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#the bills keep coming huh
puppyeared · 1 month
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i have to say its a strange experience taking classes on branding and marketing while being vehemently anticapitalist and scorning the economic system
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billford but as in friends with benefits. billford but as in worst enemies with benefits. billford where they mean the world to eachother and would die and kill for eachother and would kill eachother but romance is not a necessary requirement for their relationship with each other to be one that consumes them both like a black hole
#original post#listen listen please understand that im not saying bill is obsessed with ford in Any kind of traditional relationship sense#im saying he is obsessed with ford the same way someone sees a weird little bug crawling around in their backyard and goes 'wow huh neat!'#he is interested in ford because he is very entertained by him and has fun spending time with him#he turns him into a golden statue in order to Personally Taunt Him because no other human has ever made a gun specifically to kill him with#because no other human has ever survived for 30 years in the multiverse before#because no other human has ever successfully installed a metal plate in their head to keep him out of them before.#ford is unpredictable and funny and cute in the adorable sense of 'cute' sometimes#he is Endeared by Ford. *That's* it *thats* the term.#He would hate to see ford die because then he'd never be able to watch fords antics and find out what his funky little human is doing next#but he would also love to see ford die because it would make ford really mad and bill thinks its really funny when hes angry#i dont know if i can think of a scenario where bill would die for ford. but ford wouldve died for bill prebetrayal#tbh maybe bill *does* genuinely believe it deep down when he says ford is special and better than other humans.#he is the only human to ever Swiftly Eagerly and Competently accomplish bills one and only dream of having a portal that he can come through#maybe bill is even Impressed by ford deep down in spite of his very very low capacity for how impressed he can be by any human#like. the ways he is interested in ford are Purely ways that entertain and interest bill#it is 100% Selfish Fascination#the same way ford is fascinated with the creatures of gravity falls but would not hesitate to put any of them in a cage!!#and there are plenty of magic creatures ford would not hesitate to kill if he felt it was necessary#*thats* how bill feels about ford. fascinated and endlessly eager to find out how fords funky lil mind ticks#but also sees him as ultimately disposable and just-a-puny-human#but the thing is. ford kinda *agrees* with bill on this. at the very least he does prebetrayal.#he is like 'wow bill is way cooler and smarter and is a higher being than any human will ever be but he still wants to hang out!!!'#the thing he was angry about was the fact that bill was lying to him about his motives and was trying to end the world.#i honestly think if it wasnt for the shitty motives and the lying. ford would hardly be upset at All about bill 'just using him'#like.... yeah the realization would suck because bill lied that he was there to inspire ford in general and not just to build a portal.#but also deep down. it seems like common sense that an eldritch interdimensional being doesnt reach out to mere humans just for Funsies#note: this is an early draft and my thoughts have changed in some ways since the time i wrote these tags
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el-im · 2 years
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Color of Night (1994) dir. Richard Rush
Now I finally get it--you are like my ex-husband. You think that everything’s gotta be either black or white cause you’ve gone colorblind! But God’s on my side. 
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classyrbf · 1 month
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OH NO, HE'S A DILF! — JJK MEN
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SYNOPSIS...who doesn’t love the concept of the jjk men as hot dilfs? so I've written some smutty drabbles about them
INFO...jjk men (toji, nanami, gojo, geto) x fem!reader, age gaps (reader is in their 20s and the jjk men are in their early to mid 30s), p in v, praise, pet names, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, jerking off, nipple sucking, choking, dirty talk, hair pulling, cowgirl, doggy, not proofread
OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated
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NANAMI
Nanami was a regular at the small diner that you worked at, coming in with his kid who was too adorable with his spiky pink hair and chubby cheeks. Nanami was always so sweet to you, apologizing for his kid’s outburst and constant requests for more apple juice. It made you laugh but it was no problem. He always left a good tip as well and when I mean a good tip I mean he tipped you more than the bill was itself. You didn’t take it as much but the the little nicknames started, him calling you ‘sweetheart’ from time to time. He was a handsome man, and from the looks of it he wasn’t married or had a girlfriend, so you were in the clear.
One day, it took in the bravery in you to write down your phone number on his receipt, quickly walking away embarrassed that you even did that. And when you came back, he didn’t say a word to you, but he still did leave you a huge tip…surprisingly. After your shift, you received a text from him, your heart beating in your chest as you read ‘you’re adorable sweetheart, maybe you should stop by later tonight’
“F-fuck!” You moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he continues to slam into your g-spot. You’re clinging on to him tightly, nails digging into his skin and scratching down his back, sure to leave marks.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he grunts, him slamming into yours as a rough pace. The little mewls and whimpers leaving your lips drive Nanami crazy as he thrives to bring you to another orgasm. “Feel so good squeezing around me.” Before you know it, your entire body is quivering beneath him as your orgasm rakes through you, broken moans filling his bedroom.
“Yes! Yes!” Your fingers entangle in his blond hair as he fucks you through your orgasm. “Please, please keep going,” you beg. Nanami makes eye contact with you, your eyes glossed over, fucked out as you were practically drunk from his cock.
“Tell me, was this what you wanted? Huh? To be fucked like a slut.” He doesn’t even allow you to answer before placing his lips on yours, tongues messily moving against each other as you moan into the kiss. Nanami would have no problem going all night with a cute and desperate girl like you.
GOJO
You were Nobara’s preschool teacher when you first landed eyes on her father, Gojo Satoru. He was a very handsome man, his most prominent features were his stunning blue eyes and fluffy white hair that reminded you of clouds. He had a charming smile, always seeming to flash you one when he’d pick his daughter up from school. The other teachers would gossip like school girls over him, even going as far as wondering if Nobara’s mother was in the picture. Little did they know that Gojo was her guardian and not actually her father, but they didn’t care, they just fawned over him.
It was parent teacher conferences and of course you wanted to discuss how well Nobara was doing in class, exceeding your expectations and quickly adapting to the lessons. She was a smart kid. Gojo walked in hand and hand with her, a smile on the little girls face as she waved hi to you. Obviously, you greeted Gojo as well. The entire discussion was positive, leaving really nothing to worry about or discuss. Though, each time his eyes laid eyes on you it felt like your heart had stopped. You really couldn’t get over how attractive he was.
“Nobara, go with Ijichi to the car, I’ll be there shortly,” he kissed the top of the little girls head as she took Ijichi’s hand. Gojo turned back towards you, a small smile on his face. “I got to thank you for being such a great, great teacher to Nobara, she talks about you all the time at home.”
“Oh, well, thank you so much. I’m glad! She’s a delight to have in class.” You let out a small laugh.
“I know this may seem weird, but would you like to join us for dinner? We’re having her favorite tonight and I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you there.” Gojo leaned on the desk, his voice was smooth as he spoke. His eyes landed on yours, your heart beating rapidly in your chest.
“I’d love to.” You nodded.
“I’ve been dying to know how this cunt taste.” Gojo slurped up your juices, holding your legs open as he devoured your cunt, tongue lapping at your swollen clit. It’s been an hour since dinner ended and Nobara was fast asleep. You were on your way out when Gojo asked you to stay, now here you were with his head in between your legs.
You covered your mouth with your hand, muffling your moans as he sucked on your clit. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his tongue prodding at your entrance, teasing you. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, you’ve been thinking about this too.” He looks up at you, two of his slender fingers making their way into your sopping cunt. “Such a pretty pussy.” He kisses your clit.
“S-shit.” Your brows furrowed at the sensation, your hand grabbing the back of his head as you forced his mouth on your pussy, his fingers pumping in and out. The tip of his tongue flicked up and down through your fold and on your clit, the pleasure clouding your brain. Gojo loves the way you’re gushing around his fingers, soaking the bed below. He could tell you’re already close, your pussy clenching around him. He lets out a low chuckle when you start squirting, a delicious sight to see before he licks up your juices.
GETO
You met Geto at a club, his dark demeanor and mysterious manner were what attracted you first, not to mention he looked like he was sculpted by the gods themselves. His long flowing hair, toned body, and deep voice was enough to get you going. Imagine your surprise when you found out he had twin girls. You were shocked, but now that you knew you were dealing with a dilf, it made it all the better. He’s experienced, older, charming, what more could you ask for? You didn’t think after a few weeks of talking he’d be quick to invite you over, claiming that the girls were headed over their uncles house for the weekend.
So that left you and geto to condone in whatever activities he had set out for you, which involved you in your knees giving him the sloppiest head of his life. “Goddamn, baby—shit,” he moaned, tossing his head back. Your tongue swirled around his sensitive tip, suckling on it as you smiled up at him before taking him down your throat again. His hand rested on the back of your head, his abs tensing up whenever he hit the back of your throat. “Fuck me!” He groaned. Your hand massaged his balls, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he bit down on his bottom lip. Geto hasn’t had sex with someone in so long, it’s like he’s virgin all over again. His breath hitches before he pulls you off. “You’re gonna make me cum already,” he chuckles.
You laugh with him, crawling onto his lap and sloppily kissing him, entangling your fingers into his dark hair. “Put it inside.” It sounded like you were demanding but you were more like begging. You wanted to feel him stretch you out so badly. Geto lifted your hips as he aligned himself with your entrance, his bulbous tip already warning you of how thick he was. You wrapped your arms around him as you sank down onto his cock, whimpers escaping your lips as he bottomed out inside of you. “You’re so big,” you gasped, still adjusting to his size.
“I know, but you can take it like a good girl, can’t you, baby?” He landed a harsh slap on your ass, squeezing at the plump flesh as he guided your hips up and down. “That’s it, fuck yourself on my cock.”
TOJI
Toji was a quiet and intimidating man when you met for the babysitting job. You were a college student low on money and you saw that this random man needed a babysitter for his son while he was away doing work. What could go wrong? To your surprise, nothing went wrong. Yeah, sure he was scary and always looked like he wanted to kill you but he acted the complete opposite. He gave you a warm welcome, treated you kindly and even bought snacks for you and megumi when it was your time to babysit, not to mention the pay wasn’t bad either. Megumi was a sweet boy, but very serious and nonchalant at times…maybe because he takes after his father. Either way, you’re glad he wasn’t a brat like other kids you’ve met.
As time went on, Toji seemed to be getting more comfortable with you, hanging around you more while you were taking care of megumi, watching the interactions between you two. You noticed the sparing glances he’d give you, catching him eyeing you up and down before walking out of the room. You’d be lying to yourself if you said Toji wasn’t attractive, it’s just he isn’t very social and seems isolated. Yet, you’d catch him touching your waist when he’d walk by you, casually saying, “excuse me.” He wasn’t slick.
After you put Megumi down for bed, Toji called you into his office to discuss some things and you were sure you were getting fired, but no, it was nothing like that all because here Toji was with his tongue swirling around your perky nipple, fingers rubbing your clit as you jerked him off. “Come here.” He snatched your arm, pushing you against the wall as he yanked your pants down, his rough hands massaging your ass. “So fucking perfect.” He presses up against you, his hard cock right against your ass as his snakes around your throat. “Say you want me to fuck you,” he whispers. He tilts your head up so you’re looking at him, your glossy eyes only making his dick throb harder. “Come on, doll. Say it.”
“Fuck me, please,” you said barely above a whisper. That’s all Toji needed to hear, sinking his dick into your wet cunt. You let out a gasp at the feeling, but pushed back against him out of desperation. “Toji,” you moaned, moving your hips against his. His hand squeezed your neck tighter as he began fucking you back, hips slamming against yours. Your fingers clawed at the wall in front of you, his dick reaching your sweet spot, repeatedly slamming into it.
“Feel so fucking good, doll. Pussy is so wet for me and only me,” he growled in your ear. “I used to stay up all night thinking about you, imagining how you look with my cock in you. And let me just say, you so pretty,” he let out a devilish chuckle. His words went straight to your pussy, clenching around him as he fucked you stupid. “Might have to keep you around. You want that, huh?”
“Yes!” You nod, practically choking on your moans. Your eyes squeeze shut, feeling the pressure into your stomach building as your body began to heat up. Toji unexpectedly carried you to the couch in his office, arching your back and grabbing a fistful of you hair as he roughly fucked you. “Mmm, shit, shit—Toji!” You squealed.
“Taking me so well, doll. Go ahead, cum on my dick.” He looked down at where you two met, a white ring forming at the base of his cock, slowing dripping to his balls. Let’s just say…getting fucked by a dilf was more than you imagined it to be.
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ohwowimlonley · 3 months
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ohhhh free use with poly!marauders would be something like the boys making it hard for reader to do watch a movie because they keep using her holes and passing her around. imagine the boys sitting in one couch and the reader is seated in remus' dick, waiting for him to cum until she is passed to the other boys 😵‍💫
Changed this a tiny bit to fit a bit better but here :) (btw its roommates!marauders)
Cw for free use/advanced consent
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You’re alone in your room, curled up in the corner of your bed, blanket covering your thighs as you finally start watching you’re favourite movie. It’s the middle of the day, so you’re the only one at home while the boys are out at work. See, you and your roommates had come to an agreement; they would go out to work and pay the rent and bills and buy groceries (and occasionally gifts for you), allowing you to spend your days as you please. In return, they ask for only one thing: your advanced consent.
Now, let’s not get silly here, you can always tell the boys no at any time, and they constantly remind you of that fact. All the agreement means is that they don’t have to ask you, and sometimes they pull you away from what you’re doing when they really need you. There are also a few rules in place. For example, you shouldn’t wear panties around the house (that is, excluding extenuating circumstances), and you shouldn’t touch yourself before asking for their help first.
Just as the plot starts to get good, your bedroom door creeks open. You jump, not expecting anyone to be home for at least and hour and a half, but relax when you see it’s only Remus. Once he determines you’re not in the middle of something vital, he pushes the rest of the way into your room. He doesn’t say a word to you just yet, just pulls his tshirt over his head and works on unzipping his jeans, pulling out his cock from his boxers and tugging on it.
“Rem! You’re home early,” you grin up at him, not bothering to ask him why, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s home. He makes a noncommital ‘hmph’ sound as he clambers up next to you, grasping at your him and turning you onto your stomach, letting your shirt rise up and expose your pussy to the room, still puffy from James using it this morning.
“Shush,” he grunts, but he doesn’t really mean it. He just wants to get inside you as quickly as he can, “boys’ll be home soon, wanna have you first,”
You go to respond, but Remus interrupts your train of thought by letting a fat glob of spit fall from his lips onto the folds of your pussy and follows it with scraping his fingers through the stickiness. He wastes no time at all before slipping his cock into you, not going slow like he usually does to let you get used to his size.
You whine loudly at the burn his cock leaves you with, and while he doesn’t slow down he does set a soothing hand on the small of your back and bends over yiu to press a kiss to the bcak of your neck as he starts up his fast pace. It doesn’t take long for you to get used to the stretch, and you let your mouth drop open in a long, continuous moan.
You lose yourself in the sensations, almost forgetting about the movie still playing in the background as your roommate manhandles you all over your bed, using his full strength to let out his frustration on you. Remus hears the soft click of the front door opening, but you don’t, so you let out a confused whine when he pulls out of you.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes, seating himself at the head of your bed and pulling you over his thighs, slipping himself back into you, “boys’re home, gotta make sure they don’t take my girl, huh?”
You don’t respond. You can’t, what with Remus slipping his fingers against your poor, aching clit. The door to your room is already wide open, so James and Sirius can see the two of you as soon as they get to the upstairs landing. James clears his throat and you whip your head around to see your two other roommates standing side by side, watching you take Remus’ cock. You make eye contact with Sirius, and he rolls his eyes playfully.
“Told you he’d get home first,” he jabs his elbow into James’ rib before taking his hand and sitting on the end of your bed with the other boy in tow.
“Your fault really, Pads,” he points out, then smiles up at you, shrugging his shoulders, “the boys were arguing this morning about who got to have you first when we got home,”
“I was gonna share with Jamesie here, but Moony’s a stinkin cheater,” the boy in question doesn’t pay them any attention, just renews his grip on your hips and brings them down to meet his own thrusts.
“Rem!” You protest, turning back towards him and putting your palms on his chest to keep your balance. You can feel him throbbing inside you, a telltale sign that he’s close, and thank goodness for that because you’re getting there too, and on days where they pass you back and forth like this, it’s best if you cum as little as possible in the beginning.
“Who’s it gonna be next, love?” James is always more careful with you, his voice always questioning, never demanding. This by no means indicates that he isn’t just as desperate as you. In fact, on days where it’s all three boys, theres never a time where he isn’t practically forcing his cock into you.
There’s no opportunity for you to even try to answer his question, because Remus is anchoring you to him and spurting his cum deep inside you.
Sirius goes to tug you from Remus’ lap, but he locks his arms around your back and prevents you from moving even an inch further away from him. Sirius and James let out grumbles of displeasure.
“Rem, honey, share,” you remind him. When he eventually lets you go, James gets to you first, “can I face this way? I wanna watch my movie,”
All three boys chuckle amoungst themselves, and silently vow to make it as difficult as possible for you to watch your movie.
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eufezco · 1 year
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UNNOTICED – JOEL MILLER x SHE/HER!READER
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SUMMARY – You said something to Joel while he was sleeping that didn't go unnoticed.
she/her!reader || pure fluff + english isn't my first language <3
Ellie passed by you and Joel and went inside, looking for something that you could use to lay Joel down. The man was using his last strengths to not give up in your arms and to keep walking until you both got to the house. One of your arms was around his body, your other one was holding the one he had around your shoulders so he could lay his weight on you until you both tripped and fell into the snow.
“No, no, no. Joel, come on, please.“ You tried to help him up again, but he was so tired and the wound on his stomach was dripping blood on the snow under you two. He raised his head and looked at you. He had to help you. You looked back at him with your eyebrows raised, begging him with no words to please help you. But he couldn't do it anymore. When you saw that he was giving up, you decided to shout Ellie’s name for her to come to your help. You and the girl managed to get Joel inside the house and helped him to lay down on a mattress to finally see what his wound looked like.
“Oh, shit-” Ellie gasped when she lifted up his shirt. Your heart felt heavy inside your chest and for a moment you could feel it beating in your throat. You shook your head, coming back to your senses. Ellie already had time to react. Her hands were pressing a cloth to his abdomen and Joel was groaning in pain, complaining even more when you put your hands on the cloth over his wound as well.
“Leave.“ Joel mumbled. You shook your head, still applying pressure to his nonstopping bleeding wound and not realizing that he was not talking to you. “Leave. Take the gun.” He repeated and grabbed Ellie by the neck of her coat and pulled her closer to him. You looked at him confused, still shaking your head, not believing what he was asking both of you to do. You still seemed to not understand that you had no say in this.
“No, no, no.“ You tried to make him stop talking, but it was like you weren’t there for him. Ellie looked at you, scared and not knowing what to say to Joel but he pulled from her clothes tighter to keep her attention on him. It was going to be easier this way. Ellie and Joel were the rational ones, they know shit happens and that life is not fair, but out of you three, you were the emotional one. You were the one that spent almost two hours locked in the bathroom of Bill and Frank’s house after you found out that they were dead, you were the one that went a whole day without talking after seeing Henry kill himself and his brother in front of you.
“You go and you take her with you. You both go north. You go to Tommy.“ Joel ordered and pushed Ellie away from him, making the girl fall on her ass.
“No. We are not going to do any of that. There’s no way we’re leaving you here.” You told Ellie while using the cuffs of your jacket to wipe away your tears. The girl was not paying attention to you anymore, she was looking at Joel, and Joel was looking at her. Like you, she couldn’t believe what Joel was asking her to do. Ellie stood up, the anger clearly visible on her face as her eyes did not move from Joel's. If that’s what he wanted, he would get it.
“No- Ellie, no!“ Her footsteps were loud as she disappeared up the stairs. “Why did you ask her to do that, huh?! What makes you think that I’m leaving you here?!” You yelled at him and got closer to his face, clutching his jacket in your fists. He couldn’t say anything else, his strengths were all gone to fight with you. His lips trembled while he looked at you out of the corner of his eye and Joel wished to die at that moment so that the last thing he saw was you. Even though if you had tears running down your face and you hated him for asking Ellie and you to leave him to die. You finally released the grip on his jacket as you gasped a ‘fuck’ and covered your face with your hands, trying to think clearly.
