#Tess Stone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bittercoldbrew · 2 years

Text

For Keeps

Ezra (Prospect) x OC (Tess Stone)

Gotta post this quick, while everyone's distracted...

Okay, so I wrote this a few weeks ago, but I've been dragging my feet about posting it here because it's definitely the steamiest thing I've ever written and I feel. weird about that. But uhh despite its adult content I am still quite proud of the writing I've done here, and I think some folks here might uhh enjoy it as well, so here ya go!

Takes place immediately following the fade-to-black in Chapter 6 of To Build Something New, so this is Ezra and Tess's first time together—probably helps to have read that first, but it's almost entirely smut so I doubt much context is necessary 😅

This is for 18+ readers ONLY. Contains sexually explicit content, oral sex, fingering, a very quick handjob, a bit more size kink than I intended (sorry Sam), lots of swearing, a truly excessive amount of italics and em dashes (fight me), and Ezra being Ezra.

Word count: 3.6k

“Why don’t we...start with tonight, and see where that leads us?”

“That sounds good to me.”

His kiss leaves her breathless, stunned. Ezra loves her, wants her, she can feel it in the grip of his big hands on her waist, in the heat behind his glittering dark eyes. She thinks of trailing fingers through melted candle-wax—just shy of too hot to touch, pliant and cooling against her skin, peeling away and leaving her smoother than before. “Ezra,” she gasps, and he buries a hand in her hair and draws her in for another scorching kiss, breathing her own name into her.

“Tess—”

His mouth is a furnace—she would let him melt her down, mold her into whatever he wanted her to be. But he wants her as he is, loves her as she is, and for that—for that—gods, for that she’ll give him anything.

“Fuck,” she gasps into his mouth, pants for breath against his chin, begs without an ounce of shame, “fuck me.”

He looses his breath like she’s struck him, rocks his hips up into her, slips his hand more securely across her back and cradles her head in his hand and calls her, “Wanton thing...” And then he lifts up and turns and lowers her to the couch, drawing her under him, sheltering her in beneath the breadth and strength and solidity of his body.

There’s nowhere in all the galaxy she’d rather be.

She wets her lips and heaves a breath and meets his eyes. “Please?”

“Fu-uck,” he groans, rolling his hips and pressing his hard, hot length against her in a way that makes her heart and eyelids flutter. He tucks the prosthesis beside her hip to prop himself up, lowers his open mouth and slick tongue to suck and nip at her collarbone, trails his other hand—hot and calloused skin, firm and gentle grasp—around the dip of her waist and over the soft swell of her tummy. “Gotta be patient with me, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough in his throat. “Ain’t done this since I lost the arm. —Need to get it right.”

She drags a hand through his hair, scoffs at even the suggestion that he could get it wrong—and then his fingers dip beneath the waistband of her shorts; he grunts in surprise to find nothing but her skin beneath them, his thumb seeking lower, gliding between her lips and skimming over her clit and delving into her wet folds—and the scoff gets caught in her throat, escapes as a desperate whine.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, and starts to push away from her. She cries out, makes a grab for him, but he catches her hand and shakes his head, drops a swift and soothing kiss to her ribcage, and clenches his fingers in the fabric of her shorts. “Shh, I know, I just—you gotta let me— Need to know what Kevva tastes like, Kyrie.”

She hasn’t even come yet; he’s scarcely even touched her. Already, he’s ruined her for all others.

“Ezra.” She hitches her hips as he drops to his knees beside the couch, letting him drag her shorts down as he goes.

He’s to impatient to pull them all the way off, so the elastic stretches to its limit across her right thigh and left calf as he wedges his chest between her legs and smothers his own face in her cunt. He is ravenous, insatiable, eating her out and drinking her down like she’s the last glass of water he thinks he’ll ever see, like he doesn’t want to waste a drop.

With anyone else, she��d be embarrassed by the slick, sloppy sounds he makes and the pathetic little noises she can’t rein in—but they seem to spur him on instead, both hands gripping her ass and tugging her closer with each desperate keen and—yes, wanton cry. He rubs his nose against her clit, licks and sucks at her wetness, scrapes the edges of his teeth against her sensitive folds to hear her gasp, thrusts his tongue inside to taste her deeper, lets her feel the rumble of his every contented sigh and satisfied hum as she buries her fingers in his hair and calls out “Yes,” and “Please,” and “Ezra…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, words muffled in her flesh. “Need you to come, baby, so I can—fuckin’ think straight. C’mon, sweet girl. Let me have it.”

