboard box of repacked snack-bags and carry it over to the table where he’s working. You held him wrap individual muffins in napkins before placing them in a large tupperware box.

“Hey, y’know what’d be nice?” Mark says.

“What?”

“If we took them over some leftovers. I mean, we made most of this stuff with the ingredients they gave us anyway. And there’s still some of those cinnamon buns going spare.”

You take pause and look up at him. He’s obliviously working away, head tucked down to look at the muffins. There’s an easy smile that’s permanently etched into his face, as if he came out the womb cheesing away. That wasn’t why you fell for him though. No, it was his kindness. His offhand generosity that came so naturally to him it was almost offensive. Pressing up onto your toes, you cup his jaw and press a kiss to his cheek. He chuckles quietly.

“You’re wonderful,” you hum happily. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“You go wrap up some cinnamon buns then. I’ll pack up some of these muffins for them.”

You do as he asks and soon enough, there’s a box of miscellaneous leftovers from your food drive. Mark drives. The sky is a delicate colour of amber and pink warning of soon nightfall. Colours like that always make you feel relaxed. It helps ease the nervousness of seeing JJ again. You weren’t sure why it was making you so antsy. It wasn’t as if you and JJ parted ways on bad terms. You suppose it’s just a bitter-sweet memory. All memories of JJ came with that sour coating now, like sherbet lemons on your tongue. You wonder if you’d feel the same way if Mark weren’t around.

But he is, and you’re glad he is.

Looking over to him, you reach out your hand to capture his, resting on his thigh. He glances over at you and smiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just happy, s’all.”

“That’s good,” he says, looking back to the road. Like something from a music video, he raises your interlocked hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Means I’m doing something right, if you’re happy.”

It’s impossible not to do a double-take as you pull up to what was formally the Maybank property. It’s as if new life has been breathed into it. More than just a lick of paint, there’s two brand new buildings alongside a pretty sturdy looking pier and dock. There’s a handmade charm to everything that makes it all the more enticing and impressive. Mark seems to think so too because he whistles as the two of you pull up the driveway. You look to your left and see the Twinkie. A relic from your past, of memories half-naked, rolling around the back with JJ, sharing a blunt in a post-orgasmic haze. Your thoughts shut off with the engine.

Mark takes the lead, his hand in yours, and carries the box of leftovers up to the house. You both wander up the porch and Mark knocks twice on the door. Your eyes look at everything, taking it in, admiring every detail, until someone opens the door. It’s Kiara.

“Hey. Can I help you?” she asks your monolith of a boyfriend. You poke your head from around his body.

“Hey Kie.”

“Oh my Gosh! Girl, where have you been?” Kie beams. The two of you embrace, laughing and smiling. “Wait - did you get the stuff I sent JJ over with?”

“Yeah, we did,” you say. “Thank you so much.”

“We actually brought this as a thanks,” Mark adds, offering out the tub. She eyes him almost with suspicion.

“Sorry, I forgot to say - Kie, this is Mark. My boyfriend,” you explain. Kie’s eyebrows shoot up with that final word but she recovers quick.

“Nice to meet you, Mark,” she says. She takes the box and glances through the plastic.

“Just some leftovers we thought you might like. Muffins and cinnamon buns and things like that.”

“Thanks guys, you didn’t have to. We’re happy to contribute,” Kiara tells you. “In fact, me and Sarah were talking about maybe making it a regular thing. Like every Wednesday we bring some stuff from the garden, or fish that we’ve caught?”

“Oh my God, yeah, that’d be amazing,” you nod enthusiastically. “We can definitely figure out a system.”

“Perfect. I’ll put these inside. You guys want a drink or anything? I can show you around,” Kiara offers, opening the door wider in invitation.

You glance over her shoulder into the room and then around the porch, behind you out to the water. You’re not sure why you were expecting JJ to just appear out of thin air in front of you.

“JJ’s out on the dock, if you want to catch up,” Kiara posits, as if hearing your thoughts. You look at her and hold her gaze, and - unable to read what her expression means - nod.

“I think I’ll go say hi. We didn’t get a chance to properly catch up,” you reply. You glance up at Mark. “You want to come with?”

“It’s alright. I’ll stay here and get the tour,” he tells you with a wink. You smile, press a kiss to his lips, and wander off with a wave to Kie, towards the dock.

Feet thudding on the slabs of wood, the structure creaks as you walk to the shop. An American flag waves in the breeze. You run a hand along the thick rope bannister and glance down into the growth of plants and water weeds underfoot. I can’t believe they built all of this, you can’t help but think as you walk up to the wooden-slatted tackle-and-bait shop. As you walk into the store under the wooden ‘WELCOME’ sign, reggae music blesses your ears alongside the smell of incense. It’s jam-packed with miscellaneous water accessories: fishing gear, surfing gear, refreshments, you name it. There’s nobody behind the counter. You glance around and squint, catching onto a spot red through the window. JJ lies outside atop of a vintage cooler, feet crossed one over the other, arms tucked under his head. You can’t help but smile. Walking outside, you lean against the doorframe and fold your arms over your chest.

“Well, as far as customer service goes, this is pretty crappy.”

He snaps up to sit like he has the joints of a ken doll. You laugh as he blinks his eyes awake, laying them on you.

“Oh shit,” he says, clearing his throat, running a hand through his hair. “When’d you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. You looked pretty comfy there,” you say, amused.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a good nap spot,” JJ chuckles nervously, glancing down at where he just lay his head. He straightens his t-shirt and then looks back at you. His brows furrow. “Wait, what’re you doing here?”

“Came by to see the new place,” you reply, gesturing around you. “You offered.”

“Didn’t think you’d be in such a hurry.”

“No time like the present and all that.”

You’re acutely aware of how you’re avoiding mentioning Mark and how he’s currently being led around JJ’s former house and yard under Kie’s tow.

“This is a pretty sick set-up,” you praise.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good, huh?” JJ grins, getting to his feet. “Here, you want a beer? We’re technically closed for business anyway.”

Laughing, you shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

Cracking open the cooler, he reaches in and retrieves two ice-cold cans. One is tossed to you and you catch it, and a feeling of deja vu rings through you. JJ, younger, just as handsome, throwing you a can of beer at a kegger. He leans against the cooler and you against a wooden pillar. Cracking cans and the fizz of beer, and you take a refreshing sip. A comfortable quiet comes and the two of you catch one anothers eyes. You smile.

“I don’t think I said earlier, but it’s really nice to see you again,” you tell JJ.

He smiles, small and reserved. “Thanks. It’s nice seeing you too. Even if it is with Joe America over there.”

“Joe America?” you snort. “Come on, he isn’t that bad.”

“No, no, he seems…uh, he seems nice.”

“He is nice.”

“I believe it.”

“Well…good.”

That marked the end of that conversation. You take a sip of your beer and sigh, looking out to the view of sunset over the marshland.

“I wish you could’ve seen it,” JJ suddenly says. You look over to him with a frown, confused. “El Dorado, I mean. South America. It was beautiful. Like actually fucking stunning out there.”

“Really?” you say, smiling.

“Hell yeah,” he grins. “Like there was colours out there that I didn’t even think existed without, like, LSD, man.”

You laugh and he does too and you’re glad whatever awkwardness that just came passed quick like a seastorm.

“I still haven’t gone farther than Charleston, so I guess I’ll have to live vicariously,” you lightheartedly remark.

“Yeah, well, turns out there’s a pretty big world out there,” JJ grins.

“Glad one of us got to see it,” you hum.

“Nah, you’ll see it too. All of it. Even Paris.”

The city’s name hangs heavy in the air. It was more than just a throwaway comment. It was a secret message, as if JJ was speaking in code. I remember it. I didn’t forget. You wash down the adrenaline with another sip of beer.

“But no place like home, huh?” JJ says, clearing his throat.

“Probably helps now that John B ain’t a fugitive anymore,” you muse. JJ laughs, nodding.

“Yeah, yeah, no, for sure.”

“Well, I’m glad you found your happiness, JJ,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m glad you found yourself out.”

“Ain’t we all?”

The two of you watch one another for a moment. His resting smile lingers on the edges of his thin lips. His round, soft cheeks that add to a boyishness about him that his jawline doesn’t allow. You always liked JJ’s hair though. A mop of blonde planted atop of his head with sun-bleached highlights and deep-sea lowlights. But he’s taking you in too. You can’t take the weight of his stare after a while. Taking a deep breath, pushing away from the beam, you ditch your half-drunk beer atop of the cooler.

“Well, I better get going.”

“You sure? I mean, we can hang out a bit longer, if you like?”

You smile politely and shake your head. “I’m not the one driving, so…”

JJ looks over your shoulder and spots Mark. “Ah. Didn’t know Dollar Store Chris Evans was here, my bad.”

“JJ! Don’t be mean!”

“I ain’t being mean! If anything, that’s a compliment,” JJ defends. You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll see you around though. It’d suck to go back to being strangers again when we’re both in the same place for a change.”

Despite the innocence of the offer, something in your gut tells you that you shouldn’t agree. You should set a boundary there, draw a line, and leave it in the past. So, really, you have nobody to blame but yourself for saying “I’d like that” with a smile in farewell, before walking back across the dock to your boyfriend.

Salted Chips

JJ had always been in your life. However, in the past, he was more of a background character, like an NPC in a videogame that creators constantly add in like an Easter Egg. The kind of character you’re curious about, in terms of their past and their present, their wants and their fears, but the kind you never have the privy to get close to in that way. He’d be at parties, at the surf break, at the shops or at school, but he wasn’t in your life. Until he was.

Fate came in the form of a seating plan for history class.

You and JJ were classmates. Table buddies. At first, the conversation was nonexistent. Sometimes JJ wouldn’t show up to class at all, either bunking off or playing truant in the bathrooms to light up a joint. But sometimes he’d come to class, usually escorted by Pope, and you’d share an uncomfortable silence as you worked through the hour. But then came an assignment that needed to be done out of class, and numbers were exchanged and words were shared outside of ‘what did he say’ and ‘what’s the homework’ and ‘what answer did you get for five?’. At your prompting to start on the project, JJ offered up the Chateau to work at, John B’s house that was a renovated fishing shack on the marsh.

To stimulate inspiration for the poster the two of you had to create - outlining the history of the American Civil War - JJ had offered up beers and a blunt, and you were glad to take him up on the offer. If you’re going to be doing schoolwork at the weekend, you might as well get something out of it other than mind numbing boredness. It seems you saying yes to JJ’s “gifts” put you in his good books. It’s as if you could see the moment his opinion of you changed. From there, it was as if the two of you had always known the other. Conversation came easy, banter even more so. Time spent together stretched outside of the classroom and instead into lunch breaks and evenings and weekends. He’d seek you out at keggers and hang with you at the beach. Somewhere in the roots of you friendship grew an attraction from the fondness. You noticed it in his lingering glances, his drifting gaze from your eyes to your mouth to your body. Later, you heard it in his words, finding innuendos in smalltalk, catching compliments like falling stars. Eventually, both slightly intoxicated, it came to a head, about three months into this natural-forming friendship.

“Yo!”

You turn around, beer in hand, startled by the interruption. It’s JJ. He’s wearing a cap, squishing down his beautiful locks of blonde; the muted green pairs well with his t-shirt. His combat boots sink into the ground, damp from the rainfall earlier in the day. Everything smells piney and fresh. You lift a finger to your lips to coax him to be quiet. His brows quirk up, a bemused smile gracing his gorgeous face. God really does have favourites, it seems.

“You good?”

“Sh! You’ll scare them,” you whisper. At his cocking head, confused, you fervently gesture for him to come over. He does. His presence by your side is almost overwhelming. The buzz from the liquor makes it difficult to keep your itching hands to yourself and your inhibitions at bay. “You see them?”

“See what?”

“The birds.”

“What?”

“Look, here,” you mumble. You lean close to him so you can point clearly with your finger, just along his line of vision. A whiff of JJ’s scent dusts your nose. He’s warm like he creates heat. Through the canopy of leaves, you can make out a single branch of a tree. In the nook, against the trunk, is a nest, and inside is a bunch of baby birds, cawing out for their mother, hungry, blind. You’d left them some salted chips on the floor, crumbled and scattered, in case the mother wanted to steal some to take up and gift. She probably wouldn’t, but something about their cries made you feel the need to do something, and it wasn’t as if you could offer up your beer.

“Woah.”

“You see ‘em?”

“Yeah,” JJ breathes. “That’s sick, how did you see them?”

“I heard them first,” you tell him, keeping your voice low so as to not frighten them. “Needed some air.”

“The smoke from the campfire botherin’ you?”

“I swear to God, it targets me,” you sincerely reply, making JJ laugh. You finally retract your finger (still sticky from the Smores made earlier) and turn, looking up at him. He looks down at you. Some strands of hair stick out from under his cap, pressing against his forehead. His brows are almost permanently slanted, eyes bright in the dusk of the evening. His shark tooth necklace sits against his chest. JJ’s lips quirk at your staring. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You’re so pretty,” you say, shaking your head, smiling. The alcohol has given you too much confidence, it seems. Loose lips. His eyes widen in momentary surprise but he catches it, covers it well. Then, comes his mask of confidence. He gives you a cocky smile.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he suavely replies.

