a/n: Getting back into the swing of things is so much harder than I thought, phew! lol. Crazy to think that I've been working steadily for over a month now, after more than a year off. Buuuutttt enough about all that, lets get into Clint. There’s a huge shift here, a lot of grief and coming to terms with that grief, please let me know what you think I’d love to dive into it. 🥰 (not beta’d, barely proofread)
Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, oral sex f rec'g, *trauma* hurt/comfort, grief and using sex as a coping mechanism, switching povs, Clint is perfect and I will not elaborate on that - period piece - takes place in 1987, let me know if I missed any!
Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader
Ko-fi link 🥲💕
word count: 3.4k
reblogs are appreciated
Masterlist series Masterlist
---
The apartment looks a little different than it did when you moved in two years ago. The furniture’s been moved around, and added. The little shelving unit, a floor lamp, art on the wall. A fresh coat of paint had gone a long way too. Despite the aesthetic changes, it still felt the same. Like home.
Louis meows at your feet, winding through your legs as you water the plants that thrive in the kitchen.
“Oh no you don’t, you already ate, big man.” He yowls in protest, but you ignore him.
The jingle of keys hits your ears before his form fills the kitchen.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” He slips his jacket on, taps his pockets to make sure he has everything he needs. “Just a quick job, I’ll grab dinner on the way back home.”
You smile into the kiss he gives you, squeal at the spank he lands before winking. He tuts at Louis and moves towards the door.
“I love you.” He calls out.
“I love you too!”
-
He’s tired, achy from the job as he walks into the elevator. The hot shower he’ll take after dinner will be amazing. He can almost feel it, the loosening of his muscles, the warmth of her hands, he can’t help but smile as he finally opens the door to their apartment.
“Sorry I’m late, took a little longer than I thought but the food is hot.” He sets the paper bags down, takes the containers out one by one and sets them on the counter. “They really loaded us up, we’ll have food for a few days.” he calls out. He groans reaching for two plates, loads them both up and sets the table.
“Baby?” He calls for her again, “Come eat while it’s hot–” He sets the cutlery down beside the steaming plates. He frowns when she still doesn’t answer him.
He finds her on the floor of their bedroom, clutching at the phone, staring into the empty air.
“Baby? What's wrong?” Louis is curled up beside her knee, the phone beeps in her hands.
“He’s dead…” Her eyes don’t move, they stare, unfocused, lost. She swallows thickly, drops the phone and finally looks up at him. “My dad is dead.”
His stomach sinks, just as he sinks down to her level. She looks so young, so lost it breaks his heart.
“Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He takes the receiver from her hands, hangs it up and then takes her in his arms. He can feel how stiff she is and he understands, the shock of the news locks you in place. He remembers how he felt the day his mom went, the haze of it, the way the earth seemed to crumble under his feet. He’d been rudderless, lost for months, maybe years.
“I don’t–I—” she licks her lips, “I haven’t even seen…” she mumbles, voice little, far away. He holds her tightly, presses his lips to her temple, ignores the pain in his back and rocks her gently.
She pushes away from him for a moment, takes a deep breath and lets out a deep sigh.
“I have to plan a funeral, and sell the house. God, I don’t even know how to plan a funeral.” She lets out a laugh, a sad, empty sound he recognizes only too well.
“We can do it together.” He rubs her back, lets her work through the shock. Whatever she needs, he’ll do. After all, he’s done it before.
-
It’s hard to deal with the numbness, it bleeds into everything. The shower feels like nothing, even though you can see the steam in the air, you can see it coming off your skin when Clint turns the water off. He says something, but you don’t quite catch it.
“Sorry, what?” He repeats himself, but you miss it again. Your ears are ringing, your body feels slow. He doesn’t get upset, doesn’t bother repeating himself. Instead he wraps the towel around your body, guides you gently into the bedroom and dresses you in your pajamas, like some lifesize doll.
You sit on the bed, waiting, like a doll, to be moved and placed, to be made to walk and talk and do whatever it is you make dolls do.
He lifts you softly by the arm, and guides you again to the kitchen. A bowl of food is set down in front of you. He says something again, this time you can guess what it is. It tastes like nothing. It feels like nothing, but you finish it anyway.
He clears away the bowl when you’re done, and still, you just sit there. Louis jumps up onto your lap, you pet him absentmindedly, he can tell somethings wrong, you know it in your bones.
It feels like time doesn’t pass, nothing moves, until he guides you to the bathroom; until he helps you brush your teeth and tucks you into bed. He talks in the dark, and this time you catch a lot of it.
Soft, scarred hands hold you close, his thumb wipes away tears you hadn’t realized were falling. His lips are dry, and soft on your forehead.
“Whatever you need, anything at all.” He whispers, you nod.
-
Things feel weird when you wake up, you’re somehow more tired than you’ve ever been, despite the time. He’d let you sleep in much later than you should have, given everything that had to be done. Louis is still there, your feline shadow, purring so hard you can feel it through the blankets.
You yawn as you dress, blindly reaching for clothes you don’t even care about. Clint is there in the kitchen when you emerge, he’s pouring you coffee, pressing it into your hands with a kiss.
“I slept too long.” You drink it, barely tasting.
“You needed it.” With another kiss to your forehead, he urges you to eat the breakfast he’d made.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know, but you should eat anyway.”
You don’t want to, you barely want the coffee in your hands, you’re drinking it more or less out of habit. You don’t argue with him though.
“I don’t know what to do.” You pick at your toast, rip it into little bits and spread them around your plate.
“I know.” There’s a patient expression on his face, a calmness that you try to tap into but it isn’t calm you feel, it’s emptiness.
“What do I do?” Something inside you cracks. Any hope you may have harboured of reconciling, or maybe fixing things, however small and unrealistic is gone. All potential for a healthy relationship with your father one day, extinguished. The sound of Clint’s chair brings your head up and then he’s there, scooping you up into a tight hug.
-
Time doesn’t feel real. The moments are disjointed and chopped up. Peaceful nights with the love of your life, in your perfect apartment, a phone call, preparations for a funeral, talking with the bank. Clint had taken care of it all. He’d made the hard calls, he’d even gone through your dads clothes and picked the suit he’d be buried in.
People you know, and people you don’t give you their condolences. They shake your hand, or wrap an arm around your shoulder, they apologize for your loss. You nod along. When did you get here? Clint stands just behind you, grounding you by extension. You look to him every once in a while for a lifeline he so lovingly provides.
The mass feels both long, and short. A whole life boiled down to an hour. How you read the eulogy, how you wrote one you’ll never know.
You don’t suppose any of it matters now. It’s done, and your father is in the ground. And you are, for all intents and purposes, an orphan.
-
The house sold, shockingly enough. And even more shocking, it had sold for more than you’d thought it was worth. Enough to pay the balance of the mortgage, enough to pay off your father’s outstanding debts as well as set you up with a decent little nest egg. Not that it mattered. It didn’t feel like anything really. Nothing did in the weeks after.
It was still a blur; the funeral, packing up the house, settling back into your routine. Your boss at the video store had been sweet, and had given you all the time you needed to process and deal with the practical matters of a death.
Even a couple of weeks after the actual death, time still feels weird, disjointed and unconnected. The days are like yarn, a spool of string crisscrossing through the apartment like a spiderweb. Other feelings have woven themselves through the fabric of grief. There is the main thread, the devastation of losing a parent; your only parent, as shitty as he was. Then there’s the loneliness of it all, the solitude of being all alone in the world, Clint not included. These things you could understand and identify, these feelings you could deal with.
The relief was harder.
It had crept in while cleaning out all of the crap he’d hoarded, a little thought, a sigh of relief at never having to deal with any of his bullshit ever again. It had taken the wind out of you, needled at the space between your ribs enough to pull you out of his bedroom and into the kitchen in a cold sweat.
That relief floods you again while in bed. Clint, the saint that he is, walks into the dimly lit bedroom with a steaming cup of chamomile.
“I put a little bit of honey in it for you, but I can add more if it’s not sweet enough.” He sets it down on your nightstand, pressing his lips to your forehead and the love you have for him swells so suddenly. He’s been so caring, so patient and understanding, truly a saving grace.
“Thank you babe.” He winks, “Get into bed with me.”
“I will, let me just lock up.”
You think about what your life might have been like had he never come into it. Where would you be right now? Probably sitting in your old room, dissolving in your own distorted, lonely world. The tea steams while you wait, warming your hands. It’s perfect, just how you knew it would be.
He groans when he finally gets into the bed, tired no doubt from everything he’s been doing in the time since the phone call. You cuddle up to him, rest your head on his chest and relish the steady sound of his heart beating. You sigh, already calming down significantly. His heartbeat regulates your own, your breathing syncs up with his.
“How you holding up Princess?” His hand squeezes your arm and it’s almost too much to take, how much you love this man.
“I’m only coherent because of you.” You admit, his eyes are already on yours when you crane your neck to look at him.
“I don’t know if that’s true, pretty baby.”
“I do, I would probably still be dealing with the house, probably would have let the funeral home talk me into something insane–you did everything, Clint. You did it all, dealt with all of the bullshit, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.” He shakes his head, frowning.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything, I did what you needed me to do and that’s it. There’s no doubt in my mind you’d do the same for me.” He cups your cheek, breathing the words onto your face and into your skin. You can’t really speak, it’s all too big. The loss, the period at the end of that chapter, the recurring realization that you have no one left but him.
“I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” He kisses your cheeks, tastes the tears fresh from the source. It’s not just the grief that makes you cry, it’s everything. It’s the warmth of the man who holds you so tightly, loves you so deeply. It’s the security you have in this aspect of your life at least, the knowledge that he’s with you through it, warts and all.
“I-” You take in a deep gasp, “It’s just everything,” you choke out the words, throat aching through the tears. Your body is so sore from crying, from clenching up tight, making yourself small, maybe the sadness wouldn't fit if you were smaller.
“I know baby, it’s a lot to deal with, and it’s so fucking fresh.” He squeezes tighter, keeping you together, mending more cracks in the veneer of you. You cling to him, desperate to feel anything but this blinding emptiness, this inescapable weight that’s pinned you down in the dirt.
“I just want to forget.” You hiccup into his neck. He smells like the bodywash you bought him, like his own clean sweat, like home and love and the promise of a million nights cuddled together in bed.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but the pain won’t be this bad forever. Eventually, with time, you will feel like yourself again. It’ll be a little different but you’ll adjust and you’ll laugh, you’ll feel happy again. I promise you.” He holds your face in his hands, holds your heart there too. Your body blooms for him, unexpectedly, shockingly, annoyingly.
You surge forward and press your mouth to his, a filthy kiss that he entertains for a moment before softly, but firmly pulling back.
“Baby–”
“I need it.” You surge forward again, so hard that your teeth and his clink together. It hurts but the pain is good, his tongue is better. With a force you can barely understand, you crawl onto him, straddle him in your quiet bedroom and take the kiss. For a few seconds he lets you, your madness infects him–that and the fact that it’s been weeks since you’ve been intimate with everything going on.
He groans when you bite his ear.
“Baby, baby wait–” He speaks, but his hands grab at the meat of your thighs, slip under your panties to hold onto your ass.
He says your name, loud enough that it shocks you into stopping.
“Princess, we don’t have to do this right now.” He cups your face again, eyes soft despite how fucking hard his cock is underneath you. “I don’t want you to do this just because you think it’ll fix things, it won’t take the pain away. When we’re done he’ll still be gone.” It’s a harsh point, anger and grief swell again at the thought, at the reminder.
“I don’t say this to hurt you, I just want you to understand that nothing you do will fix anything. You have to sit with it.” You know he means well, you know what he says, he says out of love but that’s exactly what you need, you need his love, you need to be reminded that good feelings still exist, that this emptiness and loss won’t fill every single part of you forever.
“I’m not trying to fix anything, and I know I won’t forget, I just want to feel something other than this.” You hate that a tear falls, hate that you can’t even ask him to fuck you without crying about your dead dad. He says nothing for a long moment, the seconds collect and you think he might deny you despite how badly you need this from him now.
Wordlessly he moves, gets you on your back and settles between your legs.
His kiss is soft, but full of everything that you share. It’s sweeter than yours, softer than you need but he senses it; slants his head and licks into your mouth deep enough to pull a moan from somewhere in your throat. It's everything a kiss should be, passionate enough to warm the apples of your cheeks and chase away everything but the feel of it.
The layers separating him from you are a mere suggestion, every vein, every ridge of him only unravels your arousal, soaks into the gusset of your panties and soon, the crotch of his bottoms. The slip of it is so fucking good it makes you want to laugh.
“Fuck me.” You pant into his ear. It will help you think, it’ll help me forget for a little bit, just a little bit.
He kisses you for a long time, excites you to the point of madness with his tongue and the bulk of him pressing against your soaked core, with his fingers creeping under your shirt and across your nipples.
“I want your mouth—“ he cuts off your words, groaning with pleasure. He loves when you ask, when you tell him what you want; Clint loves it when you tell him what to do.
It’s a mad scramble the way he surges up and rips your panties down.
He doesn’t even stop to strip himself before diving in, eyes focused, hands heavy. He holds you close to his mouth, a predator with freshly caught prey and it’s everything you need.
He groans into your skin, slipping his tongue as deep as he can before honing in on your clit. You sigh, smiling at how fucking good he makes it. This is it, this is perfect. It makes you almost giddy, makes you laugh like a madwoman.
Your fingers slip through his hair, hold his face closer while you grind onto his tongue.
“Yes, god yeah, keep doing that—“ you bite your lip watching him, “more, I want your fingers too.” He nods, half moaning, half smiling while he continues his great work. He obeys, and two thick fingers slip inside, pressing on that sweet fucking spot.
“Fuck—yeah baby, yes.” You pant, it’s building so fast, how can anything feel this fucking good with what you’ve gone through? It curdles, the pleasure slips out of your grasp despite how amazing it feels.
A sob crawls its way out of your throat and his fingers still inside you, his tongue pauses its pilgrimage.
“Baby—“ His voice makes you ache with its softness, “why don’t we—“
“No, no, it’s good I promise, please.” You smile through the tears, urging him to continue. He watches you for a moment, quiet, focused on whether or not you’re serious or just manic. You’re not actually sure which one is real, the pleasure or the insanity, neither of which you could correctly map just now. You wipe away the tears and smile a watery smile.
He must see something in your eyes that convinces him, he lowers his head and tastes you again. With his fingers continuing their movement, with his tongue gliding over your clit, up and down again and again, it built up quickly. You held onto the feeling, pushed away everything but the hot slip of his tongue
“Yes, yes—“ you chant, following that current, that perfect tap of his fingers inside you. He groans against you, getting lost in the taste of you and when his other hand slips up to pluck at your nipple. The waves crests and all of the tension that’s been squatting in your neck and shoulders, in your lower back and your jaw all melts away.
He doesn’t say anything when he’s at eye level, only presses his lips to your forehead, then your cheeks, following the trail of tears that continue to fall despite your wishes.
You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him while you breathe him deep into your lungs. It has helped you think, the tears mean nothing.
“More.” You whisper into his ear, reaching down to expose his cock. You grasp it in hand, stroke it just how he likes while he watches. He still doesn’t speak, only lets you guide him where you want him the most.
The moan he breathes out when you pull him in, when he’s pressed up against you tight, molding you to accept him lights you up from the inside out. You kiss him, taking more of what he gives you so freely, willing the love you have for him to fill you up to the brim, so much so that there isn’t room for anything else. The tears still fall but they aren’t for anything other than him now, for how grateful you are that he’s with you, that he loves you this much. He kisses the tears from your face, keeps his rhythm and pulls you apart in all the best ways.
You fall apart when he does, pulsing around his length while he pumps you full of his come.
He takes care of everything after that too. Cleans you with a damp, warm cloth, presses the cooled cup of tea to your lips. He tucks you in beside him and turns the lights off. When you let go of the breath you’ve been holding, the tears have dried up, and he’s all that remains.
And Flew Like a Moth To You, Sunlight (part ii of ii)
part i can be found HERE and i do recommend reading it as this directly follows the events of it.
main masterlist
summary: Having lost your father and not wanting to have to keep you, your step-mother has you arranged to marry Joel Miller.
word count: 13.4k
rating: 18+, MNDI
warnings/tags: reader is AFAB and has long hair but no overt descriptions otherwise, implied age gap (late 20s/mid 50s), regency/bridgerton au, mentions of abuse (reader's father is both verbally and physically abusive but there are no overt descriptions), mentions of death and grief, period-typical sexism, arranged marriage au, virginity loss, smut, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of body hair, insecure reader, insecure joel who is a simp, angst with a happy ending
a/n: i really did not think i would write this as quickly as i did but your lovely comments and support really spurred me on. it also did become quite long but i wanted to do justice to how their relationship played out. i did struggle with piecing this together even though i knew what i wanted to happen. the slow burn of it combined with the regency vibes was really hard to write at times but it was fun to think through it. thank you for all your support on part 1 and i hope you enjoy this :)
as always, please do let me know what you think! i love your comments.
credit to @/firefly-graphics for the dividers!