“Okay, let me see.” You got on your knees by his side and took his hands to remove them from the cloth covering his wound. Joel let your small hands compared to his cup his big ones before he linked your fingers together and caressed your skin with his thumb. Tears threatened to flow from your eyes again but instead of letting yourself cry in front of him again, you caressed his hand back. 
“Shit... okay- Use this one.” You grabbed a “clean” cloth and changed it for the already soaked-in-blood one. You heard upstairs the drawers being slammed shut and the frustrated sounds Ellie was making. Deep down you knew she would no leave but seeing her so determinate when she went upstairs really made you doubt.
You helped him to press the fabric into his wound. He was mesmerized looking at you while you talked to him with a soft voice trying to keep him awake. Ellie finally came back and it was as if you were seeing an angel carrying in her sweet little hands a needle and thread. You sighed and some tears streamed down your cheeks because of the relief. You were quick to wipe them off as you allowed Ellie to peel the fabric from his belly. You moved closer to his face and caressed his forehead.
"I know it's gonna hurt but you gotta hang in there, okay?" Joel looked at you with his lips parted and a single tear rolling down his cheek. You were quick to capture it with your finger.
Joel turned his head to you, his neck tensed and his eyes closed shut. Ellie wasn’t enjoying this either, she was biting her lower lip trying to control the trembling of her hands so as not to hurt him more. You held his free hand. His other one was squeezing firmly the girl’s jacket. You rested your forehead against his, “It’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay.”
He spent the rest of the day sleeping. Ellie and you never left his side, maybe because of the state of shock in which you were still in. You were ready in case something happened to Ellie, Joel would know what to do, and Ellie was prepared in case something happened to you because he would be there to take care of it. But none of you two were prepared for something like this to happen to him, it had caught you totally off guard. Each of you were seated at one end of the room, both of you hugging your legs. You couldn’t seem to take your eyes off Joel’s chest, making sure that he was still breathing. On the other hand, Ellie was staring at a fixed point. It was exasperating for you both not knowing what the other one was thinking but the lumps in your throats did not allow you to put it into words.
The next day you and Ellie shared the last bit of food you had left and decided to save some for him in case he woke up. You put your fingers inside the glass of water and let them wet Joel’s lips. Ellie checked his wound but it was starting to look even worse. The girl rested her head on your shoulder to have some rest and yours fell on top of hers. Ellie decided to go hunting, leaving you alone with Joel. You checked his temperature by pressing the back of your hand against his forehead and noticed that he was a little hot, so you decided to snuggle up next to him in case the blanket was not doing enough. You placed your head on his chest, feeling it slowly raise and fall, and you hugged his body against yours.
 “I’m lost without you, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to go- I can’t do this without you, Joel. I can’t- I can’t lose you. I'm not ready to lose you, please." You lifted your head to look at his sleeping face and you let out a sigh. His expression was peaceful, at least he was not in pain while he was unconscious. His lips were still wet from the water you applied to them before. This was probably so wrong but as much as you didn't like to think about it, you didn't know if he was going to recover from this. His wound was getting worse every day, what if this was the only chance you had? You stroked the hair growing on his cheeks and you moved your mouth closer to his. God, he was even prettier from there. "I love you." You whispered against his lips and pressed yours to his. You fell asleep on his chest until Ellie arrived with two bottles of penicillin and a syringe.
He was different since he woke up. Maybe he thought he needed to be different after everything that happened with David. You liked the grumpy Joel, but you liked this version of him even more. He had been so talkative since he got better, he even mentioned his daughter Sarah a couple of times which was a surprise to you because you saw how Joel reacted when Ellie mentioned his daughter back in Jackson. You asked some questions about her because you noticed how his eyes sparkled every time he talked about his girl. She would’ve loved you, Joel said to you and you almost fell to your knees because of how that made you feel. Sarah still was the most important person to Joel, and him telling you that felt like the best of compliments.
Ellie ran after the giraffe when it left.
“We should go with her.“ Joel said and you nodded, agreeing with him and with a little smile on your lips thanks to the girl being so excited over the animal. Joel looked at you out of the corner of his eye, your eyes were on where the girl had left. The man threw his rifle over his shoulder, ready to go once you caught him staring at you. You looked down, your cheeks getting warm as you walked by his side.
“I heard you.“
“Huh?“
“I heard you talking to me while I was sleeping.“
“Oh.. I don’t- I can’t even remember what I said, I was probably freaking out because I thought you were gonna die, so...“
Joel nodded, pressing his lips together, a sign that he was not believing what you were saying. “I also was conscious when you kissed me.” 
Was it better to deny it and make him think he was going crazy or should you face it? “I'm sorry, I should’ve never done that-”
“I liked it.“ Joel said and you raised your eyebrows. “I mean- I liked you doing that, it’s not like I remember much about it.”
“Oh.“ You said surprised. “Oh.” You repeated again after realizing. You didn’t expect Joel to get angry over a little kiss but you also didn’t expect him to confess that he liked it, much less that he knew that you kissed him.
"I also heard what you said." Joel repeated.
"I really don't know what you're talking about."
"You told me you loved me-"
"Okay, that's enough." You shook your head, annoyed that he was being so insistent about it. You started walking, leaving Joel standing there when he grabbed your arm. He was far from finishing the conversation.
"So you're okay with kissing while unconscious but you draw the line at saying I love you?"
"I told you that I'm sorry!"
"And I told you that you don't have to be."
“Then why do you keep insisting, Joel?“
“Because I know it's not something you said just for the sake of saying it. It’s not because I was dying.”
You narrowed your eyes. With a sharp movement you managed to get rid of his grip on your arm, not in an angry way but in a you got me way. You didn’t like Joel reading you like that, it was as if he could see what was going on behind your eyes, what your head was scheming but most dangerous what you were feeling, and when you were lying. “Have you always been this cocky? Or is it because you've had a near-death experience?”
“Has it always been so difficult for you to accept your feelings?”
“Actually, yes.“
“Even when they are reciprocated?“
“Yes.“
“Wow. You got some serious issues going on there, huh.“ Joel said ans slowly took a few steps towards you.
“You just told me that you liked me kissing you.“
“Is it not enough?“ He was getting closer and closer and you did not want to move away from him.
“No, it’s not. I-“
“You want me to say I love you too?“
You nodded and swallowed nervously. You were the cutest. Joel smiled and held your chin using his thumb and index finger. “I'm not going to ask for your permission either, is that okay?” You nodded to his question, feeling his hot breath against your lips and a tight knot forming in the lower part of your belly. You wanted to complain again and told him that you already apologized for that but his cute way of asking for your consent without asking for it had you wishing for the distance between the two of you to disappear. 
Joel finally crushed his lips with yours. If he was honest, he was a little worried that he had forgotten how to kiss after all these years, but just your lips against him, one of your hands resting on his chest and his big one cupping your cheek felt good enough. Also, you didn’t even have the chance to go any further than that because Ellie appeared, spouting the harshest words out of her mouth once she realized what was going on.
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sttoru · 8 months
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“BILLS, BILLS, BILLS.”
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༄ sypnosis. toji had gotten paid from a recent job he finished and decided that the best way to count the money he earned, was by having you ride him in the meantime.
༄ note. recent jjk episode made me a bit more crazy about this man than i already was… so uhm, yeah.. not re-read.
༄ tags. toji x reader. dom!toji, sub!reader. female reader. degradation, dumbification, implied creampies, unprotected sex, calls you names such as ‘doll, little girl, pretty (thing), slut’, spanking, toji’s an ass. fic goes straight into it. mdni.
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“whadd’ya say, doll?” toji hums absentmindedly, one hand on your hip and the other counting the money he got from a recent job.
“c-can’t— please.” your limbs were on the verge of giving out after riding him for almost two hours.
toji hasn’t even looked up at you once; his eyes were focused on his hard earned money. that’s all he cared about.
oh, and you looking all pretty while bouncing up and down on his cock of course.
“mm, that so?” toji murmurs with a grin, absolutely unfazed by your suffering, “y’know what happens if you stop.”
you did and you learned that the hard way. toji knows no mercy when it comes to punishing you— he’d call you dirty names, pound you so hard you won’t be able to walk properly and spank you to the point that you’ll be crying and begging for him to stop.
the only thing you could do in that moment was to gather all of your left over strength and continue to move your hips up and down his length.
“what’d ya say we get you a pretty dress with this?” toji asks as he waves a stack of money back and forth in front of your face; clearly taunting you.
you couldn’t even answer him anymore. your movements were getting sloppy and slow as you tried to hold yourself back from reaching your umpteenth orgasm.
“haah, mmh,” babbles. helpless babbles and whimpers were his answer.
toji clicks his tongue, creating a small disapproving ‘tsk’ sound, “use your words f’me, little girl.”
his big, rough hand slithers up your skin, from your waist to your breasts. toji puts one of your nipples between his index and middle finger before squeezing and pulling on the sensitive bud.
“c’mon. let me hear that whiny, pathetic voice of yours.”
a shiver runs down your spine the moment you felt toji pull at your nipple. your sweaty palms clung onto his chest as you tried to steady yourself on his throbbing cock.
“m’sorry..” you mumble between ragged breaths, trying not to focus on how well the way his tip was hitting your deepest parts, “i wan- wan’t.. dress.”
toji chuckles and shakes his head with a deep sigh once he hears you; you couldn’t even talk properly, “what a poor thing. fucked yourself dumb on my cock, huh?”
he pats the stack of bills against your tear-stained cheek while you continue to repeatedly push his length inside of your sweet, dripping pussy.
“poor, poor thing,” toji repeats in a low purr, his eyes roaming all over your sweaty body.
the sight of you being worn out from riding him, your slick staining his cock and his cum oozing out of your spent pussy with each thrust— it made him unfathomably hard.
his absent gaze lingers on your cunt and the way it swallows his dick all the way to the base over and over again. it was an hypnotising sight, that’s for sure.
“keep that up for another ten minutes, ‘kay?” toji grabs a different stack of bills and quickly counts the amount. his attention was once again averted from you.
your hips slowed their movements and your legs were trembling uncontrollably. your mouth was slightly agape and your own saliva dripped down the corners. you couldn’t take it any longer. not even for ten more minutes.
“t- toji, please,” you breathe out. that’s all you could utter as you grew slower and sloppier.
“mhm. i know.” toji coos with an understanding nod, though still not sparing you a glance as his fingers skilfully move over the money.
the dark haired man notices you slacking off more and more to the point that you’d almost stop all together. toji wasted no time and roughly smacked the flesh of your ass in response to that.
“that didn’t mean you could slow down, slut.”
toji’s eyes were still solely focused on his money and the expression on his face stayed the same, though the thing that changed in that split second was the cold tone of voice he used.
it always caught you off guard how fast he could go from a mocking, sweet tone to a straight up harsh and dominant one.
“sorry,” your hands were trembling as you tried to hold onto toji in any way you could.
you picked up your pace again— the repeated and loud sounds of skin to skin contact filled both of your ears.
you wanted to say so much more; to beg toji to give you permission to stop, to tell him that you couldn’t anymore, however it was like your body was under a trance. you just couldn’t stop chasing that addictive pleasure.
toji knew what kind of effect he has on you and that’s why he loves it when he can see you struggle to keep up with your own desires.
the way the needs of your body and mind clash and cause you to look like a mess who doesn’t know what she wants. you looked helpless; it was entertaining.
“you really should stop using that little brain of yours, doll.”
toji says, tone back to his usual mocking and condescending one, “a pretty thing like you should only focus on the cock that’s inside of her tight cunt.”
“tha’s all ya need to do.”
toji tosses the stack of money to the side once he finished counting it, only to grab a new one.
“twenty million yen.” he mutters under his breath, hissing a little after he felt you tighten up around him.
if toji wasn’t so determined to finish counting his money first, he’d have flipped you over on all fours and fucked you senseless for doing that.
your glassy eyes wandered to all the money spread out on the mattress— on the right side were the paper bills that toji had counted and on the left were the ones he still needed to go through.
it looked like both sides were equally filled, which was bad news for you since toji’d told you earlier that he’d only let you stop once he finishes counting every single bill.
toji smirked as he noticed you looking at the piles of money. he knew exactly what you were thinking of.
he leaned his face forward, one hand grabbing a fistful of your hair as his breath hit the skin of your ear. you could almost hear the big grin on his face as he teases you once again in a quiet whisper:
“don’t worry; there’s just fifteen million yen left to go, pretty.”
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REBLOGS / COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED.
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thelastofhyde · 11 months
Text
i. the likeability paradox.
pairing. joel miller x fem!reader
synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.
warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!
word count. 12.9k
hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it
taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​
read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )
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distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.
in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.
if anything, he’s made himself more empty.
rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.
an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.
this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.
“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.
somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.
she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.
she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.
which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.
“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”
joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.
“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.
frank is quick to shush him.
“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”
there you sit, parallel to him.
the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.
you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.
the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.
“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”
they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.
silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.
being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.
were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.
something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.
just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.
the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.
the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.
“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.
as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.
to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.
“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.
“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.
he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.
“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”
“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.
“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”
he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.
discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”
with you as its protector.
he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.
survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.
but i could keep you safe.
he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.
his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 
he never imagined her working in a bank.
bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.
joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.
but you weren’t smiling.
he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.
the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.
he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.
“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”
he almost chokes on his own breath.
i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.
“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.
the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.
he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.
“your watch, it’s broken.”
“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”
you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.
“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.
“i don’t keep it for the time.”
you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.
the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.
he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-
“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”
“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”
nature falls silent.
skies grow dull.
you juggle sadness.
there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.
joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.
“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”
“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.
“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”
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the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.
we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day
the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.
the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.
tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.
at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.
-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.
the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.
a protest rings true in his head and his ears.
was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.
it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.
“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”
he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.
neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.
“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”
you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.
late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.
“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”
“it bores me!”
“it bores you!?”
the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.
the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.
you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.
maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.
“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”
joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.
he does so, regardless.
“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”
“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.
you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”
this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.
“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”
he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.
and you’re the one to blame.
you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.
his own self being the first he’d need fight.
joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.
the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.
he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.
amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.
the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.
this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.
you take up no space of this room.
neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.
there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.
he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.
he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.
he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.
i don’t like you, joel.
those words stop him from trying.
he tells himself it’s for the best.
with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.
the refrigerator.
it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.
keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.
she never lived long enough to get either.
he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.
“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.
beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”
he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.
he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.
you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.
he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.
“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”
“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”
you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.
“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.
by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.
“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”
would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.
i don’t like you, joel.
of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.
he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
i don’t like you, joel.
over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.
and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.
only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.
a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.
you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.
“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”
if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 
he scoffs, “i don’t.”
“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”
“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.
joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 
what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.
maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.
instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.
not one bit.
joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.
he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.
“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”
he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.
the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.
the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.
“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 
it’s his turn to respond with a hum.
“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”
this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”
even upside down, your beauty is striking.
“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.
“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.
 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.
animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.
your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.
“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.
“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”
he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.
“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”
he doesn’t specify.
he doesn’t need to.
you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.
“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”
you say nothing. joel pulls harder.
“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”
joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.
“who said anything about an offer?”
the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.
a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.
the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.
smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.
your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.
joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.
you breathe in, you breathe out.
one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.
inhale, exhale.
your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.
“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”
where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.
lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.
curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.
in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.
the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.
delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.
his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.
“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.
“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”
you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”
“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”
“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.
as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.
it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.
“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”
he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.
but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.
cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.
rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.
it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.
so he does the same.
working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.
two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.
“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”
“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”
a tongue meets skin.
the knife clatters onto the counter.
you lurch forward.
his hand pulls you back.
“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”
the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.
‘could keep ya satisfied.
that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.
“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.
“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”
diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.
licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 
he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.
he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.
what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.
it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.
and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 
his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.
hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.
burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.
“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”
next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.
sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.
and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.
his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.
except, the oven door is made of glass.
glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.
 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.
the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.
“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”
you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.
fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”
you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.
he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.
you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.
your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.
the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.
“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.
he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.
“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”
joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.
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people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.
it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.
that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.
he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.
he hears you before he sees you.
“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”
he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.
the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.
so instead, it sends you.
peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.
the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.
“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”
a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”
“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”
you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.
“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”
“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.
pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.
you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”
it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.
so he tries again, louder.
“why don’t ya like me?”
“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”
he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.
"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."
"answer the damn question, girl.”
“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”
had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.
instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.
joel says nothing.
“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”
he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”
“a dress.”
“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.
“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”
unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 
“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.
neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 
his feet remain glued to the ground.
tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”
“she ain’t my-”
“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.
only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 
“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”
you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.
tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.
answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.
i don’t like you, joel.
it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.
till then, he needs to find a dress.​
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woso-dreamzzz · 1 month
Text
Pets
Hardersson x Child Reader
Part of The Big Adventures Universe
Summary: Rocky the Rock
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"Morsa," You say one random day off," Why does Sam have Helen?"
Magda looks up from where she's working on her laptop. You're sitting by the coffee table on the floor, cross-legged as you make your farmyard animals enact something that really reminds Magda of the book Animal Farm which is a little disconcerting but she's trying really hard not to focus on.
"Huh? Helen the cat?"
You nod.
"Well, Sam's got Helen for companionship. Helen's her pet cat."
That makes you frown a little bit. "Why?"
Magda shrugs. "Some people want a pet to keep them company. Some people have cats like Sam, some people have dogs or hamsters or other little things."
You go silent for a moment, you head bobbing up and down in a nod. "Okay," You say," Can I go play outside now, Morsa?"
Magda leans back in her chair to look out the window. It was meant to rain later on today and she didn't want you to get a cold but, thankfully, the sky is clear.
"Do you want someone to kick a ball at you?" Magda asks as she helps you slip on your coat.
"No thank you, Morsa," You say, practically vibrating to be let out," Just going to play."
"Okay. If you get hurt, yell and I'll come out, alright?"
"Okay!"
Magda types away at her laptop for a while as you play in the garden. Every so often, she drags her eyes up to check on you but you're just poking around in the gravel.
When Pernille comes home, you're still there and Magda is still typing.
"Where's Princesse?" Pernille asks before she drops down to steal a kiss.
"She's outside," Magda replies," Hey, Pernille, what does it mean when a kid starts asking about pets?"
"What?"
"Well, she was asking about why Sam has her cat. I said it was for companionship."
"Magda," Pernille says fondly," I love you so much sometimes."
"Sometimes? Not always?"
"You know what I mean. You're so oblivious sometimes."
Magda frowns. "Huh?"
"She's planting the seed in your mind," Pernille explains," So when she asks about getting her own pet then it's not out of nowhere."
"But we can't get a pet!" Magda says," We're moving soon!"
Pernille laughs. "She's probably angling for one when we go back to Germany. She's very smart."
"It's sneaky! Oh my god, are we going to have to start buying pet food?! And vet bills! I don't think there's a good vet near our new place and-"
Magda's mouth snaps closed as Pernille rests her hands on her shoulders. She's giving Magda a pointed look tinged with amusement.
"Magda," She says," Calm down. We're not getting her a pet."
"Oh." Magda blows out all her air. "We're not?"
"No. We'll be much too busy and Princesse's still very little. A pet would just add stress onto everything."
"But she wants one."
"And I want a three course meal and for Sam's whole existence to stop being a threat to Princesse's wellbeing but I'm not getting any of that anytime soon."
Magda laughs. Her hand reaches for Pernille's hip, dragging her closer until she's comfortably sitting on Magda's lap. "I can make you the meal. I'm not too sure I can help with Sam though. I can wrap Princesse up in bubble wrap though."
Pernille smiles. "You're so sweet, Magda." She cards her fingers through Magda's hair, leaning forward to steal a kiss like she did earlier. "You're such a good mother."
Magda rarely gets embarrassed about these things but with Pernille's weight in her lap and you playing in the garden, there are no interruptions. Her face flushes red at the compliments.