“Nah, I mean it. You’re really something, Maybank,” you smile, doubling-down. In for a penny and all that.

His smugness fades into something more real. He doesn’t seem to know how to take compliments like that. Then, strangely, something like panic tugs his brows together. “I’m not very good at this sorta thing.”

Your frown of confusion seems to spur him on.

“Being honest. Real. I’m…I’m pretty fucked up, y’know?”

“The best people are,” you murmur, meaning every word.

“Nah, I mean it, though. I’m not…I don’t wanna hurt you.” JJ says it so quietly, so sincerely, that you get the sense that he’s never said it before. Maybe only thought it on dark nights, when you’re so alone with your thoughts it’s maddening. Smiling, shaking your head, you lift a hand to his cheek. Your heart hiccups at how he relaxes into your touch.

“I don’t think you have to worry ‘bout that,” you whisper.

You’re not sure who moves first, whether it’s him or you, but you end up a hair-width apart at the lips. His breath is hot as it fans onto your lips. Risk comes like a lightning rod and you take it, pushing onto your toes, connecting your lips with his. His hand finds yours and squeezes. That small gesture, as innocent as it is, tells you that you’re crossing this boundary together, from friends into something more.

Pistachio Pastries

The smell of coffee rouses you from sleep. You hum sleepily into your pillow, nuzzling in the scent of your boyfriend: peppermint and sage. A heavy palm gently pets your hair.

“Wake up, sleepy,” Mark murmurs.

You grumble in protest and he chuckles. The bed dips and the duvet lifts as he climbs back into the cocoon of warmth. Rolling over, you tuck yourself against him. He always slept in pyjamas. It was adorable. Nothing cheesy: just a simple shirt and flannel bottoms. His arm hooks around your waist and holds you against him. You swear to God, you could hide here forever. Mark was safety and security. Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car.

“Wednesday again,” he says, stroking the skin of your back. “Kiara messaged the Instagram page today. Said one of them will drop off an order around one-ish.”

“Sweet.”

An alarm blares from Mark’s phone and he cusses, breaking apart from you to retrieve it and turn it off. You take the opportunity to sit up and grab your coffee. The steam tickles your nose as you blow on it. Routine. Mornings spent in the mini home Mark had made in his parents backyard, in their old shed. He brought you coffee in the morning and you brought him tea before bed. You’d be asleep by ten and awake by eight. Your shifts at the smoothie shop typically followed a Monday through Friday routine, with the exception of midweek, with Wednesdays reserved for The Stirring Spoon. Weekends passed in a blink. Then, you reset to continue with the same thing again.

But that’s okay. Routine is okay. It’s reliable. Monotonous in a way that assures certainty. Besides, you liked your job, and your coffee, and your Stirring Spoon. But maybe it might be nice to stray from it all, just for a change.

You carefully place your coffee back on the side table and look over to Mark. He’s scrolling on his phone, lips set in a line, brows tugged together in vague concentration. A thrill runs through your body at the thought, as you press several kisses to the skin of his neck. You feel him breath beneath you. Then a kiss comes to your forehead, quick like a grandparent to their least favourite grandchild.

“Baby,” you hum, lifting a hand to rub your finger along his jawline.

“Mhm?”

“Do you have any, like…things you wanna try.”

He takes a moment to think, looking up from his phone. A smile comes to his face and he looks down at you, and your body burns with anticipation. “Surfing. Was never that good at it but I’d like to try it again, y’know?”

It fizzles away like water atop of a dying flame. “Oh. Yeah, no, yeah…that’s…you should do that.”

He frowns. “You okay?”

“Well, I just meant more…in the bedroom. Like anything, I don’t know…” Your face burns like you’re a nun stumbling across a Playboy magazine. “Kinky?”

“Kinky?”

“Not like oh my God, kinky. Just…I don’t know…”

He quirks a brow, smiling at you in a teasing sort of way. “You got some kink you’re not telling me about?”

“Maybe,” you tell him, hoping it comes out seductive.

“I don’t know,” Mark sighs, resting his head back against the wall. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and you lick over your lips. He grins, like something dawned upon him, and he dips his head suddenly to press his lips to yours. “Wanna know what I’ve always wanted to try?”

“Mhm,” you say, lifting your hands to cup his face and keep him near. Yes, your body practically cries. Tell me, tell me, tell me.

“Well,” he stalls, kissing you again. You chase his lips, shortening in breath. “I’ve always wanted–” another kiss “-to try-” another kiss “-doing it in the shower.”

It’s hard not to deflate completely with disappointment.

Wow, yeah Mark. Kinky.

But when you open your eyes, you come face to face with a nervous, sweet, caring Mark. A Mark who always makes sure you feel good and safe. A Mark who would never walk past an elderly man struggling to cross the road. A Mark who would donate a twenty dollar bill he found on the roadside. And you can see it in his eyes, this burning passion, this shock at his own words, because for him, that was like confessing to watching gangbang porn in a Church. So, you plaster on a smile, feigning excitement. “No, yeah. That’d be fun. We should totally do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grin, kissing him again. He sighs, pushing back against you. Your body sparks up again. The feel of his hands on your sides is like static energy. “We should try it now.”

“Now?”

“Mhm,” you nod eagerly, kissing at his lips desperately. “Good way to start the morning, huh?”

“Maybe,” he says. He pulls away slightly, guilty as he adds, “but it’s been a while since I cleaned the bathroom. And I promised my mom I’d help her out today, and I gotta be good to go in like ten minutes so…”

“Oh.”

He kisses you fleetingly on the lips and then tosses the bedsheets off his lap. You watch him get up. “But maybe soon? Like Friday?”

Routine with scheduled sex.

“Okay,” you say through a false smile. You sink against your pillow and watch him put on his slippers. The moment his back turns, you drop the expression. You’re so disappointed there doesn’t feel much point in trying to get off by yourself now, either. You don’t seem to fix your frown quick enough before he turns back around.

“Oh, hey, baby, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mark frowns. He lowers down so his eyes are level with yours. You pout like a child as you look at him. He pushes some hair off your face. “I swear, if I weren’t about to go help my mom, I’d be all over you right now.”

“Mhm.” Maybe you are being a bit selfish. He’s helping his mother for God’s sake! Smiling, properly this time, you jokingly warn, “I’m gonna hold you to that, Mark.”

“You better,” he winks. He kisses you before leaving the room, into the bathroom. Sighing, you roll on your back and blink up at the ceiling. You practise your mantra - Mark is good. Mark is good for me. Mark is good. Mark is good for me - and you get up to start your day.

The Stirring Spoon is a good distraction from your whining libido. It’s hard to think about fucking when you’re comparing shapes of pasta. And yet, you still find a way. Because as you stack packets of spaghetti, you try and recall the last time you and Mark had really good sex. Not sex where it’s soft and nice and satisfying. Sex when you feel like you might cry or scream, just to cope with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Sex when you’re actually scared that you might have a heart attack from how fast your heart’s beating. Was it ever like that with Mark? Was it ever like that with anybody else?

Yes.

“Hey.”

The very boy who just popped into your mind like a vision stands before you, crate in hand, smile on face, as if you manifested him.

“JJ.”

“You good? You were looking at that spag pretty hard,” he asks, amused.

“No, yeah, I’m good,” you say. You drop the pasta like it’s incriminating to what you were thinking about. Don’t tell JJ about the hot sex I was thinking about with him, pasta, please. “What’re you doing here?”

“Delivery from Kildare County Kitchen,” he says, dropping the crate down onto an empty spot on the table. “Some of Cleo’s less deadly version of her gumbo; a few sandwiches that Sarah whipped up; and some fish me and John B caught the other day.”

“Damn, that’s quite the haul,” you say, glancing into the crate and surveying its contents. “Thanks, JayJ.”

As you retrieve the items and lay them out carefully and neatly on the table, JJ shoves his hands in his short pockets and looks around the yard. “So. Loverboy here?”

“He’s busy today, helping his mom.”

“Ah. You short of a helping hand today, then?”

“Why? You want to help?” you say, half-joking. But JJ shrugs.

“I’m not doing much. Why not?”

“Don’t the others need you back at the shop?”

“There’s five of them, I think they’ll manage,” JJ replies sardonically. He claps and rubs his hands together. “Where do I start?”

“Um…” You stand upright and scan the area, checking what looks the most chaotic. As if on cue, the local bakery van pulls up. “Oh, sweet. Delivery. You can help me unload and log inventory.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two of you walk over to the van, side by side, hands kept politely to yourselves. Small talk sits on your tongue but doesn’t make it into the world.

“Morning Mr Parker,” you call.

“Morning, darlin’,” he croons in his southern accent. “You too, Maybank.”

“Good to see you, sir,” JJ nods.

“What you got for me today?”

“Some good stuff, I’m not going to lie to y’all,” he grins over his shoulder before opening the doors to the back of the van. Mr Parker pulls out a tray of sealed baked goods. JJ steps in and takes it, and as he holds it you crack open the lid to peer in.

“Pastries?”

“Pistachio pastries,” Mr Parker says proudly. His takes off his cap and brushes a hand through his short grey hair. “My wife got a bit carried away. People in this town don’t have that fancy of taste buds.”

“Maybe not on the Cut,” JJ mumbles, making you smile.

“Well, be that as it may, glad I can contribute something to your little venture,” Mr Parker tells you. He squeezes your shoulder sweetly. “Y’all doing a good thing, with this here Stirring Spoon.”

“Thank you,” you say, overwhelmed by the simple praise. “Well, we appreciate any contribution, especially pistachio flavoured ones.”

With that, the three of you get to work carrying the four trays of baked goods to a spare table. Bidding Mr Parker farewell, you and JJ take pause against the table.

“I think I’ve earnt a break.”

“You’ve been here less than an hour.”

“Time flies by when you’re having fun, and all that,” he says passingly as he cracks open one of the bakery tubs. He grabs one of the pastries and tosses it into his mouth. His eyes widen as he chews. “Holy shit. These are so good.”

“JJ, you’re not supposed to eat the–”

“--try one.” A pastry is shoved into your mouth. You glare at him but bite, and holy shit this is really good. It must read on your face cause JJ grins. “Yeah, right? So good.”

“Oh my God,” you mumble. The two of you smile at one another like you’re stealing cookies from a jar.

“You remember that time we got high and raided Pope’s dad’s fridge?”

You laugh and nearly choke on the flaky pastry. “Oh my God, I totally forgot about that.”

“You were like a fucking racoon,” JJ sniggers.

“You were the one that got me high in the first place.”

“I didn’t fucking drug you! You wanted to try it!”

“Yeah, I did,” you grumble, unwilling to accept responsibility for completely draining the Heyward fridge.

“You’re cute when you’re high.”

You glance up at him. His smile is coy, like he knows he shouldn’t have said that. Because he shouldn’t. Rolling your eyes, you play it off as best you can. “Cute whilst I’m stuffing my face with questionable cheese?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shrugging. “You’re cute all the time though, so guess it’s not very hard for you to be even cuter high.”

“JJ, stop it.” Your tone is gentle but firm. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” JJ says. “Captain Vanilla.”

You hate how he isn’t completely wrong. “That’s not his name.”

“It’s just too easy,” he shrugs, playful as always. “The guy is a walking textbooked ‘good guy’.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” you mumble, picking out another pastry and studying the way it’s rolled.

“Nothing, I guess. Just find it funny.”

“Funny how?”

“That you’d go from me to him.”

You glance up from the pastry to meet his gaze. “We never officially dated, JJ.”

“Same difference,” he shrugs. “But hey - you know you. You know what you want.”

“Exactly…”

You do know you, don’t you? It sounds like such a crazy thing to question. But the older you get, the more you think you don’t know a thing about yourself. What’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite animal? What do you want out of your future? What do you want out of a relationship? Journeying back to the morning, your mind replays the scenes like a horror movie. The worries of when the last time you felt passion in the bedroom feeds into worries of when the last time was that you felt passion, period. Oh no: it feels like an existential crisis might be coming on, about thirty years too early.

“Hey.” You snap out of your spiral. JJ forces a smile. “Just wanna know that you’re still living, not just secure. Y’know. As a friend.”

Funnily enough, that does little to cheer you up.

Croissants

JJ’s skin is warm against your cheek. Your face rests on his bicep, using it as a makeshift pillow, as you lay skin-to-skin, body-to-body. One of your legs is hooked over his, and his palm rubs large, mindless patterns against the sweat-sticky skin. The room is bathed in moonlight, the curtains drawn closed, and you can hear the sounds of the marsh from outside the Maybank residency. You wonder if JJ might have fallen asleep. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically and you can’t see his face from here, to tell if his eyes are open or shut. But then he sighs and you smile against his arm.

“Tell me about your family,” you request in the quiet of the room.

“What about them?”

“Anything, really. Like about your mom and dad; if you have any siblings,” you murmur.

“Not much to tell,” JJ replies in a hum.

“Still. Tell me anyway.”