You don’t see Joel for the next two weeks. You catch glimpses of him, in the smell of coffee in the morning or his footsteps in the corridor in the evening. However, you don’t truly see his face. The crinkles by his eyes when he speaks, the greying beard and his dark hair that is also peppered with white. You miss it. Silly enough given your marriage isn’t a true one but you had grown used to company at supper time when you would ask about his day or he would ask about yours. It’s foolish to miss a husband you barely had but you have always been soft. Much to your dismay. Martha pretends that everything is as per usual and when you do inquire about Joel to her she gives you the same standard answer.
“He seems well ma’am,” she says to you and you nod, thanking her. You ask her once every few days so as to not show your desperation. She watches you with pity and you stop asking, unable to stomach the look of her kind eyes. You spend your days reading and needling. A week into your marriage, with nothing to do, you had started embroidering a pattern of a forest with trees. At first you had simply liked the pattern, reminding you of walks in the countryside, but as you had learned more about your new husband, you had started thinking of him as you worked on it. He seemed like he enjoyed nature, his large hands always busy and smudged with dust and mud when he returned home even though he had a team of men who worked for him. Somehow, this pattern had become something for Joel and you wanted to make sure it was beautiful when you gave it to him. Now, you’re not sure it will see the light of day. Still, it gives you something to focus on as you ponder how things have gone so awry. You wish you had never asked Maria about it. Your curiosity had always gotten the better of you, much to your father’s irritation. You had always asked too many questions, always wanting to know more. You had learned rather quickly that at your old house, it wouldn’t be acceptable. But you had become too comfortable with the Millers and that had been your mistake. You should have kept your questions to yourself just like your father had told you.
You glance out the window, putting your needlework down. The sun filters through the leaves outside, casting gentle shadows in the front yard. You think of the last time you had gone outside but can’t seem to recall it. Have you truly not taken a walk in so long? If someone had told you even three months ago that you would be wallowing in a house that wasn’t even truly your own, waiting on a husband that hasn’t spoken a word to you in a fortnight you would have laughed. Surely, this cannot be your life. Abruptly, you stand up, fixing your skirts. You rush to your room and grab your shawl and coinpurse. You cannot wallow anymore, not like this. You haven’t even known Joel for a full two months and you refuse to allow a man dictate your feelings. You think to tell Martha but you don’t wish for the company, not at this moment at least. You’ll be back soon enough, before she even notices your absence and before suppertime.
You make your way down the front yard and turn towards the road that leads to Main Street. You have not been to this part of the town much, having grown up on the other side of the town, near the merchants. You take in the houses, similar to Joel’s but all slightly different shades of colours. Each garden is different too – different flowers slowly beginning to bloom as winter bleeds into a chilly spring. You take a deep breath, enjoying the crisp fresh air. You can feel your cheeks flush with the cold air. You’ve forgotten how much you enjoy walking, how it helps to clear your mind. You can feel yourself lighten a bit, the poor mood that had been clouding your mind slowly beginning to lift. You watch as people walk by, mothers with their young children and couples with interlocked elbows, murmuring to each other. You continue making your way to Main Street. Perhaps you’ll buy a pouch of tea or some new thread. You have some money saved up from allowances you have received in the past, when your father was in a particularly pleasant mood. It was something just for you, something you could use for yourself with no permission required. You meander down the street, making your way towards the tea shop run by Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer, a kind, older couple who were always willing to answer your questions about all the tea leaves that they imported from far corners of the world.
There’s the familiar ringing of the bell as you open the door and when you step in you’re greeted by the smell of all the tea. You take in a deep breath, smiling as Mrs. Sawyer greets you.
“How are you, Mrs. Sawyer?” you ask her and she smiles.
“I’m quite alright dear,” she says. “How are you faring?”
Her tone is genuine but there’s an undertone of something else, some curiosity. You’re certain the whole town must have heard of your wedding by now. Gossipmongers lurk in all corners and something as scandalous as you marrying a much older man of a lesser status than your father and the typical men he associates with must have left people chittering. Still, you smile, nodding.
“I’m quite well too,” you say. “It’s been a time of change but it’s been for the better.”
There. Vague but positive enough that you hope she doesn’t ask too many questions. She doesn’t truly need to know the state of your marriage.
Mrs. Sawyer nods, smiling gently. “Well if you ever need anything, you can always come to me,” she says and the genuineness in her tone leaves a lump in your throat. You hate that any sort of kindness makes you feel emotional.
“That’s very kind of you,” you say, returning her smile. You clear your throat and if she can sense your discomfort, she says nothing.
“I assume you’re here however, for some tea,” she says, and you’re grateful for the change in topic. You nod.
“I was curious if you might have any new black teas,” you say and she hums.
“I have just the thing for you,” she says and moves across the store, towards the shelves filled with jars upon jars of fresh tea leaves. You take in all the names, written in Mrs. Sawyer’s beautiful cursive scrawl. She reaches for a jar and sets it on the wooden counter in front of you.
“Black tea with vanilla from Madagascar,” she says, opening the jar. You lean forward and breathe it in. It smells delightful. The hints of vanilla are sweet but delicate and combined with the earthy scent of the black tea, it creates something lovely and soothing. You hum.
“This is perfect,” you say. “Thank you, Mrs. Sawyer. I’ll take a pouch of it, if that’s alright with you.”
“Of course, my dear,” she says. You watch as she transfers the tea leaves into a gauzy pouch, and you reach into your coin purse. Just as you hand her some coins, the bell of the shop door rings. Mrs. Sawyer looks past you, her eyes widening.
“Mr. Miller,” she says and you can feel yourself stiffen. You might hurt your neck with how quickly you turn around. At the entrance, stands your husband. Your mouth opens and then closes, at a loss for words.
“Evenin’,” Joel greets, voice gruff. Some silly, small part of you realizes that you missed it. The tone of his voice, the cadence of his words.
“Are you here to escort your wife back home?” Mrs. Sawyer asks, her tone only slightly teasing. To her, it must seem romantic. A newlywed couple that can’t stand to be apart, even for a brief period of time.
“I suppose I am,” Joel says. You can feel yourself stiffen. You think of how you hadn’t told Martha where you had gone and wonder if she had told Joel. If he had come home early to find his wife missing. You wonder if he will be upset with you and the thought of it makes you feel as if a stone has settled in your stomach.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sawyer,” you say quietly as she hands you your purchase. You turn around quickly, heading towards Joel. He holds the door open for you as you exit the shop and you can feel the tension between the two of you. You walk silently only for a few moments until you can’t take it.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “For leaving the house without telling Martha. And the money I spent on the tea is my own. When I was younger, my father would sometimes give me an allowance if he was in a good way. I would not spend your money without your permission.”
You say it quickly, not wishing to linger on it. There is a pregnant pause before Joel speaks.
“I wasn’t –” he starts, and then stops. He lets out a sigh, running a large hand through his dark hair. “I’ve completely messed this up.”
Your brows draw together, confused.
“Joel?” you say and he sighs again. He shakes his head as if physically trying to clear his mind.
“I should be apologisin’ to you,” he begins. “The way I dealt with that night at Tommy and Maria’s wasn’t fair to you. You were curious about the man you married and I shut down.”
You open your mouth, to say something, anything. But you’re at a loss for words. Joel looks around as if suddenly realizing where you both are. Main Street is crowded on this pleasant spring evening and you can feel eyes follow you both as you walk down the cobbled road. You realize that this is your first public outing as a married couple and you must look visibly distressed. Joel’s hair is messy from where he ran his hand through it. As if reading your mind, he reaches up and smooths it down so the greying hair is flatter against his head. Still, a curl escapes against his forehead. You have the sudden, absurd urge to push it back. Instead, you twist your hands in the skirt of your dress.
“Let’s go home,” Joel says. “And we can talk there.”
When you catch his eyes, he gives you a gentle smile. His eyes are warm and soft as he looks at you and you take in the wrinkles near the corners and his sun-worn face. You nod, but can’t bring yourself to return his smile. You feel unsure of what this is, of what he means and you would rather finish your conversation now. Still, you know not to make a spectacle in town where the vultures are searching for scraps of news to spread.
When Joel offers you his arm, you take it, wrapping your hand around his elbow. His arm is warm against your hand, and you can feel the strength of it even with the layers of his shirt and jacket between the two of you. You both walk in silence but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it was earlier. The unease you had felt a few moments earlier seems to slowly leave you and you find it easier to breathe.
“Did you have a good day?” Joel asks as you turn off of Main Street. It feels better now, away from the prying eyes of society.
“Yes,” you answer, far too quickly for it to be a realistic answer. You glance up at Joel and you see his mouth twitch in amusement.
“You’re not a very good liar,” he says and you can feel your face heat up.
“No, I suppose I’m not,” you say. “How was your day?”
“It was decent,” he says. “Mr. Holloway’s finally in agreement for the house he wants us to build so at least we can get a good start on that.”
You nod. “I’m glad to hear it,” you say.
You both continue walking, silence trailing you both like a shadow. Your walk back home feels longer than when you had left. When you see the familiar front yard of Miller House, you feel relief wash over you. When you reach the front door, it swings open to reveal a frantic looking Martha. When her eyes land on your hand wrapped around Joel’s arm, she seems to relax.
“I’m sorry,” you say, quickly. “I should have told you I was going to take a short walk around Main Street. I did not mean to worry you, Martha.”
She smiles, eyes kind. “It’s no problem, ma’am. I’m happy you seemed to have found Mr. Miller on your return.”
You nod, smiling. You shift to move your hand from Joel’s but he makes no move to let you go. You glance up at him, already finding his dark eyes on you.
“I’ve set the dining table for supper,” Martha adds and you look back at her, breaking away from Joel’s gaze. Her eyes glance between the two of you and you feel yourself flush.
“Thank you,” you say.
“Martha, you can take the rest of the evenin’ off,” Joel says. You think she might resist as she takes routine quite seriously but to your surprise, she nods, giving you both a smile as she heads back to the kitchen to finish up for the evening. You let Joel lead you into the house and only once he’s closed the door does he move away, letting your arm drop. You feel the absence of his warmth almost immediately.
“Why don’t we go to the sittin’ room?” Joel suggests and you nod.
You follow him, watching as he moves towards the sitting room. He’s taken off his coat, now just in his dress shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. You look away, down at your feet as you move towards one of the armchairs. You sit down, right across Joel who waits until you’ve settled before he speaks.
“What I was sayin’ earlier,” he starts. “I shouldn’t have behaved like that that night. It was poor of me. And then avoidin’ you this past fortnight was foolish of me. I’m fifty years old behavin’ like a greenboy.”
He sounds frustrated but you realize it’s with himself. Before you can speak, he continues.
“I struggle when it comes to talkin’ about her,” he says. You watch as his eyes become glassy and for a second you worry he might cry. But he blinks them away. “Sarah.”
Her name settles heavily in the air.
“Maria was right,” he says. “She was the sweetest girl. The best thing in my life. I can’t –” he cuts off, his voice going weak. You feel your own eyes growing wet, his grief a tangible thing. You want to reach out, to offer some sort of comfort, but you’re not familiar with him yet. You cannot overstep, not again.
“I’m so sorry, Joel,” you say, voice shaky. “I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. I shouldn’t have probed like that. If I had questions, I should have asked you.”
Joel shakes his head.
“I understand I’m not the easiest man to speak to,” he says. “I’m old and Tommy says I’m a grouch and I haven’t been forthcomin’ with you. I apologize for that.”
“You don’t have to –,” you start but Joel interrupts.
“You’re not the only one allowed to apologize, sweetheart,” he says, the term of endearment echoing in your mind. Surprise colours your face and Joel must sense it because he looks as if he might apologize once more but you beat him to it.
“Okay,” you agree. “I accept your apology. If you accept mine.”
“Alright,” Joel says.
You sit in silence for a moment before he speaks again.
“I want you to know that you never have to be scared of me,” he says. “Today at the tea shop, I had only walked in because I was passin’ by and saw you alone. I wanted to make sure you were alright. And when you explained yourself. You never have to do that. You can do whatever you want. And whatever’s mine is yours. Even if you had used my money to buy that tea. Buy all the tea you want.”
“Oh,” you say. Joel’s kindness always manages to shock you.
Joel shifts in his seat, leaning forward so his arms rest on his knees. He’s closer to you like this.
“I’m not claimin’ to know all of what your life was like back home, but I think I have some idea of it. You don’t have to tell me unless you want to but I think you were made to feel scared more often than not. You don’t have to feel like that here,” Joel says, voice steady and gentle. You can feel your breath hitch, the lump in your throat from earlier reappearing.
“Okay,” you say, nodding. You resist the urge to thank him or apologize, remembering his gentle discouragement of either. When you look up at him, you don’t hide the grief in your eyes. You can’t stop the tears from rolling down your face and you would feel embarrassed if he hadn’t made you feel so seen. You swipe at your face and then Joel is leaning forward, having procured a handkerchief from somewhere. He hands it to you and you wipe at your tears. He watches as you do, his right hand flexing.
“Could we go back to how things were before?” you say, once you’ve composed yourself. Joel’s eyes soften, his hand relaxing. He nods.
“I’d like that very much,” he says. He stands up then and holds out a hand for you. You take it, enjoying the warmth of his large palm surrounding your own. He leads you to the dining room and you both have dinner, mostly silent but not uncomfortable. More often than not you can feel his gaze on you and you enjoy it. It makes you feel warm and seen. How a man you’ve known for less than two months seems to understand you better than anyone else is beyond you but you’re grateful for it. When you’re both done eating, Joel clears his throat.
“I have somethin’ to show you,” Joel says, suddenly looking nervous. He rubs his hands against his pants. “It’s back in the shed.”
You haven’t been inside the shed. You know Joel uses it for his construction work but it seemed private to him so you had never pried. Now, you nod.
“I would like to see it,” you say and it seems to dissipate some of Joel’s nerves. He stands up, leading the way out back. You don’t notice it but at some point he seems to have found a shawl that he hands to you before you enter the back garden. The air is chilled and you’re grateful for the warmth the wool brings as you wrap the shawl around your shoulders. Joel leads you into the shed, lighting the candles so that the room is bathed in a soft orange glow. The walls are full of tools that you couldn't name if your life depended on it and there’s a workbench with wood shavings and figurines of different animals. You’re about to ask him about the little animals when he speaks.
“I made you this,” he says and that’s when you see the bookshelf in the corner of the room. It’s ornate, made of some type of sturdy, dark wood. Maple, you think but can’t be certain. There are patterns on the borders, intricate flowers and leaves delicately carved into the material. With a start, you realize it matches the shelf in your bedroom. You look at Joel, voice catching in your throat.
“It’s lovely,” you say. “It’s beautiful, Joel.”
You see his cheeks flush a slight pink.
“I noticed that not all your books fit on the shelf I had moved into your room,” he explains. “And I imagine you might be wantin’ to get some more books so I thought I could move this shelf into your room too, to give you some more space for your things.”
It is perhaps the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you. You’re not sure what to say. Perhaps it’s the flurry of emotion inside of you that clouds your judgement but you launch yourself towards Joel, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.
“Thank you,” you say, chin hooked over his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Joel.”
He takes a handful of seconds to respond and you realize you have likely overstepped. Just as you begin to pull away, you feel his palm against the small of your back, keeping you close. You let yourself rest against him for a moment before you pull away, feeling your own cheeks flush at your impulsive actions. You step back from Joel, clearing your throat.
“I’m glad you like it,” Joel says, warmly. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he gives you a small smile. One you return. “I’ll move it up to your room tomorrow.”
You smile, thanking him again. He lets you look around, and you ask him about the little animal figurines.
“It’s a hobby I picked up as a kid,” he says. “My mother taught me. S’how I started woodworkin’.”
“You’re very good,” you say. “Truly. All of this is lovely.”
He shrugs, almost embarrassed. Eventually, you both make your way back to the main house. Joel walks you to the entrance of your bedroom and you feel shy, so suddenly that you’re unsure of how to act. Something has shifted between the two of you. There is an openness in your union now that you both have cleared the air. Joel clears his throat.
“I was wonderin’ if you might like to watch the play runnin’ in town,” he says. You can feel a small smile pull at your mouth.
“I would like that very much,” you say, perhaps too quickly. Joel nods. His gaze is focused and he traces his eyes across your face.
“I was thinkin’ we might go this Friday,” he says. “If that suits you.”
You think it’s sweet that he’s considering your non-existent social obligations. It makes you huff a laugh and Joel’s mouth twitches as he hears it.
“It does suit me,” you agree and he nods again.
“Goodnight,” Joel says and then he leaves you at your door. You ignore the feeling of disappointment that passes through you as you watch him walk away. Absurdly, you will miss his company even though this evening is the most time you’ve spent together.
When you lie in bed, you find yourself lulled gently into sleep.