She comes in a cascade of pleasure, every sensation of lips and tongue and teeth and hands building off of the other, core throbbing and stars bursting behind her eyelids, pulse thudding in her ears, and the soothing comfort of Ezra’s voice behind it all, purring, “Yeah, yeah, just like that, oh Tess…”

The couch beneath her feels like a dream, a cloud, letting her drift back slowly to terra firma and her tingling, loose-limbed body. She remembers the day she found it, walking home from a long but satisfying shift at the clinic, spotting the bulky piece of furniture on the other side of the street, jogging across to read the note pinned to its cushion—free to a good home. She remembers that sudden, striking epiphany—that she had one of those now; that she could be one, even. She remembers comming the man she was falling for, remembers the glee in his voice at the prospect of a tiny bit of mischief in service of helping her haul this thing back to her place, remembers sitting there waiting for him to come—remembers daydreaming about what it might be like, perhaps, someday, to fuck Ezra Sky on this couch.

“If I’ve found my way, at last, to Kevva’s gates,” he murmurs softly, resting his forehead against her hipbone and speaking the words into the dark, damp curls between her legs, “I most humbly beg your mercy.”

He certainly hadn’t been the first of her patients to recite the old Prospector’s Prayer at the first sight of her. She’s pretty sure he’s the first to ever repeat it, now knowing better and being neither dead nor dying. She knows without a doubt that he’s the only one to ever have spoken it like this—as though he’s worried more for her opinion than his own fate—as though she is, and could ever be, worthy of praying to.

From any other person, the idea would make her recoil. From him, it makes her want to return the favor.

She rests her hand at his nape, holding him to her protectively, possessively. “They can’t have you yet,” she tells him. A promise. A threat, in case any gods out there think they might try to swoop in and snatch him away before she’s done with him.

He lifts his head to meet her eyes, his crooked grin and heated gaze striking her breathless, even now. “No, they can’t,” he drawls. “I’m yours, Tess.”

She smiles at him, tracing her fingers through the soft curls at the back of his neck, relishing in the way it makes his eyelids flutter and his head cant into her touch. “Then will you please just fuck me already?”

He chokes on a laugh, drops his face into the crook of her hip. “I, uh—didn’t bring anything with me. Protection, I mean. But I can—I’ll give you my fingers, sweet girl, if that’ll take the edge off? Or I guess I could run to the store; be back in a tick, if you can be patient?”

Tess cocks her head to the side and frowns down at him, confused. “Sorry, do you think I wouldn’t be up to date on my bots?”

His head snaps back up, eyes wide with surprise. “Your..? I… Fuck,” he gasps, shaking his head with a sheepish, sideways smile. “I have got to start rememberin’ I ain’t in the fuckin’ wilderness no more.”

She can’t quite stifle a laugh, too amused by the embarrassment that is such a rare sight on his gorgeous face. She cups his chin in her hand so he can’t hide that face again, strokes his cheek with her thumb, and says, “I’ll remind you anytime you need it, baby.”

“...Yeah?” he asks, and the look he gives her is one she’s seen from him before, one she’s sure she reflected back just as often, but one she’s never been brave or reckless enough to give a name to. But she can’t deny it now—he looks lovestruck.

She’s sure she looks the same.

“Yeah,” she promises, and pushes up on her elbows to lean into him, and he lifts up from his knees and meets her halfway, lips crushing against hers and his tongue in her mouth as she throws and arm around his neck to hold him close.

He tastes and smells like her, the reminder of the pleasure he’d just wrung out of her setting her body alight, and she squirms to kick her shorts off the rest of the way and starts tugging at his shirt. His chest and back and arms she’s seen before, but she wants to see them again—see all of him—like this, with better lighting and better circumstances and all the time she needs to see her fill and the right to touch him all she wants. She wants to see as much of him as he’ll let her, for as long as he’ll let her. She can’t imagine ever growing weary of the sight.

“Gods, Tess,” he groans, drawing back and lifting his arms so she can pull the shirt over his head and toss it away. “I should—do this properly. Should carry you to bed, or somethin’.”

“Later,” she huffs, the word and the promise it holds echoing around in her own head as she slips out of her sweater and reaches for the hem of her tank top, starting to lift that off as well. “I need you now.”

Ezra curses under his breath and fumbles to help her, hands trailing against her skin as the last of her clothing is lifted up and tossed away.

He stares down at her slack-jawed, panting, his gaze hot and heavy and seemingly tangible as it traces over her, leaving her skin flushed in its wake. “Oh,” he breathes, the word leaving his mouth with a shudder. “Oh, Kevva has nothin’ on you, Tess. How—how are you so beautiful? How could you...want me?”

“You’re all I want, Ez,” she admits, grabbing his left hand and dragging it between her legs, letting him feel how wet she is for him, again, already. He seems dazed, stunned, but his fingers know what to do, sliding against her in a way that makes her chest heave, a moan hitching in her throat. And he watches her react to his touch, swallows hard, leans in and rests his forehead against hers, screwing his eyes closed and taking a deep, steadying breath—still stroking her.