“Tell me about yours,” JJ deflects. You crack a smile.

“Alright,” you relent. “I live with my mom and my dad. She’s a waitress and he’s a mechanic.”

“You got any brothers or sisters?” he asks, his thumb massaging your upper leg.

“I did,” you say, your voice turning softer. “An older sister.”

“What happened?”

Your lips press together. An image flashes into your mind like a jumpscare, of a coffin dressed in white daisies and lilies. Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes and will the memory away. It’s then that you decide to confide in JJ.

“Do you know who Andy Warhol is?”

“I recognise the name,” he replies after a moment, not questioning why the sudden change in topic.

“He was an artist. Painted a lot of pop-arty things.”

“Is that the freakshow who painted those boring-ass soup cans?” JJ wonders. You laugh quietly.

“I wouldn’t describe him like that but yeah, that’s the guy.”

“What about him?” JJ asks.

“He was in love with this man, way back when. He kept a diary and this man he was in love with died, and Andy was heartbroken. But he ain’t like to say that somebody had died. Instead, he used to write that ‘they went away’, like on a trip or somethin’,” you tell him. Your voice trails off towards the end, fearing JJ might laugh at you as you go on to say, “I don’t know. I think I’d like to say that about my sister.”

JJ shifts underneath you until the two of you are lying side by side, now able to see one another’s faces through the muggy darkness of the room. His eyes glow in the non-existent light, shining and present, gazing into yours.

“Where’d she go, then? On this trip of hers,” he coaxes. Your lips part in surprise, and for some reason, you want to cry for his small act of kindness. Then, you smile, small and sombre.

“To Paris, in France,” you whisper.

“She go to the Eiffel Tower?”

“Every day. She eats dinner there at night and watches it twinkle. For breakfast, she buys a croissant and sits by the Seine,” you murmur. Tears wet your eyes as you picture your lost sister, venturing the streets with the wind in her hair, kissing her plump cheeks. Your voice is thick when you continue, “it’s her dream to see all the stuff in the Louvre. She goes every week and keeps a note of where she’s been and where she wants to go.”

“Like the Catacombs?”

You laugh and sniffle. “Nah. They’re too creepy for her.”

“Damn straight,” JJ mumbles. “They scare the crap outta me.”

As a tear lets slip, trickling down your cheek, JJ reaches out his thumb and wipes it away. His hand lingers on your face and you feel yourself lean into his hold. It’s like he’s holding you up. He’s holding you together. You open your eyes into his. There’s a smile on his face, different to the others. More reserved, less obvious, so different to the JJ you’d known and heard of before. You’re terrified of losing it entirely or saying something especially stupid, and so instead you mouth two words: ‘thank you’.

When he kisses you, it’s different too. There’s something about it, like a taste that wasn’t there before, and it lingers in your mind and mouth. It only grows as JJ deepens the kiss. Your hand traces his jawline and your fingers loop through the locks of his hair, and you tug him closer with a breath. The dance of your lips and tongues and teeth is growing more and more familiar by the day and it terrifies you how easy it has been to become accustomed to it. How easy it has been to become accustomed to JJ. Hands on your hips, JJ lifts you atop of him with a grunt, him rolling onto his back. You shrug the comforter off your back and straddle him. Your hands cradle his face, palms cupping his cheeks. You kiss him like he’s the antidote to all your ailments. Your mouth chases him in the teasing of his lips, breaking apart just to reel you back in. JJ’s teeth nip at your lower lip and pull, just so, just enough to have you whining and sighing like some lovesick fool. Maybe you are.

“JJ,” you mewl, rocking back against him. He groans as you begin to torture his jawline and neck. Groans louder when you suckle on the tender skin by his ear, painting hickeys like a beautiful landscape. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips deep enough to leave delicious bruises. You feel him growing hard beneath you as you grind against him like some animal in heat.

“Fuck, you’re so…Fuck…”

Your lips continue their descent down his body. Kisses are peppered along his windpipe, bridging over his Adam’s apple, and you can feel every breath, every stutter, every sigh. Down his chest, bare and broad, and down his stomach. His hands are now free from your hips and instead they tether into your hair, combing through the strands. You look up at him from between his legs - he’s made space for you - and can make out his lazy smile through your hooded gaze. JJ’s looking down at you too. His eyes glow.

You ghost a kiss over his boxers and he inhales a long, deep breath, his head tilting back into the pillows, eyes undoubtedly slipping shut. Lips upturning with a smile, your fingers tuck into the band of his boxers, and you pull them down his legs tantalisingly slow. Somewhere in the shadows of the room you hear him mumbling, ‘please.’ Taking him in hand, revelling in his short gasp, you guide him to your mouth. The smell, the feel - it all consumes you as you go down on him. The brush of bristly hair scratching against your nose, flooding your senses. JJ’s hand comes to the back of your head quick, as if guiding your pleasure, wordless praising your ways. Until it’s not wordless.

“Fuck, that’s it…Taking me so fucking good, huh? Look so pretty like this…”

You hum around his length and he stammers out a moan. Your eyes flick up to take in the sight of his exposed neck, head thrown back, mouth hanging open as he lets noises slip through, shameless and sinful. And you love it, the way you can bring him to the brink, the way you can manipulate his satisfaction like moulding something out of clay. A finger here, a stroke there. The tip hits the back of your throat uncomfortably. You pull away with a damning pop and a trail of saliva connects the two of you. Resting your head against the apex of his thigh, you jack him off with your hand, almost mesmerised by the way he pulses in your hold. Maybe it’s the sounds he makes. JJ Maybank walks like he’s a God; it’s a power trip to have him weak at your hold.

“Please, please, fuck…Jus’want your mouth, baby, please,” he begs through gritted teeth. His hand gently yet firmly pushes at your head, trying to guide you back to him, and you feel a giggle bubble up through your throat. It feels unnatural, this version of you. Sexy, seductive, sly.

“You want my mouth?” you tease, pressing a kiss to his throbbing dick.

“Fuck - yes, yes, please,” he groans. You glance up at him and meet JJ’s gaze. His hair, damp with sweat, hangs over his forehead, dangling over his eyes. A sadistic smile is on your face as you pull away, easing your hand off him too. His brows furrow. It’s like something snaps inside of him - some restraint he was holding breaking like the overstretching of elastic. His hands are on your in a second, gripping and grabbing at your body like you weigh no less than feathers, and you gasp as he tosses you onto your back. He’s on top of you, ravishing your throat and collarbone so mercilessly, you’re gaping at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Think that’s funny, huh? Wanna see how much you like it?”

You stammer something out; you don’t even know yourself if it’s a yes or no. All you know is you want him - you need him - on you, in you. Anything. JJ doesn’t make you wait. His hands pull your panties away swiftly. A finger slips all too easily through your slit and you gasp, eyes rolling shut. His laugh is deep, crooning, cruel in your ear.

“So fucking wet for me, hm? Such a fucking slut. Wanna see how it feels?”

“P-please.”

The stretch of your walls isn’t unpleasant as he eases a finger in. You let out a wanton moan. It pumps leisurely inside, the foreign metal of his ring overwhelming, and the brush of the tip of his thumb against your clit has you panting from the pleasure.

“Yeah, you like that, huh?”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. Then the torture begins, of the instant movement of his finger, in and out, in and out, before easing away so suddenly it’s like he was never there. After that, the faintest of pressure on the exposed skin at his mercy. His damp finger trailing the inside of your thigh. He repeats this cycle until you’re almost in tears. Your hands clutch the bedsheets in fists, feet writhing uselessly at the head of the bed, kicking at the flimsy pillows. You know he’s gloating from the power he holds. Something tells you he doesn’t get this much control in most aspects of his life. Something tells you he gets off this just as much as you. “You wanna come? Do you?”

“Fuck! Please, please, JJ, please. I’ll do anything, please, please,” you blubber. You don’t care how embarrassing it sounds; how much it pleases him. All you care about is feeling that hot, blinding, pulsing pleasure consuming your every nerve, every bone, every fibre of your being. His breath is hot against your collarbone. JJ kisses the lobe of your ear in such a tender way you wouldn’t be able to fathom the magic he works with his hands below the belt. And as you finally break, tumbling over the edge, letting out a fucked-out sob when you do, you can make out JJ’s low voice, his Southern accent thick like molasses.

“That’s it, baby. Make a mess on my fingers.”

Smores

Despite telling Mark where you’re going, it still feels like sneaking around behind his back as you walk up to the Pogue’s house. But this isn’t anything nefarious. This is just you breaking routine. This is you catching up with old friends, current friends, and having fun. Sharing some drinks, smoking a joint or two, sitting around a campfire. Good, old fashioned fun just like when you were sixteen.

Yep. That’s all.

“Hey yo! There she is!” JJ hollers the moment you come into view.

“Hey!” you smile, waving. In your other hand is a bag filled with a six pack of beer, a packet of graham crackers, some chocolate and a bag of marshmallows. You ditch it by the cooler to hug everyone hello. JJ’s last. His arms wrap around you like tree vines, secure and strong, and it’s familiar in a way that has you lingering. Mark. You break apart and take a seat on the opposite side of the campfire to him.

“What’s in the bag, mystery girl?” the girl you now know as Cleo asks.

“Some refreshments,” you say, lifting up the six pack. That earns a few whoops and hollers of approval from the already tipsy group. “And some snacks.”

“Smores?” Sarah gasps. She takes the bag of marshmallows from you.

“Just like old times,” you say. Your eyes catch JJ’s. He’s watching you.

“Let’s light these bad boys up,” John B announces. The gang is vocal in their approval. Sticks and twigs are gathered for skewers. Marshmallows dangle over the open flames that lick into the dusky air. A marshmallow shoves at yours and you glower at JJ.

“Leave my marshmallow alone.”

“Hey, this is America. I got rights, y’know?”

“Says who?”

“The constitution,” he retorts, grinning. You roll your eyes, trying and failing to bite back your smile.

“Y’all better stop it,” Cleo says in her thick Jamaican accent. “I ain’t wanting any marshmallows going to waste.”

“You heard her,” you playfully quip at the blonde haired boy. He rolls his eyes at you. He’s smiling. The amber of the fire paints his face like an oil artwork. What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?

No, no, stop it. Stop it! God, what is wrong with you? This is just because you and Mark have been a bit distant lately. Yes, that’s all. You’re getting stuck on nostalgia. It’s a mind’s trick. It didn’t work before with JJ so who’s to say it will again. The two of you are friends - he’s been a good friend - and you don’t need to go muddying the waters. You punish yourself by staring into the flames and trying to make images of Mark’s face in the fire.

The night spurs on with drinks that wash down the sickly sweet snacks. You listen to the tales of El Dorado and laugh at the reminiscences of youthful madness when you were all in high school. It isn’t until you’re back in the bubble of the Pogues that you realise how much you missed it. It’s like rediscovering your favourite movie from childhood. It brings a certain comfort that few things can match. They ask about The Stirring Spoon and you recount the tale of how you came about with the idea, of how you got it off the ground. Nobody asks about Mark and you’re ashamed that you don’t feel the urge to bring him up, either.

You go for another swig of your beer to find it empty. The cooler by John B is empty too, upon investigating. You drop the lid.

“You guys got any more beers?”

“Probably some down at the fish and tackle shop,” Kiara tells you.

“Thanks,” you say, starting towards the dock. The further you walk, the more the vivacious chatter turns into a humming like the crying cicadas and croaking frogs and cooing owls. The water laps at the wooden pillars and you smile, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment as you walk. Nature is so wonderfully peaceful. The cooler is full of bait and chum, but there’s a small section for the beers. You retrieve one and drop the lid to find JJ standing in your peripheral.

“Holy shit!”

“Sorry!”

“What the fuck, man?” you laugh.

“Just wanted a refill too,” he says, shooting you a squiffy smile. His hair is dishevelled. He seems to wear caps less now, you note. You’re happy about that. In your tipsy state you can admit your attraction with less shame. You chalk it up to appreciating beauty the way one can appreciate a perfect sunset or timeless painting. To stop your staring, you open the cooler and hand him a can. “Thanks.”

“Hey, cheers,” you say, holding your drink out. He clinks his against yours. “To old friends.”

The two of you take a drink. Neither of you go to move back to the other Pogues (who are seemingly in some weird charades battle that is far from quiet). JJ gestures over your shoulder. “You seen the boat yet?”

“The H.M.S?”

“Nah, the new one,” JJ answers.

When he walks past you, you catch a whiff of his smell and it reminds you of home. You turn and follow him. He steps up onto the large boat. It’s painted bright green and in yellow paint, the name reads The Snapper. JJ offers you a hand and you take it, letting him help you up onto the boat. You feel your phone vibrate in the pocket of your shorts but you’re in no mood to check it.

“Pretty sweet, huh?”

“So sweet,” you agree, looking around. JJ wanders over to the main console and flicks on an overhead light. He glows beneath it. When he takes a seat on the bench, you do the same, sitting opposite. Sighing, you lean your head back against the brutal plastic. “This is the life.”

“Yeah? You miss the marsh?”

“I miss it all,” you quietly confess.