Friday comes sooner than you expect and with it, comes a fluttering in your stomach that you amount to nerves. Excitement, really. You decide to wear one of your nicer dresses, a beautiful sage green that flutters around your waist. You fix your hair and put on the same pair of earrings you had worn for dinner at Maria and Tommy’s, looking at yourself in the small mirror in your room. When you were younger you had contemplated whether you were comely the way other girls your age were. Your hair always had a mind of its own, no matter how many pins you put in it and your posture wasn’t always the best, having spent much of your time hunched over books. Now though, as you look at yourself and the slope of your neck and the way some of your hair falls in wisps around your face, you think you look nice. Pretty even.
You hear Martha greet Joel downstairs as he returns from work. There’s an exchange of words you can’t pick up, but you can hear the concern in Martha’s tone. Joel’s footsteps grow louder as he makes his way to his room and you swing the door open, curious as to why Martha sounded so worried. Your timing seems almost perfect as Joel stops when he notices you. You watch as his eyes trace over you, from your face down to your dress and then back up. He smiles, but there’s something rigid in his posture. It’s then that you notice that he’s cradling his left hand against his chest.
“You look very nice,” Joel says as his eyes meet yours. You would bask in his attention and the feeling of warmth it brings you if you weren’t focused on his injury.
“Are you all right?” you ask, stepping towards him. He looks down at his hand, grimacing.
“It’s nothin’,” he says. “Was helpin’ one of the boys move some lumber and got a nasty cut from some wood that wasn’t sanded down properly. Nothin’ I’m not used to.”
It would be reassuring if you could see his injury but Joel keeps his hand hidden from view, wrapped in some bandages and pressed to his chest.
“I’m goin’ to clean up and then we can leave,” he says and you nod. You watch as he walks into his room, leaning against your doorframe. You don’t believe him, with the way he was clutching his left hand. Surely, it must hurt. You’re proven correct when you hear a crashing noise and him using less than gentlemanly words as he curses. You don’t think, your feet just take you to his room and you swing open the door.
“Joel?” you say, concerned. Your mind is concocting images of him fallen over and weak so it’s a relief to find him upright. There’s blood on his dress shirt though, which is partially unbuttoned against his chest. You feel yourself flush, averting your gaze.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just I heard the commotion and thought you might be hurt.” Your hands grip your skirts so that you don’t pick at your nailbeds. You can feel your heart quicken.
“It’s alright,” Joel reassures, voice steady. “I know.”
“What happened?” you ask, finally daring to look at him. You find that he’s already looking at you. “Why is there blood on your shirt?”
“I was tryin’ to get it off,” Joel explains. You think his cheeks might be flushed too. “So I could change into somethin’ less soiled with dirt and sweat. But it’s harder than I expected, unbuttonin’ a shirt with one hand and when I tried using my other one, it slipped and some of the blood from the bandage must have stained it. I’m alright.” He adds the last part for your sake, you think. He must see your anxiety.
“May I help you?” you ask before you can think about what you’re truly asking. That your husband who you have barely been alone with is standing in his room with his shirt half done and you are asking to help him. Joel looks uncertain, his brows furrowing and you are on the verge of apologising and scurrying away when he nods.
“Okay,” he agrees. You nod, taking in a deep breath. You make your way towards him, willing your fluttering pulse to calm down. He can probably hear how your heart rattles against your ribcage. When you come to stand in front of him, you hold out your hand. He looks at it before raising a brow.
“Let me see your injured hand,” you say. “Please,” you add, not wanting to demand. Joel’s mouth twitches in an almost smile but he obeys. You unwrap the bandages, already soaked through with his crimson blood. The cut on his finger isn’t too deep but his skin is red from irritation and dried blood. Whoever treated the injury did a rather poor job. You reach for the muslin cloth next to the basin and soak it in the warm water before you bring it to his hand. Gently, you dab at the injury. If Joel feels any pain, he does not show it. His hand is warm and large, the size of it amplified by how small your hand looks as you hold his in your palm. You can feel his steady gaze on you as you clean the wound. When you’re satisfied that it’s no longer at risk of infection, you look up at him. Suddenly, you realize how close you both are. Your first instinct is to take a step back, to put some space between your bodies but you find that you don’t want to. You enjoy the proximity, how his body seems to radiate heat. Joel just watches too, not saying anything.
“Do you have any more bandages?” you ask and he nods. Only then does he step away and towards a set of drawers. With his right hand he pulls out some bandage cloth and a small tub of some sort of ointment. He brings it back to you.
“Tommy gave it to me,” he explains. “It’s for injuries. I suppose I get a lot of splinters from all the wood workin’.”
You take both items from him, placing the bandage cloth down before unscrewing the lid of the ointment. It smells herbal and a little pungent but mostly nice. Earthy and as if it truly will heal his wounds. You take some in your hand, gently applying it to his cut. You allow yourself to feel this touch, his calloused fingers underneath your own. His skin is rough and earth-worn, his fingers large against his broad palm. You trace over the cut, making sure the ointment melts against it and when you’re satisfied, you reach for the bandage, slowly wrapping it around his hand. You secure it around his wrist and nod, satisfied with your handiwork. When you look up at Joel, his eyes, as you expect, are already on you.
“Thank you,” he says, voice gruff. You smile, ignoring how your ears go warm at the sound of his voice.
“Of course,” you say. Feeling bold, you add “Do you need help with your shirt?”
Joel nods, still watching you. You take it as permission and reach up, undoing the rest of the buttons. This is the most you have ever seen of him. His chest is broad and solid, although his stomach seems a bit softer. You feel your pulse flutter, suddenly feeling very warm. You clear your throat and turn around, facing away from him. When you don’t hear him move, you speak.
“You should change into your new shirt,” you explain. “I can help you do the buttons up.”
Then, you hear the creak of the floor as he moves to his wardrobe. You hear shuffling as he takes his shirt off and suddenly you’re completely aware of how Joel is half undressed and just a few feet from you. If someone had told you a week ago that this would be happening, you might have laughed in their face. Now, you try to steady your breath and control the flush you can feel spreading down your neck. You hear as he walks back towards you.
“I’m decent,” he says and you turn back around. You look up at his face, gauging his reaction. His face reveals nothing as you reach for his buttons, doing them up as quickly as you can without stumbling over them. When you’re done, you take a step back. Surely he can see how flustered you are but he is decent enough not to point it out, to not mock you and your inexperience.
“Thank you,” he says, voice warm. “I appreciate your help.”
You nod, smiling to hide how flustered you feel.
“I’ll wait near the front door,” you say quickly, not waiting for his response as you leave his room. Joel joins you soon after. He’s fixed his hair so that it’s pushed back away from his forehead. He must have run some water through it. He leads you to the carriage and soon enough the two of you have arrived at the theatre. You make your way through the lobby, Joel’s hand a steady guide on the small of your back. The pressure is so light you can barely feel it but you can feel the steady heat of him. Eventually, you find your seats and the play begins. It’s a bit silly, a story of a boy and girl who fall in love but she gets transformed into a swan and he needs to travel across the ocean to find her. You’re not certain swans can even swim across the ocean but it makes you laugh properly, for the first time in a long time. It escapes out of you before you can stop it and you feel embarrassed when you remember you’re not alone, but rather in public and with your husband. It’s not considered acceptable for ladies to be loud or unseemly and you look at Joel to see him watching you, an amused smile on his lips. He leans towards you.
“It’s a bit silly, ain’t it?” he asks and relief courses through you.
“Yes,” you agree. “I love it.”
His smile grows and he leans back, as you both focus on the play once more. By the time it ends, you find yourself teary-eyed as the leads profess their undying love for each other and share a kiss so tender you think their love might be real. You swipe at your eyes as discreetly as you can as the crowd around you claps and cheers. You join in, clapping your hands with vigor, unable to contain the flurry of emotions that grow inside of you. You haven’t enjoyed something like this in so long.
As you make your way out of your seats you turn to Joel, too excited to contain yourself.
“That was lovely,” you say. “I’ve never seen a play before. Thank you for taking me, Joel.”
Joel’s eyes soften, his face breaking out into another smile. You don’t think you have seen him smile this much before.
“What was your favourite part?” you ask him, wanting to hear more of his voice. You don’t want this evening to end. You watch as he contemplates your question.
“I liked how they found each other again, despite how impossible it seemed. Neither of them ever gave up,” he says. It’s a sweet answer, if not unexpected. You thought he might say something about the swordfight sequences or the silly jokes. His answer makes you smile. “How about yours?”
You contemplate before you answer.
“I liked how he never gave up. Even when he thought she might stay a swan, he built her a pond so she could be near him even if they could not be together. But truly, I enjoyed all of it.” you say.
“I’m glad you did, sweetheart,” he says, the endearment falling from his lips so naturally that it seems like something he calls you often. You smile, tucking your arm against his. You feel flushed all over, giddy with how pleasant this evening has been. Joel leads you through the crowd and down the lobby. “Perhaps we could come again, if you’d like that,” he suggests and you nod, far too quickly.
“I’d like that very much,” you agree and he nods, looking pleased. He turns his gaze from you, continuing to lead you through the crowd of people when he stops, abruptly. You see his eyebrows furrow and his shoulders stiffen. You look past his broad frame, following his line of sight and freeze.
Your step-mother and her husband stand directly in front of the two of you. She wears a new dress, one you have not seen before. The silk of it glistens under the chandelier. As do the diamonds that adorn her neck. Your breath catches in your throat. Recognition flashes across both their faces as they take you and Joel in. Their eyes linger on your arm wrapped around his own.
“My love,” she greets as she comes to stand before you. She pulls you into a loose embrace, but your arms are limp at your sides. You’re so confused. Shouldn’t they have left for the city by now? It’s been nearly two months since you were wed to Joel.
“Evenin’,” Joel greets, posture still rigid.
“Mr. Miller,” your step-mother greets. “How are you both faring?”
She poses the question like you two might be suffering. Like there might be something terribly wrong. As if she hopes it is.
“We’re doin’ very well,” Joel answers. Your voice feels stuck in your throat.
“Good to see you, Mr. Miller,” Mr. Melway says, nodding at Joel. Joel shakes his hand, nodding in response.
“Darling, you’re being so quiet,” your step-mother says and you finally find it in you to speak.
“I thought you two would have left by now,” you say, unable to proceed with pleasantries. You need to know. “You said you wanted to sell the house. That you were moving to the city with Mr. Melway.”
Your step-mother looks stunned by your directness. She takes a moment before she speaks, and you can see the cogs turning in her mind.
“Yes,” she agrees. “We were planning to move to the city. Edmund thought there might be a better opportunity there to grow his business. But it proved to be challenging, selling the house so soon and starting a new life in a new place. It seemed so sudden, especially since we wanted to enjoy our time as newlyweds together.”
The truth of it, masked under rosy explanations and gentle words, is plain for you to see. You feel foolish for having believed them in the first place. You can feel your eyes burn with tears but you won’t let them fall, not here in front of her.
“You were never going to sell the house, were you?” you say, doing your best to keep your voice steady. Behind your step-mother, Mr. Melway shifts uncomfortably. “You just wanted me out of it. Out of your way.”
The mask your step-mother wears, finally cracks. Her eyes sharpen.
“You cannot fault me for this,” she says. “It was your fathers doing, leaving you with nothing. You’re a woman grown. I did you a favour.”
She says it with so much certainty, as if it isn’t cruel. To have coerced you to marry just so she could have the house to herself and her new husband. She married you off to the first person she could find. Joel being a good man and an even better husband was a turn of luck, not of her doing. She could not have cared less. You let out an incredulous laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek.
“You really are just as much of a monster as he was,” you say. You don’t give your step-mother a moment to respond, instead pulling at Joel’s arm. He follows your lead this time, allowing you to steer the way. By some luck, your carriage appears as you step out into the chilly night. The ride back home is silent. As you walk through the front doors of Miller house, you feel a lump form in your throat. You don’t know what to do with yourself.
Gently, Joel says your name.
You turn back to find him watching you do, his hands clenched into fists. It’s then that you let your tears fall.
“I don’t understand,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t understand why they couldn’t love me. What did I do that was so wrong, Joel? Even when I was just a girl, it’s as if I was born a burden to them.”
You gasp as a sob escapes from you. Joel reaches you in two steps, pulling you against his chest. You let yourself be held and you allow yourself to finally grieve. He runs a hand through your hair.
“You did nothin’ wrong sweetheart,” he murmurs against your hairline, pressing his lips there.
“They failed you,” he continues. “Your father and your step-mother. They failed you. You’re perfect.”
Another sob claws its way out of your throat and you take in a shaky breath. He keeps holding you as you let the tears fall. Your grip on his shirt tightens and you press your face into the warmth of his neck, trying to soothe yourself.
“Breathe with me,” Joel encourages, voice gentle. He pulls you more firmly against him, and you feel his chest move against yours. You slow your hiccuped breathing, face still pressed against his neck. Eventually, the tears stop. You pull back, and Joel’s large hand moves from cupping the back of your head to cupping your face. He runs a thumb across your cheek, catching the tears that remain there. He does the same to the other side of your face. The grief that had weighed you down slowly lifts.
“I’m sorry for ruining our evening,” you say and Joel lets out a huff of laughter.
“You did no such thing,” he says. “If anyone ruined our evenin’ it’s your step-mother and her foolish husband.”
It makes your mouth twitch in an almost smile.
“I meant what I said,” Joel says, voice low. “None of this is on you. Your parents failed you, sweetheart, don’t get it twisted. And that’s a choice they made that they never should have. Hell, I can’t imagine ever puttin’ Sarah through what they did to you. I’d rather die.”
It’s the first time he’s brought Sarah up since your reconciliation. You know how much it takes for him to say her name. To speak of her with someone else.
“Thank you, Joel,” you say. Joel nods, his eyes still gentle as they trace over your face. His hand is still cupping your face, thumb resting against your cheekbone. He slowly takes a step back, his hand leaving your face. You have a sudden urge to pull it back, to nuzzle into this palm and take shelter there. Instead, you take a step back too.
“You should get some rest,” he says. “It’s been a long night.”
You nod. You go down the corridor, feeling him follow behind you. You don’t wish to separate, to go to your own bed. You liked the feeling of his arms around you. It made you feel safe. When you reach your door you turn to find Joel watching you.
“Goodnight,” you say quietly. Joel nods. In the orange glow of the candlelight his brown eyes seem warmer, almost glowing. There’s a patch of dampness near his shoulder where your tears had fallen.
“Goodnight,” Joel returns. He moves as if to continue walking but you stop him with a hand on his arm. Standing on your toes, you press your lips to the top of his cheekbone. His skin is warm beneath your mouth. You pull back almost immediately, feeling yourself flush. Joel’s eyes are molten now as he watches you murmur another goodnight before you disappear into your room. You close the door behind you and lean against it, your breathing fast. It’s the most forward thing you have ever done. Kiss your husband’s cheek. You wait to hear his footsteps but it’s a handful of moments before you hear him retreat to his room. As you undo your dress, and slip into your bed you feel something new simmering beneath the surface of your skin.
You cannot stop thinking about your husband. You think there might be something wrong with you. Perhaps you have gone mad. It’s been almost three nights since you kissed his cheek, since he held you in his arms and comforted you until you felt yourself calm down. And ever since, you feel an extra sense of awareness of Joel’s body. How he sits in his chair at supper time, how his broad shoulders cover the back of the chair almost entirely. You think of his hands quite often too. The capable way in which they build and create but with gentle precision. You wonder how they might feel against your waist, on your bare skin. You feel wanton. Indecent, even. It can’t be proper, not with how you’ve awoken each morning with slick thighs and an urge to reach beneath your shift. You do well to push those urges away but still, they persist. This morning when you had come down for breakfast, Joel had been reading the newspaper with his spectacles on. It made him look more mature and even more handsome. You had to excuse yourself to fetch some tea to stop yourself from doing something unseemly, like perhaps climbing into his lap and begging him to help you.
It is nearly noon now and you’re still thinking about it. You’ve long dropped the pretense of needling. Instead, you sit on the sofa and think of your husband. You have heard of ways to seduce a man but you would be about as good as that as you were at learning French, which is to say that you would be quite terrible. And even then, it is not as if Joel has made any indication that he might be wanting you in the same way. He is polite and warm, asking about your day listening to you talk about a novel you have read but he makes no move to initiate any sort of touch no matter how much you yearn for it. Your indecent thoughts are cut short by a knock on the door. Martha rushes to open it and to your pleasant surprise, it is Maria who comes into the sitting room, a small baby in her arms. He has the sweetest brown eyes, just like Joel and Tommy.
“Maria,” you say excitedly, standing up to greet her. She smiles at you and the baby in her arms rests his head against her chest, watching you with big eyes. You smile. “And who might this be?”
“This is Benjamin,” Maria says. “Benji, say hello to your aunt.”
Benji says nothing but blinks up at you with sleepy eyes.
“Hello, sweet boy,” you say, voice soft. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He gurgles reaching out and you give him your hand. He clutches your finger and you laugh. It’s been a long time since you’ve been near a child so young. You watch as he grips your finger before he lets it go, resting against his mama once more. Remembering your manners you gesture to the sofa.