"The perfect mother for our little girl," Pernille continues, littering kisses all over Magda's face," You and her are so alike."
"I think she's more like you," Magda can scarcely gets the words out as Pernille bites at her earlobe.
"That's only because you're so oblivious. You and Princesse are more similar than you think."
"Well-"
"Momma! You're home!"
Pernille looks over Magda's shoulder to see you. Your hands are covered in dirt like you've been digging around in the flowerbeds again and you're pulling off your shoes, throwing them onto the floor.
"You look like you've been having fun," Pernille laughs," You're all dirty."
"Only a little," You say, wiping a hand on the front of your shirt," Where's my googly eyes?"
Magda frowns. She'd been preparing herself for you to ask about a pet, not about your arts and crafts supplies. "Er...Should be in the toy box."
"Thank you!"
You run off without even giving Pernille a hug, though she's secretly grateful for that because your hands look to be caked in dirt.
Magda sighs. "Is she going to start sticking those eyes on her shoes again?"
"I hope not. She nearly had a breakdown when they fell off last time."
Neither of them get an explanation about what you're doing with your googly eyes until way after dinner when you stand in front of them sitting on the sofa.
Magda takes a deep breath.
This is it.
It's time to completely break your heart.
"Sam has Helen as her pet," You begin," Morsa says Helen's for companionship."
"Pets are a lot of work," Magda says quickly, wanting the soften the blow," They take a lot of care."
You frown, your crinkle appearing between your brows. "Even the little things?"
"Even them," Pernille says solemnly," The little ones a very complicated. You have to feed them and clean out their cages."
You nod along before," That's okay. I've got one that doesn't need feeding."
That alarms Magda and she remembers how you were poking around in the garden all day. She wonders if you've managed to dig up a mouse or something from the dirt.
Pernille also looks suitably alarmed and her eyes immediately dart to where your hands are hiding behind your back.
"Princesse," She says slowly," Have you brought something into the house that you shouldn't have?"
You shake your head. "He is my pet," You say.
"Princesse-" Magda begins before her mouth hangs open in shock.
"His name is Rocky," You say proudly as you hold up a little granite rock from behind your back. You've stuck a set of three googly eyes on it. "And he is my pet."
"That's a rock," Magda says.
"Yes. Rocky the rock. My pet."
"Pernille, that's a rock."
"I can see that, Magda."
"I found him all by myself," You boast, puffing out your chest," I saved him from the cold and gave him eyes so he can see. He's my pet and he's going to sleep in my bed with me."
Magda can do nothing but stare with an open mouth as you show off your new rock.
"Pernille," Magda manages to whisper as you fawn and coo over your new rock," She dug up a rock."
"Yes, she did."
"She wants to sleep in bed with it."
"Yes, she does."
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stevenose · 8 months
Text
casanova (18+)
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day 3/31 of the august writing challenge [link]
today’s word: voicemail
contains: steve x reader; gender unspecified reader; steve leaving a very inappropriate voicemail while drunk; drunk!reader
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You stumble into your apartment with a giggle, reaching around with a drunken hand for a light. In the soft glow of it, you can see you have a voicemail on your recorder. You kick off your shoes and shimmy over. Falling on the couch, exhausted, you press play.
You have one new message and zero old messages. Thursday, August 3rd at 11:35 pm.
“Hi,” a breathless voice comes. It’s Steve. Your brows furrow. You were just with him all night - why on earth did he call you?
“I’m at the bar right now,” he slurs into the phone. “Well, y’know that. You’re here, too. Hi!” he shouts, and you vaguely remember it now, how he’d been waving at you from the corner while you sucked down a cocktail. You’d waved back.
“But I wan’ed t’give you a call,” he says, voice low, suddenly serious. “‘Cause ‘m so fuckin’ shy ‘round you when you’re lookin’ like that.”
In your drunk confusion, you have no idea what he means. It was business as usual all night as far as you were concerned.
“Blue’s your color. Y’know that? Makes y’look so delicious. Every - every guy in here’s fuckin’ starin’ at ya, honey, makes me see red. Makes me wanna…. Don’t even know where to start, sweetheart. Saw yer underwear when you were gettin’ in Nancy’s car. Could use to see ‘em again. You wear silk all the time?”
Your face feels hot, heart pounding rapidly between your ribs.
“‘nd your ass look- looks so goddamn good in tight shit,” he continues, his voice getting lower and more grumbly. “Would y’let me fuck it? Taste you? I know you’re tight ‘n hot. Shit. Should grind my fat cock ‘gainst you, show you what you’re missin’.”
Your hands are playing with your underwear now, in no way guilty for it. He should’ve said something. You’d have let him fuck you in the bar bathroom, make you a mess before shoving you back outside with your friends like nothing ever happened. This voicemail can be your dirty secret, too. You wonder if Steve will ever even remember it.
“Shit.” He sounds pained now, breathing in sharply through his teeth. “Some dumb fuck is tryin’ to grind on you.” He moves away from the receiver and you can only barely make out, “Doesn’t he know you’re mine?”
You’re properly touching yourself now, legs spread on your couch as you keep listening.
“Whatever,” he goes on. “Just gotta work on you a little bit, huh. Y’know I can rile you up, don’t you? You’ve heard about me, right? All I wanna do is get your lipstick sm-smugged on my lips ‘n my cock inside of ya. Wanna watch ya cum, drives me fuckin’ crazy. Fuck, he’s touchin’ you, I gotta go -“
And then the message cuts off.
You remember now that Steve had stomped over and grabbed you from a man that was unsuccessfully trying to court you, his big hand dragging you away by the wrist. Pulling you over to the jukebox and pulling his wallet out sloppily, one dollar bills raining down on the ground as he gruffly asked you to help him pick a song.
You laugh loudly. You’re about to call him, hand reaching for the receiver, when a call comes through and makes you jump. You’re panicked, hoping Nancy made it home okay as you pick it up. “Hello?”
“Do NOT listen to your voicemail!”
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swiftispunk · 11 months
Text
false god | frankie morales x f!reader
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PART TWO
pairing: sub!frankie morales x female!reader word count: 3.1k rating: 18+ minors dni summary: you’re instantly enamoured with frankie morales from the moment you meet him. as you get to know him, you begin to discover exactly what he craves from you. lucky for him, you’re more than willing to oblige.  warnings etc: smut smut smut, sub/dom dynamics, sub!frankie, soft dom!reader, slight humiliation kink (plenty more to come), pet names (mami, baby, honey, good boy), mami kink, praise kink, oral (f receiving, duh), orgasm delay, ruined orgasm, involuntary ejaculation, praise kink, hair pulling, slight pain kink, alcohol, mentions of implied mental health struggles, mentions of the US army (will only be addressing this is a very vague way), one could argue fluff - romance even. please feel free to respectfully correct any poor spanish. NO USE OF Y/N.
A/N: oh besties here it is. part one of what i hope will be a beautiful journey for all of us. spending this instalment getting to know this sweet couple, laying some groundwork, doing some introductory stuff etc etc fairly tame overall. but hang on tight bc it’s going to get kinky, honies. you’ve been warned.
also see the request where this all began 
You pick up on it the first night you meet him.
Your date’s been boring the absolute hell out of you, the conversation dragging and the watered-down drinks at the bar you think is called Boogie’s doing nothing to keep you interested in his attempts at flattery. He hasn’t even asked you to dance. At Boogie’s. 
Your eyes have been fixed on another man all night anyway. Messy brown curls tucked under a cap, patchy beard and dark eyes that seem to keep finding yours at every turn - that’s the man you want to be sitting across from. And it seems the feeling is mutual. Not even the group of men he shares a table with, clearly old friends, seem to be enough to hold his attention. 
Eventually you tell your date to fuck off, more than happy to pay up your half of the bill if it means you get to be rid of him. It doesn’t take long after that for the other, more enticing, man’s friends to leave, and even less time after that for him to saunter over to you, confident but careful as he sits himself down at the booth across from you.
You can remember a lot of that conversation - it builds the foundation for a special kind of love. The kind that lasts. 
“Your friend’s finally give up on you?” you begin.
“I was kinda itchin’ to get rid of them actually,” he admits. You’d assumed as much, of course but still - 
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he smirks, eyes flitting down to the nearly-empty pint glass in his hands. Nervous, you realize. “It’s just - I saw you over here and...did your date leave?”
You smile. He must have been watching you a long time. 
“It wasn’t working out,” you tell him with a shrug and a sip of your vodka soda. “I told him to get lost.”
“That bad, huh?”
“He was boring.”
“Well, his loss. What’s it take to hold your attention, hermosa?”
Looking back, that’s definitely one of the first signs.
“You’ve been doing a pretty good job of it,” you say with a toast of your glass and he positively beams. 
The next sign comes much more explicitly later in the conversation. By now, you’ve learned his name is Francisco, preferably Frankie. You’re charmed by his earnest brown eyes and all his endearing little mannerisms, like the way his hand sometimes scrapes over his beard when he talks, or the way he occasionally lifts his cap off his head to run his thick fingers through those unruly curls.
You’re thoroughly enjoying talking with him, letting him buy you a drink and chat your ear off about the men he’d been there with that night - all former Delta Force, just like him, you discover - while you share with him more of the horrors of your mind-numbing date.
“How am I doing?” he checks in when you mention the other man. “Not bored of me yet, I hope?”
You grin, noting the insecurity he so clearly carries under that thin layer of bravado.
“You’re doing good, Frankie. Do you like being told that?”
He nearly chokes around a mouthful of beer, ears and cheeks burning red while he fights to regain his composure.
"I mean, a little reassurance never hurts, right?” he attempts to play it off, but it’s too late. You clock the sign.
“Well, if you really want to impress me, you could ask me to dance,” you tell him.
You don’t have to ask twice. Frankie downs what’s left of his drink without another word, escorting you to the dancefloor with an outstretched hand. 
You share your first kiss there, a giddy, unhurried, perfect thing as your bodies intertwine under multicoloured lights. 
You take him home that night, or at least, you make it as far as the backseat of his truck before you’re tearing into each other. It’s a strangely fitting start to your story, you think.
-
The first few times you sleep with Frankie...well, it wouldn’t exactly be fair to call them average - but they’re nothing compared to now. It’s good, of course - always insanely, ridiculously good. Hell, Frankie’s the most generous lover you’ve ever been with. You learn quickly how much he adores taking care of you, eager to eat you out every chance he gets and reveling in making you come as many times as he can. 
Frankie is also heartbreakingly complimentary, worshipping you inside and outside of the bedroom, more than any man you’ve ever dated. He’s constantly telling you how beautiful you are, how sexy he finds you; he’s the first to say “I love you,” after just one month. And you don’t even mind because you feel it too. 
He’s candid with you about his past, the guilt he carries from his military days and all the battles he’s fought since then. It doesn’t frighten you to know what he’s done because you see him for the person he is; you see his strength, his intelligence, his doubt, his sense of humour. More than all of that, you see his devotion.
He’s so amiable and accommodating when he fucks you, keen to ask permission for just about anything. You love it. You love him. You love his attention to detail and how valued he makes you feel. It’s easily the best sex you’ve ever had - and it just keeps getting better.
Because it’s also around that one month milestone that he drops another very clear sign.
He’s buried between your legs, naturally, tongue greedily lapping at your cunt, hooked nose curved over your clit while his big hands splay out on the backs of your thighs. He’s so good at it, eating your pussy with such tender precision that you’d be able to tell he loved it even if he didn’t tell you all the fucking time.
Your hands are in his hair, gently combing through his curls while his mouth sucks and puckers over your folds, eliciting obscene little moans from you with each masterful stroke of his perfect tongue.
“Baby...” Frankie whispers when he comes up for air, teeth and lips grazing over your inner thigh, eyes hooded over, jaw slack. Totally gone.
“What’s up, Frankie, honey?” you ask breathlessly, softly caressing his scalp, while Frankie moans lowly at the feeling.
“You can...you can pull my hair,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed, lips dragging their way back over your mound. “You can be - rough, if you want. I like it.”
Your breath leaves you in a quick huff when his lips find your pussy again, heart skipping a beat as you ponder his request. Although you don’t have to think about it for long; you could never say no to him.
So, while he works his expert tongue over you in languid licks, you tighten your grip in his hair, fingers tugging deliberately at the thick locks. Frankie moans.
“Harder,” he pleads then. “Make it - you can make it hurt.”
Your lips fall open but Frankie isn’t looking at you, too consumed with his work, focused on bringing you to your second orgasm of the night.  
You're a bit nervous to hurt him but you know he wouldn’t lie about it being something he enjoys. Plus, you think it’s only fair that he should get to feel just as good as he always makes you feel. And if this would do that, you’re more than happy to oblige. 
So you pull at the strands harder, coiling your fingers through the thick mess of hair and relishing at the way it makes Frankie whimper against you, vibrations sending sparks flying to your core as a tightness constricts in your tummy.
“Frankie - shit - I’m gonna come,” you warn him.
Frankie whines against you. “Pull hard when you come, baby - make me feel it -  please,” he begs between hungry circular motions of his tongue over your clit, coaxing you over the edge.
You moan in unison with Frankie when you come, arching up into his mouth and yanking roughly at his curls with forceful little fists, hard enough to make tears prick at his eyes.
Frankie’s cock cries too, you notice, little drops of precum spilling out onto sheets under him as he looks up at you from between your legs with a crooked smile and a faraway gaze. 
-
The next time, a couple weeks later, is what really sets things in stone.
This time, Frankie’s mouth is on yours, kissing you with gentle care while his fingers hook inside your cunt, lying beside you in just his boxers. He’s already made you come twice with his mouth, his fingers now moving in and out of you slowly so as not to overwhelm your senses too much. His lips trail lazily from your mouth, up your jaw and along your neck till he finds your ear, nipping lightly at the earlobe while his fingers, now coated in your wetness, begin to circle your clit.
You’re aware of his hard cock straining against the fabric of his boxers, wet spot on the cotton where precum’s soaked the fabric. But he’d asked you, pleaded with you, not to touch him, not yet - to just let him take care of you. 
“How’s that feel, mami? Tell me...please,” he murmurs into the skin of your neck. 
Mami. That had started some time after the first week. It makes you shiver every time you hear it in his rich, husky voice.
“Good, baby, so good,” you sigh as he draws skillful circles over your clit. Your post-orgasm haze has you feeling foggy, so you don’t think too much of it when you softly add, “Such a good boy for me, Frankie.”
It clearly has an effect. 
The motions of Frankie’s fingers stop and he shudders beside you, breath catching in his throat with a noisy gasp, echoing in the hollow of your collarbone.
“Fuck!” Frankie hisses, quickly backing away from you onto his knees, while you look on with concern.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, sitting up and reaching out to touch him, but Frankie flinches away.
“I’m sorry I - ” he scrambles to find his words, shaking his head in obvious shame. “I...I fucking came.”
Your eyes widen in surprise, realization hitting you when you notice the now-far-more-prominent wet spot on his boxers, the way his shoulders hunch forward in this meek, protective way.
You instinctively try to put him at ease.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, baby, it was just an accident - ”
“It’s not okay,” he protests, shaking his head from side to side, as if to erase the memory of his mistake. “You’re supposed to come first.”
“I already did. Twice, remember? And, what, is that some kind of rule or something?”
Frankie wrings his hands together uneasily, eyes fixed on them. “It’s a rule for me.”
You swallow harshly and Frankie finally lets you rest a hand on his bare thigh comfortingly. You think you understand now.
“I can’t play along if I don’t know the rules, Frankie,” you whisper soothingly. 
He glances at you, destitute but strangely hopeful. Does he think he’s going to scare you away? Not a chance. 
“I forgive you, baby,” you tell him earnestly.
But the look in Frankie’s eyes changes then, something new settling in as the features of his face take on a wrecked, tortured expression.
“Don’t,” he begs, his voice a low whine. “I think - I think you should punish me for it.”
His words should shock you, coming from former Special Ops pilot, Francisco “Catfish” Morales. A man of military prowess, grovelling on your bedspread, begging to be punished for the crime of coming in his boxers.
But you’ve been paying attention to the signs. You’re not at all surprised that you’ve ended up here.
You sit back and away from him, Frankie’s eyes following your hand as it leaves his thigh.
“How?” you ask with conviction. 
Frankie looks up at you helplessly, big brown eyes desperate and abashed, his hands in his lap, cock now soft in his boxers after his unceremonious orgasm.
“You could tell me - you could tell me it was bad,” he suggests. 
Your lips twitch, the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as a tantalizing exhilaration passes over you - a power trip, you realize. Fuck.
“It...it was bad, Frankie,” you assert with feigned confidence and Frankie gasps quietly. “You...you shouldn’t have done that.”
A shiver seems to pass through him and you catch the way his cock twitches in his boxers, already coming back to life just at the sound of your voice. 
“Yeah?” he presses - encourages - looking up at you from under his lashes with this...pathetic gleam in his eyes. 
Holy shit, you’ve got this man in the palm of your hand.
“Yeah,” you repeat, assurance growing at the way he’s reacting. “Bad, bad boy coming so soon like that. Before...mami.”
Frankie actually groans at that - so much for punishment. 
“Sorry, mami, sorry,” he apologizes hastily, maybe both for the response and for his initial wrongdoing.
“You know what I think, Frankie, baby?” you hum, teeth biting down on your lip as an idea comes to you. Frankie looks back at you expectantly.
“I think...you shouldn’t get to come again until I say,” you suggest. 
Frankie is already nodding willingly, eyes sparkling with excitement as his cock begins to harden in his boxers for real now.
“I won’t,” he promises you, making to move back towards you on the bed. You stop him with a hand to his chest.
“I’m not done,” you say firmly and Frankie stiffens. “It could be a day...it could be a week. But not until I say, do you understand?”
Frankie’s eyes widen, like maybe he hadn’t been expecting that broad of a time frame. To be honest, you’re flying by the seat of your pants right now. But the way your words have his eyes glazing over, features of his face going lax as he submits to your rushed arrangement, so willing, so eager...it’s intoxicating. You must be doing something right.
Frankie nods as he sits back on his heels, head cast downwards as he accepts his punishment.
“It won’t be tonight,” you assure him.
Frankie nods again, eyes fixed on the sheets, avoiding your gaze.
“I’m going to finish myself off...and-and you’re going to watch, okay? You don’t...you don’t get to touch.”
Frankie appears as though in a daze, dumbstruck and dizzy with his lips parted as he nods for the third time, still not looking at you. 
“Talk to me, baby,” you plead, because now you’re starting to worry you’re doing this all wrong. “Am I...is this...?”
You’re hesitant to finish your sentence, desperate not to ruin the moment but also not wanting to mess this up for Frankie. 
He finally looks up at you, nodding again - this time with a certainty that confirms you’re on the right track - as he rises off the bed and sinks back to his knees on the hardwood floor.
“Como usted mande,” he says obediently.
Well, shit.
-
It’s clear after that night that you need to set some ground rules, to find out what Frankie needs and what you’re willing to give him. It’s a process, working out all the details, but not a difficult one - because you’ve already built such a strong bedrock with one another. The dynamic you establish now is all love, rooted in Frankie’s yearning to please you and your desire to see him content and cared for.
You also decide on a safe word: Boogie, a tribute to the name of the bar where you’d first met. 
Almost six months have passed since then, and the two of you have your little dynamic down to a science. That doesn’t mean it’s become any less fun - if anything, it just gets better and better.
And it turns out, the punishment you’d conjured up that night, all those months ago now, is one of Frankie’s favourite games - torturing himself while you get off - begging, pleading, aching to touch you. Turns out, you love it too, love seeing how pretty and broken he looks when he kneels on the floor, all needy and hazy like he is right now.
“Can I taste - please - just a taste, baby - ”
You sit on the edge of the bed, hand hovering over your heat, Frankie on his knees before you. His cock stands rock hard between his legs, red and angry and leaking precum onto the floor; he hasn’t touched himself in over an hour, as per your command. 
You tut as you slip two fingers inside yourself, Frankie mewling at the sight as his hands reach out to you, desperate to touch, knowing he’s not allowed.