You can hear the rustle of clothes and the flick-flick of a lighter. The smell of cannabis drifts into the air. “Here.”

Opening your eyes, you lift your head to find a joint extended out to you. Smiling, you take it with thanks and have a hit, then a second, then a third. You haven’t smoked in what feels like forever. Mark doesn’t like the smell; says it makes him feel sick. You wonder why you stopped indulging in something you enjoyed just because of that, even on your own time.

“Thanks,” you say, passing the joint back. You ditch your beer can to the side. One poison at a time would be best in these sticky situations, you reckon.

“What’d you mean, ‘you miss it all’?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. You gaze off into the distance; it’s hard to make out much definition in the dark, save for some lights of houses in the far distances and the silhouette of plants and trees. “I feel like my life is so…‘same’ now.”

“Same is good.”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I keep thinking about what you said to me, the other day. About being secure but still living. What if…What if I’m not living?”

“Well–”

“--I mean, look at you guys! You went to El Dorado! You found El Dorado, and the Royal Merchant, and the Royal Merchant’s treasure, and the Cross of Santo Domingo. What did I find? A mouldy tomato in a box of potatoes.”

JJ cracks up and you roll your eyes. “It’s not funny,” you mutter, smiling nonetheless. You take the joint back and have another drag. Relief fills your system. The muscles in your face loosen along with your mouth. “It’s pathetic. I’m nearly twenty-one and I’ve been as far as Charleston and have about a handful of exciting memories to my name.”

“Woah, come on now,” JJ chuckles, taking the blunt back. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself? You heard what Mr Parker said: that Stirring Spoon thing is awesome, and that was all you. You’re feeding the community, bringing people together. That’s way cooler than some shiny fucking stones.”

“Meh,” you shrug. “Guess I’m just jealous of you.”

“Ha! Yeah, don’t be,” JJ sarcastically berates. A shadow comes to his face. Foot in the mouth syndrome curses you.

“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re good. I sometimes forget how bad it was too, with how things are now,” JJ admits. He smiles at you and takes another hit. “But I guess I didn’t fully let you in then, huh?”

“You think?” you jest. He laughs, thankfully, and you inhale the sweet scent of the herb. “Guess I just get stuck on the good memories from before. Like all the days skipping school to surf. And how the summers felt like they could go on forever. Or that time we broke into City Hall, or pranked Topper’s house.”

“Damn, I guess we did get up to a lot of shit, huh?”

“Damn straight,” you grin. Following the dance, you take the joint back.

“Well, I can think of some other memories, too,” JJ says. His grin is telling, tongue poking through his teeth. You bite back your smile.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“What?” he chuckles.

“Don’t! That’s dangerous territory,” you tell him. You point your joint at him. “That’s no man’s land.”

“Oh man!” JJ groans, tossing his head back. “Why’d you have to call it that!? You know that’s like calling a moth to a fire or whatever!”

“What?” you giggle, eyeing him.

“Telling a guy not to do something is the exact thing to do to get a guy to want to do something,” JJ argues nonsensically. You laugh, shaking your head at him. He holds your gaze and you feel your smile settle into your skin like footprints into damp sand. “They were pretty good memories, huh?”

“Yeah,” you quietly say. “They were pretty good.”

“Remember that time we did it on the beach.”

“Stop it,” you say, but there’s little conviction in your words. You can’t take his eyes anymore, the blue dragging you under like currents in a riptide. You look down at the joint and fixate on the way the embers burn at the paper.

“Or that time–”

“JJ, I mean it,” you say, your tone losing its humour now. You shoot him a look that you hope will put a pin in it. “We should talk about something else.”

“Alright, alright,” JJ surrenders, holding his hands up and all. He relaxes back against the plastic seat of the boat and you do the same. Your legs outstretch so you can rest your feet on the spot beside him. The two of you catch each other’s gaze and look away, chuckling bashfully like preteens. You take another hit of the joint and watch the smoke fizzle away into the night. “How’d you meet Mark, then?”

You glance at JJ. “A few months back. He’d just moved to Kildare and came by to The Stirring Spoon to help out, and we sort of hit it off.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” you smile. But it fades. The weed tickles at your emotions, pulling the wires as if to wreak havoc. JJ seems to take advantage.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie. You take another hit and shake your head, plastering on a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Sighing, JJ folds his arms comfortably over his chest. “Y’know, just cause I know what you look like naked don’t mean we can’t be friends now.”

Barking out a laugh, you shake your head. “There was definitely a better way you could have put that.”

“Probably,” he shrugs, grinning, “but it’s true, ain’t it? We can be friends.”

“Of course we can. We are,” you emphasise.

“So…That means that if you wanna vent about Mr Loverboy to me, you can,” JJ offers.

Laughing, you rock your head back and gaze up at the sky. The stars are out. They shimmer white and crystal in the abyss of the night. “That’d be too weird, I think, but I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”

“I just got one question. Just one.”

“Go on,” you reluctantly reply.

“Does he say ‘thank you’ after the two of you fuck?”

You burst into fits of laughter. It’s so sudden that it has you doubling over. Tears slip from your eyes and you wipe them away, looking at a grinning JJ. God, you missed him and his twisted sense of humour.

“He just looks like the kinda guy who would!”

“Oh my God, no!” you laugh, shaking your head. Catching your breath, you manage out, “no, he doesn’t say ‘thank you’.”

“Is he the sub then? Cause there is no way that guy is laying his hands on you without written permission.”

“JJ stop! I’m gonna pee myself!” you cackle, kicking your feet. JJ starts laughing too. You open your eyes and make out his face in the lowlight of the pier’s lamp. Wheezing, you catch your breath and calm yourself. “This is exactly what I was talking about.”

“I can give the guy pointers if he needs them,” JJ jokes. Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets just at the idea though and you point at him in another warning.

“Don’t you dare!” you say, trying not to crack up again. “‘Sides, he doesn’t need pointers.”

“Everybody needs pointers,” JJ says with a roll of his eyes. “John B gave me one of the best pointers.”

“I find that impossible to believe,” you snort.

“He did! It was a tip for kissing. Works like a fucking charm too, I’m telling ya.”

“Mhm, I’ll bet,” you sarcastically return. You glance at the joint to check if it needs tapping off, take another drag, and then look up to find JJ watching you. He hasn’t changed enough for you to forget what that expression means.

“You want me to show you?”

“Show me? How?” you say with furrowed brows. Something in the air shifts with your question. An unspoken thing, an unseeable thing, but something nonetheless. A nervous tickle comes to your throat.

JJ doesn’t reply but he slowly leans over the seat towards you. Your breath catches in your lungs the moment he enters your bubble, breaking some unspoken barrier, and your smile fades away like day into night. You feel as though you’re stuck in place, plastered to the seat, and you’re ashamed to admit that you don’t hate that you are. You’re ashamed that you’re not pushing him away, telling him to buzz off, laughing at his idiocy. You’re ashamed that you’re curious as to what he’s going to do next.

JJ’s close enough now that you can smell him. His cologne mixed with something sweet but tangy, like seasalt and citrus. Something masculine underneath, that has a primal instinct inside of you wanting to claw its way out. Your fingers grip the edge of the seat instead. Your eyes stare into his. You study the laps of green and grey in the sea of blue, mesmerised in the way the night sky reflects in the iris. His gaze darts down to your lips and you have no idea how this happened and how you got here, and everything is blurry but so, so clear from the cannabis as he leans forward, and you can’t move but you should move and you want to move but you don’t, you never want to move again, as his lips brush against yours just so, just enough for you to know that they have, that he has, that he’s real, but that he hasn’t, and that you can take it all back, and that it doesn’t count and it shouldn’t and you shouldn’t but–

Your hand clutches his jaw and you pull him in. His lips crash against yours in a breath. You kiss him like you won’t ever kiss him again. He sighs against you in the hurried mesh of mouths, groaning as your tongue brushes against his, tasting him for the first time in years. It’s like finding a childhood toy and it smells like nostalgia. It’s like eating a baked good and it tastes like a specific holiday. It’s like smoking your first joint and it feels like floating.

Until you’re not.

Your body falls back down to earth with a thud. You shove JJ away as if he’s flammable and you’re the deadly spark. Your mouth hangs open in shock, your eyes filling with horror, and the worst feeling you’ve maybe ever felt overcomes you so suddenly, you worry you might be sick.

Guilt.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. You lift a hand to your lips and your fingers brush against the damp of his spit that lingers, and it confirms that it was all real. “Oh my God.”

JJ’s lips move to try and formulate words but nothing happens. He looks just as stunned as you do. His eyes are wide, lips swollen, cheeks pink. Those three words bang about your brain as you take in the sight of him. It’s not at all unfamiliar.

Hot ash from your joint drops onto your thigh and you cuss, brushing it off. You toss the joint into the sea behind you as if it’s the culprit, the plotter, behind all of this. Then you’re on your feet and rambling out excuses.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I think it was - it was definitely the weed. I really should go, it’s so late. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I have no idea-”

It’s as you’re about to step off the boat and onto the wooden pier that JJ’s hand locks around your wrist. It freezes you in place once more and you want to climb out of your body and scream at yourself. Instead, you look down at him.

“You can stay, y’know,” JJ whispers. There’s a pleading in his eyes, a tenderness that you haven’t known before in him, and you finally know how Eve must have felt with that damn serpent in Eden. Temptation at its finest, dressed up in blonde, unruly hair and dreamy eyes and sculpted muscles and a graphic tee.

Mark.

You shake your head and snatch your hand free. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

And no matter how vehemently you tell yourself that you mean it as you hurry away from the pier and from the house, you know you don’t.

Cheap White Wine

The tart tanginess of the wine is sharp on your tongue as you take another swig. It’s late, or perhaps early, and the Chateau is illuminated by amber and orange from lamps. It’s raining outside as hurricane season rattles on, but you and the Pogues could care less. When you have wine, you really have everything you need.

“Come on, come on!” Kiara laughs, egging on you to loop your arm in hers. The two of you line dance together to an old noughties CD in the player. You swing one another around in a tipsy haze to the upbeat tempo. Pope and John B heckle and holler from the pull-out sofa, toasting their beer cans up in approval. You’re happy here, like this, in your bubble. As the song comes to a close on a major chord, you and Kiara giggle and take joking bows to your audience. You frown when you look around the room, not finding JJ anywhere.

“He’s on the porch,” Pope says, seemingly catching on.

“Thanks,” you smile, a little embarrassed that you’re that easy to read. Taking the wine, you venture out the door, closing it behind you as another song starts up. Kie’s cheer and begging for John B to dance is muted through the shutters and windows.

JJ sits on the sofa, a joint lit up, legs outstretched on the coffee table. He glances up at the sound of someone coming out and smiles at the sight of you.

“Hey. Can I join?” you wonder.

“Course,” he hums, shuffling a cushion in invitation beside him. You sit and lean against him, hitching your feet up onto the table beside his. He knocks one of his shoes against yours teasingly and you smile. Through the netting of the porch, you can make out the lashing of rain in the yard. It’s pitter-pattering is soothing like a nursery rhyme. You sigh and let your eyes slip shut. “Having fun?”

“Always,” you mumble, making him laugh. “You got any dreams?”

“Like sexy ones?”

“No,” you giggle, elbowing him, making him let out a few laughs too. “Like actual dreams. Ambitions. A wish.”

JJ takes a pause for thought. You have a swig of your wine as you wait, revelling in the sound of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and constant. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Your heart sinks with disappointment. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It felt as though every time JJ came close to pulling back the curtain and letting you see a glimpse, he caught eye of something that scared him and he slipped it shut again. He told you what he wanted to tell you and kept the rest close to heart. You weren’t going to pry his cards from his body to see them, but it would be nice if he showed you them once in a while. It felt like the more time you spent with him, the less you knew. You could guess things from small clues as if playing a boardgame. He hardly went home, never mentioned his mother, and his father came into conversation with a shadow. He spoke lowly of himself, presumed the worst before others could, and it saddened you how clearly he believed everything he said. JJ couldn’t see himself the way you did.

“I do,” you whisper, hoping it might entice him to share.

“Oh yeah? What’s your dream?”

“I want to start a kitchen.”

“Huh?”

“Like a community kitchen thing. Not a bakery or a restaurant, just a place for all kinds of food, for all kinds of people, y’know? A good thing, like that. My sister used to help out at a soup kitchen and…I don’t know. I always liked that.”

JJ squeezes your thigh in acknowledgment. “Sounds fuckin’ amazing.”

“Thanks.”

In the Chateau, John B and Kiara laugh and Pope speaks loudly over them, something teasing, and you smile. The smell of weed fills the air before you and blends in with the notes of your wine and the telling scent of JJ. You wonder if the smell of you affects him in the same way; if the flavours of your perfume haunt him when he can’t sleep the way his cologne does for you. Suddenly, somewhere in the serenity of the moment comes a calamitous realisation, like a rumble thunder breaking the rain.

You were falling in love with JJ Maybank.