“Please, take a seat,” you say and Maria does. “I wasn’t expecting you. I’m so sorry that I have not prepared to host.”
Maria shakes her head, smiling. “There’s no need for all that. I was in the area and wanted to stop by. To see how you are.”
She had written to you after the dinner at their house and before you and Joel had reconciled. Still, you had written back, telling her that there was nothing to worry about and that things were perfectly fine. You understand now that you likely had not convinced her.
“I am well, truly,” you say. “Joel and I spoke about what occurred and are on much better terms now.”
Maria hums, nodding.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I knew not to speak of it but I still did. It must have made things difficult for you.”
“I was the one who asked,” you say. “You were merely being kind, indulging my curiosity as a newly married woman.”
Maria smiles, shaking her head. “You fault yourself too quickly.”
It’s an echo of what Joel had said. That you apologize far too much.
“So you and Joel are truly well?” Maria asks.
“Yes,” you say. “We seem to be getting along much better. He even took me to a play in town. It was wonderful.”
You leave out the part about your step-mother. It is water under the bridge now.
“That’s good,” Maria says. “I am glad to hear it.”
Benji gurgles against her suddenly reaching out towards you. Your eyes widen, unsure of what to do.
“I think he wants to sit with his aunt,” Maria says, moving him in her arms so that you can take him. She must see the worry on your face because she laughs. “Go on. You can hold him. Just make sure his neck rests on your shoulder.”
You do, taking him slowly. He’s a warm, comfortable weight in your arms. Almost immediately, he slumps against you, resting his head against your chest and drooling on your dress. It makes you smile.
“He is so sweet,” you say, watching as his eyes grow heavy.
“He’s on his best behaviour now,” Maria says. “Between the hours of midnight and dawn is when he becomes truly mischievous. But that’s for Tommy to take care of.”
You let out a small laugh, not wanting to jostle Benji.
“Would you ever want your own?” Maria asks. It takes you a second to understand what she means and your eyes widen at the question.
“Oh,” you say. “I’m not sure. I never much imagined myself a mother.”
You never much imagined yourself as anything really. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind, not even once you and Joel had wed.
“Me neither,” Maria says. “It is truly up to you. But if you did want that, I think you would make a good mother.”
“That’s very kind of you to say. But it would be up to Joel as well and I’m not sure that is what he desires,” you say. Joel who has not touched you except for when you needed comfort. Joel, whose touch you cannot stop thinking about.
“How do you mean?” Maria asks. You can feel yourself flush. You glance down at Benji, who is asleep against you. Maria, as if sensing your discomfort, stands up and calls for Martha, voice low enough so that it doesn’t wake him. Martha comes in, agreeing to put Benji to sleep in the guest room. When it’s just the two of you, Maria sits down again. She waits patiently as you gather your thoughts.
“I’m not certain Joel views me the way a husband views his wife,” you say, feeling embarrassed. To your surprise, Maria scoffs. You wonder if you have offended her somehow but when you look at her, she looks amused.
“May I be frank with you?” she asks. “As a friend.”
You nod, feeling nervous.
“Joel is perhaps one of the most foolish men I have ever met,” she says. It is most definitely not what you’re expecting to hear. Before you can think of what to say, Maria continues. “Did Joel ever tell you how your union came to be?”
You shake your head. “No,” you say. “My step-mother told me her husband arranged it.”
“Your step-mother is a witch,” Maria says. “I’m sorry, but it must be said. And her husband is an idiot. They went around town, announcing that you were ready to be married. That you wanted it. It was curious since they hosted no formal gathering to announce you to the marriage mart. When Tommy heard what they were doing, he mentioned it to Joel.”
She pauses here, looking at you carefully.
“As soon as Joel heard, he went to your step-mother and her husband. He said he would marry you if they would allow it.”
The words are a shock to your system. It feels as if you have plunged into a cold bath on a hot summer day.
“I don’t understand,” you say. Your step-mother had painted a different picture. One of how her dearest Edmund had to beg to find you a suitor.
Maria sighs. “I’m only telling you this because Joel is a silly, self-sacrificing man. The first time Joel saw you was when you were on Main Street at the tea shop you love. I think it was around a year ago now. Tommy said he acted like a greenboy, suddenly stumbling over his words. He knows his brother fairly well, knew he was taken by you. But Joel, being the stubborn mule that he can be, did nothing about it. At least until he heard of what your step-mother and her husband were saying. He was frantic the day he found out, worried you’d be married off to some indecent man. He informed Tommy of his plans and ten minutes later he had made his proposal.”
“He asked to marry me?” you say, dumbfounded. “He wanted to marry me?”
Maria nods. “Very much so. But he didn’t want you to know of this, didn’t want to burden you with the expectations of marriage since it seemed you had no say in it. So he never said anything. But I saw how you looked at him that night during dinner. You care for him.”
You can feel yourself flush. You did not think you were that obvious. You hadn’t even known then, even if you had admired him for his kindness.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Maria says gently. “It is quite normal to want your husband.”
“I don’t know how to tell him,” you finally say. “I feel…shy. It seems silly, I know. But that is how I feel.”
“Can I tell you another secret?” Maria asks and you laugh.
“How many do you have?” you ask and she grins.
“There is no shame in saying how you feel,” Maria says. “It is just as much your right as it is a man's. You deserve to be happy in your marriage, as does Joel. And I hope you two are able to find that. Together.”
You swallow, taking in her words. You think of Joel and his gentleness. How he has always only ever told you to be as you wish to be. How he had defended you from your step-mother from the very first moment you had wed. And you know Maria is right.
“Thank you,” you say to her and she smiles, nudging your arm.
“This is what family’s for,” she says and it makes you feel warm. You do have a family now. In Joel. In Maria and Tommy and little Benji.
You tell Martha that she can leave early that evening. Maria had left shortly after tea, carrying a still sleeping Benji and giving you a wink as she bid you farewell. Your ears had gone warm but you had laughed at her silliness. It felt good to have a friend. To have a family member you could speak with. Now, dusk has settled across the sky, painting it a deep orange. You know Joel is bound to return any moment now and you will yourself to be brave, just like Maria had said. When the door opens, you stand up from your seat and make your way towards the front entrance. When Joel sees you, a soft smile graces his face. His tan skin is flushed pink from the cold air and his hair falls against his forehead.
“Hello darlin’,” Joel says. Although the terms of endearment are not frequent, when he does use them, you feel as if you might glow. Still, you can’t allow yourself to be distracted. You have a specific goal in mind.
“Joel,” you say and perhaps it is the tone of your voice, too sharp to be casual and threaded with anxiety that has him straightening up. He looks on edge now, his relaxed smile morphing into something more rigid.
“Is everythin’ alright?” he asks and you nod, far too quickly to be reassuring.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, everything is good.”
He doesn’t seem convinced. He waits for you to continue, always so patient.
“Why did you marry me?” you ask. It is not how you intended to start this conversation but it seems that your mouth has a mind of its own. It is far too blunt of a question but it’s too late to ponder how else you might have phrased it. Joel’s brows furrow.
“What do you mean?” he asks, carefully.
“I mean, what made you want to marry me? How did it happen?” you ask, gentling your voice.
“I –” Joel starts and then hesitates. “Your step-mother said you wanted to be on the marriage mart. And so I asked for your hand.”
You take a step closer to him. “But why did you ask for my hand?”
Joel swallows and you watch the movement of his throat.
“What is this about?” he asks. There are lines between his eyebrows, where they furrow.
“Maria visited earlier,” you say. “Please don’t be upset with her. She was only trying to help. She told me the truth. But I would like to hear it from you, Joel.” You stand up straighter, looking him in the eyes. “Please tell me.”
“Because I wanted you,” he says. His voice is lower now, almost as if he’s ashamed. “I, uh, I had seen you in the spring of last year at that very same tea shop. Couldn't get you out of my mind after that. Tommy used to rib me about it. Said I was actin’ a fool hoping to see you in town but not being man enough to do anythin’ about it. And then when I heard that your step-mother wanted to marry you off, I couldn’t allow it. Not to some strange man. When I proposed, I thought at least this way I can protect you.”
It’s almost the same as what Maria had told you but still, the shock of it, hits you. Joel, your husband. Wanting you all this time.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, voice small. “All this time. I thought you perhaps felt pity for me and that is why you agreed.”
Joel shakes his head. “I’m selfish,” he says. “I’m old, sweetheart. And still, I wanted you as my wife. For me to be your husband. But I know this marriage wasn’t your choice and I would never put that on you. I only want for you to be happy.”
His eyes are glassy as he speaks. He looks down at his shoes, clenching his fist. You take another step towards him. And then another. Until your toes are against his own. You lift your hand, bringing it to his face. When you cup his jaw, he inhales sharply.
“You are old,” you agree. “And yes, I did not wish for marriage at first. But being married to you has been the biggest blessing in my life. You are kind, Joel. And patient. And you take care of me. You let me be.”
Joel leans into your touch, almost as if he’s swaying on his feet. He brings one large hand to touch your waist and you can feel the heat of him, even through your dress.
“You deserve more,” he says and you shake your head.
“I have all that I need, right here,” you say, placing your other hand on his chest. “And I want you. Only you.”
His grip on your waist tightens and your breath hitches.
“You’re certain?” he asks and you nod, smiling.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” you say and he smiles. You trace the crows feet around his eyes with your thumb before resting it against his cheekbone.
“May I kiss you?” he asks, ever the gentleman. You nod, heart thumping against your chest.
When his mouth touches yours, you feel molten. He is gentle as he presses his mouth to yours, but you? You’ve wanted this for far too long. You press up against him, unsure but determined. You open your mouth against his and he groans, pulling back.
“Sweetheart,” he says. “We can go slow.”
You shake your head. “I don’t want slow. Please Joel. I’ve been thinking of this for far too long.”
You watch as his gaze darkens and he leans forward again, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss. You don’t mean to but you let out a small sigh as you feel his tongue run against your lips. You open up like a flower in bloom, feeling yourself growing more wanton as he kisses you feverishly. You think you could do this for hours, as his mouth traces your own. When he pulls back, you chase him, kissing him once more, His hand moves from your waist to your cheek, cupping it you moan against his mouth. You’re desperate for him. He pulls back once more, not before he presses a gentle kiss to your mouth. When you open your eyes, your gaze falls on his plush mouth, wet and red. His eyes are dark pools, pupils so wide you can barely see the golden brown of his iris.
“Was that okay?” he asks, and you nod, smiling.
“It was more than okay,” you say and he laughs. You’re pressed so tightly against him that when you shift you feel something hard against your stomach. You catch Joel’s eye and he looks bashful, as he tries to take a step back.
“We should have supper,” he suggests but you shake your head.
“I would like for us to be as a man and wife should be,” you say. It is perhaps not the most seductive way of posing your request but you’re not sure how else to ask it.
“Sweetheart –” Joel starts but you interrupt him.
“Do you not want it?” you ask and Joel lets out an incredulous laugh.
“That isn’t even a question,” he says. “I’ve wanted you for far too long.”
“Then have me,” you say. “Please, Joel. I’ve wanted you too. I’ve thought about you too.”
His jaw clenches as he pulls you closer. He nudges his nose against yours, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.
“Are you certain?” he asks. “You never have to do anythin’ you don’t wish to.”
It’s an echo of the words he said to you the first night of your marriage. It makes you smile. Your sweet husband. You take his hand, leading him down the corridor and to his bedroom. He lets you, following silently. When you reach his bed, you turn around to face him.
“I want you to have me,” you say. “I’m yours, Joel. Your wife.”
You watch as his breath stutters and he steps closer to you, until you’re chest to chest. You can smell him, something earthy and warm. It eases your nerves. He reaches for your hips, gently turning you around so your back is to his chest. You exhale a sharp breath as you feel his mouth at the top of your spine, even through your dress. Then his capable hands get to work, slowly undoing your dress. It falls to your feet in a whoosh of material, and you’re left in your bodice. You can feel your breath quicken as he undoes the laces of it, slowly pulling it apart. When it loosens, you bring your hands up to hold it against your chest. Suddenly, you feel shy. This is the most anyone has ever seen of you and even though you want this desperately, your mind is too aware of being seen like this. Joel presses his mouth to the curve of your neck.
“S’just me,” he says. His voice is so low it leaves goosebumps on your skin. Slowly, you let your arms drop and the bodice falls from you, leaving you in just your shift. Joel’s big hands move down your sides, one stopping at your hip while the other settles itself on your stomach. He pulls you more closely against him and you shudder at how hot you feel. Suddenly so flushed, it’s as if you can feel the blood coursing through your veins. He presses another kiss to your neck, and you let out a small moan that has him tightening his hold on you.
“Okay?” he asks and you nod, leaning further into him. The feel of him pressed against you is blissful.
“Perfect,” you say, voice breathier than it was before he. He slowly bunches up the end of your shift, holding it at your hips. The hand on your stomach moves lower until his fingers brush over your mound. You shudder again, feeling as if your legs might fail you. Gently, he brushes a finger against where you’re glistening for him. He runs his finger through your wetness and you moan louder than before, unable to stop yourself. Your cheeks are so hot you think they might catch fire. Your thighs are slick too, with want.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, feeling embarrassed. “I know it’s a lot.”
You feel his warm breath against your neck as he huffs out a laugh.
“It’s perfect,” he says. “You’re perfect like this. You’re always perfect, my lovely little wife.”
You feel a fresh wave of want crash through you and he moves his fingers so they circle a spot that has you arching into this touch. Slowly, he presses a thick finger into you and at first the intrusion is too much. You can feel yourself tense up but Joel hums, pressing kisses to your neck.
“It’s okay, darlin’,” he says. “Just relax for me.”
His words ease your fear and slowly, you melt into his touch. He gives you a minute before moving his finger just that much more inside of you. He rubs circles with his thumb at the apex of your thighs and you can feel yourself grow wetter. His finger continues moving, curling into a part of you that has you panting.
“Joel,” you moan. “Please.”
You’re not sure what you’re begging for but it seems your husband does. He moves his fingers faster, curling a second one into you. Your body allows it, relaxing around him. You can feel yourself clench and he groans against your neck. You arch into him further, feeling a hardness against the small of your back. He continues moving his thumb over you, making faster circles now. Pleasure, waves of it, course through you as your legs shake. You reach down to grip his wrist, holding him there as you push your hips down onto his fingers.
“Just like that,” he says, mouth near your ear. You turn your head and he catches your mouth in a fervent kiss. You open your mouth to him, needing to taste him. You want to feel him everywhere all the time. You think if you died like this, right now, you would do so with a smile. He groans as he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. You trace your eyes over his lined face, the patches of grey in his beard and the scar near his temple and you take in how beautiful he looks, in the glowing orange of the candlelight. Eventually, he removes his hand from you and you feel yourself flush at how his fingers glisten. You turn around to face him and he pulls you closer so your front is pressed to his. You can feel his stiffness against your stomach, so close to where you want him. You lean up, pressing a gentle kiss to his plush mouth and he smiles.
He leads you gently to rest against the bed. The sheets are soft below you, cold against your fevered skin. He stands at the end of the bed, eyes tracing over your body through your translucent shift. You want to see him as well, his broad chest and his tan skin. You clear your throat.
“I would like to see you too,” you say and you watch a gentle smile grace his worn face. He unbuttons his shirt swiftly, his hand now healed so he can do it himself and you watch as he pulls it off. His shoulders are just as broad as you thought they would be, and he looks so strong. His barrel chest is muscled from years of hard work, of lifting and building and making things and you bite your lip to stop yourself from reaching forward and doing something absurd like running your mouth across his golden skin. But goodness, you want to. He undoes the buttons of his pants, pulling them off quickly and you catch sight of where he is hard and wanting. It makes your breath stutter.
“Will you go slowly, please?” you ask.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Joel says. He looks at you as if you are the most precious thing in the world. He leans forward, pushing your shift up your body and you allow him, revealing yourself to him. His eyes trace over the curve of your waist, the way your hips flare out, your soft stomach before they settle on your breasts. Your nipples are stiff, both from the cool air and from your plain want. He brings his mouth down, pressing a kiss to the slope of your breast and you grip the back of his hair, where it curls against his strong neck. Slowly, he lifts one of your legs so your knee rests against his hip. He lifts his head up and looks down and you follow his line of sight. You both watch as he slowly notches the head of his cock into you. He pushes in and you gasp at the intrusion. He stops, looking up at you and your wide, glassy eyes. The want you have for him surpasses any fear you might feel and you nod. He pushes in slowly and you allow yourself to let him carve a place for himself inside of you. Inch by inch, minute by minute, until he is fully seated inside of you, breaching you open. You both look down to where you are spread wide for him, glistening and molten. He groans at the sight. The pressure is a bit uncomfortable at first but as you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you, so hot and real, you realize you want more. You’re insatiable. You want him to stay like this forever. You shift your hips and you can feel him tense up.