“It feels so good all on my own, baby, I don’t think I even need you...”
It’s a lie of course and you both know it. But Frankie likes this part, likes when you tell him he’s not good enough. It gives him something to prove when you finally let him show you.
“I’ll do it better, cariño, I’ll make it feel so good,” he pleads, his head falling back when you add a third finger, wetness dripping over your digits. “Please just let me taste your pussy, please.”
“Such a polite boy,” you reward him with a smile. “Come here.”
You sit up, removing your soaked fingers from your cunt as Frankie inches closer to you. His mouth is already open, eyes on yours as you extend your hand out to him. He happily lets you sink two of your fingers into his parted lips, eyes fluttering closed as he tastes your salty flavour. He moans around your digits, sucking gently as your smile widens.
You don’t let him have it for long, slowly retracting your hand after just a fleeting moment and letting your fingers trail over his chin as you do.
“Fuck, baby, you taste so good,” Frankie whines, idly reaching out to you once again, grasping at nothing. “Please let me put my mouth on you, I want your pussy so fucking much - I’ll take good care of her, mami...”
His voice quivers when he speaks, cock dripping feebly as his face contorts in desperation, a telltale sign that he’s taken about as much as he can handle. 
“Do you think you deserve it, Frankie? Think you’ve been a good boy for me?”
You tease him with your line of questioning as you spread your legs wider, Frankie’s eyes going glassy at the sight of your glistening heat.
“Sí, mami,” he says in the form of a choked sigh.
“Take it, baby,” you instruct him at last. “It’s yours.”
Frankie is already lunging forward but you stop him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“What do you say, Frankie?”
“Thank you,” he groans reverently. “Thank you, mami.”
END/for now.
taglist hehe
@atinylittlepain​ @tieronecrush​ @joelsversion​ @johnwatsn​ @h1ghinmiami​ @pr0ximamidnight​
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sukunas-wife · 3 months
Note
YOU NEED TO MAKE MORE DAD!SUKUNA😭 It’s just soo good!!!, I’m literally obsessed with Dad!sukuna🫶🏻
lol here’s a little snippet to start the day, in other words I had a domestic dream 🥺🤍
Jujutsu Teacher Sukuna AU
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Somewhere in another time line Sukuna became a not so dedicated teacher at Jujutsu high school still after having turned himself into a curse, even 1000 years he landed a spot on the higher up’s board it hilarious when they try to execute someone and he completely disagrees.
They learned quickly is Sukuna disapproves of their actions agree with arrimen Sukuna. Don’t go behind his back and try to do it either. He’s not afraid to kill everyone and replace the entire board of Higher Ups
Then one year he met you, you came in from the sister school to be teacher. Usually he tried not to mess with staff they only last so long anyways. But maybe it was that time he saw you banging your head in the drink machine because you used your last bills to buy a drink and it got stuck. Or maybe it was that time Gojo and Toji surprisingly decided to team up against you and you managed to hold your own.
It was when YOU started to pursUE HIM he became really intrigued. At first he became annoyed because not to far behind the corner he could hear the snickering and “Oh she’s really doing it!” “She’s a brave woman to try and flirt with him…” “What are you idiots do- oh, this could be interesting.” “shhh, I can’t hear what he’s saying!”
You didn’t notice when he flicked his wrist, but you did hear your coworkers panic and the rushed steps. Looking back confused you were more confused when you looked back at Sukuna and he was leaning forward getting face to face with you before squishing your face in one of his hands. “You do understand you proud Jujutsu Sorcerers don’t live very long, so give me one good reason you want my attention.”
You wanted to badly to look away from those demanding red eyes, to pull away and breath the God given air, instead here you were getting dazed off his musk and cologne. Feeling his warm hand squish your face, nails lightly pressing against your skin. Smash- swallowing you had one chance to do this right. Don’t stutter, don’t fear, breath, don’t rush, don’t show him WEAKNESS.
“I J- ahem” ah.. I messed up already, “Wait let me restart- Okay I’m ready, I’m not gonna stand here and promise happiness smiles and endless love, praise and worship. I’m not gonna lie to your face and tell you everything you want to hear and pretend it’s all sunshine and rainbows. When I go on a mission I’m not gonna say I promise to always come back that would be a fools move. But at least in my last moments I’d have to privilege to remember you and all those wise words you used to tell me like. “Dumbass that’s why you keep more than two dollars in your wallet.” Or “Living to please others and dying with regrets if no helping everyone is vain, Live to please yourself at least in your final moments you’ll have some sense of fulfillment.” So like it or not I’m here to please myself if you say No and tell me to fuck off and send me on my way. I won’t regret having asking. If you say yes, well I won’t lie I wouldn’t really know what to do or say I came in expected to be rejected and humbled.” Finally your eyes left his, you were oblivious to stare he had. He wasn’t completely amused but he wasn’t bored of your words either. “Look at me.” You did, “you didn’t bore me entirely with your little … speech so I’ll give you one opportunity. Sunday, I have an early mission, meet me here at 4 in the morning and I’ll tell you with me. After I finish you can have the rest of my day or until I get bored.”
He didn’t get bored… it turned out you amused him so much more when you weren’t surrounded be suits.
And that’s how you ended up here.
“Yuji don’t say something stupid love can’t protect anyone.” Nobara rolled her eyes, “Yuh huh, your words can’t hurt me because my mom and dad’s love protects me.” He puffed his chest out crossing his arms and smiling with closed eyes, missing the book Nobara was throwing at him. A solid sound was made, Yuji was wide eyed, the all to familiar wrist holding the heavy book just in front of his face, “Careful Miss.Kugisaki it’d be a shame if you caught extra missions for disabling another student from completing his own.” Yuji smiled proudly, “See, protected.”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, “Get to class Fushiguro was on your ass last time for being late to class.” He nodded his head at Yuji who just smiled sheepishly rubbing the back of his head, “Alright.” Of course the Trio ran past you greeting you with “Hi Mrs.Sukuna!” Good morning Mom!” “Morning Y/n Senpai.” You watched them all keep running until your husband stood next to you offering you the Coffee Cup he had been drinking. You were distracted by one thing “Why do you have our photo album?” Sukuna felt his eye twitch, “Damn brat.” Was all he mumbled tucking it under his shoulder, “Your son believes your love protects him.”
You laughed, “OUR son believes OUR love for him protects him. Considering your holding that book Im assuming Kugisaki tried to throw it at him or you were reminiscing on that time you had to save them from a Special Grade ambush and when you had to carry them all out Yuji was sniffling how he knew he could count on you to be there for him.”
He looked away, “Higher ups are lucky I only wiped out half of them.” You rested your head on his shoulder pulling the album from him. “Aaww this is Yuji’s baby album” you cooed seeing the picture of Sukuna holding Yuji next to a bouquet of “It’s a Boy!” Balloons. In the background you could see the blur of Geto smacking Gojo on the back of the head.
Sukuna is secure as a man and father 🥹
So it’s not a surprise to you when you come home late from the school and find true form Sukuna threatening to break the sofa under his weight coddling 15yo Yuji 🥹
As much of a brute people have him to be, Yuji might be his only son, and he might call him brat and roll his eyes a lot. But he’d be damned if he were truly a bad dad. In a whispered conversation he told you about everything that happened on Yuji’s mission. How the mission was purposely miss graded and they basically walked into a special grade curses domain. Sukuna had no doubt in his mind that if wouldn’t have been the one over seeing their mission the first years wouldn’t have walked back out alive.
Yuji was alright the entire ride but when he got home he broke down crying, speechless gasping for air. That’s when Sukuna pick him up carrying him over the sofa, coddling Yuji wasn’t as easy now that they were almost the same height, so he turned to his true form. And let Yuji cry, scream and hold onto him. Rubbing his back, holding his head against his shoulder, just talking to him to comfort him. “Do you remember that time we went to the park, and you wondered off to far chasing a duck.” Yuji nodded still sniffling, “Your mom was scared shitless when she couldn’t find you.” He laughed and Yuji laughed lightly, “y.. yeah I remember I jumped into the pond and then you and mom started screaming and then jumped in…” sukuna laughed louder, “Y/n was so mad but she couldn’t stay mad when she saw you with that little duck.” He patted Yuji’s back resting his chin on his head. Soon Yuji fell asleep.
It led you to find him this state. You asked him to go lay him in his bed, he did. He came to help you make some comfort food, it was hilarious when you asked if he could use dismantle on vegetables and it turned out he could. Now over the table in the wall is a sign that says “Malevolent Kitchen.��
The house that night was filled with the soft sounds of cooking, you and your husband talking about whatever came to mind. The Golden pot boiling with whatever broth you made. Sukuna was fighting the rice cooker while you tempura fried some shrimp and rolled some noodles to cook
It was well past 9 when you heard Yuji coming, both of you turning to see him walking yawning and rubbing his eyes. Bare feet padding along the kitchen floor. “Come sit down Yu you gotta be hungry.” you fixed him a large bowl of noodles with Tempura shrimp. On the side were the massive Onigiri Sukuna had made, he even tried to use the nori stamp to put little faces on them. More often than not they have 4 little crooked eyes that looked mad but it squeezed your heart how he laughed to himself saying “Yuji’s going to love these.”
He did, you watched as he bit into it rice sticking to his face. “These are good dad what did you fill them with?” “Nitamago we forgot to pack em for lunch so.. improvise I guess.” You both sat down with Yuji talking and eating. Just enjoying the free time you had together before Sukuna would go commit another crime against the higher ups 🤍🤍
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Yeah 🥹
Im here 10-1 in the morning 🤍 It took all day to type this out 😭😭
Also a lot of my co workers walked out today 🥹 it was rough
Tag List: @sad-darksoul @cyder-puff @satorisgirl @bontensbabygirl @lupita97lm @queen-luna-007 @sakuxxi @mercymccann @simpforyoubitch @certainduckanchor @domainofmarie @najiiix @bakugou-katsukis-wife @amitiel-truth @souyasplushie @mylovelessnightmare
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macfrog · 4 months
Text
secrets cowboy like me chapter fourteen
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one day i'll rein my chapters back in. today is not that day. thirteen thousand words of...a little bit of fucking and a lot of fighting. i love you all and i still can't believe the love you continue to show this series. you're all actually insane. i present to you: the penultimate chapter of cowboy.
pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader
summary: the one where...everybody finds out.
warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), a big argument, a lot of guilt, angry disappointed dad, one mention of alcohol consumption, lil bit of sub!joel, unprotected piv, tiny bit of degradation, tiny bit of praise kink, creampie, cursing, smut, fluff, angst 
word count: 12.9k (dry heaves) 
series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡
You haven’t slept a wink. Not one second.
You and Joel were awake until one in the morning on the phone; you – panicking, spilling words into the receiver, watching different cuts of your dad realizing everything as though projected across your blank ceiling, and Joel – monotone as fucking ever, batting every single theory away.
He doesn’t know a damn thing, he’d said. You didn’t miss the way his words hung over the edge of the sentence, trembling almost.
You scoffed and hissed back down the line. You don’t fucking know that! How can you know that?
You think he just found out about us and thought, Hey, better get some shut-eye before I deal with this? Really, baby?
I think he doesn’t know what he found out. I think he’s probably tryna convince himself that he’s wrong.
So, let him. He’s wrong. We go with that.
Joel knew he wasn’t doing anything to calm you down. Wasn’t offering anything you could seriously take on. You know he wasn’t trying to.
He was as worried as you were – he was just pretending not to be, because what fucking good would it do to have the two of you bouncing off one another with panic?
Still, he stayed on the phone the entire night. When he fell asleep, you lay in bed and tossed everything over in your head like tearing back the pages of a diary. Last night, then Frank’s, then the weekend before that, then the Hillcrest – all the way back to that first ride home. The pissing rain, the boxes of nails rattling in the glove compartment with each sway of the truck. Recalling every word spoken, every move made, every expression pulled and glance stolen and fucking breath taken.
Any sound from beyond your door shot a bullet of adrenaline through your veins, coursing through your body like ice. As if it was your dad, barreling in at 3AM to have it out with you.
You reckon you’d be ready if he did. Wide-eyed, fists clenched, heart hammering.
Joel groans back to life at eight. You hear the ruffling of bedsheets, the crackle down the line as he drags the phone across his mattress and pins it to his ear. You lift your own. Joel and 08:43:36, 37, 38 underneath it on the screen.
His voice drums low and groggy from the speaker. “You are gonna have my phone bill through the damn roof. I’m exhausted, darlin’.”
“I can’t think of anything else. He knows, Joel.”
He sighs. You can see his head falling into his hand, see his thumb rubbing circles into his temple. “Let’s just see what happens, alright? There ain’t any chance you left your phone in the living room ‘n he came across it, thought he’d keep it for you comin’ home?”
“I’ve barely left my room all week. Why would it be down there?”
Joel’s quiet. He just breathes down the line. After a minute, he clears his throat.
“Come over, would ya?”
“Huh?”
“Come over. I wanna see you. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Joel, I’m –”
“Hey. Don’t make me ask again, alright? C’mon, now. I got some errands to run; you’re coming with me.”
He doesn’t have to say much else to convince you; you’re already pulling your bedsheets back and hanging up. Your hoodie and shorts are still hooked over the foot of your bed. The sun filters through the drapes, edges you nearer the door. Your chest fills with something calling itself bravery, and slowly, quietly – you click the door open.
The hallway is silent. A blushing gold in the morning light. The house is still – eerily still. Your dad’s room door is open, bed made, sheets tucked neatly under the mattress. Like he had time to spend on it. Stuff to mull over as he made it.
The carpet softens your footsteps when you finally move for the stairs. The birds are singing outside. The wallpaper canvases your shadow, a little monster creeping along one step behind you, passing picture frames which dazzle with sunrays and mirror a half-lit reflection back to you. One side you – the other, missing.
You lean over the last step, craning your head and shoulders into the hallway. The clock on the wall opposite ticks to no one. Tick tick tick tick. And aside from it, from its taunting tutting, there are no other signs of life. His jacket hangs from the peg. His boots lying below, laces tangled.
The sun separates into brittle shards through the window, illuminating the way to the kitchen. You’re not fucking prepared to follow it.
Shoulders hunched, like it might make a difference, you step forward and lower your thumb and index finger over your keys, aiming for them like a shaky arcade claw machine. Tick tick tick. They jingle as you hook your fingertip through them. Your nose wrinkles.
“Hey.”
He appears around the corner like an apparition. The keys drop back to the unit with a violent clatter.
“Jesus!”
“Woah, woah.” Your dad holds a palm up, laughing nervously. “Sorry. Where you headed?”
“Uh, J– Sarah’s. Some errands she wants some help with.”
He nods. “Yeah? You don’t want breakfast first?”
You drag your eyes to meet his for the first time. He looks drawn, skin like webbing, as though it’s just draped over his skull. As though you could put your finger through it like parchment, just push straight through. He looks like he’s had about as much sleep as you have.
“No, thanks,” you say, the sunken, sullen sight of him crumbling your voice to dust. Your lips move wordlessly, waiting for another lie from your tongue to offer over. But between the way he looks, weary and forlorn, and the thin veil of truth left between you – nothing materializes.
“Why don’t you – why don’t you hold back a second?” Dad beckons you forward, folding his fingers to his palm. “Got somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.”
“Dad, I really gotta go, I –”
“Just – come on. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”
He disappears without waiting for a response. Shifts back into the living room, shadow following him like a cloak across the door. You hear the creak of his chair as he settles down into it, the unsettling squeal of leather and spring.
Your feet are planted to the hall floor. To move in either direction feels like a trap. To follow after him – sit opposite and swallow back what you think you know is coming. All of his suspicions stuck in your throat like a bitter, powdery pill. Or to turn away – leave him in an empty house, nothing but the sound of his own breathing and that tick tick tick affirming your guilt.
No more excuses filter through – none of Joel’s ideas, none of his explanations. You let your shoulders drop and your eyes close. The only image behind them is that six-foot, graying, droning idiot who’s probably sat waiting for you to pull up so he can take you to fucking Trader Joe’s or whatever.
And his shirt, which he’d probably drape over your shoulders before he’s even said hello. And his smile, which would draw you onto your tiptoes, draw your lips to his. And his hands, and his waist, and his pulse in step with yours as you follow him around the quiet store, the Saturday morning air daring you to hook your fingers around two of his every now and then. The longing a gnawing in your chest, burrowing deep beneath the cage of your ribs.
He's not here, though. It’s just you. And if you call him now, if he shows up unannounced – it’s only going to confirm what your dad thinks. Fuck it – what he knows.
So you unstick your sneakers and haul yourself through to the living room.
He’s rocking in the chair when you sink back into the couch. Balls of his feet pushing him back and forth. His fingers to his lips, like keeping the words at bay for now. Like feeling the jagged shape of them through his skin.
You throw a pillow over your legs, shaggy ivory fringe tickling your bare thighs. Your dad doesn’t speak. When you lift your head, his eyes flit from yours down to your restless fingers knitting the tassels of his pillow.
“What is it?” you croak.
“Mind if I ask you somethin’?”
You shrug. “Go for it.”
He waits a beat. A hesitation. Like he doesn’t want to ask the first question. He’s at the edge of a cliff. One more step and he’s plummeting down the rocky side, into a fog of cloud. Nothing will ever be the same. Only – you’ve already pushed him. He’s already falling. He just hasn’t realized it yet.
Maybe he feels the drop in his stomach, right now. Maybe the wind screams in his ears. He finally asks, “When were you gonna tell me about y’all gettin’ into a barfight on Friday night?”
Unexpected. But keep your fucking cool.
Your fingertip whitens, blood halted by the knot of the cushion fringe. You chew on a torn leaf of skin from your lips. “What?”
“You ‘n Joel. When he picked you up. What the hell happened?”
Your eyes slide from his to the patio door behind him, garden lighting up with the sun scaling higher in the sky. You stare there until it burns, until it’s all just a blur of color in your vision, and then pull a half-blinded gaze back in his direction.
You’re frozen, as if he has you at gunpoint. Shoulders tense, eyes wide. Dontshootdontshootdontshoot. “Who –? Who said that?”
“Hank. Was on the phone to ‘im last night. Anna said Joel was squarin’ up to some kid in Frank’s. You wanna tell me exactly what happened?”
“Nothing.” Liar. “Nothing happened. It was just some asshole. Joel was just lookin’ out for me. For us. Me ‘n Anna.”
“She told Hank he knocked the kid out. That Sam had to stop it from gettin’ outta control.”
He stares at you, and there’s no mask on his face. No cover, no disguise. He’s suspicious. And he doesn’t care that you know it. He’s not just asking about the barfight.
“Are you gonna say it or am I, hon?”
“Say what?”
Your last thread of insane hope that he’s innocently wondering about Frank’s is snapped in two by the words that tear out of his mouth, so quick they rip into your skin like shards of glass.
“What the hell’s goin’ on between you two?”
Your body suddenly drops further into the couch, the weight of your blood freezing to ice in your veins. Your joints seize, your jaw locks. Air passes across your open lips with no intention of carrying words back out the way it came. You forget any ability you had previously to come up with excuses, to cover up, to lie. Hell, you’re not sure you’d remember your own fucking name if he asked that next.
You say nothing. And he cocks his head, drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.
Say something.
“Nothing.”
Say something more convincing.
“Nothing?” you repeat, a shrill pitch in your voice like it’s a question. Like he’s dumb for even thinking there might be something weird going on. Like he’s the idiot.
The clock in the hall ticks to itself, amused. Fifteen little snaps. Each one sounds like a plate of glass beneath your feet, cracking a little more, a little deeper, a little wider. The abyss opening its wide, dark jaws beneath you.
Your dad’s expression doesn’t change. He crosses his arms, head leaning back a little. He almost looks sad. Almost looks like he might give in. Send you on your way, on your errands with Sarah.
But something recharges him, something must flicker behind his eyes, because he sits forward again and watches your reaction intently as he says –
“Then explain the text messages you been sendin’ each other.”