Biscuits

Food poisoning. That’s what you’d told Mark. The heavy sickness that had sat in the bottom of your stomach like a boulder since last night lingered still. You hoped it was a hangover, but that passed with an advil. You knew what this was.

You only escaped the guilt in your sleep. The moment you returned home, you climbed under the sheets of your bed like a child hiding from the bogeyman. Sleep was the only reprieve, though it didn’t come easy, and the second you came to in the morning, the first thought in your head was the look on JJ’s face just before his lips touched yours.

Fuck.

Your phone pings with another message that is no doubt from Mark and you can’t bring yourself to look at it. It doesn’t help that there’s a framed picture of the two of you staring at you from the bedside. It was his gift to you for your one month anniversary, because of course Mark cares about one month anniversaries. You hadn’t gotten him anything; you had to make up some lie that it was late in the mail, and then run to the shops that night. Just further proof that you don’t deserve him.

Hello, hell? I’d like to reserve my spot in advance. Queen sized bed please, for me and my whorish ways. Much love.

When the phone begins to ring you groan aloud and send it straight to voicemail. You bury your head beneath the pillow and close your eyes, but the memories haunt you like flashbacks. JJ’s eyes. JJ’s lips. The way he tasted, the way he bit your lower lip just so, in that way that only he knows, in the way that he always knew drives you crazy–

“Stop it!”

Hello, hell? Quick update: I think I might be going insane, too. Just thought I should preface you.

Somewhere in your self-loathing, you manage to drift off into another restless sleep. It’s broken by a tapping on your door. Groaning, you force yourself out of the safety of your bed and wander to your door, expecting to find your mom. Instead, your head tips back to see the face of your boyfriend.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is thick with concern, brows knitted with worry. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Thankfully, you didn’t have to lie with that one. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to check on you,” he replies. He steps into your room and you make space, sitting on your bed. He closes the door behind him. “I tried calling but you didn’t answer.”

“Yeah, sorry, uh…I was just feeling really frail, y’know?”

“Oh, baby,” Mark sighs. He sits beside you on the bed and places his large palm on your forehead. His brown curly hair sits in perfect ringlets atop of his head. One dangles over his forehead, out of formation, and it reminds you of JJ. Just how you went from me to him, JJ had said. Were they that different, after all? “You got a temperature?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. You gently push his hand off your face. “I think I just need to sleep.”

“Well, I’m here to take care of you.”

“Really?” You hope the dread in your voice isn’t obvious.

“Course. You’d do the same for me,” he smiles. He lifts a bag you didn’t even notice he was carrying and shows you each item. “Mama’s homemade biscuits. She’s real worried about you, y’know?”

“I’m fine,” you insist, “just a bit sick. I think the worst of it has passed.”

“That’s good, then. I’ll make you a hot drink, yeah? We can watch a movie or something. You get cosy,” Mark tells you. You nod and try your best to smile. Mark leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss on your lips, and the sickness comes back tenfold. You want to cry the second he’s out of your room.

Mark is good. Mark is good for you. But what if you’re not good for Mark?

Chocolate Chip Cookies

“I don’t understand.”

You sigh, rubbing tiredly at your forehead. Bile lingers in the back of your throat but you swallow it down, alongside the feeling of self-reproach. This was it: the conversation you’d been dreading. The conversation that needed to happen. You’d rehearsed your words in the mirror like practising lines for a play. Journals and diaries filled with debate, as to whether you stay or bolt. But now was as good a time as any, and you knew in your mind what the right thing to do was. You can’t risk getting in the car accident if you step out of the vehicle.

“Did I do something?” JJ then asks, his voice weak, naked. You meet his gaze and shake your head firmly.

“No,” you breathe, “no, you ain’t do nothing, JJ.”

“Then I don’t get it,” he repeats, stronger this time. Frustrated. You knew none of this would be easy.

“Look,” you cut yourself off with a sigh. You shuffle your crossed legs, sitting on JJ’s bed in the Chateau in a way that you never have before, as if you’ve never stepped foot inside his life. “My parents are heading to Charleston for a couple months anyway, to stay with my grandmother and help look after her, and…well, maybe it’s for the better, that we have this distance sooner rather than later.”

“Distance?”

“You’ve been removed, JJ,” you mumble, hoping not to sound accusatory. “And that’s okay, I know you’re busy. I mean, you told me from the start that you don’t do the whole relationship-thing. But I don’t think I can stay, not right now.”

“Okay, is this some kinda joke?” JJ snaps. He gets to his feet and paces a few steps in the small throughway of his bedroom. Taking off his hat, JJ rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks at you, eyes fiery, expression hard as if to shield from the hurt that you don’t mean to cause. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I thought we were fine.”

“We are fine,” you insist. Sighing, you try and find the best way to explain yourself without giving it all away. “Look, I ain’t meaning that you’re a bad guy or that you’re damaged or anything like that. I don’t think that, not at all. But…How can I explain this?”

JJ takes a moment or two to calm himself as you hang your head and clench your eyes, searching for the perfect turn of phrase to make your thought process make sense. You find it. Lift your head, soften your gaze at the hurt on his face, and try your best to smile through the sorrow. This wasn’t easy for you either.

“You know when you see a tornado?”

He stares at you for a short while before nodding, urging you to continue.

“Things that like…They’re always so pretty for afar. So mesmerising, how nature can create something like that. Stunning, really. Epic. But then, you get too close, and you get sucked in. And it’s just chaos and there’s no way out of it without being broken.”

JJ nods again, pursing his lips.

“I think that’s what might happen here,” you whisper. “If I stick around.”

“I don’t get it. You’re saying I’m gonna break you?”

“No, I’m saying…I’m saying you’re not in a spot right now to give me what I need. That ain’t your fault, JJ, but I can’t let myself stay knowing that I’m gonna have my heartbroken. I wish I could - I wish I could just wing-it like that - but I can’t.”

There’s a pregnant pause that JJ drags out, staring at you as if trying to see into your head, searching for some lie. Sighing, he must come up empty, as he takes the spot beside you on the bed again. You test the waters, leaning against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his t-shirt. One of his hands lifts and strokes your hair, smoothing it down.

“I really do care ‘bout you, y’know? Like, that ain’t fake,” JJ admits in a hushed tone.

“I know, JJ,” you reply, just as soundless. “I just think you gotta figure yourself out before you can…”

“...love you?” JJ hesitantly whispers, after you lose nerve. Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Mhm.”

“You can’t love me ‘til then, either?”

Laughing sadly, you shake your head against him. He really couldn’t tell how much you’d fallen for him already, could he? “I don’t think you gotta worry ‘bout that ever, JJ.”

A soft kiss is planted on your forehead. “So…Just gotta do some soul searchin’, huh?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you hum. “But hey, I tell you what.”

You break apart from the comfort of his hold, tilting your head so you can look up, into his eyes. The pain in JJ’s gaze tears you like wrapping paper, and it’s worse to know it’s your fault, but you know that it’s the only way to save you both from further pain. It isn’t the right time, and that’s a shame, and it isn’t fair, since you’ve memorised the outline of him and drawn him into all your plans and daydreams. But you can hear it when you talk and feel it when you sleep together, this detachment, this removal of himself, that can’t come until he’s healed in a way that he’s far away from now. There’s something pulling him away from you, an adventure of sorts, and you don’t want to keep him from it. You want JJ to love you but you want him to choose you, too. And until then, you don’t have it in yourself to sit around on the sidelines, waiting for your heart to be broken. It’s like sitting a toddler in front of a plate of chocolate chip cookies but demanding them not to touch; the temptation might just kill you.

“What?” JJ gently prompts, bringing you back from your thoughts.

Your smile is sick with inner lamentation. “If you do figure yourself out, after some soul searchin’ and all that, then chances are I’ll still be here. So, I guess, if you ever feel like fallin’ then lemme know. You can catch me on the way down.”

JJ’s smile is beautiful, even when his eyes are wet with unshed tears. You lean up and press a fleeting kiss to his lips, but you don’t let yourself linger. If you do, you’re afraid you’ll never leave. You murmur some sort of goodbye, making an excuse that you should get going, and JJ doesn’t argue. He watches you as you stand, waves farewell with two-fingers as you leave, and you walk home with your heart halfway broken but more whole than it might’ve been if you stayed and tried to make this impossible thing work. JJ wasn’t ready to fall in love, not yet, but you already had.

Ham and Cheese Sandwiches

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I promise,” you reply to Mark, smiling reassuringly. You wonder if it looks like a grimace. It feels like one. Even touching him makes you want to cry, as you brush your hand atop of his on the table. Your feigned food poisoning was two days ago now but Mark was still worried for your health, likely because you were still acting so withdrawn and drained. It’s hard to sleep when you’re consumed by guilt and confusion. “Why don’t you see if Nancy needs a hand in the kitchen, yeah? I can work on the inventory out here.”

“You sure? I don’t mind helping.”

“I’m sure,” you nod. “I can come get you if I need anything.”

“You better,” he grins. He dips his head and kisses you and it takes everything inside of you not to pull away like a flinch. It’s not him. It’s you. You feel like you’re poison. Like JJ’s kiss has infected you and you can’t get Mark sick too. His brown curls bounce as he walks back to the building. You busy your mind with counting tins of soup. The Stirring Spoon had never had so many posters, so many new recipes, with how much you’d been trying to keep yourself busy. You picked up extra shifts at the Smoothie Shop to avoid Mark during the daytime, and you submerged yourself in your voluntary-planning work and ‘early nights’ to avoid him during the night. It wasn’t fair to him but you didn't know what else to do.

Well, that’s a lie. You know exactly what you should do, but denial is so much easier.

Ducking down, you grab another box of leftover soup from a local supermarket. They’d recently changed providers and all the old stuff had to go. You were thinking of making toasted sandwiches with soup. Grunting, you lift the box onto the table. The sun beats down on you as if the universe is punishing you. Good, it’s the least I deserve.

You can spot him anywhere, even blind. He’s in the far corner carrying a smaller box than usual, compared to his crate. A sudden wave of panic comes over you and you speed walk over to him. He frowns as you approach.

“You good? Hey!”

You grab his arm and drag him out of sight from the field, behind an overgrown bush. “W hat are you doing here?” you hiss.

“Bringing sandwiches?” he replies, as if it should be obvious. “Are you okay?”

“JJ, you can’t be here,” you snap. “Mark is literally in the other building!”

“So?”

“So? Do you…Do you not remember what happened the other night?” you ask, calming down slightly.

JJ sighs and puts the box down on the floor. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. “Look, clearly you spun out. I ain’t gonna mention it if you don’t want me to.”

“Wait…Really?”

“Jesus Christ, I ain’t a homewrecker,” JJ chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. You want to crack a smile but you think your face might be permanently stitched in perpetual concern forever. His laughter dies. “Listen, I think you got some stuff to figure out, a’right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get offended! I’m jus’ saying…” JJ cuts himself of with a sigh and brushes a hand through his hair. He pinches the bridge of his nose. You missed all his little ticks and quirks. “Look, don’t kill me for sayin’ this, I’m just tryin’ to be honest. I don’t think Mark’s the right guy for you.”

“I-”

“I’m sorry, a’right? I don’t think you want to admit it either but…I think you gotta be honest. You don’t love him, okay? And that’s a’right, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. I just think you need to make a choice.”

“What does that mean? A choice?” you quietly ask, terrified for his answer.

His smile is sad as JJ shrugs. “I was an idiot to lose you once, I ain’t gonna lose you again - not if I can help it. If Mark’s who you want - if Mark makes you feel like you’re living - then I’ll never bring it up again. Hell, I’ll stay away from you forever, if you want. Least, I’ll try to. I don’t know if I can be held accountable for when I’m drunk but- look, now I’m getting side tracked. The point is:”, JJ speaks with his hands, “if Mark isn’t the one for you…I’m here to catch you, y’know?”

You blink at JJ and blink away the tears. You’re not sure if you can form words right now, not even sure what words they would be, so you try your best to nod. JJ tries another smile.

“There’s some sandwiches from Kie and Sarah for today. I hope it all goes okay. Just…lemme know. Or don’t, y’know? Either way,” he trails off with a shrug. You feel cemented into the dirt as JJ backs away. Then he’s gone. Your eyes slip shut. Some weird hybrid of JJ and Mark’s faces fill your thoughts.

‘If you ever feel like fallin’ then let me know. You can catch me on the way down.’

‘I’m here to catch you.’

You need to figure this out and fast. It wasn’t fair to anybody, not even yourself. Dragging things out doesn’t make it any easier, it only delays the inevitable, like tediously inching a bandaid off the skin. Sometimes you just have to rip. You just have to prepare for the aftermath.

How ironic, how when you were sixteen it was you waiting for JJ to figure himself out, and now it’s your turn. It’s a shame you were never all that much of a fan of irony.

Cinnamon Buns

Baking is therapeutic. The precision of weighing out the ingredients; the cathartic relief from beating together butter and sugar until fluffy like clouds; the tapping and cracking of eggs; the rhythmic folding of flour; the soon-to-arrive reward for your labour. You like baking when life gets stressful. Few things are so systematic, so simple, so quick to resolve, as baking. Life is more complicated than that.