“Sweetheart, give me a minute,” he says and his voice sounds strained. You’re worried you’ve done something wrong and Joel can tell because he brings his thumb to smooth the furrow between your brows. “You feel too good,” he explains. “I won’t be able to last.”
Oh, you think. He is as undone as you. You can’t help but laugh in joy and you watch as Joel’s mouth twitches in amusement.
“Somethin’ funny?” he asks and you shake your head, still smiling. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your eye. Your nose. Your cheek. Your chin. His mouth flutters against your skin.
“I’m going to move now,” he says. You nod as he pulls away from your face, watching you as he shifts his hips. He lifts your leg higher and then he’s reaching a part inside of you so deep that you see stars behind your eyes. Your back arches and you moan. You move your hips in tandem, aching for more and more and more. You reach to pull him closer to you so his stomach presses against your own. He kisses you, mouth open and you shudder against him. He keeps moving, pulling his hips back and then pushing deeper. You’ve never felt like this before, as if he’s consuming you. You never want this feeling to end. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, similar to earlier but somehow more. His thrusts grow sharper, more precise, hitting a part inside of you that has you clenching around him so hard, as if your body wants to keep him inside of you forever. He moves his mouth down your jaw and towards your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue is hot as it laves over your sensitive skin, and you twitch when you feel the press of his teeth against you. His other hand moves between your legs, circling that same place from earlier.
“Joel,” you gasp, feeling shaky all over. “Please. Please, please –” you cut off, shuddering.
“There you go,” Joel says, his voice sounding like a growl as he pulls away. His mouth is slick and swollen, so pink you want to reach out and run your thumb against it. “Just let go, sweetheart. Let me take care of you. You just let yourself feel this.”
And you do, allowing the pleasure to crash into you. You clench around him so tightly, that his hips stutter before he starts moving with more purpose. You can feel yourself peak again, legs trembling and soft sounds escaping you as your hips twist to feel more of him against where you’re hot. You can feel yourself grow even more slick, some of it leaking out between the two of you but there’s no embarrassment anymore. He wants you like this.
“I love you,” Joel says once you’ve come back yourself. He’s still inside of you, throbbing and hot. His eyes are glassy and his hair is tousled, curling against his forehead. You can feel your chest crack open and you pull him back towards you, capturing his mouth in a wet kiss. You’re not certain it even is a kiss, more so the two of you sharing the same breaths of air. He’s slowed his moving now, allowing you time to catch your breath. You move the leg you have positioned near his hip so it wraps around his waist, urging him closer. His chest presses against yours and you bask in the feeling of being surrounded by him. He is everywhere, around you and inside of you all at once. The weight of him pressing you down into the bed is perfect.
“Joel,” you say and he looks at you, almost as if in a daze. His hips are moving more erratically now, as if he cannot control himself. There’s sweat beading near the top of his forehead and his whole face is flushed pink. “I love you too.”
He groans, hips snapping more quickly and then you feel a warmthness inside of you as he fills you up. He tucks his head into your neck, and you revel in the way his hot breath warms your skin. His mouth is open against your soft skin, wet. You run a hand through his hair, gentle as he comes down from his own peak. It might be minutes or hours past, when he lifts his head so he can look at you. He presses a kiss to your chin, and you smile at how his beard tickles you. Slowly he shifts, pulling out of you and you can feel yourself leak onto the sheets below you. He kneels, pushing your legs apart and you can feel yourself flush as he looks between your thighs. His brows are furrowed as he runs a gentle finger against your wet folds, petting the sensitive skin there. There’s no intent to it, nothing feverish the way it was earlier. He’s just checking it seems, to see if you truly are okay. He leans down and your eyes widen as he presses a kiss, and then another to your mound, against the soft hair there before he pulls away.
“I’ll be right back,” he says as he gets up. He’s lovely like this, unashamed in his nakedness. You watch his broad back as he reaches for a washcloth near the basin at the corner of his room, dipping it into the water it holds before coming back to you. Gently he swipes between your legs, cleaning you. It is so tender that you feel your vision go blurry as you look away. You have never felt like this before, never felt so taken care of. If Joel notices your emotion, he says nothing, instead coming back to lie down next to you. He pulls you against his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You press your mouth against his sternum, inhaling.
You’re not certain when you fall asleep but you do. You wake up, feeling slightly sore between your legs. It makes you smile. You shift, opening your eyes to find that your head is pillowed against Joel’s chest, his breathing even. You look up to find his warm gaze already on you. He runs a hand through your hair, now loose from its braid. You must look a sight but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“What time is it?” you ask, voice husky from sleep.
“Still early,” Joel says. “There’s time before the day begins.”
You let your eyes flutter close, pleased. You don’t think you ever want to leave this bed or his arms, safe and warm around you.
“Are you feelin’ alright?” Joel asks. You open your eyes to find his concerned gaze on you. He seems antsy. You shift, sitting up straighter.
“Yes,” you say. “I feel well. Are you alright?”
You watch as he traces your face with his eyes, as if cataloguing your features. He nods, but his shoulders are rigid. You know him well enough by now to know when something is on his mind.
“What is the matter, Joel?” you ask, adjusting yourself so you’re facing him better. You watch as he takes in a deep breath.
“I was worried you might regret what we did,” he says. Something aches in your chest. Quickly, you move yourself so that your knees are on either of his thighs and you settle in his lap. His hands come to rest on your hips, holding you as if by instinct.
“I regret nothing,” you say. “I meant all of it. I want to be your wife, always. For as long as I live. This might have started because of my family’s own selfishness but it has been the best thing in my life.”
You cup his face as you speak, looking right into his dark eyes. You watch the words settle over him, his grip on you tightening. Finally, he nods. You lean forward, pressing your mouth to his cheekbone. Then to the corner of his eye. To the tip of his nose. To his strong jaw. You create a map of his face with your kisses, just like he had done to you the night before. He pulls you closer, so that your chest is pressed against his. You can feel the warmth of him through your shift.
“I love you,” you remind him, pressing a kiss to his mouth.
“I love you,” he returns. “I’ve loved you a long time now.”
It makes you smile, his sweet confession.
“I am glad you asked for my hand,” you say. “Though I wish you had told me of your true feelings earlier. I would have driven myself less mad with want. But I understand why you didn’t. You gave me the choice and I choose you, Joel.”
He pulls you into a kiss, gentle and heated all at once. Eventually, you separate, the need for air too great to ignore. His hands stay on you, tracing over the curve of your waist, running down your back and tugging at your hair. You would have never guessed your husband to be such an affectionate man before this but you are happy for it.
“There’s a new play in town,” Joel says eventually, running a thumb across your cheekbone. “Would you like to see it?”
You laugh, nodding.
“I’d like that very much,” you say, and watch as his lovely smile blooms across his face, eyes crinkling near the corners. He settles you so your head leans against his strong chest and your eyes flutter close. You think of how lonely you had been before this, how you hadn’t even known it until you had married Joel. You think of his steady strength and unwavering care and you feel a tear leak out from the corner of your eye. Joel’s thumb swipes it away, big and warm against your face.
“I’m just happy,” you say, and you are. For the first time in your life, you truly are.
You've had all sorts of people come into your beauty parlor but Joel Miller, the old man that treats haircutting in the same wavelength as teeth pulling, just might be your favorite client.
click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: no outbreak/modern setting, hairdresser!reader, reader is afab, old man!joel, age gap (joel's early 60s, reader's age is not specified apart from being a lot younger), brief sarah cameo, little bit of erotic massages, requited unrequited love, smut, joel's got it bad, pet names galore, untimely erections, improper use of a backwash unit, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, size kink, praise kink, joel miller's monster cock, fingering (f receiving), pussy/cock pronouns, cowgirl, creampie, fluff and smut, kind of sugar daddy vibes if you squint.
rating: 18+.
word count: 6.7k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! this is based off of this request by the incredible @time-for-my-weekly-spanking ! ive been a hairdresser for almost a decade now but i'm not north american and let me tell you... it was quite the challenge to translate the proper vocabulary into english, i've never noticed how much i could never do my own job in an english-speaking country because i have no idea what anything is called lmao but i had fun writing this and i hope you guys enjoy it as well!!
also available on archiveofourown.
You don't do walk-ins. Your clients know and understand this, most of them booking their appointments weeks in advance but, when Sarah first came into your salon while dragging her sixty year old father by the hand like a stubborn toddler, you couldn't find it in yourself to turn them away.
“He's been cutting his own hair for years.” She tells you as the both of you coax Joel to sit down in your chair, a scowl on his face, his entire back taut.
“And I do a damn fine job.” He grumbles, but Sarah just waves him off.
“His eyesight ain't what it used to be, I'm surprised he hasn't snipped his own ear off just yet.”
Joel gives her an affronted grunt that yanks a laugh out of you. His hair is styled back, as if he'd just pushed it away from his face with a little bit of styling mousse and the way it sticks out of the sides is clear that he does it to hide the choppy cut, the curls at the nape of his neck doing wonders to hide just how uneven it is. His broad back stiffens when you run your hands through his hair, the curls catching on your fingers; it's clear that he's uncomfortable, but you're not certain if it's just because he's in a beauty salon rather than a barber shop or something else entirely.
“I could just clean it up a little.” You say, your hands resting on his shoulders for a moment before you pull away. “We don't need to change the haircut, I can just make sure it's even, give you a fresh canvas for you to muck up at home when you decide to cut it yourself again.”
He doesn't laugh, not really, but his lips twitch under his mustache and his eyes seem lighter somehow, which you take as a good sign; Sarah isn't a helicopter daughter — and thank God for that —, choosing instead to sit in a corner with her nose buried in her phone while you work. Joel is tense at first, sitting straight as a rod in your chair and then barely lowering himself into the backwash unit, his head tilted halfway up in a position that you know water is going to pour down his back the second you turn the faucet on. So, you pull the trick that your old boss, a lady with bleached blond hair that was three stories high and a voice rougher than gravel, had taught you: The scalp massage.
It's not something you do often considering that the bent position you're in while shampooing a client's hair kills your back at the end of the day, but you take your time with Joel. You apply just a little bit of pressure with the pads of your fingers, mindful of your nails, running clock-wise circles from the top of his head to his temples, grinning to yourself at the way he stiffens even more before his entire body melts against the porcelain basin, the hands folded over his lap clutching his reading glasses tightly as you work him over, shampooing and moisturizing his hair, tugging and rubbing until he's all but asleep.
Joel Miller becomes a fixture at your beauty parlor after that. You don't have a lot of male clients, your entire salon mostly avoiding booking appointments for men after one too many creeps but Joel is the exception you can't stop yourself from making: He comes in every twenty days 'just for a trim', even if he wears his hair on the longer side and doesn't really need trimming that often. He also starts buying a stupid amount of haircare products once you mentioned you earn a small commission off of every sale, always leaving the salon with a new beard oil or hair moisturizer or curl defining cream that you know he'll never wear on his own. The girls you work with start teasing you about your not-so-secret admirer and, while you laugh and roll your eyes at them, your stomach still burns with something that is not embarrassment. Truth is, you find Joel to be quite dreamy.
The girls don't agree with you— Too old, too weathered, with a daughter whose age is closer to yours than yours is to his but they don't see him the way you do: The way his impossibly broad shoulders relax when he sees you, the shy smile he gives when you welcome him to your chair, the soft sigh he exhales the moment your fingers touch his scalp. Joel Miller is a man built on contradictions: His hair is soft when his frown is prickly, his body language skittish when his words are warm, his brutish hands gentle whenever he shakes yours in goodbye: You found the handshake odd at first, as if you were sealing a business deal rather than saying goodbye to the man whose hair you've just spent the last forty minutes intimately touching, but you've come to appreciate that small moment. The only time your touch is reciprocated, the couple of seconds where his large hand engulfs yours and his warmth involves you in a way that lingers far beyond the handshake.
Maybe you're the one that is the not-so-secret admirer, in the end. You look forward to his appointments, terribly saddened by the few occasions in which he had to cancel, and it has very little to do with the easy money you make off of him.
He's usually your last customer of the day, and you're pretty sure that it's because he likes it when it's just the two of you. Joel seems more comfortable like that, more prone to talking about himself when your ears are the only ones listening— You learn that he's the single father of two daughters, Sarah and Ellie, and that he tried to retire a couple of years ago but got so antsy he had to go back to work. He owns a contracting company with his brother and, with his old age, he's taken the admin duties while his brother and a couple of guys take on the manual labor. He enjoys cooking and woodcarving and he lives on the other side of town— Sarah's apartment is close to the salon, and while he makes it seem that he only comes in to get a haircut whenever he's visiting, you get the feeling that it's not exactly true. And while you share just as many details of your personal life with him, the relationship has always been strictly professional.
It all changes on a rainy January Tuesday.
Joel comes in as your last customer as usual, but this time he's about fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for the man that is always so punctual. He's more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him, his hair is in disarray, curls undone and sticking everywhere; he's in black sweatpants, a t-shirt and the jacket he doesn’t seem to ever take off, but the ensemble is still something you've never seen before: He's always in jeans and some sort of button down or flannel, his sleeves rolled up and his boots shiny, like he takes good care of it. It's always casual but calculated, like he actually put in some effort before leaving the house.
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart.” He says as a greeting, shoving an iced coffee towards you— The coffee is a newish and welcome addition, even if Joel grumbles about how caffeine so late in the day is bad for you, he always shows up with pink-tinted cheeks and the iced caramel latte he knows you enjoy. “Had to drive the kid to the airport and traffic was crazy, ended up not havin' time to go back home to get dressed. Am I too late?”
“No, you're fine.” You smile, taking a sip of your coffee as he shakes off the remains of the pouring rain from his coat before sitting in your chair. Your late policy means you shouldn't be taking in the appointment: The salon has a maximum of ten minutes of tardiness but even if you tell yourself that you're breaking policy simply because he's the last client you have today, it truly is because he is Joel, and you'd let him run you over with his car if he wanted to.
You go through the motions as you usually do: Placing the towel over his shoulders — the larger ones, always, because the regular size doesn't fit him properly —, and then the bright pink cape — which you always pick for him because you think it's funny of see a man that size wrapped in a bat-like pink cape — before clipping his sideburns and the nape of his neck; the scruff on his cheeks is on the longer side today, but you don't touch them. You like him with a beard, and you often pretend to forget about it unless he specifically asks for a trim of his facial hair too. By the time the two of you make it to the shampooing station, Joel's already halfway through his tale of Sarah's out-of-state girl's trip for a friend's birthday and how it's the first time she's taking a long trip without him. It's cute, the way he talks about her as if she's just a teenager even though you know she's a grown woman, the way he voices his worries to you and then finishes a sentence with ‘didn't say that to her, of course’, as if he's apologizing for his over-protectiveness to her through you.
Joel falls oddly silent after the first wash, his voice cutting itself halfway through a sentence as you rinse away the shampoo, his once closed eyes snapping open. He shifts a little, one of his hands flying downwards as you fill up your hand with shampoo again and your eyes drift to follow the movement, your stomach dropping in the split second in which you think he's touching himself. He's not, not really, his hand closed into a tight fist and carefully placed over his crotch in a poor attempt at concealing a very impressive hard-on that tents through the pink cape. His eyes flit to yours, the two of you making eye contact for just a second before your hand overflows with the mint-scented shampoo.
You work in silence, biting down on your bottom lip to hide the giddy smile that threatens to show.
Normally, if it were any other man on Earth, you would've been disgusted by it— Or annoyed, at the very least, but you're not. You take your time with the scalp massage, rubbing your fingers against him slower, more teasingly this time, doing your best to remain as professional as you can while having fun with it. Joel's entire face is bright red and his eyes are shut tight, but he doesn't seem as uncomfortable as he was before, his breath catching when your fingers dip close to his temple. You're not supposed to use your nails, you know it can be quite uncomfortable for some people but you can't help the way you allow yourself to scratch softly as his scalp, his mouth parting slightly at the sensation.
Joel doesn't look you in the eyes when you walk him back to the chair, which is not uncommon for him, but the air is electrified and you look away as he tries to readjust himself; the cape does nothing to hide his erection, though, and you know the imagine will be ingrained in your mind for a long time.
The two of you are silent throughout the entire haircut, with Joel shuffling in his chair every so often, clearly uncomfortable, and it makes your job at evening out the ends just a tad harder— You're not certain it's completely even by the time you're done, your hands shaky and your mind entirely distracted by him but the curls hide it well; if he never shows up again, you won't ever know if it's because of the uneven cut or because of the ten or so minutes he spent rock hard at your shampooing station. He seems a little more relaxed by the time you're removing the cape from his neck, his face still flushed red but at least his cock is down.
It's almost as if the Universe is conspiring against you, the rain pouring twice as hard by the time Joel finishes up his payment — with an extra 25% tip and a beard shampoo that you're certain he'll never use —, the two of you standing awkwardly by the door for a moment.
“Can I drive you home?” Joel asks all of a sudden, hands shoved inside the pockets of his carhartt jacket. “The rain ain't gon' let up soon.”