Another blow hits your stomach, rippling waves of white heat through you. You feel hot, a scorching panic right beneath the surface of your skin so hot that it mistakes itself for ice cold. A panic which radiates from your heart, pulsating through your entire body, every limb beginning to shudder involuntarily. Your silence is answer enough.
He sighs. Sits forward with his elbows on his knees. “I knew y’all were close, knew you cared about each other. You sure always talked to ‘im more ‘n you ever talked to me, even before you went off to college. But I’ve been noticing things lately…Something’s different. Something’s changed.”
Your eyes trace his form as he talks. It’s fucking dizzying. He’s animated, like a character from some eighties cop show who finally solved the mystery. He knows. He knows everything. Your jaw won’t move to answer.
“Seeing you two together – talking, laughing. The way you look at each other these days. ‘n you’re always near each other, ain’t you? Always hoverin’. It ain’t anything like before. That day the three of us went to Costco, that – I –” His anger seems to boil over, cascading from his lips in an angry burst of hot breath. “I felt like a spare tire in the back of the truck that day.”
“We’re…We’re just…f-friends…I don’t –”
He holds a finger up. Doesn’t want to hear it. Not until his speech is done. The sun moves behind a cloud; the living room suddenly drains of light. “That day you said you were spending the night at Anna’s. Said you were havin’ a pool day, right?”
“Right,” you whisper, eyes closing over. They feel heavy. Tired and teary.
“Right. Except,” he brings his finger down, aims it straight at you, “Hank says you weren’t never there. Anna was at Sal’s all day Sunday.”
Fuck.
“Dad…”
You’re pleading with him now. Enough, I’ve heard enough. I know you know. As if you might still be able to stop the train, dig your heels in and hold on tight to derail it. Derail his thoughts. Salvage the situation, string it back together with shame and atonement.
But he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even hear you.
“’n that’s when I got to thinkin’ – last Monday, at Joel’s. I went over to fix his sink – you remember I told you about his sink?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I went over there, and he’s cookin’ this great big breakfast – pancakes, all of it – and there ain’t no one else in his house. Just him. Sarah was in Nashville, you remember?”
You take a deep breath. This is it. The ship’s beginning to disappear beneath the black waves.
“I thought maybe he had someone over, maybe expectin’ that girl from the plant hire…Anyway,” he bats his hand, bats the hopeful glint in Lois’s eye from his mind, “I’m walking downstairs, on my way out, and I notice somethin’ on the floor by the door.”
His chair squeaks timidly as he moves, his right arm lowering, scooping for something you can’t see yet. But when he shakily lifts it, your eyes fall to your knees. It hangs before you, apologetic and ashamed.
Joel was right. He knew it. You palmed him off. You told him your dad wouldn’t – couldn’t – put two and two together. And here he is, sat feet from you, holding the final piece to the puzzle in a quivering fist. Proof that, when he was in the house that day, you were only feet from him. Wrapped in his best friend’s shirt, dripping wet from his shower.
“This bag,” he hisses, and the tears finally drop onto your cheeks. They scurry to your chin, gathering and throwing themselves to your chest. Your shoulders drop, your eyes still low. You can’t look at him.
He speaks slowly. Speaks through his teeth. Every word like its own poisonous jab.
“Now you tell me: what in God’s name is your bag doin’ in Joel Miller’s hallway, at ten in the mornin’, when you’re supposed to be at Anna’s?”
Your fingers touch your forehead, a burning pain beginning to sting through your skull. You can feel your pulse in your temples. You’ve never wanted Joel to be stood in front of you so badly in all your life; just to deflect some of the interrogation off of you, just to give you breathing space. Just to protect you from the onslaught of questioning from your dad.
“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. The bag hits the carpet with a thud. “No, there ain’t no way. You were at Anna’s, right? You ain’t with Joel Miller, no way. I’m thinkin’, Please, God, don’t let that have been my daughter’s bag that day. But I’m right, ain’t I? You were there, weren’t you?”
You blink rapidly. The tears multiply quicker. The room is glossed in a protective film of salt and adrenaline. Give me something to say back. Give me something to say back.
“Where were you, hon? Musta been hidin’ somewhere, right?”
Give me something please think of something please come over please walk through that door please tell me what to say.
And then it comes to you. You blink the mist from your eyes. He said…he knew about texts you’d been sending Joel. How did he…?
“How did you know about the texts?”
“Pardon me?”
You straighten up and look him dead in the eye. Your voice feels hoarse. It sounds nothing like you. “How – did you know – about – the texts?”
“That’s your concern right now?”
“How – did you know?”
He begins to sputter, like the heat turned up under a pan on the hob. “Look, hon, you had me worried sick. Disappearin’ and I got no clue where you are. Always having an excuse to go off somewhere alone, no explanation. Don’t even get me started on those marks on your neck.”
Your hand immediately clamps around your throat, hot skin stained pink hissing into your palm. Joel’s teeth on you last night. His words cushioning the sharp bite. I love you. The heat hurts, now, when it felt so comforting just a few hours ago. It burns. It throbs. It feels like shame.
Your dad’s voice brings you back into the room.
“There’s another thing – last night,” he flings a laugh to you, “you were so quiet. So damn quiet. Didn’t say a word the entire time, and then I leave for all of ten minutes, and suddenly the two of you are headin’ over to his for – what was it? UCLA pamphlets?”
There’s a break between his words, a gap which makes you think that he wants you to answer. Like he’s giving you a chance, extending his arm. But he fills the space with a jeering laugh, and keeps talking.
“Where are they, huh? These pamphlets? ‘s why you were at Joel’s, right? Go on, go get ‘em. Show them to me.”
Your face solidifies. Lips tremble. There’s a scowl pulling your brows together. You’ve no right for it to be there. “Stop it,” you seethe. “Tell me what you did.”
“He’s the only one. The only one who could get you to talk. I had to check, kiddo. I had to know.”
Your stare doesn’t let up. Your lips bolt shut, refusing to say another word until he confesses. Which he does. Almost breezily.
“I looked through your phone. While you were gone. I – I went upstairs, ‘n I took it.”
He says it casually, as though he’s simply checked the newspaper. As though he’s just relaying the columns to you. Someone’s had a baby. Someone else won three grand on a scratch card. By the way, I know you’ve been messing around with Joel.
So it takes a minute for what he’s said to hit you. But when it does, the wave crashes over your shoulders so violently that it throws you to your feet, tasseled pillow whipped to the other side of the couch.
There are tears searing across your eyes. A twisted grimace of a smile on your face, a laugh breaking roughly from your throat. Some crazed, disbelieving, ugly little laugh.
“You – you checked my…my fuckin’ phone. You – you fucking –”
His head jerks back, offended. “Hey, now, listen to me –”
“I’m not listenin’ to another word! Am I twelve?”
You stalk over to the kitchen. The rattle of your dad’s chair tells you he follows.
“Well – you tell me, hon, ‘cause right now, you’re making a lot of real stupid decisions.”
That same ugly laugh echoes around the house. You grip onto the kitchen island. The room starts to wheel.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?” you pant, eyes tight shut. Your thumbs begin to slip, sweat gliding between your skin and the counter.
“I’m your father! I’m lookin’ out for you, damnit! You think I wanna be havin’ this conversation with you right now?”
The granite countertop blurs in and out of focus when you open your eyes. You hook onto it, using it to haul yourself around the island until there’s distance between your wobbly figure and his. And you remember one week ago, when the same counter separated you and Joel, and you think of Joel, and think of his fingers around your wrist, and his fist against Knox’s jaw, and his teeth in your neck.
“Look,” your dad’s voice floats somewhere over the image of Joel’s eyes, “let’s just – let’s calm down. You ‘n me – we’re gonna talk this out. We’re gonna have a calm, mature discussion about all of this. You’re gonna tell me exactly what’s been goin’ on, and then I’m gonna head over to Joel’s – alone – and talk to him.”
But his voice doesn’t sound calm. There’s a tremble to it – a tremor as fragile as glass, as thin as ice. It’s crackling as he speaks. He can hardly keep a hold on it himself.
If he goes over to Joel’s – this you know – there ain’t anything calm or mature that will come of it. Suddenly the images in your head warp, and it’s your fingers around Joel’s wrist, someone else’s fist against his cheek, someone else’s teeth and the venom spat between them.
“Dad,” you pant, “it’s over. He ended it. It’s been done for, like, two weeks now. It was nothing.”
“Oh, nothing, was it?” He steps closer. You retreat. Edge further around the counter, further from him. His head tilts, eyebrows curl. He looks like a vulture, eyeing its prey. “Then what were the two of you up to last night?”
“We – we went for ice cream, that’s all. He wanted to make sure I was alright.”
He’s not convinced. And he shouldn’t be, either. He coughs a laugh. “For three hours? You were eatin’ ice cream for three Goddamn hours?” His cheeks wobble as he shakes his head. Then, in a softer voice, like he’s arming himself with a chisel to prick at the weakest parts of the sculpture, “What’d he do to you, girl?”
The marble cracks and snaps wide open. Anger floods out in hot waves. Any composure you’d managed to scrape together flushes clean out of your body.
“Nothing I didn’t want him to fuckin’ do. Stop treating me like I’m some kid who’s – who’s been tricked, or something. I’m twenty-three, Dad, I’m an adult.”
His silence sends another misdirected shot of panic through you.
“I was in on it just as much as he was,” you weep, fingers searching for a scratch of beard or kiss of flannel.
Your dad scoffs then, hands slapping against his thighs, and turns away. “There ain’t no gettin’ through to you,” he announces to the timid living room.
Still bracing yourself against the island, you take the break in his tirade to catch your breath. The only thought running through your head, losing velocity with each circuit, is Joel walking through that door. His face when he notices you with your flushed cheeks and wide eyes. His hands reaching for yours, through all the lies and hurt. Your dad, stood opposite, tight as an arrow and ready to fucking fly for him. Fists balled, teeth bared.
“He doesn’t even know,” you realize, staring at the glow on the floor cast by the front door. “You haven’t told him you know, have you?”
“’course I ain’t told him. I wanted to talk to you first. Not that it’s gotten us anywhere, huh?”
“I’m gonna text him.”
“Hon, don’t you d–”
“I am not having this conversation on my own. There are two people involved here.”
You pull your phone from your pocket and scrawl some messy message to Joel. Three messy messages. Something like he knows everything, can you come over? I need you. Some needy, dramatic, helpless message.
The typing bubble appears for a fraction of a second. So fleeting that you almost miss it through your tears, before it drops back to nothing. He doesn’t reply.
Doesn’t pick up, either, when you call him. Three times in a row. Three missed calls; three Hey, it’s Joel, sorry I missed yous.
The phone rattles off the counter when you drop it, your head falling into your hands. Your dad wanders back over to his armchair and collapses into it with a sigh, his fingers massaging his temples. The two of you mirrored, the same storm circling between you, only ice in his veins and fire in yours.
Fear keeps your feet planted to the kitchen floor; adrenaline alone keeps you upright. Your fingers push hard into your forehead, an ache sat directly behind that dizzies you. Blood thudding its fists against your eyes, screaming in your ears.
How the fuck did this happen? It feels ridiculous to ask, but it’s all you got. When did the two of you get so lazy? Start forgetting to cover your tracks? Or – maybe worse – stop caring enough to even try?
Of course, saying you were with Anna was a dumb fucking move. Her dad is one of your dad’s buddies. One of Joel’s, too. That was always going to fuck it all up. And you were too caught up, too hellbent on seeing Joel, too fucking horny to stop for five seconds and keep your damn story straight.
There’s nothing to say, nothing that might fix this. There’s no winding your way out of it. The trap has you by the throat. Your jaw aches from trying to free yourself.
Your dad sways side to side in his chair, staring silently at the wall ahead of him. Your face burns with shame, with anger, with embarrassment. Your heart stings from the hurt, from wanting Joel here, from his ignoring your pleas for help. And, most annoying of all – from letting your dad down.
It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. How you spin it. Sure, you’re twenty-three. You can make your own decisions. That much is fucking clear now. Doesn’t mean they’re always good. Even when they make you laugh until your cheeks hurt, make your stomach flip with excitement, make you scream from pleasure.
Make your heart do things you’ve never felt it do before. Things you never knew that it could do.
You let your dad down. He can barely look at you for it. You know damn well that it was worth every second, and yet, right now, nothing but thick, awkward, unbreathable air between the two of you – it feels like it should never have happened.
You’re bent over the counter, head resting on your folded arms, breathing still staggered – when you hear it. The squeal of brakes outside. An engine cutting. A door slamming.
Two knocks on the door, and Joel pushes it open. You’re already in the hallway, watching his heavy head and loose shirt cross the threshold.
He looks up and your eyes meet. His hair’s a mess, he’s in the same tee from last night. He’s gotten straight out of bed and into his truck, and he’s braced, like he doesn’t know what’s coming. Which direction to expect the first punch from.
Your knees weaken at the sight of him. The safe haven of his arms, the home of his chest. The beating pulse behind it whose language you’ve become fluent in. Even now, when everything’s fallen apart, his being here washes relief over you like cool water dousing an inferno. Your body relaxes, your breathing quietens.
Joel nods towards you. You okay?
You shake your head lightly, and he flicks his fingers. You’re in his arms before your brain tells your limbs to move.
“’s okay,” he breathes, lips lined with your ear. His chest is soft, warm; you take fistfuls of his shirt. He strokes your hair, mumbling, “Told you we’ll be alright, yeah? It’s goin’ to be alright.”
You weep into him, lips dripping with salty tears. They part to reply, when a low growl rips between your bodies. Joel loosens his grip and you step back, turning around to face the ghost of your father at the end of the hall.
“Get the hell away from him.”
He advances, takes a few steps forward. You meet him halfway, gripping onto his shirt, planting yourself firmly between him and Joel.
“Woah, woah,” you say, pushing on his small chest, “let’s all just calm down. Dad.”
He’s smaller, scrawnier, older, and weaker than Joel. He’s never going to lift a fucking hand to him. Not if he wants to keep it intact. He wouldn’t square up to a fly, never mind an actual worthy opponent – but your gut tells you to make damn sure he doesn’t even try.
“Get out of the way, hon.”
“No. No way. And let you –? No.”
He’s not even looking at you. You’re nothing but an obstacle. He’s staring a few feet behind.
“Baby,” Joel says, voice weary and surrendered. “It’s alright, now. C’mon, outta the way.”
“Baby?” your dad seethes. “You just call my daughter baby?”
“Called me it as long as he’s known me, Dad.”
“’s different now,” he spits. “What the f–? I mean, what the fuck, Joel? What were you even thinkin’? Putting your Goddamn hands on my daughter?”
You don’t usually hear your dad curse. All through growing up, even when you left home – you could count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard it. It sends a bolt of fear through you as if you’re five years old again, and he can’t do much worse than say bad words in front of you.
You don’t usually see your dad do any of this stuff. Raise his voice, ball his fists. Lean forward, feet planted on the ground, like daring Joel to make the first move. Joel – his best friend. The guy he was supposed to be able to trust more than anyone in the world.
Angry. Furious. And you think: if there were a time he had a right to feel this way, to act like this and throw threats around as though they’re light as air, if ever there were a moment – this would be it. A betrayal. A secret this big.
Joel takes a step forward. He doesn’t seem scared. More – placating. Letting the tantrum run its course. He holds his hands out. “Let’s just – let’s just talk.”
“Talk,” your dad repeats, spitting the word like it’s rotten in his mouth. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. What the hell have you been doin’ to her? Hm?”
Joel shakes his head, shoulders lifting. “I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to her. That’s not what this is.”
“Hell,” your dad scoffs, “not what it is. Why don’t you explain to me exactly what it is, then, Joel? If it ain’t you takin’ advantage of a young girl? Takin’ advantage of my kid?”
Your head whips back to face Joel, hand lifting in a bracing motion. He sees it – sees the way your head shakes, imperceptible to your dad. Please don’t tell him. Not yet.
It’s bad enough that he knows you’ve been messing around. It hurts enough that he knows you’ve been lying for the entire summer. Telling him the full story – the conversation in the truck, the words exchanged over ice cream and the quiet tick of traffic lights across the street – would only hurt more. Would only sharpen his anger. He’d ask more questions; he’d drive his dagger deeper.
Joel pleads with you. His eyes do his bargaining. You don’t relent. Please.
“You know what I keep thinkin’ about,” your dad interrupts, “you know what’s runnin’ through my mind? That damn garden party. Those cupcakes. You puttin’ your thumb on her lip. I should’ve known the second you touched her what was happening. You arrogant, shameless son of a bitch, Joel, you got no idea what you –”
“Dad. Enough.”
Sure, you’re trying to calm him down, palms outstretched and motioning like he’s a wild horse, rearing frantically and threatening to crush you. But it also stings to hear him talking about Joel like that. Talking to him like that.
The same Joel he’d sling an arm around, knocking their beers together when the Rangers won. The same Joel you know he’d spent hours sat out back with, talking into the night and sharing stories and secrets with the stars.
The same Joel who covered your legs with his jacket last night, who held you when you were hurting, who reminded you what it was like to feel your heart again, beating rapidly in your chest.
He’s not talking about the same Joel. Not the Joel you know. Yours.
He’s still rambling. “…’n all this time, you pair have been closer ‘n you were lettin’ on.”
“You don’t understand,” you plead, “you don’t know him like I do.”
Your dad scoffs, twisted smirk on his face. “Oh, I know ‘im. I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer and a hell of a lot better ‘n you have, hon. Known him since he was fifteen, askin’ me ‘n my buddies to buy ‘im a case of beer from the liquor store. His little brother in ‘n outta jail like God only knows what. I know exactly what he’s like.”
“What he’s like?” you huff, exasperated. You spin on your heel, arms coming down on your sides with a slap. “Joel, help me.”
“Don’t you dare look at ‘im! Listen, kiddo, I know him. Know what he’s like at Frank’s, takin’ women home left ‘n right, then forgetting their damn names. Know he sure as hell can’t remember that schoolteacher’s name, can you, Joel? You remember her?”
“Quit it,” you tell him over your shoulder, still facing Joel.
Your dad laughs from behind you. It turns your stomach. “I’ll bet he never told you about that one, did he? That’d turn you off ‘im in a heartbeat, wouldn’t it?”
“Nah, he told me about Jess.”
Your dad’s voice cuts. Joel’s head finally lifts, his eyes ungluing from the floor to look at you.
You shrug back. “I figured it out. Sister’s name is Mia – she’s a year younger ‘n me.”
You swear he almost fucking smiles. Almost. It’s funny, or at least, it would be if you weren’t both in the middle of tearing your entire dynamic apart. Any other time, he’d nudge you, or tousle your hair, and say you were too clever for him, or something about being old again.
When you turn back to face your dad, he looks like he’s run out of words. So, he repeats ones he’s already said.
“I…Well, I know him, honey. And he ain’t someone you oughta be with.”
“How’d you figure that?”
He sighs. “I just told you my reasons.”
“’cause he wanted beer when he was a kid and he’s slept with people before? ‘cause Tommy gets himself into trouble – trouble that Joel then gets him out of?”
“No, I –”
“You don’t know a damn thing about any of this. You won’t listen to me. If you’d hear me out – hear us out, then you’d –”
“Don’t you dare tell me I’d change my damn mind. Don’t – you – dare.” Your dad’s voice is quiet and slow. Dangerous. Laced with something you’ve never heard in it before. It’s not worth finding out what.
Your head shakes, knee jerking with nerves. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to say.”
The fire flickers, loses light for a second. His voice softens. “Honey…This –” he waggles his finger between your body and Joel’s, “this thing y’all have been…It ain’t right. It is not right, what y’all have been doin’. You are far too young for him. He should know better, and the fact that he doesn’t – well.”
Your brows tighten, eyes pinching around painful tears. “I know why you’re mad. I get it. I’m sorry. But I can’t –” You sigh. “You are suffocatin’ me, living here.”
His façade drops instantly. He pushes his fingers into his eyes, groaning. “Hon, you’re not hearin’ me.”
“I hear you loud and clear, I –”
He cuts you off, throwing his arms up into the air with another loud yell. The words melt into one long drone, a mountainous ramble which peaks and falls in pitch; one minute low and angry and the next high and frantic.