Mark and JJ. Two sides of different coins. Neither good, nor bad. Human, just like you.

As you prepare the batter for cinnamon buns, you try to make sense of everything. Figure yourself out, as JJ had put it.

Mark was designed to be easy to fall in love with. It was as if the universe had a recipe for him, everything the girls crave, the people fawn over in romance novels, the parents pray for in their child’s partner. Responsible; caring; thoughtful; kind; secure; safe. Mark was good. There was no other way to put it. Hell, you met him at a voluntary community kitchen. He gave you stability like a white picket fence. Perfect and practised, like he’d been waiting for that his whole life. But you found yourself restless in the fairytale. Found yourself itching for change, for chaos, for clutter. He was sentimental in a way you weren’t. That wasn’t to say you were heartless - the two of you just loved differently.

JJ Maybank? He wasn’t designed for it in the same way, but it was impossible to not fall in love with him. You knew it from the moment your paths crossed, back when you were sixteen and the two of you tumbled through two months together. That’s why you left in the first place. To save yourself from the inevitable heartbreak that it would bring, because sixteen-year-old JJ was in no place to commit to anybody. You assumed that with time your feelings would fade away and when you met Mark, you believed they had. You liked Mark - that wasn’t false - and you had feelings for Mark. But the love you had for JJ didn’t vanish. Like energy, it could only be transferred. It went into the back of your mind as if in hibernation but the moment JJ waltzed back into your world, it was awake. It was impossible to ignore.

Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist, but JJ was the acrobat. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car, but JJ was the driver. But JJ was safety too. He made you feel safe, but he also made you feel alive.

And you wanted to feel alive.

Mark was routine. He was predictable. You could see the next five, ten, twenty years of your life laid out nice and neat with Mark. But did you want that? Did you want to give up the adventure? The chaos? The things you missed so desperately.

As you drizzle the topping on top of the cinnamon buns, you summarise your scrambled thoughts into one neat realisation: you wouldn’t have kissed JJ if you truly wanted Mark.

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat as you walk to Mark’s house. The buns sit neat in the tupperware and you’re careful not to shake them. His door looks like a tombstone as you knock on it. There’s a noise from inside and the door opens. Mark smiles down at you. He’s dressed in a baby-blue waffle sweater and it’s so undeniably, so wonderfully him.

“Hey!” he grins.

“Can I come in?” you ask. It sounds ridiculous asking that when you used to sleep in this house almost daily.

“Course,” Mark replies. He opens the door further and you slip inside. It shuts behind you. You place the tupperware on the countertop, taking too much time in letting go. “You alright?”

“Mhm. I just…I think we should talk about some stuff,” you say, feeling your voice losing power.

“Alright. Come, sit,” he urges. You do as he asks and take the spot on the bed beside him, leaving a gap. “What’s up?”

You fumble your fingers together and stare intensely at your hands, racking your mind for the words, for where to start. You’d practised this so many times in the mirror. Childish.

“I did something and I need to tell you, because you’ve always been so good to me, and so honest with me, and it isn’t fair to hoodwink you.”

“Okay,” Mark faintly replies.

You take a steady breath in. Mark is good. He deserves the truth. “I went to see JJ last week, and one thing led to another, and we kissed.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sounds of the air conditioning unit humming as white noise. Then,

“Oh.”

You clench your eyes shut before looking up at him. He’s detached in his expression. Your eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mark,” you whisper, scared your voice will break if you talk any louder. He meets your gaze. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to be treated that way. You’re such a good, genuine person. I just…I don’t know why, but I just…I can’t love you.”

Mark swallows thickly. The tears are warm and sticky on your cheeks. It’s so selfish to cry when you’re the one who threw the punches. You hang your head with shame and watch the teardrops land on your restless hands.

“I swear I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I still had feelings for JJ until…Well, until then.”

“I did.”

Your head snaps up. He’s staring at you, but he doesn’t look angry. No. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips. A sad smile, no doubt, but a smile nonetheless.

“You did?”

“The minute you saw him, that Wednesday at the start of the month. I saw it on your face, clear as day. You never used to look at me like that.”

“Mark–”

“--That’s okay,” he nods. He’s crying too, now, and you’re not sure what to think, what to do. But Mark does. Of course, he does. His hands reach out to hold yours, warm in his clutch, and you blubber like a petulant child. “You’re not a bad person, Y/N. I could tell something was bothering you this past week.”

“I just didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t even know what it meant. But I have to be honest for the both of us, and I don’t…I don’t think I’m the girl you’re looking for, Mark,” you say through your tears.

Mark smiles solemnly and nods once. The squeeze of your hands tells you everything. I know. I agree. It’s okay.

“Do you hate me?” you ask in a moment of pure patheticness. Mark laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re too pretty to hate.”

“Ugh! You can’t say things like that!” you whine, throwing your head back. He laughs again, soggy with his sorrow, and he shrugs.

“Just got to keep my good-guy rep up.”

Laughing, you shake your head at him and smile. The two of you share a breath and he nods. A conclusion. His smile dwindles.

“I’m gonna need time, though…Before we can be friends, maybe. Just to…You know…”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I understand. Whatever you want, whatever you need. It’s all on your terms, I promise.”

Mark nods. Thanks you. It is so fucking bizarre to have the man you cheated on thank you but here we are. Life is full of strangeness.

“Can I give you a hug?” you wonder. Chuckling, he nods, and you waste no time in throwing your arms around his shoulders. Mark holds you in the embrace and the two of you savour the feeling of one another for one last time. Against his shoulder, you murmur, “I’m going to miss you, Mark.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he tells you into your collarbone. “JJ’s a lucky guy. But make sure to tell him I know where he lives if he hurts you.”

You tearfully giggle against him. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Bacon Sandwiches

It’s warm today; bright and brilliant. The critters are happy, chirping in the trees, croaking in the overgrowth by the water of the marsh that lines the Pogue’s house. Your footsteps feel heavy as you walk up the driveway, anticipating weighing you down. You lift a hand to shield your eyes from the sunlight and make out JJ. He’s at the entrance to the shop, stood a few rungs up a free-standing ladder. He’s trying to staple something to the walls - a banner of some kind - and you make your way over.

“Need a hand?”

He jumps and you cringe. Oops. JJ looks down at you and his lips quirk at the corners. The muscle tee he wears is grey and hangs loose on his well-kept frame. He’s armed with a staple gun. “Yo. What’re you doing here?”

“Want a hand?” you repeat, nodding up at the banner, not quite ready to confess. JJ shrugs and nods.

“Sure. Thanks.”

You glance around and find something that looks sturdy enough to stand on. Dragging it over, you boost yourself up and hold out your hand to take the other side of the banner. Holding it up against the wall, JJ leans forward and steadies himself with an elbow on the wooden panelling.

“We’re selling bacon sandwiches on weekends now, so thought we oughta advertise it, y’know? So, anyway, what’re you–” a grunt and a click of the staple gun, “-doing here?”

You step down from your boost and JJ takes your place. You don’t speak, stalling time, as JJ secures the banner. Sighing, taking it in, nodding with contentment, JJ jumps down and ditches the gun. The he stands with his hands on his hips and looks at you, shrugging again.

“I, uh…I needed to talk you,” you say, clearing your throat.

“A’right. What about?”

“Just like…” You rock your head back, take a breath, and steel yourself. Somewhere in that split second, you find a new mantra. JJ is good. JJ is good for me. I’m good for JJ. We’re good for each other. Smiling, you look at him again. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” he mumbles.

There’s a playfulness, a teasing, as you shrug. “That you’ll catch me.”

You can see the words as they process through his head. See the moment he tracks the meaning, parses it altogether. A smile, beautiful and brimming, greets you, and then JJ crosses the gap between you in two large strides. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in an embrace. He swings you around for good measure and you laugh, looping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, smiling against him. This is good.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” you whisper in reply. He carefully reunites you with the ground. You smile up at JJ, gazing into his blue eyes, bathing in their depths. Your hand strokes along his jaw, slides down his front until it rests just above his heart. “It was always you, JJ.”

“You think…You think you can love me now?” he nervously asks.

You shake your head with a silent laugh. It feels like breathing, like you’re finally free, as you admit, “I’ve always loved you.”

It comes and goes like a comet; the flash of shock in his eyes; the glow of his smile; the burning passion of his lips on yours. And as you kiss JJ, without guilt, without fear, you finally feel at home. When you break apart, short of air, JJ rests his forehead against yours. His thumb smooths along the soft line of your jaw and you smile. He takes a small breathe, shaky, unsure, but JJ's words are sure like bedrock.

"I love you too."

1K notes · View notes

notjustjavierpena · 10 months ago

Text

Swelter

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This happened because the SAG Awards made me horny. I have no other explanation for my behavior, no other defence. Maybe that I was listening to ur dad by VIAL. Obviously also a huge thanks to @strang3lov3 for being the cutest love bug I know, and for putting up with my brainstorming sessions.

Summary: You have a crush on Sarah’s father. It is summer, it is hot, and you just want a cold drink.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, best friend’s dad, significant age gap (reader is 19-22, Joel is in his mid-40s), SEXUAL TENSION, bee stings, groping, voyeur to some degree, f masturbation, dirty talk, an endless amount of pet names, sexy play with a soda can, praise kink, car sex, daddy kink, fingering, unprotected piv sex, joel’s cock is huge in this, creampie, premature ejaculation, pussy eating, come eating, squirting

Word count: 6.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54233479

Swelter

A warm Texas breeze blows through the open window of Sarah’s childhood room, making the see-through pink curtains move elegantly from side to side. It hits your back right underneath your halter neck as you lay on Sarah’s bed, caressing your bare skin and making you think of him. You wonder if his hands would have the same effect on you because you find yourself shivering but not from feeling cold. He is somewhere here, and his daughter doesn’t even know that her best friend obsesses about that fact.

Sarah hasn’t changed her room since she was a teenager. She told you this the first time she brought you here, which is almost a year ago today. You were here last summer too, thrilled to be invited to spend a few weeks of your summer with a friend from college and you and her have been inseparable ever since, even if you are so different from each other.

You have your face in a woman’s magazine, propped up on your elbows so you can suck on a popsicle stick whilst turning the pages. There’s a page with the recipe for ‘The Best Fudgy Chocolate Cake Ever!’ next to a page on how to lose weight, and it makes you snort.

“What?” Sarah turns on her chair, pausing the video on her computer.

“What kinda woman are you? You can choose one, but only one. Don’t get greedy now!” You make a scratchy voice but then pop your ice pop in your mouth to hold up the magazine for her to see.

“Seriously? We can’t win,” she groans dramatically, “Chocolate cake always. I just want to be happy, and that looks like a serotonin boost.”

Suddenly, the door opens without any warning. It’s him. Mr. Miller. You quickly remove the popsicle from your mouth, not about to show him how your lips are stretched around the sugary snack. The open door causes a draft to blow the smell of his cologne your way, and it is intoxicating beyond your imagination because you relish in it in secret.

“Dad,” Sarah says with exasperation, “I thought being an adult earned you the privilege of more privacy.”

“It’s gettin’ colder outside now,” he states and ignores her comment, hand resting on the doorknob, “The Adlers need Mercy to be walked, and the pavement’s coolin’ down.”

“I walked him when I was fourteen,” she furrows her brow and you suppress a snicker, “I’m twenty.”

“Just ‘cause you’re grown, don’t mean you can’t do right by ‘em,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Hi, Mr. Miller,” you say from your spot on the bed as Sarah fumes quietly, absentmindedly reaching to pull the short skirt of your dress down. He can probably see the start of your ass from how it has been riding up as you lay down on the sheets.

“Hiya darlin’,” he replies and you swear you can hear a restrained sound in his voice. He turns to Sarah again, “Get your butt off that chair.”

“Fine,” she follows through on her orders but still wants to argue, probably embarrassed at being ordered around by her father in front of her friend. She gestures to you, “And what about my guest?”

“She’s grown too, which means she can probably entertain herself the half hour you’ll be gone,” he dares wink at you, and blood courses through your veins.

“I’ll just get that assignment done while you��re out,” you reassure and try not to seem like your core is shaking.

“See?” Joel looks triumphant.

“You’d make a hell of a lawyer,” she deadpans at her father and walks past him.

When he closes the door and leaves you alone in the bedroom, you can feel your popsicle having melted, its syrupy water running down your fingers. You switch hands and suck the sticky fingers into your mouth. The action makes Mr. Miller’s image flash in your mind and you press your thighs together before getting up and finding your laptop.

You find that it’s near impossible to concentrate on proofreading your assignment in the tiny bedroom after just five minutes of being alone. It’s not that you can’t concentrate in the Summer heat but no matter what you do, your mind keeps circling back to Joel’s voice as he called you darling. It heats you more than the sun ever could, and with every tap on your keyboard, your mouth gets more and more dry.

Eventually, you push yourself to stand from your seat at the desk and make a decision to go fetch something to drink, and it is definitely not with the intention of accidentally bumping into Sarah’s father. Not even when you do not find Joel in the kitchen and decide to bypass it altogether to continue into the garage in hopes of being successful in your search for a drink (obviously).