You open your mouth, ready to politely decline: Despite your crush, Joel is still someone you don't know that well and you're not certain you want him to know your address or to be inside his car for so long. But he blinks at you with his big brown eyes, shoulders drawn tight as if he's bracing himself for a rejection and suddenly you simply can't think of a single reason as to why you shouldn't take a chance. And, in the end, it was better than getting home late and sopping wet after taking the bus under a thunderstorm.
“Okay.” You nod, your smile broadening when he smiles back. “I would love that, actually.”
Joel's car is old, a large red pick up truck that he clearly uses for work, dirt on its tires and sides. He opens the door for you and helps you climb in, large hands respectfully wrapped around your waist when he hoists you up. You're a little shy when giving him your address, afraid he'll be annoyed by how far it is but Joel simply nods and turns on the radio, an old rock song coming through.
You sip your coffee, which is not as iced anymore by this point, sharing it with Joel every so often. He takes the cup between red lights, and you don't miss the way he twists and turns the cup to make sure his lips touch the exact spot where your lipstick has stained it— It makes desire simmer low but constant in your belly, his own lips staining with a soft shade of red.
By the time his truck pulls up into your driveway, the rain is somehow worse than it'd been before. The two of you sit in silence for a moment as you gather the courage to leave the warmth of the truck's cabin, and Joel hums to the song on the radio as if he didn't mind you stalling at all.
“Do you want to come inside?” You ask, and while the question might seem innocent enough, you can't get the outline of his hard cock from your mind. “I mean— It's just… It's dangerous for you to drive home in the dark while it's raining hard like that— I mean, uh, not hard, I—”
You burst into a fit of giggles, hating yourself from even bringing the word up. Joel closes his eyes, his face going pale before he blushes so hard his face is almost purple.
“I'm sorry for that. I…” He stops, visibly unsure of how to finish the sentence. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.” You say, softly, and Joel's eyes finally snap to yours as if he can't believe what you just said. “Just come inside, Joel.”
“Okay.” His voice is so low it's almost a whisper, gruff in a way that flies straight through your spine. “If you're sure.”
You don't dignify him with an answer, instead simply hopping out of the truck and rushing to your front door, hoping he'll follow.
Your house is small and in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood, a little messy and full of mismatched secondhand furniture and you're a little embarrassed as you shrug off your coat but Joel doesn't seem to mind, his intense gaze focused solely on you. You're suddenly acutely aware of how sweaty you are after a whole day of working on your feet.
“Make yourself at home.” You tell him, hopping around the room to collect the shoes that are scattered near your couch. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Take your time.” Joel drops down on your couch, his hands rubbing his own knees. “How about I order us some food in the meantime? You must be hungry. Any allergies?”
“Sounds good.” You connect your phone to the bluetooth speaker on top of the coffee table, scrolling through your playlists as fast as you can to pick out anything that might be of his taste. “No allergies, no.”
Joel seems entirely at home in your cramped couch, his long legs stretched as he scrolls through the cellphone which he holds comically away from his face, too stubborn to put on the glasses you know he wears— You’ve seen them in his hands or hanging from the collar of his flannel but he never puts them on around you.
You try to be fast with your shower, but you still take the time to exfoliate and shave and moisturize every bit of your body. The clothing is a problem all on its own: You want to look pretty, but you're home after work and you can't simply show up to your living room super dressed up. All of your nice pajamas are a little too skimpy and, since you already invited him in, you don't want to walk out half-naked either— Sure, you are throwing yourself at him, but you still would like to pretend that you are not. In the end, you decide on putting on your prettiest lingerie and then covering it with a pair of comfortable shorts and the only oversized shirt you own that isn't torn or stained, an old Van Halen shirt that you mostly use only in the gym nowadays.
All your worries melt away when you pad back into the living room and Joel drinks you in; he's standing by your fridge, analyzing the thousand polaroids pinned to it. He looks at you like you're the only woman in the world, his darkened gaze going from your thighs to your chest to your face.
“Nice shirt.”
“Thank you.” You tug the hem of the shirt a little, self conscious even though you love the way he looks at you.
Joel clears his throat, his eyes snapping away from you to the square white box on top of the kitchen counter. “I ordered pizza. Reckon it was the safe choice, I dunno what you like to eat.”
“Pizza's great. I'm not fussy.” You rifle through your purse, and Joel frowns when you pull out the bills from the tip he gave you earlier. “How much was it?”
“What're you doin'?”
“Paying my share of the food?” You offer him the crumpled bills, but Joel crosses his arms over his chest.
“You ain't payin', are you crazy?”
“Joel, with the obscene amount you tip me, I could probably pay for the whole meal.”
“Use it to buy somethin' pretty for yourself.” He simply waves you off. “Go sit, we should eat before it gets cold.”
You want to make a sugar daddy joke but you're so flustered by the whole ordeal that you simply smile and do as you're told; you're not used to things like that, men opening doors and offering to pay and being so gentle with you— Most of your past boyfriends were nice enough, but never went above and beyond to make you feel special in the way Joel does.
You eat on the couch, pizza box perched on the coffee table and mismatching plates balancing on your legs but Joel doesn't seem to mind, leaning across the couch to refill your wine glass — and isn't that fancy, having an actual bottle of wine with your food rather than the boxed stuff you usually buy? — whenever it starts to run low, his own glass tucked on the ground near his feet.
The conversation flows easily, easier than it usually does at work when there are too many interested eyes and ears on the two of you. Joel seems more at ease too, his face flushed from the wine and brown eyes gleaming under the warm light of your living room. Your feet end up on his lap somehow, the TV playing a movie you're not exactly paying attention to: Despite how much you try to seem relaxed, you are incredibly aware of Joel's imposing presence by your side, quietly watching the screen with the prescription glasses he finally perched on his nose when you first offered to turn on Netflix. His large, calloused hand rests on top of your feet, not moving at first, just holding onto you.
And then his thumb slides down, pressing softly against the arch of your foot. Your eyelids flutter, the dull pain from an entire day on your feet evaporating as he rubs against your skin, applying just enough pressure to have you melting into the couch. You don't remember the last time you've been so relaxed, especially around someone that is virtually a stranger, but you close your eyes and lean your head back against the cushions and do your best to keep the little moans trying to escape trapped behind your teeth.
The first time you feel it, it's just a soft bristle on the bridge of your foot, so feathery light that you think it must've been a breeze. And then you feel it again, the soft and scratchy tingle of Joel's beard on the inside of your ankle. You don't say anything and neither does he, his lips traveling a little higher, pressing a small kiss to your shin. Joel's nose runs upwards ever-so-slightly, bumping against your knee.
“This okay?”
You nod, a little embarrassed that just a couple of small pecks were enough to get your body thrumming. You feel Joel's lips twist into a smile as he turns his head to kiss the inside of your knee.
“I gotta hear you say the words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Joel.” You breathe out. “More than okay.”
He moves slowly up your body, and you giggle at the small grunt Joel gives as he twists, kneeling on the couch so he can run a line of open mouthed kisses up your leg, his aquiline nose brushing over your clothed mound before he started mouthing at the band of your shorts, pushing your shirt up so he could pepper kisses up your stomach all the way to your sternum; he doesn't touch your breasts, and the only touch to your pussy was the brief brushing of his nose, but you feel your entire body already on fire, legs falling apart so his hips could fit between yours before Joel finally presses his lips to yours.
He tastes of wine and remnants of pizza but the only thing you can focus on is the weight of his body on top of yours, his mouth moving against yours with experienced precision, one arm next to your head holding most of his weight while the other roams your ribs underneath your shirt. You giggle and squirm when his fingers ghost a particularly tickly spot, and Joel pulls back to watch your reaction, a soft smile on his face.
“I've been wanting to do that since the day we met.” He admits, his graying curls falling over his forehead. You reach up, pulling it backwards, unable to keep the smile off of your lips.
“I got a lot more that I've been wanting to do to you, old man.”
“Minx.” Joel gasps, but you can tell he's not offended by it, free hand wrapping at the nape of your neck before he pulls you up until the both of you are seated, your thighs straddling his lap.
Joel holds you close as the two of you kiss, your hips grinding down against him, your chest pressed against his as his hands roam from your back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of it as he dictates the pace but, no matter how slow or fast or rough you go, he doesn't seem to get past half-mast. It is as if he can sense the inquisitive tilt of your hips, head falling back against the couch as his hands knead your ass cheeks.
“ 'M real sorry, darlin'.” He says, redness crawling up his thick neck. “It just— It takes 'im a minute sometimes.”
A shiver runs down your spine when you realize that the him he's talking about is his own cock— You have never had anyone speak like that before, and although you expect to find it weird, you can feel yourself get wetter.
“Maybe we should move this to my bathroom.” You tease with a small smile, trying to ease the tension he clearly feels. “Let me wash your hair again and he'll wake right up.”
He groans, leaning forward to hide his face in the crook of your shoulder. You take pity on him, your nails raking through his hair before you lean back just enough to face him.
“We don't have to do anything tonight, Joel.”
“I want to.” Joel answers immediately, fingers flexing against your skin. “I want you— Fuck, darlin', you have no idea how much I want you.”
You press a kiss to his cheek. “Let me help, then.”
Joel watches you curiously as you climb from his lap, his legs parting automatically as you settle on your knees in front of him. His meaty hands flex, but he keeps them to his sides, mouth opening and then closing as if he's swallowing down whatever it is that he was about to say. You start slowly pressing soft kisses to the tent in his sweats that, while not as big as the one you'd seen earlier, it is still more than you thought it should be; you cup him through his clothes, warm and heavy, before sliding his pants down to his ankles. Joel shifts, toeing the sweatpants off just eager enough to make you chuckle, the fabric bunching as it gets caught on his left shoe.
He's only half-hard still, cock heavy laying against his right thigh, twitching in the night air— You take him in your hand, pumping him slowly, but all you can focus on his how big he is: Thick and long and uncut, bigger than any cock you've ever seen and you don't think there is any way he can grow any bigger once it's fully hard. You’re tempted to just swallow him at once but you don’t, holding him upright as you place soft kisses to Joel’s inner thighs, making your way upwards until the tip of your nose brushes against his balls— Joel jolts, just a little, but his legs spread a little more and you take that as a sign. You start with kitten licks, your hand still pumping his cock as you run tongue your over his balls; the noise that comes out of his mouth is almost painful, somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. You switch directions then, placing small kisses at the base of his cock— Joel looks wrecked just from those simple touches, his hands fisted by his sides, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down on you.
“So fuckin’ pretty like that.” He breathes out, his hands pulling your hair away from your face, holding it in a makeshift ponytail— Joel doesn’t use it to guide your movements though, letting you explore him freely without the hair getting in the way. “Wish you could see yer’self.”
“Maybe next time I’ll let you take a picture.” You say as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue. Joel moans, his grip tightening in your hair and you can feel his cock twitch under your touch, hardening under your ministrations. You lick a fat stripe from the base up to the tip, following along the vein on the underside of his shaft, suckling on the head; you can taste his precum, salty and a little shy, but he’s far more responsive than you expected.
“C’mon darlin’.” Joel goads you. “Take ‘im in. I know it’s big, but you can do it.”
Your lips quiver as you hold back your smile, your mouth slowly sinking onto him; you’re able to take about two thirds of his cock before it hits the back of your throat and you pull back slightly, breathing through your nose as you pump whatever part of him you can’t fit inside your mouth. It’s quite the stretch, drool pooling in your mouth and dribbling down the sides, and your core pulses as you think about how it’ll feel inside of you.
“Fuck, there you go— Such a good girl f’me.” You find a pace that is comfortable for you, the weight of his cock on your tongue, the saltiness and warmth of his velvety skin making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
He somehow grows fatter in your mouth, thicker and heavier than before. You take him as deep as you can, only pulling away when you feel his cockhead hitting your throat, and Joel whines every time. You can see he’s trying to behave, the hand not holding your hair fisting the couch, straining as he tries to stop from thrusting into your mouth, which you are thankful for— While you don’t mind a little bit of throat fucking, you’re quite intimidated by how big he is.
“C’mere.” Joel begs, tugging on your hair for the first time as he pulls you away from his cock. “Take those shorts off and sit on my lap.”
His words send a thrill of desire down your chest, your skin feeling warm and tight all over as you climb on top of him, your shins bracketing his thighs. You’re still in your oversized shirt, the hem coming down to the top of your thighs but you shiver when Joel’s now hard cock bumps against your wet cunt. You tug at his shirt just as Joel pulls you in for a kiss and the both of you chuckle at the clumsiness, his cotton shirt half tangled with his limbs; Joel separates himself from you just enough to yank his shirt off, the clothing falling somewhere behind the couch before he’s dragging his lips back to yours.
You have never been with a man who really likes to kiss before— For most of your partners, kissing was just a means to an end, just a pitstop before getting to the foreplay but Joel takes his time with it, making out like you’re teenagers, his hands exploring every bit of your body underneath your shirt. It leaves you aching, your hips rutting against him, little needy whines escaping your throat.
“Need something, sweetheart?” He has the gall to smile against your skin, his mouth trailing off from your lips down to your jawline.
“Your cock.” You answer, throwing your head back so he could keep kissing the column of your throat.
Finally, finally, Joel’s hand trails down between your legs. The pads of his fingers trace your clit and your labia, stroking softly as if he’s mapping you out, spreading the wetness that has been leaking out of you and dripping down onto his shaft.
“I don’t think yer ready for ‘im.” Joel mumbles against the hollow of your throat, his southern accent heavier than you’ve ever heard it. The tip of his middle finger teases your entrance, circling without pushing in and you buck your hips down, mewling when his finger sinks inside of you. Even his fingers are thick and you chase after the stretch, your torso leaning so far back that you need to grab onto his shoulders not to fall over.
“Give me another one.” You all but beg. Joel leans back on the couch, one hand between your legs, the other holding you by the small of your back and you clench around his finger when you realize he pulled back so he could watch as he plunges his ring finger into you. You already feel so full your mouth waters thinking just how his cock is going to feel, how Joel is going to stretch you enough that you’ll be reminded of him every time you move.
He fingers you slowly with precise, careful movements, his eyes never leaving your cunt and you keen every time he pushes his fingers to the hilt, his palm kneading against your clit. By the time Joel’s third finger slips inside you’re so wet the squelching sounds drown out your moans, your legs burning from how you bounce against him, fucking yourself on his fingers.
“Fuck,” You moan, hips bucking faster as you try to chase your orgasm, your pussy clenching him so tight that Joel moans. “Joel— Please, I’m gonna—”
A whine falls out of your lips when Joel abruptly pulls his hand away, your slick dripping down his wrist. He holds eye contact as he licks his own fingers clean and you clench around nothing, your body thrumming with desire and annoyance at being denied your peak.
“I want you to come on my cock.” He says, but the glint in his eyes tell you that it’s more than that— He wants to tease you, drive you to the edge of madness and be the one in control of your pleasure. Joel takes hold of himself, rubbing the tip of his cock against you and you gasp when it bumps into your sensitive clit. Everything feels heightened after your denied orgasm and you lift a little bit, wanting nothing more than just to sink on top of him. You start slowly, the hand that isn’t holding his own cock steady kneading the fat of your hip as you take him inside. It’s a lot, even just the head of his cock being thick enough to hurt, and you pause when he’s just a couple of inches deep. Joel kisses the soft flesh underneath your chin, his breathing deep and ragged, and you can tell he’s trying to control himself.
“I’m sorry—” You breathe out and try to sink a little more. “I didn’t think you’d be this big— Fuck, that hard on at my shampooing station was just a half chub, wasn’t it?”
Joel chuckles, his grip tightening on you. “Don’t apologize. I know it’s a lot, darlin’. Just take your time, you’re doin’ so good f’me.”
You clench around him at his words and the both of you groan in unison, Joel holding you so tight you know you’ll have bruises in the morning. You take another inch and his cock hits the exact spot inside of you that makes you see stars; you come just like that, your cunt spasming around him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It’s never happened before, you don’t think you have ever come from penetration alone, especially one where neither of you are properly moving but the fresh wave of wetness that comes from it and the way your knees give out makes you sink on top of him all the way down to the hilt.
You think you’d scream if you had any air left in your lungs. Joel makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whine, his teeth digging into the soft spot between your neck and your shoulder.
“Goddamn it, did you just come?” There is a hint of wonder in his voice and you giggle, a little embarrassed. You moan and squeeze him again, unable to form any coherent words.
You hold him close, eyes shut, your nails raking through his hair. You’ve never been this full before, not even with your largest toy, and it burns and hurts and it’s fucking incredible all at the same time. You give your hips a little rock, testing the waters, but Joel stops your movements.
“Fuck, gimme a second, here.” He mumbles into your shoulder. “You’re just— So fuckin’ tight—” Joel kisses your shoulder and your neck, his mustache tickling your overheated skin. “Perfect f’me, takin’ me so well, such a good girl.”
“Can I move?” You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and lost in pleasure and desire. “Please, Joel, I need to feel you.”