You sigh, shoving by him for the living room. Joel reaches for your hand, your fingers brushing against his.
“Baby,” he says.
“Ah!” Your dad blocks his advance, shaky finger held to his chest. “You dare, son.”
You’re swipe the bag from the floor by your dad’s chair, your change of clothes still in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Slinging it over your shoulder, you whip past your father and lock your hand with Joel’s.
“Hey,” Joel says, slowing you down. “Darlin’, where are you –?”
“I wanna leave.”
“Huh?” he asks, brows raised.
“I want to go,” you whisper.
He glances over to your dad, dumbfounded by the stairs. “Where d’you wanna go?”
Your shoulders roll. Anywhere. Just take me away.
He doesn’t hesitate; barely thinks it over. He tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you toward him. Your feet stumble over the carpet.
“Where in the hell –?” Your dad’s snarling picks up again, his final chance. “I don’t think so –”
Joel’s backing up towards the front door, led by the pull of your hand. “Emotions are pretty high,” he announces, “why don’t we have this conversation once everybody’s calmed down?”
“Joel, if you take her, I’ll–”
“I ain’t takin’ her anywhere. She’s an adult.”
Liar. His hand wouldn’t let go of yours if you tried to pry it from his clutches.
“I’m leavin’,” he says, “she’s just coming with me.”
Your dad barks your name, and you freeze. Joel stops, too, allows you the time to turn. Like a deer in the headlights.
“I’m going, Dad,” you shakily tell him.
“I swear to God,” he says, “if y’all walk outta that door…”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean for any of this.”
He shakes his head. “Stay, hon. Let’s talk.”
“You’re not talkin’, though. All you wanna do is argue. I wanna go with Joel.”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere with no one! ‘specially not him!”
You shrug, give your head a solemn shake. “Stop me.”
Joel hears the exhaustion in your voice, the scratch of your throat. The way the words melt into one another. He tugs on your hand, leading you through the front door. Your dad doesn’t speak again, and you don’t turn back to check on him.
The neighborhood is silent in the early morning. Yards empty, curtains still closed. No one, not even the sun, tucked behind a thin veil of cloud, sees when you pile into the front seat of Joel’s truck.
“Baby,” he says, pulling your seatbelt over your body.
Your eyes fix on the asphalt ahead. “Just drive.”
“Hey. Look at me.”
When you turn to him, he takes your jaw in both hands. “I love you,” he says.
“Still?” you squeak, eyes heavy with sleeplessness and tears.
“More.”
“This is fucking insane, Joel.”
He nods. “Yeah. ‘n you’re worth all of it.”
“Hey,” Sarah calls when the two of you spill in through the front door. She’s on the couch, Switch console in hand. “What’s up?”
“We have a – a lodger, for the next…little while,” Joel grumbles, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. He kicks off his boots and slides them to the wall, straightens up and looks to you.
You follow suit wordlessly, slipping out of your sneakers. Joel places them by his.
“Cool,” Sarah says, standing up. “How come?”
“Just – dad trouble,” you whisper, deflated. She’s wandering around the couch. A defeated sound rings from the console hanging from her thumb.
Her head tilts. “I…I got plenty room for you,” she flashes you a warm grin, “it can be like a big-ass sleepover.”
You return her smile, a slow, grateful breath filling your lungs. Joel’s arm wraps over your shoulder as your mouth opens to answer.
“No, uh…” He clears his throat. “She’ll be in my room. With me.”
Sarah’s expression is blank. She blinks between the two of you, arms limp either side of her hips. Your eyes flit from Joel to her and back again, wide, waiting. Waiting for someone to move, or speak, or yell.
Joel looks indifferent. Unbothered. As if he just told her it’s sunny outside.
She takes a step forward, and by instinct, you draw back. “Sarah…” you mutter, and she swings around the newel post. She dodges your outstretched hand, whether accidental or deliberate – you’re not sure.
“No, it’s…Okay. Yeah. I’ll – I gotta…Yeah.”
You watch as she climbs the stairs backwards, still looking from your pleading face to her dad’s stoic. She shrugs, wiggles the Switch and mumbles something about it needing charged, before she’s spinning and taking the last few steps two at a time.
When her bedroom door closes, you slump back. Joel doesn’t let go of your shoulder, catching you and pulling you into his chest.
“Fuck,” you whisper, lips pressed against his tee. He smells like pine, like mint, like you.
“’s okay,” he says into your hair, hand curving the shape of your skull. “She’ll come around. You know Sarah.”
You turn, ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. It doesn’t tell you anything new. You miss the days you used to listen for secret messages in the soft rhythm.
Joel’s chin rests on the crown of your head. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “None of this is your fault, you hear? None of it.”
“Now you’re just lyin’ to me. You know that ain’t true.”
A hum rumbles against your cheek like the earth readjusting, rearranging beneath your feet. You lift your head, loosen your grip around his waist.
“You need sleep,” he tells you, thumb swiping gently beneath your heavy eyes.
You don’t protest.
Joel takes your hand, leads you mutely upstairs and into his room. His bed’s not made. The shades aren’t even open. He lifts the sea of sheets, tosses them twice in the air and then pulls the corner back, letting you sit on the edge of the mattress.
He undresses you carefully, like your limbs might crack and burst at the slightest touch. He replaces your hoodie with a fresh tee of his own, one that still smells like the world before its end, and you lay back into bed slowly.
It’s shaped like you – the divot in the mattress. You slot back into it like you never left. The curl of your back and the fold of your knees. You’ve left little pieces of evidence all over the place – all over Joel.
He runs a delicate hand across your head, the repetitive movement lulling you off to sleep. Pushing the boat out.
“You need anythin’?” he asks.
You shake your head, arms wrapping tight underneath your pillow. “I’m good,” you whisper, and the waves pull you under.
His bedside lamp is on when you stir, the left half of the room a glowing honey color. His bare leg slotted between yours, your hands intertwined on his chest. His finger drifts back and forth against your palm, the strokes matching your breathing.
You’re still tired, eyes still rolling beneath heavy lids, but when some commentator screams at the game playing on the TV screen, you snap awake.
Joel curses under his breath, begins tearing the bed apart for the remote – but by the time he turns the volume down, your head is propped against his pillow, knuckles rubbing your eyes.
“Sorry, baby,” he sighs, kissing your forehead as he sits on the edge of the bed.
“’s okay.” You flash him a lazy smile. “What time is it?”
“Almost five thirty.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Slept all fucking day.”
“You needed it,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You want some dinner? Or – breakfast?”
You nod. “Sounds good.”
He disappears downstairs. The echoing of pots and pans and the hum of the extraction fan follow in his wake. You groan, stretching out like a starfish across the messy bed, forgetting for just a moment why you’re here, and what’s happened, and how different everything is.
It feels the same, even after eight hours sleep. Same guilt, and shame. Same anger and resentment towards your dad. Same punch to your gut anytime you picture his face, the wrinkled frown. The trembling fist holding your bag in midair.
The blow is soothed only by the swelling of warmth across your chest, looking around the room. The safety you feel here, as though you’re cut off from the rest of the world. Your father on pause the second you left the house; Joel’s room and his bed giving you time to catch your breath and recalibrate.
You’re not thinking about when you’ll have to go back home. You’re just not.
You knot your shorts back around your waist, take one huge swig of the water Joel left for you, and open his bedroom door, your head throbbing with each movement.
There’s a figure at the end of the hall, frozen in space like a phantom.
“Morning,” she says. Her hair is tied back, oversized hoodie over her shoulders.
“Hi.”
“You sleep good?”
“Must’ve. Missed half the day.”
Sarah smiles.
“Are you gonna kill me?”
“Hm,” her head tips back and forth, “not today. Don’t have the energy. Watch your back tomorrow, though.”
For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, a genuine laugh pushes its way past your lips. The knot in your stomach loosens, even if only a little.
“You wanna come help with dinner?” she asks, nodding to the stairs.
You smile. “Please.”
The three of you settle on pasta with some tomato sauce from a jar mixed through. You sit opposite Sarah as Joel sets the plates down, sliding into the seat next to yours with a gentle squeeze on your knee under the table.
The three of you talk. About nothing in particular – college, Rita and her cross stitch, some client of Joel’s whose wife got caught having an affair – but it soothes the ache in your heart. It feels like a blanket over your shoulders, a spot by the fire, a voice in your ear promising you that things are still okay. That they can still be this way: light, alive. The earth is still moving, the stars are still pinned up in the sky. Tomorrow will always come, and the day after that.
Sarah asks about LA. You tell her you didn’t know she knew. She grins and says, “Well, now that I do – you better put an application in.”
You hum around the fork between you lips. “Maybe.”
“Come on. The two of us out there together? For six whole months? You gotta do it. Tell me you don’t wanna do it. Are you gonna do it?”
Joel casts her a glower, his stony expression pushing her back in her chair.
Your eyes shift from hers over to his. He runs a slice of garlic bread around the curve of his plate, coating it in sauce, before he notices you staring. His face breaks into a tiny smirk.
“I don’t know,” you decide, turning back to Sarah. “I still gotta think it through.”
She nods earnestly. “Yeah, you should sleep on it. And then, first thing tomorrow, we’re doing it.”
The two of you let her have the final say, falling quiet until some new conversation is shifted onto the table, and then another, and then another. When you’re done eating, Sarah takes your hand and drags you back upstairs.
Sarah Miller’s bedroom has been baby pink for as long as you can remember. Joel painted it one summer while she was at camp, eliciting help from your dad to shift all the furniture. As she grew up, she covered the walls in posters, changed the sheets, changed the curtains, strung fairy lights to distract from what she saw as a kiddish color.
But she never asked to change it. Always wanted the same blushing pink her dad had picked out when she was ten – even if secretly.
Her blinds are tilted, golden light from the slowly lowering sun filtering through onto her carpet, stained with tiny dabs of nail polish. She throws herself down onto the bed, her curls igniting brown in the summer light, and you slowly sink down beside her.
“Nice Zayn poster,” you note, pointing to the straight-browed, dark-haired figure painted in a moody grayscale on her ceiling. “Interesting placement.”
“Was so I could dream about him every night.”
“You didn’t wanna take him to California?”
“Didn’t have to,” Sarah smiles, tapping her temple, “he’s all up here, baby.”
You snort. Your eyes flutter closed; hands clasped on your stomach. She sighs contentedly by your side, listening to the chatter of birds out front.
“I miss this,” she says eventually, her voice smooth and soothing. She elbows you lightly.
“Me too,” you reply. And then, with a deep breath: “Sarah…are you okay?”
When she turns back, the sunlight catches in her eyes. They twinkle, like she’s some doe-eyed Disney character. Someone who might be able to wiggle her fingers and make the last day disappear.
“Am I okay?”
“Yeah. With…everything.”
She shrugs, mumbles an I dunno. “What can I do about it? It’s weird, but…it’s none of my business. I guess…I guess if y’all are happy, then – you know. I’m gone half the time, anyways.”
“It is your business, too, though,” you tell her. “I don’t wanna make you feel weird.”
“I think you got bigger things to worry about right now. Sounds like your dad’s pretty mad.”
You sigh, looking back up to the boyband poster. “Yeah. He’s pretty mad.”
“My dad told me what happened. Well, parts. I can kinda guess the rest. Can’t really blame him, I guess.”
You shrug. “Guess not, but then…I am twenty-three, y’know? I’m not a kid. I can make my own mind up.”
She’s still staring at you, but you don’t return her glance. Something tells you that you already know what it says. Still, she verbalizes it.
“Would you be okay if I slept with your dad?”
That is so not what I thought you were gonna fuckin’ say.
You shoot her a look. “What?”
“’m askin’. Would you be okay with it, if I –”
You lift your hand to shut her up. “That is…so totally different.”
“How is that different?” she scoffs.
“Because…because…my dad’s not hot.”
Sarah gags.
“And – and also you’re not friends with him. It’s just different, alright?”
“You were friends with my dad?”
You’re laughing with her now. You can hear how pathetic your justification sounds. “Kinda, yeah. I was close to ‘im.”
“Yeah, that much is obvious, now, babe.”
You smack her arm and she giggles.
“I think he’ll come around. Your dad.”
“I don’t. Not ever.”
“Why wouldn’t he? His best friend would become his son-in-law, I would become his granddaughter-in-law –” She gasps and props herself up on her elbow, staring you down. “Does this make you, like, my stepmom?”
You spit out a laugh, and Sarah throws her head back against her pillow, clutching her belly.
“You’re my fuckin’ mom, dude!”
“Don’t you fucking dare!” you reply, covering your face with your hands. “Aw, fuck,” you breathe, giggling.
You settle back into the bed, your heads leaning against one another as you stare up at Zayn and his audience of glow-in-the-dark stars. Sarah hums something softly to herself, her ankle rocking, her fingers tapping.
The two of you were raised together. Sisters, when neither of you knew what that word really meant. You figure she’s as close as you could find – someone who reflects all of your favorite parts of yourself and who calls out the uglier ones without hesitation. Someone who comforts you with a punch to the arm, a mocking quip about your hair or the something in your teeth. A safe little secret keeper, for all of your wildest dreams and biggest fears.
“I guess this is all why you were so down in the dumps last night, right? Your dad knew then?”
You shake your head. “Not at that point. He found out after we all left. Realized it all on his own. It’s all just…so fucking stupid…”
She sighs. “My dad – if he…if he makes you happy, then I don’t even know. As long as I don’t have to see it – we’re cool.”
One cinderblock of weight lifts from your chest, allowing a rugged breath to escape. “Wish my dad would take a leaf outta your book,” you mumble.
“He’s just mad,” Sarah says. “He’s just mad, and he’ll eventually calm down.”
“Doesn’t matter even if he does calm down,” you reply. “My dad has more of a…restrictive parenting approach.”
“Can you really parent a twenty-three-year-old?”
“He finds a way to try.”
She scoffs, saying, “I get it. My dad’s more, try it ‘n see. Your dad is, like, try it ‘n see…what your punishment is.”
You both erupt into laughter, and Sarah reaches for the TV remote.
“Exactly,” you tell her, tugging on the hem of Joel’s shirt. “Although, if your dad found out you were with my dad, I don’t think he’d be cool with it, either.”
“Yeah,” she smirks, flicking through Netflix titles, “y’all got what you deserved.”
The sound of Sarah’s bedroom door closing over stirs you. Her room is the color of rust; the stream of amber sunlight on the carpet replaced by that of the streetlights. Beneath the door, the sliver of light is shifted by the sway of a silhouette walking off down the hall.
Sarah’s snoring quietly beside you, still in her jeans. Keeping an eye on her, you roll off the bed and creep towards the door, a slow groan coming from the handle as you twist it. Joel’s at the opposite end of the hall, disappearing into his room as you shut Sarah back into her warm slumber.
“Thought you were sleepin’,” he whispers when you slip into his room. He’s already sat in bed, leant against the headboard. The room a thick darkness, a black cloud of dusk spiraling around you and cutting you off from the rest of the world.
“Heard you come in.” You wander over, pausing at the side of the bed. “Wanna stay with you.”
“C’mere,” he says, holding a hand out. You take it, pulling yourself into his lap. He slips his hands under the hem of your shorts, fingertips brushing the crests of your hipbones. “You okay?” he asks, thumbs swiping gently on the seam of your thigh.
“Never better. You?”
He sighs in response and looks off to the window, the light catching his eye. You tilt your head and bend forward, kissing below his ear. He smells like whiskey. You breathe it in, inhaling like the sharp scent might fold you under a numb blanket of inebriation, too.
Joel takes a fistful of your hair and pulls you from his neck, watching the shift in your expression before he kisses you – steady, bracing. The first time since everything went so wrong.
For a few minutes you pretend nothing has changed – you’re still sneaking around, shushing one another; someone’s in the next room, there are still secrets to be kept. You slip your shorts down your legs, kicking them over the side of the bed; Joel’s sweatpants follow soon after. His hands surrender and you push up on his chest, dragging your core against his stubborn crotch, lips never losing contact. Tongues rolling against one another, noses bumping; a tangle of breath between you until you’ve no idea which is yours and which is his.
It’s all you know how to do, after all. It’s how this started, it’s how it got out of control. The two of you taking out your needs on one another. Right now is no different. You need to feel something other than the dread in the pit of your stomach, the ache in your heart anytime you look at him and know he feels it, too.
You come up for air and suddenly the feeling dissipates; doubt sets back in and fear washes over you like ice water. Your hips cease, Joel’s hands lift from your body. He pushes the hair from your face to find his own expression mirrored in yours.
Everything has changed.
You watch his movements, the light trace of his finger on your bare skin, the pinch of fabric as he adjusts his boxers. The careful movements of his own hips, trying not to incite anything more.
“I love you,” you offer, when he doesn’t say anything. Whispered, like it’s a question, like something to dangle in front of him to make him bite.
At the very least, it unsticks his gaze from the cotton print over your chest and back up to your face – where he softens and says, “Oh, darlin’. I love you, too.”
He gives you a squeeze and pulls you by the shoulders closer, letting you feel his lips on yours again and again, until you’re out of breath. You nuzzle your head under his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart at your ear.
Joel trails his hands up and down your spine. He breaks the silence first – stammers his way through a question you’re not sure how to answer.
“Was I – was I hurtin’ you? All this time?”
You lift your head, looking blankly at him. “What –?”
“Was I hurting you?”
“Hurting me?”
He nods. “Everythin’ we were doin’. Everything we’ve done. You wanted me to be doing it, right?”
He looks…scared, as though forty years have been shaved from him over the course of one day. Eyes glassy like he might burst into tears; bottom lip almost trembling with uncertainty.
You sit up and cup his face; he breathes a sigh of relief when you look him dead in the eye and say, “I wanted you to be doing all of it.”
“All of it?” he repeats.
“Yes,” you nod, “nothing you ever did ever hurt me.”
He lowers his gaze. “’cept when I left.”
“You came back.”
His thumb curves beneath the slip of fabric on your hips, toying with the elastic. There’s more in his question, you know it. He’s not convinced by a word you say.
“It’s just…all such a fuckin’ mess,” he groans, fingertips massaging his forehead.
You hesitate, unwilling to agree and unable to disagree. It is a fucking mess – that much is true. But if that’s all it is, then why does your heart pause for breath whenever you see him? Why does the mere thought of his presence, the tiniest glimpse of him – why does it all send your stomach somersaulting?
How can something supposed to be so bad, make you feel so fucking good?
“It was wrong of me,” Joel says, “to flirt with you that night I first saw you again. To put you in that position. But I did, and we ended up here. And I’m glad we did, baby, you know I am, but…it’s on me. This thing with you ‘n your dad.”
“You don’t think he should back off a little? Don’t think he’s oversteppin’ a mark, even a tiny bit?”
He shakes his head. “I’d do the damn same, ‘n you know it. I shoulda known better. Shouldn’ta let it happen. You mean more to me than the world, and I – I caused all this hurt for you.”
Sure, it’s real noble of him to take all of the blame, but it wasn’t just him. You had a part in it, too: your batting eyelashes, your hands where they shouldn’t have been. Your jaw tightens when he says it, holding back from telling him you want as much responsibility in this as he’s taking, even if he won’t allow it.
But an argument with Joel, right off the back of one with your father, isn’t really something you need. It wouldn’t help anything. So, you swallow your words and whisper new ones.
“You shouldn’t have flirted with me?”
His eyebrows flick, concern knotting them together. He sits up, scooping you in his arms. “I meant I should’ve never let it get to this point.”
“’n what about the first time you touched me?”
The memory plays between you: the weight of him on your body, the sound of the stereo system firing up downstairs. One hand between your legs and the other pinching your heart.
The light in your eyes starts to bleed through your body into Joel’s, distorting the projected image of that scene in your bedroom. It ignites somewhere low, travelling upwards until his stare locks with yours: an understanding weaving between you both.
You lean back from him, drinking in the sight. “Nothin’ but trouble, right? That’s what you said, that first night. You knew damn well where it might go. ‘n you still wanted it, just as bad.”
“Darlin’, I’m not sayin’ I didn’t, I –”
“No, no, I get it. I get it.”