This infatuation started last year. It took you about ten seconds - from walking into the kitchen and shaking Joel’s hand - to realize that Sarah was cursed with having him as a father. Firstly, he was outrageously handsome; always wearing washed-out t-shirts that clung to his shoulders, always smiling with teeth, sporting salt-and-pepper curls, and sometimes even shocking you by entering the kitchen with working gloves on. However, when he opened his mouth and spoke, a southern drawl dripped from his lips and made your whole body tense up. He was charming, respectful, and laughed at the right moments. Most importantly, he laughed at every damn attempt that you made at being funny, and while it was probably an attempt to be nice and make you feel at home, it spurred you on terribly to win him over at every opportunity.

Despite all that, those opportunities weren’t many. He was also cool enough to know that his daughter didn’t want him hanging around all the time, and so he spent many days either in the garden to mow the lawn in competition with the rest of the fathers down the street, in the garage to fix up some old truck, or with his brother, Tommy, and Tommy’s wife who always had some DIY-project going on.

Thus, the summer became one of tanning sessions in the garden, movies in Sarah’s room, stolen glances at Joel Miller whenever he came inside to quench his thirst after hard labor, and secret longing whenever he had kept away for too long.

One particular day last year, Sarah had failed to mention that her father would be home most of the last days you were in their house, and because he was always out, you were getting more and more comfortable with walking around in your towels post-showers or leaving the door unlocked when changing.

The particular event had happened in the morning when the house had been silent except for the kitchen where Sarah was preparing breakfast, using a large box of pancake mix and the whole fruit section of the local grocery store for topping. You had just showered, standing with your head in your suitcase to search for the last few pieces of clothing you had that were clean when there was a rap on the door and a pull of the handle not even a second later.

“Sarah, I need—“

You whipped around at the sound of a new voice entering the room. Your heart nearly burst out of your chest, feeling as though it was fighting its way out between your ribs as embarrassment began to flood your system. Even so, you stood too frozen to reach for something to cover yourself up.

Joel was in the doorway and dead silent, looking as if struck by lightning. Like earlier today, his hand had been resting on the doorknob and in the painfully short moment that the both of you were processing the situation, you saw that his grip tightened enough to whiten his knuckles.

And then it happened, the thing that had soaked you in forbidden desire and delicious excitement; his gaze had flickered down your body and taken you in for the briefest of seconds. His gaze had traveled from the hard peaks of your nipples to the shape of your hips and the softness of your young cunt.

“Fuck,” you heard him utter as he remembered himself and his self-awareness made you finally grab the top you were going to be wearing that day to cover up your quivering body. He slammed the door shut and spoke through it, “Christ, ’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Miller,” you promised but he was already gone. You immediately locked the door afterward to come so hard with two fingers on your clit that you had to hold onto the chair by the desk.

God, you want him to look at you like that again, want to tell him it is all for him. Now, as wrong as you know it is, you find yourself searching for an excuse to get him to ogle you and the chances are higher if he actually spends time with you.

“Hi, Mr. Miller,” you announce yourself as you enter the garage through the door in the kitchen. Joel has his head inside the hood of his truck, leaning over to inspect something that you wouldn’t understand anything about anyway. He grips the front side of the engine room to push himself to stand, closes the top of the hood of his truck, and turns around to face you.

“Hey kiddo,” he returns with a smile, “How many times do I gotta say to ya that it’s just Joel?”

“Alright, Mr. Miller,” you tease, “—I mean, Just Joel.”

You hear him laugh softly but you don’t dare look at him, afraid that you’ll spontaneously combust. He goes to the utility sink to wash his hands, saying nothing more and making you feel insane for coming apart in the silence.

“I’m just getting something to drink,” you explain when it becomes too much, “Sarah’s room is boiling hot.”

“That’s fine, take what you’d like,” he replies, and there’s a kind teasing in his voice. “But don’t touch the orange sodas. Those are mine.”

The concrete floor of the garage is cold on your bare feet as you pad across the floor where an old bottom-freezer refrigerator stands in the corner, humming in the otherwise quiet room. It has seen better days, and it seems like Sarah has tried to cheer up its weathered appearance by covering it in stickers and ugly magnets.

“Now I have to get one of those,” you giggle and pull the door open, scanning the contents and noticing that the sodas are on the bottom shelf. You hesitate for just a second, and then you choose to bend over instead of crouching down. Behind you, Joel Miller is completely silent.

In the beginning, it hadn’t been your intention to let the crush fester in your brain and turn it into something more but last week, during dinner out on the terrace, you had accidentally sat down on a bee and gotten stung on the back of your thigh. The cry you had let out had nearly made Joel tip over the table to get to you, his chair falling backward as he got up from his seat.

“Fuck! Ow ow ow!” You cried and hobbled around on the grass. The pain was unbearable but the shock only seemed to make it worse.

“Sarah, please get some ice and some antihistamines. There should be a bottle on my nightstand,” Joel ordered quickly and she rushed inside. He walked toward you, grabbing at your shoulders to ground you but his touch only heightened all other sensations. He dug his thumbs into you and your head swam, “Sweetheart, ‘tis just a bee, shh, calm down. I need to remove the stinger. Lemme see ya.”

“It really fucking hurts, Mr. Miller,” you said with a whine as he guided you to one of the loungers that Sarah and you had dragged out from the shed earlier that week.

“I know,” he finally let go of you so you could think just a bit more clearly, “Lemme take a look. Lie down on your front.”

You followed orders with the realization of how much you trusted his judgment, that he would treat you right, moving carefully because the flex of your thigh muscle was making the pain worse. The wooden lounger burned slightly against the front of your thighs, and you pressed your cheek into its slats while screwing your eyes shut.

The wood creaked behind you as he knelt on it with one knee and suddenly, his broad hand was perched on the top of your thigh in an attempt to keep your skin taut. You sucked in a breath but he only mistook it for more pain.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I can see it,” his breath was slightly quicker but you didn’t want to jump to conclusions, “He really got ya right on your inner thigh. Hold on.”

Your eyes shot open when his thumb ran towards the innermost part of the back of your thigh, a sort of panicked arousal spiking from your chest and thighs. He paused for a second then murmured something, a swear word that you tried to take as frustration. There was a beat but then he cleared his throat, “Can you bend your leg a little? I wanna make sure that I get it on the first try.”

“How?” You asked stupidly. The image of how he would be looming over your backside made your heartbeat go down between your legs, “My dress’ll ride up.”

“Just bend the knee a little, pull it towards your chest,” he explained and cleared his throat once more, “On my life, I won’t look.”

So you did as he told you, and sure enough, your dress betrayed you by crawling slowly up to sit around your hip instead of the middle part of your thigh. You looked back at him when he started picking at the stinger with his nails, and you hoped that he would not notice your gawking at his concentrated expression.

A flash of the day he had barged in on you naked flashed in your mind because his eyes were so focused on not staring at you that you nearly whimpered when you saw his eyes flicker to the spot of dampness between your legs for no more than a second.

You had worn white cotton panties that day so they would not be seen through your dress. They were straining against your pussy in this position and all he had to do was reach out, and he’d find your clit poking against the fabric from how excited you were feeling.

He had had the perfect outline of your cunt, and it’s the same now as you bend over to get to the very bottom of the fridge, reaching for a cold drink that just happens to be his favorite. You know that he can see everything, and the worst is that you know he already has. Twice. The mere thought is so dirty that your heart starts pounding in your chest and sends heat through your already hot body, so you hurry to stretch to your full height again.

With a cocky grin that is mostly put on to hide your anxious excitement about what you have just done, you turn to face Joel and walk to stand in front of him and his car. His cologne fills your nostrils again, and the scent seems once again to have a direct line to your cunt because you have never felt more empty. In front of you, Joel’s jaw is clenched but other than that, he seems a lot more calm and composed than you.

That is until you jump onto the hood of the car and scoot back, letting your bare feet dangle out over the edge. You crack open the soda in your hand and take a sip that is a little longer than intended. The satisfying burn of the fizz grounds you in the warm climate, but it is even more heavenly as you tuck the skirt of your dress between your thighs so you can place the cold can there.

Joel shakes his head with a sigh but you know he is playing a game as much as you because he cannot help but crack a smile back at you, “You’re trouble, I knew it the second Sarah brought ya into my house.”

“Oh, whatever will I do?” You ask dramatically and lean back against the windshield.

“Go morally bankrupt?” He raises a brow. If only he knew what is going through your mind. You catch him looking at you in the fashion that you have craved when you sigh deeply and cause your chest to push out.

“Only that?” You take another sip and some of the contents spill down your chin in a thick, sticky trail due to the angle you’re sitting in. You reach up to wipe it away with your index finger and then dare to suck your finger clean with the intention of mimicking the way that you had licked it clean earlier when it had been coated in melted popsicle.

“Give it here,” he says. You lock eyes with him. However, your eyes widen slightly when he nods at the can and takes it from between your thighs. There’s electricity shooting through your nerves the second his fingers touch the fabric of your dress but they intensify to a dizzying degree when he takes a sip of the soda too.

Like a reflex, the sight of him drinking from the can that’s been nestled between your thighs makes your legs fall out to the sides. You’re worse than an obedient dog in your horniness, reacting the same way to the way he moves as it would to the sound of a bell ringing.

Your dress rides up slowly along your thighs, revealing your sweaty skin that feels sticky by now and Joel clears his throat after briefly looking down. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and when you realize the effect it has on the poor man, you grab the hem and pull upwards, “It’s so hot outside today. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to the heat here in Texas.”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says and his face has got a pinker tint, pulse visible on the side of his neck. With his free hand, he grabs one of your knees and starts nudging your legs together again. He yanks your skirt down, “I know I’m always teasin’ ya but you can’t be doing this.”

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you say with exasperation and move your legs out again, “It’s just very hot… and it’s not like you haven’t had a peek.”

“Hey now,” he leans forward to place the can of soda on the roof of the truck, “That ain’t a fair accusation.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” you reply, chewing on your bottom lip, “But you’re not denying it.”

“Don’t tryna make me look like the pervert here,” he scolds, taking a step towards you and causing your stomach to do somersaults, “I noticed the way you went real quiet when my hands were on you.”

“What do you mean?” You furrow your brows in confusion, “Your hands were never on m–”

“Did that bee sting really hurt that much?” He clarifies. Oh, you think whilst he smirks with triumph. Something has switched in the air surrounding you, the atmosphere has become more daring, “Yeah, I saw her; your pussy wet f’me.”

It’s true. If you think about it too much, you can still feel your heartbeat in the places where he touched you, and the pulse is rapid and overwhelming. You can’t imagine what it'll be like if he touches you underneath your dress, even if it’s simply on the outside of your panties. The thought has your underwear starting to dampen, the fabric starting to stick to you, and make you painfully aware of the wetness between your legs.

“Did ya touch yourself after?” His eyes have darkened slightly. His pupils are dilating with desire for your answer, and you nod hesitantly, overwhelmed by the need to tell him everything.

“During my shower that you told me to take,” you confess and hear him make a sound low in his throat at the mental image, “I couldn’t stop myself— I wanted you so badly. The thought of you inside me...”

This is a crossroad, you realize, you’ve said your deepest secret of depravity. On one hand, you can bolt out the door or you can make a move to show him what you really came down here for. The latter is risky but Joel is so goddamn decent that you know that if he doesn’t want this - which you doubt is the case at this point - he’ll gently reject you and never mention it again if it means that his daughter will continue having a best friend.

However, as your mind races with scenarios of what could or could not happen in this moment, Joel pulls you back into reality as his hand, cold from gripping the can, rests on your knee again but this time, it doesn’t try to make you decent like before. Instead, it slides up under your skirt in such a slow motion that you find yourself holding your breath.

“Is this what’ll quiet down that mind of yours?” He asks in a low voice, eyes flickering from your face to down between your legs and back again, “If I take a peek more to get it outta our system?”

“What are you doing?” You ask as if you do not know. It’s your turn to be scandalized by bluntness, and you find yourself gripping his arm but not hard enough to signal that you do not want him to continue. You hope that he realizes that this is not you rejecting his advances.

“I ain’t doing nothin’ that you haven’t already silently begged me to do. Perhaps sometimes - and God help me, I will probably regret it - you just needa follow your instincts when a pretty girl like you has been sendin’ me heart eyes all week,” he almost sounds annoyed with you, and to stop yourself from being scolded, your hand loosens its grip on him until you remove it altogether. He smiles, “Good girl.”

“You shouldn’t—“ you feel a rush of blood to your head, adrenaline kicking in as your thoughts circle around the repercussions that this can bring. In all honesty, you had only walked in here to have Joel’s eyes on you but now, you are getting more than you bargained for and it is making you so turned on that your mind is clear and foggy at the same time. Boldly, you sit up on the car’s hood so you can reach for the buckle of Joel’s belt, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“You’re damn right we shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he agrees immediately but doesn’t stop. His warm and rough palms skim further up your thighs until they settle by your hips, his thumbs teasing the elastic band of your panties. He starts to drag them down, the fabric nearly snapping in two when you barely register that you have to lift your ass to help him.