His hands move from your hips to knead your ass and that is all the answer you need. You start slow, a little back and forth and some circles, trying to get used to the sheer size of him but you pick up the pace quickly, head thrown back as you fuck yourself on him. Joel is a lot more vocal than you expected him to be, moaning and groaning with every thrust, talking about how you’re a good girl and how you were made for him. It’s easy to get lost in it, his string of praises egging you on, the sound of your body colliding against his reverberating through the room.
His hand finds your clit, not rubbing but simply holding steady, and every time you move up and down his fingers press against your clit just right and suddenly you’re shifting your position, subconsciously trying to rut against his hand. You don’t think you can come twice, but the way his cock keeps pushing against the perfect spot inside of you makes you crack, your second orgasm coursing through you like lightning. Your muscles lock as you moan, pussy clenching hard around Joel’s cock and he comes just as you’re regaining your breath, thick ropes of cum filling you inside— You’re so full from his cock and his come that it pushes against your belly.
Joel rubs your back when you settle against his chest, exhausted. You can feel his cock softening inside of you, his spend and your slick dribbling down over his balls.
“You did so good f’me.” Joel whispers against your ear. “I knew you’d be perfect the first time I saw you.”
“Is that why you kept coming back to the salon?” You ask, head slumped on his shoulder, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice.
“Yes and no.” He answers, rubbing his cheek against your temple. “Knew I wanted to take ya on a date, but I would never have the courage to ask— You’re too young and sweet for a bitter old man like me. So I settled for the haircut, yeah, but I wouldn’t come back if I didn’t think you’re good at what you do.”
You hum at his words, your stomach fluttering at the idea of going on a date with Joel. You didn’t expect him to be actually interested in anything other than sex, and you smile against his neck.
“I would’ve said yes.” You whisper, your fingers flexing against his chest. “If you had asked me out.”
Joel’s muscles stiffen underneath you and you panic, thinking that maybe you’ve just said the wrong thing and that he’s not interested now that he got what he wanted, but he speaks before you can figure out a way of taking your words back.
“And now? Would you still say yes to that date?”
“Especially now.” You giggle, the words coming out a little too fast. “With a dick like that, I’d be crazy to say no.”
His chest rumbles with laughter, and from your position you can’t see his face but you watch in real time as his chest and neck turn red with embarrassment.
“How about tomorrow, then?” His voice is a little shy, rough and low. “Can I take you out for breakfast?”
“Only if you spend the night.”
Joel turns his head then, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”
He keeps coming back for his trims, always your last appointment of the day, always with some sort of sweet treat or coffee or flowers. He tips generously and rolls his eyes when you say that he has boyfriend privileges now and doesn’t need to pay. But he never leaves the salon alone.
And neither do you.
general taglist: @itsafullmoon @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hopecomesbacktolife @rosharanfiction @shadowqueen2024 @ess-evo @trulyourslola @keylimebeag (i also tagged some peeps who seemed to be interested in this but no pressure!!)
The men you keep bringing home are no good for you. It's up to your landlord Joel to protect you from heartbreak.
my masterlist!
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
rating: 18+ (mdni)
tags and warnings: AU - no outbreak/modern day, obsessive!joel, dark!joel, but also soft!joel, landlord!joel, violence, death, murder, stalking, jealousy, truly creepy behaviour, unprotected sex (lead by example; just not mine), creampie, dubious consent, reader’s serious lack of self-preservation, sexual tension, abuse of power, spanking, spitting, squirting, praise kink, degradation kink, joel is a munch, somnophilia, possessive behaviour, dirty talk, a smidgen of gaslighting, the general filth you should expect from me by now, a spoonful of genuine intimate connection™️, implied age gap, submissive reader, dominant joel, daddy kink, knives, mild torture, light anal play, voyeurism, unreliable narration, inappropriate use of a necklace, panty sniffing, ambiguous(?) ending, header gif by @cavillscurls
word count: ~ 15.8k (uh, oops!)
read on ao3!
hello, all! this fic has been tossing and turning inside the proverbial sheets of my head for a while now. when i tell you it's darker than anything i've written, i mean it, so please, please mind the tags. this story does not depict a healthy relationship; joel is a total creep and both he and reader are heavily delusional. with that said, please enjoy this (super long) one-shot!! xoxo
PREFACE
Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
— Macbeth, I.IV
~
THE TENANT
You're beginning to think it’s a built-in bad luck charm. A microchip implanted in your skin or a flaw you have yet to pick out. Every single one of your prospective boyfriends has disappeared off the face of the Earth since you moved into town.
It isn't you. It's not. There is nothing wrong with you. It isn't your fault that either they decide after one date that you aren't worth seeing again, or they stand you up before the date can even begin. Your profile pictures are decent. You followed the rules meticulously: a shot of your face, a group picture to show you have friends, a selfie, a candid. You've examined them time and time again for flaws and find none that a man would care about. You're pretty. Sexy. Confident. They're just intimidated. Fuck, you're turning into your mother.
And yet—
Since moving into this apartment—this beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime deal of an apartment—your luck with dating has abruptly ended.
It's a lovely building. A stout brownstone with wrought-iron stairs and an old, but functional, elevator, it's traditional and charming. Perfect for a single woman.
Six months. This is your first second date in six months. David is just fine. He's handsome in a frat-initiate kind of way, with a nice smile and a good sense of dress. He doesn't ask many questions about you, and he's a little pretentious about films you don't give a shit about, but he likes you. You didn't have a horrible time on the first date: he wasn't afraid to spend his money on you at the nice restaurant. And he has a car.
Raised as an optimist, you learned to see the good parts of a situation. David can work out.
On the way out of the elevator, you spot your landlord Joel speaking to the concierge. You instinctively smooth down your hair and wave at him as you walk by, shrugging your purse onto your shoulder. “Hi, Joel. Hi, Sam.”
Sam the concierge waves back, but Joel puts his back to the conversation and gives you his full attention, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. Your heart leaps and your head goes fuzzy with nerves. You barely manage to force a giddy giggle back down your throat. Relief coats your bones when Sam excuses himself to take a call.
Joel Miller’s an older guy, his tousled dark hair threaded with silver on his head and in his beard. One look at him and a person could know that he works with his hands for a living; he’s broad-shouldered, strong, with big arms and a capable air about him. He’s proven his mettle a hundred times over already with the miniscule repairs he’s made to the building. He turned it into a good place to live; he even trims the hedges outside and polishes the doorknobs when they get rusty.
He’s wearing a green T-shirt today, which is another member of the typical summertime circulation of blue and grey T-shirts, and a pair of jeans. “Evening,” he says, his rich brown eyes sparkling. Sometimes, you can see him smile when his mouth isn’t showing it. It’s charming. Enthralling. “How’s that new lock workin’ out for you?”
You grin. He remembered. Joel installed a new deadbolt on your door last week, since the chain on the last one broke. “It’s perfect,” you tell him. “Are you in a chocolate or lemon mood this time?”
His gaze flickers down your body, taking in your yellow dress, before meeting yours again. “Lemon,” he says.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Talking to a handsome man feels like tossing your heart in the air and trying to juggle. Flirting with a handsome man is like toeing a tightrope between two mountains and forcing yourself not to look down. Your stomach swoops with the path of his eyes over your body, and you cannot convince yourself that you imagined it. “Lemon squares it is. Thank you again, Joel.”
“Just my job to keep my tenants safe,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. You can see a pair of keys in his pocket along with his cell phone. The mere sight of his belt makes your cheeks hot. Why are you looking at his belt? You’re going on a date with another man, for God’s sake. Relax.
“Helps when I like my tenants so much,” adds Joel, and you forget why you were scolding yourself in the first place.
“Yeah?” You tilt your head to the side. “Maybe you should be baking for them, instead.”
Joel steps away from the desk, working his jaw as he seems to fight down a smile. “It’s for the best this way, believe me. Can’t cook for shit.”
“Big, strong man like you can’t work a stove?” you tease. Don’t look down.
“I only fix ‘em.” There’s a crooked smile on his face now, and your heart beats your ribs to shrapnel. “You look real nice. Goin’ somewhere?”
That simple validation calms your nerves more effectively than a half-hour of repeating affirmations into the mirror before leaving your apartment. You give the skirt of your sundress a little swish. “A date, actually,” you say, feeling sheepish. Your landlord certainly doesn’t need to hear about your track record as of late. “He’s taking me to Sunfest, in the park.”
A minute twitch of his brow is the only reaction he gives to the news. “That so?” he says. “Lucky man.”
“More like lucky me,” you say with a small laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. Stop talking, you plead to yourself. Too much information. Shut up, kindly excuse yourself, and leave.
Joel shakes his head, and now is the first time you notice that his eyes haven’t once left you. It warms your body. “He’s the lucky one. Trust me.”
“Okay. I concede.” You chew on your lip for a moment and, sure enough, his gaze hones in on your mouth. The air in the lobby crackles white-hot. You clear your throat, turning your head to find David’s car parked on the street outside. “I should go. But I promise I’ll get started on those lemon squares soon.”
It’s a possibility that you only imagine Joel’s eyes flitting from the car outside back to you when you turn your head back to face him. “Do me a favour?” he says, a scrape to his deep drawl.
“Anything, Joel.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Be safe,” he says. “You have my number if anything goes wrong.”
You give him a grateful smile. “I’ll be safe, Joel. And if I’m not, you’re the first person I’ll call.”
“Good. That’s…” He trails off, still watching you, his eyes trained in their path across your face. “You’re good. Smart, beautiful, good. You deserve to have somethin’ real.”
The simple, small praises melt your bone marrow and recast it in the shape of him. The old chandelier hanging from the ceiling casts him in a soft light, stark against the hard muscles and profound depths in his eyes. He's breathtaking. You've always known it, but…
He sees something in you, too.
David honks his horn and makes you jump out of your stupor. You walk backwards out of the lobby just to keep looking at Joel for as long as you can. “For the record,” you say, “you’re a good man, Joel.”
“Don’t be so sure, honey,” he replies, his tone playful.
You laugh, hurrying out to David’s car as the door closes behind you.
“This place is beautiful,” you said to Sam, the concierge working the front desk of your prospective apartment. The appropriate paperwork was in your arms, your eyes scanning every inch of the old building. Of all the places you'd seen in and around the neighbourhood, this was the most promising. You hoped to get a glimpse at a unit before you signed, though. Assuming the landlord even wanted you to live here.
Sam smiled at you. “Lots of people just see the cracks.”
“There's so much character,” you replied, admiring the crystal chandelier. The walls were a calming, aged white, the floors genuine hardwood. The lobby was decorated with plush chairs upholstered with burnt orange fabric, the corners filled with real potted plants.
The door opened behind you, and you turned to see a handsome stranger, dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and mud-caked shirt, wiping his forehead with his forearm. Behind you, Sam said, “This is Joel Miller. The landlord.”
“Oh!” You were flustered, floundering to stretch out your hand to shake as you introduced yourself. “I’m sorry to catch you at a bad time. This building is gorgeous. You've done a great job with it, Mr. Miller.”
The landlord did not once look at Sam, his eyes fixed solely on you as he wiped a hand on the cloth slung over his shoulder and shook your hand. His hand engulfed yours, warm and rough. The touch jolted you like an electric shock. Your hands must have been clammy and shaking with nerves, but the contact steeled you.
The intensity of his gaze, however, made you shift on your feet. He didn't waver, didn't stray, like a man set on a mission. Nothing about him was shy. He drank in the sight of you, indulging without shame, his eyes travelling to the next destination once they'd had their fill. It made you feel stripped to the bone.
“It's nice to meet you,” he said. “Sorry for the dirt. Just finished weeding.”
You shook your head in dismissal. “You really take care of this place.”
“It's good work,” he said plainly. “Serves me well. I like gettin’ my hands dirty, fixin’ things.”
“Where were you when my sink broke every week at my old place?”
“Fixing the sinks in this one.”
You laughed. “Well, for what it's worth, the outside is beautiful, too. Not a weed in sight.”
“Pleased to hear it,” said Joel, his dark eyes glittering under the chandelier.
“You're from Texas!” you said suddenly. Oh, God, kill me now. I sound like a stalker.
But Joel smiled, a raspy laugh leaving his mouth. You wondered if he laughed often. He looked like a serious man. “You familiar?”
“I was born there,” you supplied. “Left when I was young, but my dad lived there all his life.”
“Lookin’ good on you already,” he said. “It’ll be nice havin’ another one of us around.”
“Does that mean you're considering me?” you couldn't help but ask. Fuck, you wanted this apartment.
“I've already considered,” said Joel, his eyes sweeping your body. “You're the only applicant.”
Your hands were trembling and your heart thrummed with excitement. “Oh, God, thank you!” you gasped. “Joel, thank you.”
You could swear his chest swelled a bit at your graciousness. “I can show you the unit, if you’d like. It needs some TLC, but I’m happy to help with the process as best I can. Unless you have someone to…”
You realised what he was hinting at and shook your head. “Oh, no, it’s just me. I’d love to take a look.”
You noted the slight drop of his shoulders and followed him into the elevator. A part of you was surprised to see there was no gate that closed you in; they were plain, somewhat modern elevator doors. “Fixed it last month,” Joel said, looking sideways at you. “Just in time, apparently.”
You grinned at him, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Nice to see there's no creepy operator in here.”
“Just me.” He punched the button for the third floor and rode with you to the top.
This was the start of your new life.
You shut the passenger’s side door and situate yourself inside David’s Lincoln. He’s dressed in a pair of black shorts and a clean Henley. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss you across the console.
You hum, smiling against his mouth. “You clean up nice, too.”
He places a hand on your thigh and pulls away from the curb. He's a touchy person, which is perfectly fine considering how long your latest dry spell has lasted, but at least he isn't inching his way up your dress to cop a feel while he drives.
The festival is bustling with people, tented stands, and the smell of fried dough and beer. It’s almost dinnertime, and your stomach growls. When was the last time you ate? You spent hours agonising over what to wear until you were sweating and had to shower all over again. You wish you’d snuck an apple into your purse.
David pulls you into him as you both walk through the winding paths between vendors. “It’s a beautiful night,” you say breezily.
David squeezes your waist. “Mmm. You’re beautiful.”
A bit too corny for your taste, but you let it slide. “Don't tell me you're allergic to powdered sugar, because I’ve been eyeing the elephant ears.”
“God, if I eat that shit, I think it’ll set me back a month at the gym,” he laughs. “Let’s get one for you, though.”
Great. Now you're the expensive date who eats while her date watches her stuff her mouth with an elephant ear. “Uh. Maybe later.”
You stop at a jewellery vendor and spend a good while eyeing up a beautiful gold necklace and the heart-shaped pendant dangling from it. David doesn’t notice your staring and breezes by with your hand firmly in his. “Let's check out the grand stand. My buddy’s band is playing before the fireworks display.”
“Sure,” you say, turning your head to watch the necklace disappear slowly from view.
The gigantic domed stage houses a group of musicians currently tuning up their instruments. David sidles right up to the front and releases your hand to execute an elaborate handshake with his friend, who’s fine-tuning his bass.
“Hey, man,” greets the bass player. “Good to see you. Who’s this?”
You open your mouth to introduce yourself, stretching your hand out, but David says, “My date for tonight. Baby, this is Ray, of Uncontrolled Bleeding fame.”
The bass player shakes your hand politely. “Very nice to meet you.”
Because it doesn’t seem to matter much to David, you decide it’s worth the time to tell Ray your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray. I’m excited to hear you play.”
Not that you've ever heard of a band called Uncontrolled Bleeding. Still, Ray seems nice enough, and you're on a date. You should give them a chance.
David squeezes your waist and kisses you lightly on the temple. “You mind if I go backstage for a bit to say hi to the other guys? Won’t be long.”
What?
“Oh!” you manage to eke out over the great swooping nosedive your heart has just performed. He’s here to see his friends. He’s not on a date. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll just… walk around.”
David departs with Ray for a personal backstage tour while you bite down on your tongue and turn back in the direction of the main strip. A few vendors catch your attention, and you take your time because God knows David is taking his. A little bit of you revels in your own petty victory when, a half-hour later, Uncontrolled Bleeding begins to blare their metallic, screaming anthems across the park and you haven’t returned to the grand stand.
You find your way back to the jewellery vendor to ponder over your favourite necklace some more, but your night gets worse when you find that it’s disappeared from the headless display mannequin. You solemnly slide your wallet back into your bag and pause when you hear your phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” It’s David’s voice, presumably, though it’s so loud on the other end of the line that you can barely make out his words. “I can’t… where… left?”
You plug one ear and look vaguely in the direction of the grand stand across the park. “I can’t hear you very well, David.”
“… afterparty… downtown… going… Uber home?”
You press your lips together and look down at the ground: at your pretty sandals, your new dress. Your entirely wasted potential on a guy who wanted you to find your own way home. “Yeah, David,” you say tightly. You don’t particularly care if he can hear you. “You have fun with your friends.”
“Can’t hear… talk later… okay?”
You hang up and wander back toward the vendor selling elephant ears.
~
“Miller.”