So she slips a hand between them, skimming across his hipbone, cupping the hard ridge through his pants as his breath catches, hips rutting softly into her touch. “Ezra,” she breathes, trying to draw him back to her—but he responds with a low whine that makes her bite back a moan, his hips pressing into her hand more intently, fingers slipping lower, the thick, blunt tips of the first two just beginning to press into her.

“I know,” he says, still not opening his eyes. “I know I said we’d just start with tonight. But I’m not—I can’t… If you let me do this, Tess, it’s for keeps. I’ll be good, I promise I’ll try to be good for you. I’ll give you space, or time, or whatever you need, anything you need. But you—you make me feel adrift, Tess—like the only thing keeping me tethered is you and your voice and your smile, and, Tess, if you give me this, too, I’m done for. I’m all—all yours.”

“Yes,” she gasps, rolling her hips to take his fingers deeper, stroking him faster through his pants. “That’s what I want, Ezra. You’re what I want.”

“Shit.” He opens his eyes again, and his gaze is molten as it traces from her eyes to her lips and down her neck and over her breasts and along her stomach and down to her cunt where his fingers are now buried inside her, stroking deeper than her own reach, pulling slick sounds and breathy gasps from her.

“Fuck, Tess, I should—I should be better for you,” he mutters, distractedly, sitting up and fumbling at his belt with the prosthesis, kicking off his shoes, curling his fingers inside her in a way that makes her back arch, makes her swallow a desperate cry. “But I will—I promise I’ll give you my best.”

She’s pretty sure his best would wreck her.

She’s certain it will, once he gets his pants undone and pushes them down with a little hop, his cock jutting free, dark and weeping and bobbing against the soft swell of his belly, thicker than anything she’s ever had before.

“Oh,” she moans, incapable of anything more intelligent, grabbing his left wrist with one hand so she can pull herself toward him and reach desperately with the other.

He spits out a curse and shoves his pants and briefs to the ground and lurches toward her, sliding his hot and twitching length into her eager palm. It’s so much, too thick for her fingers to wrap around and meet her thumb, but not for lack of trying. She strokes him only once and earns a litany of curses and a cry of her name from his lips and a drizzle of precum on her forearm for her efforts.

“Ezra. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra, please, Ezra,” she begs, and he nods his head jerkily and pulls back from her with a groan. She makes a pitiful sound as he drags his fingers out of her, but he’s quick to soothe with feather-light caresses of his prosthetic hand against her inner thigh, the polished polymer smoothness a grounding comfort as she bites her lip and watches him smear his cock with her slick.

“I know, baby, I know you need it,” he murmurs, dipping his fingers back inside for a little more, sloppily coating himself with her. “I’ve got you, Tess, I’ll be good for you. Just—just—just give me a second.”

She’ll give him anything he asks for, give him every star in the sky if he wants ‘em, as he slides his hand along her thigh and around her knee, lifting her leg to wrap around him and spreading her open, nocking his tip against her entrance. She lifts her hands to his chest, aching to touch him, needing something to hold onto, feeling his muscles flex, his pulse thumping against her palm, racing in time with her own—as he presses into her.

She’s been so wet this whole time, this whole night, practically from the moment she’d opened her door to find him standing there with a bottle in his hands, concern and sympathy in his eyes. But still, he’s so big, trying to take it slow, take it easy on her, stretching her so deep it forces the breath from her lungs, pinning her hips to the cushions with both his hands to keep her from squirming or driving herself on him too quick.

“Fuck, Tess, you’re so—so tight,” he grits out, as if she’s somehow the issue here, bottoming out before she can mount any kind of coherent defense, his pelvis resting against her aching clit and leaving her breathless, speechless, incapable of anything more sensate than throwing her arms around his neck and dragging his lips down to hers. He groans into her mouth, filling her with his breath as much as all the rest. It’s a messy kiss, all tongues and teeth and gasping, and it may be the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

“Ezra,” she pants into him, trying to roll her hips but unable to with his weight on her. “Ezra, please, I need—I need you.”

He nods his head, dragging his open mouth against her neck, hot and wet, teeth barely nipping at her skin as he pulls out halfway—then just drops back into her.

She gasps, digging her fingers into the solid muscle of his back. “Ezra!”

He laves his tongue against her neck in apology, then lifts up on his elbows and gazes down at her, panting mouth and sweat-slick skin and eyes blown pitch black, endlessly dark. He pulls out for real this time with a cant of his hips, rolls back into her, sliding deep—then does it again. And again, and again, settling into a steady, eager rhythm that has her rocking up to meet him with every stroke.