You push his shoulders to the mattress. Fire in your belly, some kind of twisted energy pumping through your veins, you grind down on him again.
That thing, about this being all you know how to do? About taking your needs out on each other?
Right now, you need distraction. You need something to tire you out, to drain you of energy, to stop your thoughts for five minutes. You need someone to hold you, and love you, and make you feel good. Joel’s the perfect distraction.
He’s still hard. You’re still wet. It’s easy.
You drag your hips lazily over his, cotton riding against lace. He’s growing harder, bigger; he’s pushing up into you. You respond by pushing down, and Joel groans.
“Hey,” he takes hold of your thighs, “baby, we don’t have to –”
“Then, let’s stop.”
He says nothing.
You reach down past the band of his boxers and take him in your hand. He bites back a moan, his head falling into the pillow. You’re stroking him: long, hard strokes, fist tightening around him, fingers dipping between your folds to apply your slick to his length.
“Say the word, Joel. We’ll stop,” you pant, unsure if even you buy the words you’re saying. “You said it: none of this should’ve ever happened. You should’ve never laid a finger on me.”
His arms lift, throbbing biceps curving around his pillow and crumpling it against his skull. He doesn’t tell you to stop, because he doesn’t fucking want you to. He needs this – needs you as much as you need him, needs you more than he needs the air in his lungs.
And you’re right: it is different now. Now, it’s out in the open. The whole world could know, for all the two of you care. And maybe that’s the kick to it, now. No more hiding. No more fleeing from shadow to shadow.
You tug his underwear down and lower yourself, dragging your folds up and down the width of him while sticky precome gathers at his tip, dappling the trail of hair from his navel. And when you can’t do it anymore, when the mere sight of him drenched in your arousal threatens to send you over the edge, you line him up to your entrance and sink down, slow.
He moans into the pillow, fabric muffling your favorite sound in the world. And he doesn’t stop, his chest doesn’t stop rumbling until you reach his hilt, where he gasps.
“Darlin’,” he whimpers, hands coming back down to hold you in place.
You bat them away. “Uh-uh,” you tut, pinning his wrists above his head. “Not a – fuckin’ – finger.”
Joel grits his teeth, eyes locking onto yours, directly above him as you slide up off his cock, hips circling as you do, and then back down. Your free hand curves around his ribcage, the solid flesh of his torso stabilizing you.
“Poor baby,” you coo, pouting your lip. “Can’t even touch me. Can’t put a hand on your girl when you need to most.”
“Fuckin’ – whore,” he grunts, and your hips grind to a halt. You release his wrists.
“That what you think of me?” you ask, sitting upright on his lap. Joel’s still buried deep inside you.
“No,” he’s breathing, lips curling, “no, baby. Keep goin’.”
“I’m not the one goin’ back on my word here.”
He flashes a thick, filthy smile. “I know, I know. Go on. Make me proud.”
You lean forward again and he sighs, the feel of your wet cunt wrapping like satin around him.
“You think he’d trust you, anyway, after everythin’?” you mewl. “Think he thinks I’m in a different room right now? Tucked up in bed, safe ‘n sound? Nah, baby, he knows. He knows what you’re doin’ right now. Keep your hands off me? You can’t keep your cock outta me.”
Joel moans in agreement, hands gripping into the sheets to ground himself, hips bucking up against yours. You place your hands either side of him on the mattress and start to bounce, skin slapping, bed shaking.
“You like that, huh?” you moan, feeling the sharp kiss of his head at your cervix. Nudging, nudging, nudging. Blunt pain, blissful pleasure. “Like me riding it. Takin’ what I – oh, fuck – what I need.”
He lets out a guttural moan, writhing around underneath you. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is, forgotten you guys aren’t alone in the house; drunk on the sight, smell, sound, and feel of you on him, not even trying to stifle his sounds anymore.
You close your eyes and hope Sarah doesn’t wake anytime soon.
You’re keeping the façade up for Joel, but on the inside, you feel the exact same. His words echo in your ears, shouldn’ta let it happen, and how quickly that melted into make me proud. Your head starts to swim, your eyes heavy, your body trembling.
The thatch of hair at the bottom of his cock brushes against your clit, a gasp drawing between your teeth. Pain begins to rip upwards on the inside of your thighs, forcing you forward.
“Joel,” you pant, leaning over him. “Fuck.”
“Gotta let me touch you, baby,” he whispers, hands lifting beneath the fabric of your shirt. His fingers ghost across the curve of your shoulders. “You need it, don’t you?”
You whimper in response and Joel slips past the moment of weakness, taking a strong grip of both shoulders and pulling himself upright on the mattress. The tee slips from your body in one breath, and his hands follow the incline of your neck to your jaw, holding you steady as he fucks up into you.
“You want me to fill you up?” he asks, leaning back with a palm flat on the bed behind to watch himself disappear between your legs.
You’re nodding desperately. “Mhm.”
“Gotta ask nicely, remember? Be a good girl for me?”
“Dick,” you hiss, draping your arms over his shoulders.
He pouts. Sweat gleams on his upper lip. His voice cracks, weakens like stone beginning to crumble. “’s not v-very n-ice, baby.”
“Comeinme,” you beg, your fingers swirling around the dark hair at the bottom of his skull. “Please, come in me.”
“Atta-girl,” he groans, and his hands instantly lock on your hips. You don’t stop him this time, letting him push you down as hard as he can onto his cock, coming as deep inside you as he can.
And then – that familiar feeling of being his. Filled with him, your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your cunt spilling with the sight, smell, taste and feel of him. He coats your walls, throbs deep inside you as he claims every tiny corner of your body.
He growls as his cock twitches, and you watch his expression go from determined, to blissful, to fucking exhausted when he stills and his head rolls forward into your chest. His breath hot and staggered between your breasts; light kisses peppered onto damp skin.
You watch him through a post-sex haze, the air between you thick and blurry, as he presses his lips into your chest. He sucks along the cushion of your breast until he reaches the nipple, lips cupping around it, tongue flicking with all the effort he has left in him.
When he lifts his head again, one final kiss to your sensitive flesh, you balance his chin under your thumbs.
“You come?” he asks, the words propelled by a heavy exhale.
You shake your head slowly. “I’m tired, anyway.”
“Alright,” Joel groans, flipping you over. He pushes your thighs apart, his spend leaking from your slit and running southwards.
“Joel,” you giggle, “c’mon, I’m tired. You don’t have to –”
He’s already pushing himself lower, whipping the dark cotton tee from his shoulders and brushing his naked chest over your stomach. You lower your arms to hook under his.
“Hey. Come here a sec.”
Joel blinks up at you. “What’s up?”
“Just – come here.”
He kneels back up to you, hovering over you with his hands under your shoulders. His limp cock lies against the inside of your thigh as he lowers his weight onto your hips. You tilt your head, mapping his face.
Your knuckle runs across his cheek, the jagged bristle of his beard on your warm skin. Like running your hand under water, unable to tell whether it’s scalding hot or freezing cold – there is no saying whether you’re so used to him now that the feel of him is unaffecting, or entirely all-consuming. There’s no middle ground. Not anymore.
“I know –” You sigh, your voice swollen with a soft cry. There’s no stopping the tears anymore. They just come. “I know you think you should’ve known better. But I am so fucking glad that you didn’t.”
It’s done nothing but pour all day. You woke up this morning to the rain battering against Joel’s window, your body hooked against his by his arm.
Day four. Still no call, no text, no nothing from your dad. You haven’t exactly returned the favor – the closest you dared was having Sarah drive you to your house while he was at work so you could dip into the hallway, grab your car keys, and drive straight back to Joel’s. You pulled up in his driveway alongside each other and she rolled her window down, checking your expression before snorting.
It’s like a damn Mission: Impossible film, she jested.
The pain feels blunter, more distant than it did on Saturday. Like your father has bowed his head, faded some into the dark background of upstage. You realize, a few days in – the movie nights and the meals homecooked by three chefs; the way Joel’s scent starts to become yours, his T-shirts hanging loose over your shoulders and his boxers snug against your hips – that you forget to check on the shadow of your dad. Forget the spot he once stood in, the thunderous cloud cast over his head. The same one that so regularly used to pour rain over you.
Sarah went out with her friends a few hours ago. She called to say she’d miss dinner, so you and Joel ordered Chinese. You’re sat with your legs in his lap picking away at some noodles, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while he catches up on some baseball highlights show.
“Fuckin’ – idiots,” he mumbles, fork angrily picking at rice.
Your eyes don’t lift from the Instagram caption you’re reading. “Fuckin’ idiots,” you flatly agree.
Joel’s head turns. “Alright, Miss Big Rangers Fan. I remember a time you pretended to be into ‘em to get my attention.” He attempts to grab your phone, and you swipe it from his grasp.
“Shut up,” you giggle, grabbing hold of your takeout box. “Joel – be careful!”
He snorts, settling back into the couch, changing the TV channel. You give his thigh a little kick, tugging your blanket up. As the TV switches from one showing to the next, your phone buzzes.
You glance down, chopsticks halfway to your mouth, and freeze.
Dear Candidate…
“Joel.”
“Hm?” he asks, eyes glued to the flickering screen.
“Joel.”
“Yes, darlin’?”
You unstick your stare from the phone, looking up to meet his perplexed expression. “They got back to me.”
He squints for a second before the remote is dropped to the cushion. “And?”
“I don’t know, I just saw the first line.”
“Open it, baby. C’mon. Whatever it is, you gotta know.”
“You know what,” you shrug, “I’m good. I don’t need to know. It’s all good.”
“Hey.” Joel snaps his fingers scooping your gaze from the floral, bohemian name on the header of the email and up to his own. “Open it, or I’m kickin’ you out.”
You mock gasp. “You’d put me out on the streets?”
“Worse. Put you back to your dad’s. Now open the email.”
Your thumb trembles as it hovers over the screen, one tap away from the biggest change in your life since you left for New York. Like it’s five years ago, and you’re sat in front of your laptop, psyching yourself up to open the response to your college application.
“Okay,” you breathe, slamming your thumb down. Joel leans in, staring at the screen from upside down.
It swipes across and your eyes flit down, focusing hard on the sentence beneath the opening line. You blink rapidly, waiting for the wash of tears to clear and dissolve it to Unfortunately, or After careful consideration, or We appreciate your interest.
But it never does.
Invite to interview stares back up at you, waiting for your face to break. Expectant, a little nervous. Jittering inside your shaking fist. Joel breaks first, when he spots it.
He almost throws his food onto the coffee table, taking your container from your hands and bundling you up in his. He pulls you into his body, presses heavy kisses to the crook of your neck as you laugh, your entire body quaking with joy and terror and relief and anxiety.
“What’d I tell you?” he says, kissing you roughly. “I knew it, babygirl. I knew you would – Fuck, I am so fucking proud of you.”
“It’s just –” sniff, “– it’s just an interview, remember. I might not get it, in the end.”
Joel shakes his head. “I don’t care. You’re a damn sight closer to gettin’ it than you were three days ago.”
You sit for probably twenty minutes, laughing and then weeping and then laughing again – until the food is cold, there’s a new episode of South Park rolling on TV, and Joel’s T-shirt is soaked with your tears.
“I gotta call Sarah,” you whisper, finger sifting through his hair. Your head buried in his neck, your knees either side of his hips.
“She’s going to lose her fuckin’ mind,” he mumbles into your shoulder, laughing to himself. “She’ll sit off-camera in the corner of the room, so they can’t see her, ‘n hold up cue cards.”
You giggle, letting it dissipate into something weaker, something unconvinced. In a small voice, you say, “We just got one step closer to being four states apart.”
He looks up at you, curving a hand around your jaw, and pulls your lips against his. It’s slow, tender – his every thought and feeling translated into physical movement, transformed into a spin of butterflies in your chest.
When you pull away from him, smiling dumbly, he clips your cheek. “That scare you?”
You hesitate, afraid to tell him the truth. But it’s Joel. He knows every thought that passes through your head. You nod, eyes filling with a salty sting.
“Why?” he asks.
You glance out to the street. “’cause I love you. I don’t wanna leave you.”
Joel nods. Considers it. Then says, “You know why it doesn’t scare me?”
You lift your eyebrows in response. Why?
“Because I love you. And we are gonna be just fine.”
And you believe him.
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thesuperiorrobin · 6 months
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𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞
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Pairing: Damian Wayne x Florists!Fem!Reader
Word count: 570
Warning: Damian and reader are in their twenties, mentions of flowers and their opposite meanings(hatred,Stupidly, etc) this post was on Pinterest that was taken from tumblr but lost it and now I can’t find OG creator. If you know the OG creator of if this looks familiar please let me know so I can tag them. Mentions of the word skank.
A/n: i never realize how horrible 2000s magazines were until I read some my mom kept😭 Also this is all Bs. I’m sure all of these are not right bc I looked them up.
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the flower shop was quiet today, it was nice but boring. When the shop was running slow time I’m the place slows down too. And you hated it. You were stuck making sure the flowers were perfect even if they were and you were just trying to make your shift go faster. But none of that seemed to work.
You somehow find yourself reading old magazines from the two-thousands you found in the back of the shop. Your elbows are rested up against the top of the displaced case, flipping through the reach page as you read every box and bubble carefully.
“What makes a girl a skank? Huh?” Your eyebrows are furrowed as you flip the page “Two thousands magazines are something else”
(and trust me they are).
The sound of the bell ringing makes you perk up, indicating someone entered the store. You close the magazine before you walk around the display case to face the customer who entered. You stand there surprised, eyes coming in context with green ones that you recognize from pictures and the news—also ones you see everyday when you go to sleep and when you wake up in the morning.
Damian Wayne stands in front of you and he doesn’t look happy. You smiled at him, welcoming him in. You bring him in a small short hug before pulling apart. Your lips lock for a short second before pulling away again.
“Hey. It’s a surprise seeing you here today. Do you need something?”
He gives you a nod “Do you have anything—flowers, that are symbolic of hatred? Maybe stupidity?” You were taken aback by the question.
Not that many people come in asking for flowers with bad meaning towards them—normally they come in asking for flowers that mean love.
You cleared your throat. “I believe I do, follow me”
You take him further down the shop. In the back laid different kinds of flowers, separated by name and by color.
“There’s a couple I know by heart that have both good and bad meanings to them” You start off eyeing every flower carefully as you try and remember the bad. You point up at the orange butterfly weeds, and Damian follows your finger “Those are very beautiful ones but no one gets them because they literally mean ‘be warned’. Which is shameful because they always die out here”
“Is that why you have so many back at home?” Damian asked softly, placing a firm hand behind your back.
You hum “or orange lilies maybe? They mean hatred and other rough emotions. There are also carnations, which mean disappointment. You can also get black roses. Those work too. What do you think?” You look up at your lover waiting for a response as he looks over the flowers.
He pulls out his wallet “How about all that you just named?” You give him a grin. Collecting the flowers and putting them together to make a beautiful bouquet.
You ring him up. “Are these for your wife Mr.Wayne?” You tease playfully.
“Nonsense, my wife deserves better flowers that do not mean hatred” he scuffs as he plays along.
“She’s a lucky girl”
“Yes, she is” he smiles down at you lovingly. He hands you a fifty dollar bill for a bouquet that cost thirty-five and seventeen in change. He refuses the extra amount left over.
“Keep it. Use it to bye more butterfly weeds” you sigh.
When Damian made up his mind he’s too stubborn to change it.
“Who are they for anyway?” You asked. Tilting you head as you put the rest of the money away.
“Tim was being idiotic during patrol and landed himself in the hospital”
“Oh”
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entitled-fangirl · 1 month
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Two idiots in love. (P3)
Joel Miller x anemic!reader
Summary: the trio find themselves at the home of Bill and Frank, not knowing what became of them.
Warnings: death, cursing, Joel being Joel, Ellie being Ellie, Bill and Frank's story😭
Masterlist
Part 1, Part 4
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...............................................
The three neared Bill and Frank's home, the electric fence only a few feet in front of them.
"Stay here."
Joel stepped forward, punching the code into the lock and opening the fence for the girls to step through.
Joel could tell something was off, but Y/N seemed to be in her own little world, her medication finally helping her for once.
"You know, El? I think you'll really like Frank. Actually, I take all of that back… Bill is going to be your favorite."
Ellie scoffs, "What makes you say that?"
Y/N hums, "Cause you like Joel. And they're very much alike."
Joel snorts under his breath at that, but says nothing.
When they neared the house, Y/N stopped as if something was forcing her to the ground.
Joel placed a hand on her lower back, "Sweetheart?"
He followed her gaze, which was locked on the dead potted plant by their doorstep.
He pulled at her reluctant body and moved towards the door. His eyebrows furrowed when he discovered the door was left entirely unlocked.
The house was dead silent.
They all stood in the entryway, Joel's hand holding Y/N's wrist gently. He thought of it as a comfort for her, but deep down he knew it was comfort him too.
Ellie's eyes were wide, "What the fuck?"
Joel stared at the staircase, "Bill?"
Nothing.
"Frank?"
Joel turned to Ellie was a serious gaze and a soft voice, "You stay there. You hear anything, you see anything… yell."
"What if they're gone?"
Joel stopped, his grip on Y/N loosens as he turns back to Ellie was a desperate look before turning back and taking Y/N with him.
The two searched the house with their hearts in their stomachs before they moved back towards the entryway.
Ellie sat in the open room next to it at their dining room table. A note was in her hands.
"It… it's from Bill. Came with this."
She pushed a car key across the table towards them.
Joel took off his backpack. He carefully picked the key up. "So, they're dead?"
Ellie nodded with a soft "Uh-huh."
Y/N let out a soft cry, coving her hands over his mouth to muffle it.
Joel turned to her, his jaw clenched, as he pulled her to him silently. She grabbed the collar of his jacket and cried into his chest.
Ellie held out the note, "You wanna…?"
His hands wrapped around Y/N, one around her waist and the other into her hair. "Go ahead. You do it."
Ellie let out a soft sigh began to read.
August 29, 2023, If you find this, please do not come into the bedroom. We left a window open so the house wouldn't smell, but it will probably be a sight.
Y/N turned her head slightly against Joel's shoulder to watch Ellie as she read. He continued to gently play with her hair.
I'm guessing you found this, Joel because anyone else would've been electrocuted or blown up by one of my traps. Hehehehehehehe. Take anything you need. The bunker code is the same as the gate code but in reverse.  Anyway, I never liked you, but still, it's like we're friends, almost. And I respect you. So, I'm gonna tell you something because you're probably the only person who will understand.
Joel felt a slight wet feeling on his chest and looked down. The tears were silently falling from his girl's face. His hand ran up from her waist to her cheek, his thumb lightly grazing over it, wiping the tears as they came.
I used to hate the world and I was happy when everyone died. But I was wrong, because there was one person worth saving.  That's what I did. I saved him. Then I protected him. That's why men like you and me are here. We have a job to do, and God help any motherfuckers who stand in our way.  I leave you all of my weapons and equipment. Use them to keep- 
Ellie stopped, looking back up at them. 
Joel moved forward, his hands leaving Y/N as he grabbed the paper from Ellie's hand. 
He looked at it.
Tess.
…keep Tess and Y/N safe.
When Y/N moved to look over his shoulder at it, he stood tall. "Stay here."
He stormed out of the house. 
Ellie stood up, looking to the woman curiously.
"Leave him, Ellie. He needs time."
When he came back in, the two were still at the table, Y/N now sitting in one of the chairs. They both look up at him in question.
But he only looked at Ellie.
"Show me your arm."
She stepped towards him, pulling up her sleeve and showing him her arm.
He sighed, "I just finished makin' a truck battery. It's charging right now."
"..okay?"
"And I have a brother out in Wyoming. He's in some kinda trouble, and I'm heading out there to find him. He used to be a firefly…"
With this, Y/N stood up slowly, joining the two.
"…and my guess is he knows where some of them are out there. Maybe they can get you to wherever this lab is."
Ellie sighed, "Alright. Listen. About Tess…"
Joel held up his hand, not wanting to hear it, and sure as hell not wanting Y/N to hear it.