His fingers unintentionally caress your calves as he slides the underwear down to eventually pull them off your ankles and feet. The sensation makes your body wake up even more, a gush of wetness smearing your inner thighs and you know that you have to pull your dress up soon if you don’t want it stained.

In front of you, Joel reads your mind. He shoves the hem of your dress up as far as he can without a word with desperation in his trembling hands, and you move to let him bunch it up around your waist so he has a full view of what waits - and for long has waited - for him.

When your cunt is revealed to him, he groans like he is in pain at the sight of the slick shining on your soft youthful skin. You can see how hard he is in his jeans, cock straining against the zipper at the front of them.

He looks like he wants to touch but hesitates. The first sign of his inner conflict. You remember that he did say just a peek as if there’s an unspoken agreement that he is not to cross the line of touching what he shouldn’t want to have. It would definitely be a nuclear decision if he chooses to do it anyway. It makes you want it even more, and another gush spills from your glistening slit when you clench from excitement.

Joel swears under his breath, something that sounds like fuck it and it sets it in stone; he is going to ruin you for eternity right here on his car. He steps closer until your spread knees bump into his sides, and without saying anything you move to yank his jeans and briefs down, settling them around his hips with a soft gasp as you take in the sight of his fully hard cock. He is huge. So huge that your mouth starts salivating like you’ve already been fucked stupid and your walls try to clamp down on nothing. It’ll hurt. You want it to if it means that you won’t doubt if it ever happened tomorrow.

“Tell me you want this too,” he seeks your reassurance.

“So fucking badly, Mr. Miller— Joel,” you say without any hint of second-guessing in your voice. You scoot further forward on the car and lean back so he has better access, trying your best to be elegant in your messy state, “Please, want you in me.”

“Jeez, honey,” his breath shakes, “Already so eager. I haven’t even felt if she’s ready f’me.”

With one hand gripping your left thigh, he uses two fingers on his right hand to slide through your wet folds and you don’t think you have ever been this turned on for anyone; when he flips his palm upwards and shoves two fingers inside of you, you feel more arousal drip from your cunt and pool in his hand. The longing you have felt since you saw him for the first time finds somewhere to empty all its desire and desperation into, and you whine like you’re in a state of agony.

“Shhh…” he soothes and curls his digits inside of you until you think you might start crying, squelching cunt trying to pull him further into you as he fingers you lazily. Your gaze drops to how his cock twitches whilst standing in the air, “You’re grippin’ me so good, doll, can’t wait to fuck this pussy. Don’t cry like that. Be patient.”

“Please, I’m so—“ your palms are flat on the hood of the car, your mouth hangs open in ecstasy and you stare down at where his ring- and middle finger disappears repeatedly into you, “It’s yours, please.”

“I know it’s mine, don’t gotta say it, I know,” he coos at each of your whimpers, gets you worked up until you are just on the brink of coming, and then he moves quickly. He pulls his fingers out of you, smears his cock with what you’ve soaked his whole palm with, and leans over your gasping frame to nudge at your quivering hole.

When he finally enters you, the both of you gasp in unison. He struggles with it for a moment, rubbing the skin just below your belly button to make you relax because he is so much bigger than you had first anticipated, and such a tight fit that you think he might split you in two.

“Goddamn, you are tight,” he says through gritted teeth, “Feels fuckin’ amazin’.”

“Ah,” you feel like letting yourself turn into a drooling mess already, pulsating around him from the way your body struggles to take him, “Joel, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, honey,” he encourages, showing no signs of pulling out of you to free you from the burn of his girth. He growls low in his throat as you struggle with it, and you know it’s because your walls are clenching around him as you involuntarily move, “Stay still, let her get used to it.”

“It hurts,” you whine, sliding slightly on the metal underneath your ass. He presses his hips forward even further and causes you to whimper but in doing so, he holds you firmly in place by using his strong frame.

“I know but ya just gotta relax,” he goes on. He places one hand flat on the hood of the car and then places the other right on your hip, thumb going inwards to find your clit. It pulses under his finger, trying to find out whether to find the pain delicious or not.

When his thumb starts going in circles on you, your thigh muscles start to twitch and flex from burning desire instead of uncomfortable pain. He presses down a little to stroke your sensitive nub with even more determination and smiles at his success when a moan slips from your mouth, “That’s it, honey. Just enjoy this until you’re creamin’ on me, and then I can fuck her real good.”

Your walls start to flutter a few seconds after the first new round of pleasurable sounds leave you, and the more his finger moves on you, the easier it gets to take him because the pain turns into nothing more than a dull ache in the background of ecstasy. He has you breathing faster and faster, and in return, he starts moving his thumb up and down to make his touches more direct.

God, your clit is hardening underneath his torment. He stares at what he is doing, an occasional grunt leaving him from how you involuntarily squeeze his length, and you know that he can sense it, suddenly smirking to himself as you near your climax. He admires the sight of you, eyes glued to the way the hood of your clit has drawn back, “Babydoll, look at that. Such a pretty pussy, clit peekin’ out and all. Does she wanna come on my cock?”

“Please, yes, oh please,” you nod repeatedly, mouth hanging open in an o-shape and breaths coming out in small puffs. Your climax is within reach, and Joel looks concentrated as he more than willingly hands it over to you whilst buried deep inside of you. The concentration on his face is probably from keeping himself from spilling inside of you too soon, but God, he looks gorgeous as he determinedly strokes your cunt.

“Yes, yes, yesyesyes— oh God, I’m… fuck, I’m coming!” You shake with pleasure as he causes your pussy to spasm, your hands barely able to find out what to do and making you grab at both the metal underneath you with one hand and his wrist with the other. Your eyes are squeezed shut but you do not doubt that he is staring at you in awe as you come so hard that reality fades.

“Good girl,” he rasps, voice unsteady and hand hitting the hood of the car as the feeling becomes overwhelming, “Oh sweetheart, you’re choking my dick so g—“

He swears quietly and then loudly, and suddenly, his cool demeanor crumbles because he is spilling his load inside of you with a pathetic and strained grunt. His hips stutter slightly and warmth spreads slowly inside of you, mixing with your own arousal.

You look down to where the two of you are connected, feeling fucked out despite not even having had the chance to feel him move inside of you. His come has started to spill from you already, dripping obscenely from your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hear Joel say above you. He slips out of you and leaves you gaping and mewling for a second, starting to take a step back. You catch him with your legs before he is too far away, and he reluctantly steps close to you again. He looks embarrassed but gives you a smile to hide it, “Felt too good, honey. This pussy’s makin’ me all sweet on you.”

“I’m that irresistible?” You grin in your post-orgasmic haze, not really giving a crap about the lack of a proper fuck from how much dopamine is coursing through your veins.

Joel takes hold of your thighs as they are wrapped around your body and lifts them off of himself, “You’re makin’ an old bastard like me weak in the knees, so maybe. Hah! Comin’ too soon like a goddamn teenager.”

“I liked it,” you admit without hesitation, still basking in the sweet afterglow, “Made me feel sexy and powerful.”

He scoffs but can’t fight the smile on his face, “Now now, don’t get cocky on me. Crawl back a little, spread ya legs f’me.”

You giggle and do as you are told, presenting yourself to him on the hood of his car. You plant your bare feet on the metal, lay back against the windshield, and smile.

“Now look at that,” he tuts as he admires his work; white ropes of come dripping down from your slit and onto the surface beneath you. He lays both hands flat on the car and leans forward, and before you know it, his mouth is covering your whole cunt and he eats from you like he’s paid to do it.

“Jesus,” you groan, throwing your head back and grabbing onto the roof of the car with one hand whilst the other finds Joel’s hair. You tug and he moans against you, sending vibrations through your whole lower body and beginning the first stirrings of another high. You don’t think that you can take it, squirming just like you had done moments earlier.

Joel makes a sound of disapproval. He scoops his arms under your thighs until he can lay his hands on top of them, holding you tightly against his mouth and causing you to cry towards the ceiling when he makes your second orgasm approach so quickly that nothing in your brain makes sense except what he is doing between your legs.

The hand on the roof of his car goes to his head too. You slide your fingers on both hands through his hair until they lay at the back of his neck, and then you yank once more at the curls there. His tongue works at your clit, swiping back and forth over it until you think that you might see God.

However, it doesn’t stay there. Instead, it is replaced by his nose so that he can eat his own spill straight from you by dipping his tongue hungrily inside of you.

“Joel— holy fuck, you’re incredible,” you close your eyes to concentrate on your pleasure. Who knew that the man could fuck with his tongue? He is warm and wet inside of you, slurping pornographically until you are clean of any remains of his come.

You are just about to finish a second time when he halts whatever he is doing. He pulls back only a few inches so you can still feel his uneven breaths against your cunt.

“No! Please,” your eyes fly open, you cry desperately, and throw your head forward dramatically. You want to thrash but he still has your legs locked in his arms, so you decide to pull out the big guns and hope for the best, “Please, Daddy! Pleasepleaseplea—“

“What the fuck did you just say t’me?” He looks up at you but you are too busy screwing your eyes shut in agony whilst whining for more. He growls and releases one of your legs, “I was already gonna make you a happy young lady but now, I’m gonna make you come so hard your little brain goes dumb. See how it feels. Impatient girl.”

His hand goes between your legs. He turns his palm upwards and then shoves two thick fingers inside of your pussy like earlier, curling them slightly and then pumping them so quickly that blood starts speeding through your system a second after and your heart rate goes so fast that you know that you are just about to come.

“Joel, oh my— fuck!” You whimper.

“Wrong word,” he replies.

You correct yourself immediately because there’s no way he is stopping again to chastise you once more, “Daddy, oh I— mhmm, I’m gonna come for you. Don’t stop, please, please Daddy, pleasepleaseplea—!”

He responds just how you had liked: He closes his mouth around your swollen clit and sucks hard, finally severing all connection to your brain and you come so hard that you actually squeal. Joel groans against you, feeling you squeeze the digits he has buried deep inside you. He draws back his fingers, pressing upwards the whole way.

Clear liquid squirts from you the second he pulls them out. The gushes that follow are so intense that the leg he isn’t holding anymore shakes so violently that the metal rattles under you, the car staining with your come. He repeats the move again and again, over and over, and watches the steady trickle down the hood and onto the concrete floor that turns a dark gray.

Euphoria courses through your being as you come in a way that you have never felt before. Your limbs tingle as warmth spreads out from beneath your belly button, your cunt pulses with eager pleasure, and you sob through the waves that crash over you without giving you time to recover from the last. The whole room feels brighter and its colors more vibrant.

“Shh, baby, let it happen, feels so good, don’t it? That’s it,” Joel coos at you the whole way through, guides you through it when you barely know how to use your words. He has straightened to his full height again but you don’t know when, and he has slowed his fingers down to tease out a few aftershocks. You whimper feebly at each one, and when Joel seems satisfied with what he has drawn out of you, he covers your whole mound with his palm to soothe the feeling of overstimulation that settles.

“Soundproof,” he mutters, once again reading your mind when you come to your senses again and start thinking about your noise levels with furrowed brows and eyes flitting from him to the garage door. Your heartbeat has started to slow again, and the relief of knowing no one has been able to hear you makes you slump against the windshield and breathe deeply.

The remnants of your orgasm have made you smile, your body slipping into a deep state of satisfaction when the anxieties have been dispelled. Joel moves his hand up your lower body until it settles between your breasts, still covered by your dress. He caresses your heaving chest, looking at you boyishly for the first time, “You good? Didn’t cause any brain damage, did I?”

“You think this truck has ever seen action like that before?” You joke breathlessly.

“Probably ain’t the first time I disappointed a gorgeous lady in its presence,” he says with an apologetic smile, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Disappointed? You’re insane,” you stretch your arms above your head to get some of the last bits of euphoria out of your body, trying to ignore the way he has just called you a gorgeous lady. He probably means nothing by it. As your stretch peaks, you moan gently, “I came two times. Hard. I’m not complaining.”

“Just saying that I woulda liked to do it… properly, I guess,” he talks as he stuffs himself back into his underwear and pants, most likely trying to feel the least uncomfortable about mentioning his overexcitement. Automatically, he steps back when you jump off the car to adjust your dress.

“This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing,” you try to act casual as you say it but there’s no way you are accepting the best sex of your life to be a thing you will never have again, reducing it to a movie merely playing behind your eyelids as a cruel reminder of what is unattainable.

“And when would we have time for that?” He asks, zipping up his jeans. He wipes his hands on them, “We can’t, honey.”

“We just did,” you mumble, picking up your underwear from the floor. You turn the panties in your hands, just about to bend down to put them on before deciding against it. Boldly, you stand in front of him and stuff your sticky underwear into his front pocket; closest to his crotch. There are extra pairs in your bag in Sarah’s room. He can have these.

He looks down briefly and then finds your eyes. His jaw clenches as he weighs his words, “When?”

“Aren’t you driving me to the airport on Sunday?” You smile and kiss his cheek, and then you leave him, your soda in hand and a mess on the floor.

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