“Tess—sweetheart—baby, you feel—too good,” he groans, shaking his head. “And it’s… It’s been a while, Tess, and I—I can’t—can’t last as long as you deserve, sweet girl.”

“Close,” she gasps, chest heaving, gripping his hand tight, dragging his fingers to her needy clit. She’s too keyed up—from the prior orgasm, and the way his fingers had worked her over, and the heft and weight and heat of him filling her again and again. “I’m close, please.”

He growls, nodding frantically, rolling her clit between two fingers—her back lurches up off the cushions, and he swipes his other arm under her ass, bracing himself on his knees and the back of the couch, angling her hips up and snapping his down into her. “Next time,” he babbles, “next time. Promise you. Tess—Tess, where—? Where can I—?”

She clenches trembling thighs around him, just in case—barely manages to meet his wild eyes and grit out, “Inside.”

Then the orgasm consumes her, every nerve ending sparking white-hot, the pleasure overwhelming, all-encompassing, filling her up and flooding out all else but itself and the throbbing of her cunt and the feeling of Ezra spilling inside her with a desperate, broken cry of her name—and then the sweat-slick heat of his skin against hers, the weight of him pressing her into the couch cushions as he all but collapses on top of her.

Somewhere in all of that, his mouth finds her, and he drags a line of wet kisses along her collarbone and up into the crook of her neck. She runs a shaky hand up the broad pane of his back and down again, relishing in the feeling of firm, strong muscle fully relaxed beneath her touch.

“Ezra,” she says—just to appreciate the sensation of his name in her mouth.

“Mnh?” His response is little more than a low, sleepy breath. She shakes her head anyway, not wanting to disturb this afterglow, not wanting to speak because anything she could say in this moment would be irrevocably, embarrassingly lovesick.

But he is, as always, ill content to linger in silence. With a groan, he shifts the bulk of his weight off her and props himself on his side to look at his handiwork, at the mess he’s made of her. The creases are deep at the corners of his smiling eyes as he lifts his hand to her cheek, smooths a dark coil of hair out of her face.

She hadn’t had time to style or fully dry it after her shower, with his unexpected arrival, and she doesn’t even want to imagine what kind of bird’s nest it’s become after all...this. But Ezra doesn’t seem to notice, tracing his fingers down her cheek with a slow, easy smile. “You’re so beautiful, Tess,” he breathes.

And because it’s Ezra—because he’s never lied to her about anything that matters—she can’t help but believe him.

And her eyes well with tears.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is a soft rasp, his brow wrinkling in concern as he brushes an escaping tear away. “Baby?”

“Sorry,” she gasps, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m alright.”

“Are you..?” He slides his dick free of her and cranes his neck to look, checking for any sign of blood. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she hurries to reassure, lifting a hand to his chin, guiding him back to her. “No, I’m just… Today was just—intense.”

He hums softly, keeping close, sort of hovering worriedly. “Was this...too much?”

She’s still crying a little, but manages to grin, leaning in and resting her forehead against his cheek. “No, this was...good. This was so good.”

He hums again, thoughtfully, trailing gentle, calloused fingers against her skin. There’s a warm, lilting tease in his voice, as he asks, “Only good?”

She huffs a watery laugh, laying her hand over his, keeping his palm against her cheek so he can feel her smiling. “Don’t wanna set the bar too high. I was promised a next time.”

“You were indeed,” he assures her, seriously, a little breathlessly. “And I do aim to deliver.”

“I know,” she says, pulling back to meet his eyes again, tracing her finger along the curve of scar tissue in his cheek. Fell out of a tree, she thinks. Not going anywhere. He promised.

“For keeps, right?” she asks, her smile fading, needing to hear him say it again, needing to be certain.

He cups the back of her head and draws in close—close enough for the tip of his nose to rest against hers, close enough that all she can see are his warm, dark eyes and the love and honesty and certainty in them. “For keeps,” he promises, his breath warm and welcome against her skin.

And because it’s Ezra, she believes him.

#ezra prospect x oc #ezra prospect #to build something new #oc tess stone #my writing #thanks queenie for kicking the bucket so when this gets like a total of 2 notes i can blame you and not my awful tagging/promo skills #anyway. anyway anyway. i gotta stop looking at this so up it goes #horrible fishbowl husband #god the search function on this site is really the pits huh #thanks st*ff for keeping me in unsearchable limbo for hours lmao #i seem to have actually made it into the tag finally so hopefully someone might actually read it now #-_-

3 notes · View notes

devilmademewriteit · 8 months

Text

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

TAGLIST (cont’d in reblogs): @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @kamcrazy123 @wclverine

2K notes · View notes