"If I'm takin' you with me, there's some rule you gotta follow. Rule 1: You don't bring up Tess. Ever."
Y/N noticed the tone in his voice. It was hurt and desperate.
"Matter of fact," he said, "we can just keep our histories to ourselves. Rule 2: you don't tell anyone about your…condition. They see that bite mark, they won't think it through. They'll just shoot you. Rule 3: you do what I say when I say it. We clear?"
There was no way Ellie could say no to the persistent glare he gave her, "Yes."
"Repeat it."
Y/N stepped forward, "Joel.."
He held a hand in front of her, stopping her, "Quiet, sweet girl."
She stopped.
Ellie thought for a moment, the silence deafening, "What you say goes."
Joel sighed, "…okay."
They spent the next few days in the house, gathering supplies. 
Y/N took it upon herself to gather their clothes and toiletries.
Joel was more focused on weapons and fixing the truck.
They were a good team.
She was sat in the living room, after her shower. Her hair was damp as she sorted through a few of the clothing boxes for last minutes pieces.
Ellie's voice brought her from her thoughts, "Well, don't you look pretty."
Y/N looked over her shoulder to see Joel all washed up. His hair was combed back, one of Bill's clean flannels on him. (^^ the gif at the top^^)
She smiled.
He looked at Ellie, "Shut up."
He then held his hand out, "C'mon, sweet girl. We have plenty."
Y/N stood, taking his hand.
Ellie's hand grabbed the passenger side door handle and Joel immediately grunted. "Nah-uh. Get in the back."
A smile ghosted her face and she got in the back.
Y/N smiled too, "I'll let you have it in a few hours. How about that?"
Joel grunted again, "No. She's a kid."
The girls rolled their eyes and continued like nothing happened.
Joel started the truck, relieved when it started. 
He felt Y/N's gaze on him.
When he looked at her, he found that she really was looking at him.
She reached up, her finger lightly grazing over the large cut on his cheek.
He mumbles, "Doesn't hurt anymore."
She nods, retracting her hand.
He reaches out, grabbing it.
He twists it, staring at the bruise from days ago on her forearm.
She mumbles in the same way, "doesn't hurt anymore."
He nods, the ghost of a smile making its way to his face. "Good."
They pulled away from all that was left of Bill and Frank as Linda Ronstadt played from the mixtape.
...............................................
Part 4
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aureatchi · 5 months
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˚୨୧ 。 ˚ IT WAS A NIGHT TO REMEMBER . — osamu dazai
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⟢ SYNOPSIS. after a long week of work, you and your best friend retreat to a bar to distract yourself from your responsibilities. however, you find it unfulfilling and decide you need to just go home. as you head out the door, you bump into someone more than familiar.
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a/n. it’s the way i immediately thought of him when i first heard this song. <3
info. fem!reader. exes to lovers!au. we have the full recipe…fluff; light angst; gets really sugg. mentions of drinking; scars. your best friend hates dazai. hc dazai doesn’t bandage his tummy. (ᗒᗜᗕ) ノ wc. 3.6k
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“It’s just a lot.”
You just finished the final shift of your job for the week, and you were more than exhausted and burnt out. You had called your best friend immediately after to get some comfort, and despite how busy she was, she agreed to meet you for some drinks and listen to you rant.
“My coworker’s getting on my last nerve,” you continued venting. You had already told her about select crappy people you had to interact with during the day and then your boss, who regarded you with no empathy whatsoever. “Today’s already been bad enough, and then she decides to just pile more stress on me.”
You swished the ice around your emptied glass, creating clanking sounds while coating the cup in water.
“Maybe you should just quit,” your friend replied, taking a sip out of her glass. “I would’ve been long gone if I had to deal with annoying people all around, nine to five.”
She looked up at you. “Besides, you’re well off anyway. I don’t see why you’re working. Are you…trying to distract yourself?”
You sighed. She knew you too well.
“Love, don’t tell me you’re still hung up over—“
“It’s not what you think,” you cut her off, yet you avoided eye contact. It was easier to lie that way. “I just feel I’d have too much free time on my hands. I’m not sure what I’d do with it.”
You let out a dry chuckle. That wasn’t wholly false in itself, either. At your age, everyone had their own things going on—your best friend being an example. Therefore, you couldn’t find much time to go out with any of your friends, and you weren’t interested in meeting new people either.
You could blame your job. Perhaps the ones you meet every day put a sour taste on your tongue, making you lose any desire to interact with strangers. You could blame your exhaustion. Or…
“Honestly, I think that calls for someone new in your life,” your friend replied. “That’ll surely cure your boredom.”
“No thanks. I don’t feel like dating anyone right now.”
“I’m just kidding,” she laughed. “But it’d help you feel less lonely, no?”
“…you didn’t believe my answer to your earlier question, huh?”
“No. Of course not.”
It had been over five months since you broke up with your boyfriend. You tried seeing people after that, but in truth, you were only using them to try to move on.
Once you realized that it wasn’t working and it wasn’t fair for others to play with feelings, you decided to take on a new job on the other side of the city so you’d still get out of your house and have a change of scene.
“…But you know what? Screw him. I will keep saying again and again, I hate that man. Suicidal maniac. I know it’s hard, but you’re too hot to keep dwelling on this. You need to learn to move o—”
Your friend’s phone suddenly buzzed, interrupting her little lecture.
She picked it up, and you waited for her to finish speaking.
“I’m sorry, I think I got to go. I left my boyfriend with my cat, and he just told me he lost her already…” she shook her head. “Have you gotten out everything you wanted to say?”
“Yeah, thanks,” you replied. “I think I’ll go home soon, too. Not really feeling it.”
She stood up, handing you a bill with a smile. “Drinks on me tonight. Don’t complain—I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer. And we didn’t order much anyway.”
“That’s okay; I appreciate you coming to listen to me anyway,” you replied.
“The offer is still open, by the way! If you want to find someone, I’ll schedule a date by this weekend.”
You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Thanks.”
You only had one more drink before you decided to leave, still mostly sober—you figured it’d just be best if you’d take care of yourself at home.
Another thing your job was also distracting you from was witnessing all the relationships around you. Your friend had to go home for her boyfriend. You noticed a few couples at the bar you were at. You’d probably see more when you walked outside.
Not that you minded, is what you tried to tell yourself every single time. You didn’t have to be with someone. It’s okay to have a break.
But was it okay to still have a particular person at the back of your head all the time?
You stood up, leaving the bill and tip for your bartender before you walked toward the door. Opening it caused the bell attached to it to jingle. You were greeted by a cool, night breeze—and someone’s torso.
“O-Oh, sorry,” you replied, too tired to even catch the face of the person you bumped into.
But you had no choice when the man didn’t move out of the doorframe to walk in or allow you to pass.
So, when you met the almost-surprised, caramel-kissed eyes on a face framed with dark brown bangs and wavy hair, you felt your heart plunge into your stomach.
You whispered his name—almost scared to say it, the syllables feeling foreign from not having spoken it aloud for months.
“…Osamu.”
He was halfway through saying your name when you dashed for the exit, shoving him aside and speed-walking out.
“Wait! Bel—“ he caught himself and shouted your name once more.
You started walking down the parking lot, unsure of where you were trying to go, except away—away from Dazai. You had forgotten this bar was in the heart of the city. You didn’t know Dazai came to this one, but you knew his work was somewhere close.
“Hey!” you felt a breeze behind your back, and then a hand gently land on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.
“What…why are you following me?”
You turned around, getting your second full view of your ex for the night.
His hair was a bit longer. He still had those bandages on his neck—did he bother to change them out recently? His scent was as still as you remembered—grassy and toasty, a resemblance to green tea.
“I’m not sure why I’d leave a girl I know to walk alone at night,” he shrugged. “It’s dangerous!”
You continued walking, not responding to his reply.
“Where are we going?”
“Who’s we?”
“Aw, that was really rude.”
You ignored Dazai, making sure your stroll stayed a few feet in front of him.
You then entered a park, him trailing behind you.
“Why were you at the bar alone?”
“That’s none of your business.” You walked down the path, trees casting dark shadows onto the grass under the moon’s light.
“…And I wasn’t alone the entire time. I was with a friend, but she left to attend something.”
Dazai nodded, trying to catch up to your face. You immediately gave him more than enough space when he reached you, not wanting any invasion of your personal space.
“But you usually don’t drink unless you’re either celebrating or stressed,” he said. “And from what I’ve seen, it looks like the latter.”
You stopped again. “Again, it’s none of your business. Maybe you should focus on yours. You go and drink tons when you’re stressed, too.”
“Hey, I’ve actually gotten better at that…”
“You still ended up at a bar midweek.”
“But I didn’t even go in, no? I’m with you at a park right now.”
You were silent once again. But now you couldn’t complain that he was following you.
Why do I care if he drinks or not?
No. It’s normal. You’d care for the well-being of anyone you know.
You approached a set of swings in the center of the park. It had been ages since you’d been on one, swinging back and forth in carefree.
“Want me to push you?” you heard Dazai over your shoulder when you examined the equipment.
“Heck no,” you responded.
“Why not? It’d be fun!” He moved closer.
“No! I’m not sure if it’d even carry me,” you laughed. “It’s for kids.”
“You can try it. Just sit. And I’ll catch you if it breaks—“
“Shut up. I can catch myself.” You lowered yourself onto the seat, seeing that the metal poles did hold. You swung yourself a bit to test if it’d keep up your weight.
“It works.”
“Great! Can I push you now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I won’t kill you, bel—I won’t! I promise.” Dazai childishly held out a pinkie toward you.
You sighed. “Fine. Just please don’t push me too high.” You clasped your pinkie around his.
“I got you!” You felt palms on your back, and then a light push that moved you forward, and then gravity pulled you back toward him.
Everything pulls me back to him—my mind and the universe both.
You were suddenly pushed higher, catching you off guard. You felt yourself fly multiple feet off of the ground, and you clutched the metal in panic.
“H-Help—Osamu!”
“You’re fine. You won’t fall,” Dazai chuckled. He pushed you again, sending you even higher than the previous time. You wanted to scream, but it came out more as a laugh.
“Is the thrill fun?” he asked while you were in the air, noticing your smile.
“Yeah, it is—HEY!”
Dazai had pushed you hard, sending you swinging all around the equipment, in a complete three-sixty.
“Osamu!” you cried, the momentum spinning you around once more. You couldn’t stop it—it was too fast.
You were clutched from behind, arms tightly wrapped around your torso to stop the swing. You could hear the sound of Dazai being dragged through the rocks below, but he was able to ground the both of you before you went flying again.
And you felt warm. Despite the evening’s cool air, you felt like you were encompassed in a fireplace’s heat on a winter day.
“Got you.”
You let out a giant exhale of relief. And then, you turned around in anger.
“I told you not to push me that high!”
“But I didn’t kill you, did I? You stayed on the swing the entire time! You were safe! Plus, I think you enjoyed it.”
You stood up, causing Dazai to let go of his arms. “I’m dizzy now.”
“Do you need water? We can buy some. And did you drive here?”
“No, I took a taxi.”
“Let me drive you home then,” he said.
“I think I’m fin—“
“Please,” he cut you off almost urgently, but then he caught his tone and reverted.
“I mean, many kidnappers disguise themselves as taxi drivers. Especially at night.”
“You’re still so cynical,” you replied. “Stop being so protective. It’s not like we’re…nevermind, sorry.”
You didn’t dare look at Dazai’s expression.
You each got a yogurt drink, and it helped soothe your dizziness immediately.
You walked by Dazai silently, but compared to earlier in the night, you were no longer repulsed to standing by him.
He opened his car door for you before getting in his seat on the other side.
“What have you been up to these past months?”
You asked as he found his keys, turning them into gear.
“A case. It’s something huge going on.”
Dazai’s work accounted for part of your breaking up with him. He was too secretive—despite you knew that he trusted you so much that he explained to you exactly what his job consisted of, and he only left details out to protect you from getting involved, you couldn’t handle it.
Maybe you were selfish for that. But you needed to know what your boyfriend was up to—if he was safe. Perhaps that was another reason why. You would never let him go if you knew of the exact danger he was volunteering himself in.
“I see. Sleeping okay?”
“If I do, sure.” He was suddenly reaching over your body, grabbing your seatbelt.
Your heartbeat fastened as Dazai hovered over you, pausing to look at anticipating eyes and a risky glance at slightly parted lips.
He sighed before fastening the buckle and moving away, acting like nothing happened.
You two drove in silence, you gazing out of the car window to admire how the city looked in the absence of the sun.
A song was suddenly put on. You looked at Dazai.
“Do you still like this song?”
“Yeah,” you replied. He had put on your favorite song, indeed.
You silently thanked him for it. The awkward tension to speak to one another had vanished; you could indulge yourself in music.
Until it ended, of course, but by then, you could see you were almost home.
“Osamu.”
“Yes?”
“This was a really bad idea. I hope I never see you again after this.”
“Probably, but maybe I wanted it to happen. Maybe I thought about you so much that I had to seize this opportunity.”
“What?”
“What if I hope to see you again after this?”
“You can go flirt with any other girl for entertainment.” He did a lot of that, too. Even if it was Dazai’s most efficient tactic for getting information, he had also said he simply couldn’t help it sometimes.
“I don’t find that interesting anymore.”
You looked at his distant, faint reflection through your window.
“…you think about me?”
You were answered with a nod.
Dazai turned, pulling you into your driveway.
“I’ll continue to even more after tonight,” he said. “Whether we see each other again or not. It plagues my mind every day. What I could’ve done better—how much you deserve that I failed to reach.”
He parked. “Of course, I’ve tried to move on. It’s the most fair thing to do for you. But if someone were to ask me, bella, saying that I don’t still love you would be a lie.”
“You’re selfish,” you commented.
“I know. I’m very.”
You opened the door, stepping out of the car.
“Thank you for driving me,” you said.
You walked towards your front door and then looked back at Dazai, who was standing by his side of the car.
You contemplated for a second.
“D-do you have something to do for the rest of the night?” you carefully asked.
“No.”
“Can you stay? Just for a bit. We can talk about things. And hopefully, you get some answers that will help you stop occupying your mind of me.”
You said that as if you were trying to convince yourself, rather Dazai.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” You pushed open the door.
Dazai followed you as you walked through the house—through the hallway and to the kitchen.
“Do you want something to eat? Or drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks,” he replied.
“Alright. Uh…feel free to make yourself at home. I’m going to change, I’ll be right back.”
You walked into your room, first washing your face in the bathroom. You stared at your face through the window, noticing how pigmented your cheeks were.
Why did I do this?
You were in the middle of changing your pajamas when Dazai knocked on your door.
“Can I come in?”
“Uh—“ you hastily buttoned two thirds of your shirt before, “Yeah.”
A smell of your favorite scent immediately flowed into the room as Dazai came in. It was of the candles you had around your house.
“You lit my candles?”
“Yeah. I got curious because the flavors looked nice. I like them. The scent matches you perfectly.”
“Oh…thanks,” you mumbled. You didn’t know how else to respond.
Dazai glanced around your room. Some things changed—you had moved some things around, redone the decor on your nightstands, changed your bed sheets…what he didn’t know was that you actually donated them after the break-up so you would never see them again.
“Did you need something?”
“Yeah. Do you still happen to have bandages?”
“Yes.” You had Dazai sit on the bed while you searched your closet for the box of bandages you would keep for whenever he came over. Unlike your sheets, you had kept them for your emergency first aid.
Or in case he happened to be in an emergency.
“What do you think you could’ve done better?”
There was a silence right after. You had hit Dazai with a hard question first.
“I’d stop disappearing so much without warning. I only realized how much I took that for granted when we stopped seeing each other. I would try to communicate better…” He looked down. “I’m terrible at it, I know, but I would try harder.”
“Why me? You could move on and find some other girl to treat right the first time.” You found the box, pulling it out.
“Because I would feel like a loser,” he added your name to the end of the sentence. “I was a total jerk to someone who loved me, and then I decide to switch it up for someone new and pretend to start on a clean slate? No, bella—I’m cursed with not forgetting and forgiving myself of the past. It feels cowardly.”
“Osamu, stop. You hurt me, yes, but you weren’t the only one in the wrong.
“I-I’m sorry.” You hadn’t apologized to him yet, through months.
You noticed his eyes almost widen, surprised.
“And I also forgive you. It took awhile, but I’m forgiving you of the mistakes that hurt me,” you continued. “And I’m apologizing to you too. So please forgive yourself. You don’t need to feel guilt.
“It’s only fair to you as well to move on.”
“Why, bella? How is it fair? How is it fair when the only person I want to see is you?”
“Osamu.”
You were right in front of him, the closest you’d been to him that night, discarding how he had tightly hugged you on the swing earlier. You were drowned in emotion that surrounded his desperate pleas.
“Can you please bandage me?”
“Why?”
“I miss your touches.”
You regret asking. He had no shame in expressing his thoughts, no matter what you two were going through. You regret asking, yet…
“Your coat.”
You climbed behind and rid Dazai of the top portion of his clothes—his vest and dress shirt. Then, you started unwinding the bandages on his arms, chest, and neck.
Gently, your fingers grazed the scars that hid underneath his attire, and his mind. Months ago, you had learned what every single mark came from after knowing where each one was—it was one detail Dazai fully opened to you about.
You were thankful you couldn’t see scars of the heart.
He would have thrice as many. Perhaps one of them would include you.
You rewrapped Dazai, leaving only his stomach unbandaged. You moved to do his neck when he paused you with his eyes, mere inches away from his face.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
You wish he weren’t so pretty. You would’ve been able to rationalize yourself quickly—you would’ve been able to give him a final answer without hesitating. But he ended up being the face of your dreams and the depth of your heart.
“I tell myself it’s fair,” you whispered. His nose was almost touching yours. “I tell myself it’s better that we’re done. But my heart isn’t so sure. It asks the same—how is it fair? To keep myself longing?”
Your arms were around Dazai’s neck with the bandage, yet you did not move to finish.
His gaze moved to your lips. A hand moved to your hair.
“Is it fair? If it truly is, push me away, bella.”
He didn’t force himself any closer, leaving you with the choice despite his yearning appearance. You could feel the warmth of his body on yours and the soft air of his breaths on your cheeks.
“Yes. It’s fair, Osamu.” You came to your conclusion.
Yet, you dropped the bandages, cupped his face towards you, and pressed your lips on his.
“But I’m selfish too.”
You moved your hands to waft through brunette locks as Dazai pulled you onto his lap. He held you tightly—desperate at the acceptance of your invitation.
Closer, along with the fresh scent of green tea, there was a note of sweetness as intoxicating as chocolate. You came to know this pleasant surprise every time you were pressed up against him, tucked well into his embrace.
A hand moved down your waist, tracing your curves. Meanwhile, his kisses became sloppier, changing course to your jaw.
“Bella,” he whispered.
“Osamu?”
“Too much? Just let me know.”
“Don’t stop.”
He planted his lips on your neck, leaving a mark when he moved to the next area.
“I don’t want to lose you again. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too,” you replied, pulling him down over you.
“Everything about you,” Dazai continued. “It’s enchanting. How you smile when you’re flustered—like right now, and how you react when I touch you here…”
His hand found its way under your shirt, and you started laughing. He knew how and where to draw every specific reaction out of you, including where you were most ticklish.
“Osamu! Stop, hah-!”
You let him stay hovered over you and left his curious hands to wander your skin. Dazai looked free of emotional distress for once—being able to calm just by admiring you. It was like medicine.
“Do you still keep a spare pajama set?” he asked.
“Yes. However, the guest room is being renovated.”
“It’s fine. A couch was a luxury for me at one point.”
“Or you…could stay here. And you can have your favorite side, the side closer to the window.”
“Because I always see how the sun’s rays lay on your skin when I wake up,” he smiled. “And how spellbound your eyes make me when you open them and the light hits it.”
“You remember so much.”
“I told you how much I think about you, belladonna. I remember every night that I’m with you.”
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dazai listens to music w/ u if u rb. reblogs are cherished; they support me as a creator. <3
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© AUREATCHI 2023. no reposts or translations. do not steal.
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