“Hi, Joel.”
“Honey, it’s loud. Can barely hear you. Are you safe?”
“I’m safe, Joel, I promise. It’s just—Uncontrolled Bleeding.”
“What?”
“No, I mean, the band. They’re really loud. I hate to ask, and I know it’s late, but—”
“What do you need?”
“I, uh… I need a ride home. I can’t get a cab, and all the Ubers around are taken, and the busses are rerouted all the way—”
“I’m comin’ to get you. You just wait for me at the entrance, okay, baby girl?”
“Thank you, Joel.”
“You know I said you could call me for anything. I meant it.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Oh! Wait—”
“What? What is it?”
“Do you want an elephant ear?”
~
Joel is white-knuckling the steering wheel when he arrives to pick you up. Despite the congestion around the festival grounds and the fact that your apartment is at least fifteen minutes away, Joel makes it to you in a mere five.
“Did you blow every red light to get here, Mr. Miller?” you ask with a playful smile as you secure your seatbelt and settle on the truck bench.
“I was in the area,” he says with a crooked smile, looking your way. “May have pushed forty a couple times, though.”
You sheepishly extend a cardboard takeout box filled with fried, powdered dough. “Will you take this as my sincere thanks, or will you expect a separate batch of lemon squares?”
Joel answers by dipping his head and taking a bite of the flattened, doughy bread. You watch every minute movement, his strong jaw working as he chews, indulging you even though he’s already done far too much to get you out of this rut. He doesn’t once break eye contact while he eats; you begin to chew subconsciously on your bottom lip.
“Ain’t bad,” he declares at last, and your shoulders deflate with a kind of relief, “but if you let me take you for some real dinner, I’ll forget about that extra batch.”
You tentatively reach for his mouth and swipe some powdered sugar from his moustache with the pad of your thumb. You feel his eyes scanning your face all the while. “Look at me, the lucky girl,” you say softly. “One date goes wrong, and there’s a strong, handsome man waiting to take me on another.”
From the very first day, Joel Miller has always taken his time when it comes to looking at you. It’s a penetrative stare that makes your skin heat up from the tips of your ears down to your chest. His eyes are so dark, pools of warm melted sugar, and you feel yourself leaning, trancelike, slow, into that cavernous gaze. Your body is not your own. It seeks the subtle warmth, the familiar scent—sawdust, coffee beans, rich, dark cologne—and the violent torrent of sensation that erupts from the contact point when he cups your cheek in one hand.
You’re in the throes of attention, warm as a candle weeping fat waxen tears.
“Told you before,” says Joel, his thumb sweeping fondly across your chin, “you deserve somethin’ real.”
“Yeah,” you sigh happily, feeling all-too complacent under the touch of his rough palm, “maybe I do.”
Behind you, a car honks its horn, and Joel curses, pulling away from the curb. He takes you to Turner’s, a bar by campus that would be crawling with students if it weren’t for the festival. Joel comes around to the passenger’s door and opens it for you, helping you hop out with your hand enclosed in his. His palm is a steady weight on your back as you both walk inside the dim, stuffy bar.
The back is bustling with activity—drunk folks playing pool or watching the Huskies’ football game or splitting their attention between both—but the bar itself has enough spaces open to fit the two of you. Here, the light is burnt orange, and it makes the strands of grey in his hair shimmer gold. His eyes observe his surroundings with a military precision before they flit back to you, magnetic.
“Shame to waste this dress on that asshole,” says Joel, sweeping his gaze down, back up, barely perceptible. “You’re too goddamn pretty for any of ‘em.”
You’re deliciously abuzz with the incisive way he compliments you. It feels like being punctured down to your very soul; you will never forget the shape of the stain his words leave. “Do you spy on all my dates, Joel?”
He smirks. “Don’t need to spy on ‘em, baby. They’re a bunch of obnoxious kids.”
You huff, resting your cheek against your palm. “I just don’t get it. I thought David was just fine. Then, he takes me on a date just to abandon me for his friends and tell me to find my own way home.”
Joel shakes his head, scoffing as he runs his fingers through his beard. He does that when he’s frustrated sometimes, and you wonder if his hair is soft or coarse. “Piece of shit doesn't know how good he got it.”
“You must know something I don’t,” you say mirthlessly, watching the bartender approach from the other end of the long honey-oak block. “I haven't been able to get a second date since I moved in.”
Joel is silent, eyes still firmly fixed to you, until the bartender arrives, a charming middle-aged woman with a particular Texan twang you could recognise from a mile away. “What’ll it be, Joel?” she asks, giving him a sweet dimpled smile. “Hi, honey. This old man botherin’ you?”
“Only in a nice way,” you reply, squeezing his shoulder.
Joel hides his grin with a swipe of his fingers over his bottom lip. “Coffee for me, Rina. Drivin’ home.”
Rina’s eyes slide to you, and you ask for the same. You don't want to drink alone. She reappears moments later with two small, chipped mugs of dark roast in her hands. Setting them in front of you, she takes your food orders: a BLT for Joel and a veggie burger for yourself. It’s almost ten o’clock now, too late to eat, but your eyes droop sleepily and your stomach growls for a taste of real food. The powdered dough, shockingly, did not suffice.
“You ever miss Texas?” Joel asks once you're halfway into your respective meals. You notice that he only digs into his sandwich when you aren't eating, and abstains briefly to watch while you take your bites. It's an exchange of energy, a steady vigil by your side, the hypnotic pull of his warm body. You cannot scoot any closer to him, but your leg brushes his where you rest your foot on his barstool.
“I wish I remembered more of it,” you tell him. “I grew up a big city girl. Even lost my accent a year into being away. My dad would tease me about it all the time. Said I’d been gentrified.” You fondly shake your head. “Miss him like hell.”
“I can still hear it sometimes,” says Joel, tilting his head to the side, “when you get all passionate about somethin’. Like the time I installed your deadbolt and you tried to explain away your Backstreet Boys CD.”
You put your head in your hands. “Oh, God. I thought you'd forgotten.”
“Nuh-uh, baby, you ain't easy to forget. And I like when you get excited. You get this look in your eye.”
“Yeah?” You slide your foot up his ankle and bring the leg of his jeans with it. Up, down, you keep going, letting the relative darkness embolden you, his sweet little pet names and his silent adequacy enabling what is most definitely inappropriate behaviour. “Tell me about this look, Joel.”
He rests his elbow up on the bar and squares his broad shoulders to you. They eclipse all the other patrons behind him. “You've got pretty eyes,” he tells you. “First thing I noticed when I met you all those months ago. Saw how they lit up when you smiled. Heard your happiness when you told me about Texas. It was nice to be the reason you smiled, ‘n’ I just wanted to make it happen again. I couldn't say no to you. Don't know how any man ever could.”
The revelation stuns you in your seat. His expression telegraphs little save for his attentiveness, his posture locked parallel with yours, singularly focused on the way you react to him.
You try for a joke. “And I was the only applicant.”
It crumbles, sand in your mouth. Something has shifted. Joel isn't the type to shy away from a conversation, but his gaze hasn't once shifted from your face. It feels like flames licking your cheeks, the heat of that look pushing in on both sides, inescapable. You find that you enjoy the way his attention makes you preen; you want him to look at you.
He thinks you have pretty eyes.
“You know that ain't the reason why,” he says, whisper-quiet and gruff amid the vague chatter in the bar.
“Why, Joel?” you ask, spine straightening, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. As you suspected, his eyes flick down your face, lashes obscuring the precise shade of his irises.
His Adam’s apple dips. “‘Cause I like you,” he says, the feeling of it like the slide of suede down your spine, “and I wanna keep you safe.”
You shrug slightly, giving him a smile. “I feel pretty safe.”
Joel’s hand drops to the bar top and his fingertips brush yours. The touch jolts your sleepy mind awake. “You're too good for every single one of those assholes you bring around. You know that, right?”
“I’m beginning to understand.”
“You deserve someone who's gonna be good to you. Give you all the attention you need. Make you… happy.”
You swallow thickly, the candle flame pressing in, sucking the oxygen from your lungs. “Thank you, Joel.”
His fingers begin to creep up every ridge of your knuckles, slowly turning over your palm so it faces the ceiling. The rough pad of his thumb traces the long lifeline inside.
“Repeat it.”
His eyes lift to yours, and for a moment, there’s something in them that ignites an instinct inside you to flee. There's danger in those eyes: the careful, measured restraint of a man who knows more anger than he lets show. A flicker, brief but incandescent, passes through your head, an electrical current.
He’s the reason you never had a second date.
It disappears the instant it comes, the Paterian glimpse of an idea in its entirety fleeing for the horizon, and the instinct recedes in favour of the warm, melting sensation his fingers disseminate through your bones.
“I deserve someone who will be good to me,” you repeat, like a mantra. “I deserve someone who’s going to make me happy, and keep me safe.”
“That's right,” says Joel, brushing his thumb along the veins in your wrist. You feel the shiver, but you're locked to him, your eyes unable to take in any information apart from the way he feels, looks, smells. “You're a good girl, baby.”
Your lashes flutter and a sweeping rush of pressure descends on your core at the way those words sound on his tongue. You picture him directing you to your knees and calling you a good girl while you take his big cock between your lips, imagine the way he would hiss through his teeth, good fuckin’ girl, that’s it, baby girl, while he fucks you from behind, merciless. Hands and tongues and limbs would mould into one another, amalgamate, becoming indistinguishable.
He would be good to you. You know it. He’s always been good to you.
“Joel?”
“Hmm.” Fingers still make idle patterns on your forearm.
“I think you should take a look at my sink when you get a chance. It might be broken.”
No amount of coy suggestion could make him ignorant to your desire for closeness. You can feel your body screaming for it, grasping at him with buffed claws. Joel smirks, looking down at your foot making a path up and down his ankle.
“I’ll take a look tomorrow.”
~
It’s two o’clock in the morning when a shuffling outside your bedroom door guides you out of a decent sleep. In total silence, the most minute noises can be deafening. But it sounds, to your sleep-addled brain, like the hasty retreat of footsteps.
You blink awake, shifting onto your other side to peer above the darkness of your doorway. Through the bleary haze in your eyes, you notice a tiny red light in the upper corner of the room.
You squint, rubbing your eyes furiously to pry them open wide, but your vision is the static grain of an old television, and your eyes refuse to adjust. Instead, you grumble, pulling your comforter over your head, and go back to sleep.
You’ll tell Joel tomorrow.
THE LANDLORD
He cannot wait until the morning.
The nighttime, he discovered long ago, is a friend. It’s the gentle descent of darkness, the horizontal fall of the golden-hour sunlight scanning the entirety of the apartment before it at last succumbs to silent, tar-black night. Occasionally, a car will pass below, or the honk of a horn will tear jaggedly through the quiet, but most times, Joel can sink comfortably into the dark and assume his post.
Six months ago, he showed some restraint.
Of course, the connection was instantaneous—the pretty girl standing in his foyer with a radiant smile on her face, drinking in the chipped paint and ancient railings and furniture imprinted with years of use, arrested all movement of his heart. You wore a white dress and a pair of strappy sandals, not suited whatsoever for walking the city but perfectly tailored to make an impression. You arrived punctually, all smiles and handshakes and Southern politeness despite your insistence that you'd left it all behind. You shone. And when Joel slid his rough, work-worn hand into yours, dipping his gaze to watch the way he dwarfed your fingers, he felt a tremor roll gently from your body to his, thunder over a mountain. He wanted to chase the next lightning strike.
It began leisurely, like a hobby, something he could go to when life got a little much. He watched you come home, examining the way your shoulders rounded slightly when you were upset and the way you wiggled your fingers in a wave to those passing by when you were happy. He watched, typically from the garden out front, as you pranced about your balcony on cool mornings to the electronic croonings of Britney Spears, curled up in a chair with a blanket over your legs and a coffee mug warming your hands, or watered your thriving plants from where they hung in the direct morning sunlight. Your day-to-day became his day-to-day.
And then, he was doing more than merely watching. He was following.
Your favourite coffee place by the apartment building, just a block away. He lingered far behind that first morning, his fingers twitching in your direction before the rest of his body steered him. The neighbourhood wasn't so great back then, prone to muggings and the like. He wanted to keep you safe. That was all.
You ordered something cold, too sweet for his tastes, and sat for a while as you worked. The barista spent the rest of your time there eyeing you up whenever he could. Joel scoffed. He wouldn't know what the fuck to do with you. Just a goddamn kid.
He followed you to work and back, on those rare days he wasn't occupied maintaining the grounds. You sat in a corner cubicle with a decent amount of sunlight and typed away on your laptop all day. Joel monitored the company’s publications just so he could have a glimpse of the way you wrote; he wasn't interested in makeup, but he bought a subscription to Viva because he wanted to trace his fingers over your name in those small italic letters. MANAGING EDITOR.
Your writing is clean, efficient, and smooth. It reads like velvet. He keeps a pile of magazines and newsletters tucked in the back of his bookshelf. For the August edition, they printed your interview with a local prizewinning novelist; you beamed in the picture, photographed in your favourite coffee shop, so happy and so generous, sharing your talent with others.
He was so fucking proud.
Five months ago, he watched you bring a date home for the first time.
It blindsided him. He could not prepare, plan, or sabotage. He could not do a thing as you guided the man—a fucking kid with a too-big ego, grinning smugly for his imminent conquest—inside the elevator. Joel could only watch helplessly, wiping his brow from his precarious place on the ladder, as you walked past him with no more than a soft, sweet smile. He never forgot the painful imprint of that smile on his eyelids. It still burns his eyes late at night, when he stays awake inside his office, monitoring his dual screens. He will pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes just to replay the memory of that look.
The kid left the next morning, before you woke. He never contacted you again. You trudged into the lobby that day, a weariness in your eyes that did not match the vibrant colour of your dress. You spoke idly to another woman in the elevator about your broken thermostat, hugging yourself to keep warm.
It was working perfectly a few hours later, and there was a bouquet of roses waiting for you at the concierge’s desk. Fiddling with the red ribbon, tears welling in your eyes, you asked who the admirer was. Sam shrugged his shoulders, but when you turned to look out the front windows, you saw Joel tending to the red roses in the garden bed.
It earned him the first taste of your baking. Biting into one of those moist, warm brownies felt like melting a little piece of you down and moulding it into the shape of his mouth. It felt like taking a piece of the girl he’d coveted for weeks and rolling it over his tongue, keeping it. Swallowing it down. There it rested inside his stomach until the next time he did you right.
He wanted to tell you no. To insist that he would do anything to make you feel good even if you wanted nothing to do with him. To make it clear that he did everything for you, not for some feeble professional relationship between a landlord and his tenant. He breathed you. He needed you.
So, four months ago, he began to watch you through the cameras.
They’re small, discreet, tucked into holes in the wall that have been spackled over, repainted, re-sanded. He ran the wiring while you were at work, listening to your CDs on loop to get a better sense of the earworms you hummed on your way out the door every morning. One in the living room, one by the entrance, and one in the bedroom.
He could keep you safe this way. This way, he would know if those men you brought you home were treating you right—fucking you like you deserved.
You were so goddamn pretty when you came. For months Joel had sat in his office, slicked-up cock in his hand, jerking himself hard and fast to the pictures of you in Viva. For months he’d spilled over his fingers, on his belly, on the glossy pages of the magazines. The heady, cloying scent of his own sweat and cum stuck to his nostrils. It wasn’t enough. He could imagine wrenching open your tight little pussy all he wanted—the slow, heavy drag of his cock between your hot, wet walls and the sweet noises he’d steal from your tongue—but it wasn’t the satisfaction he needed.
Joel needed you. Your body, your smile, your voice. He needed to wrap you tight around every vein, a tourniquet, squeezing until all feeling was lost.
You would be his, in time. He just needed to make it so.
The first time he watched you pleasure yourself, rain pattered gently against the window panes and thunder echoed in the distance. A couple grids had already lost power, and Joel had a backup generator if the apartment was next, but you did not seem to mind one bit that the storm drew closer. You clicked off the television, retired to the confines of your bed and its soft white linens, and slipped your hand beneath your flimsy shorts. Joel sat upright, his back creaking in protest, his knuckles white around the edge of his desk as he watched, unblinking, the way your fingers gently circled your clit.
He didn't touch his cock once that night, no matter how deeply his own need tugged at him. He couldn't look away from the camera feed for fear that he may miss the moment you reached your orgasm.
When it arrived, it was delicious to watch. Your back arched, your lips parted, and your eyes fluttered shut, fingers rapidly rubbing your slick pussy as you seized under your own ministrations and slowly settled, melting into the mattress. He needed to see more. He needed to be there.
You were a chiaroscuro of savoury, sultry magnetism and the ichor of the morning sunlight. You were kind and thoughtful. You were gentle, patient, attentive. You were one hell of a baker. You were so fucking sexy it made his tongue prickle with the prospective taste, the anticipation of touching your soft skin engulfing any sense. Reason had no place in Joel Miller’s mind when it came to the sweet girl upstairs.
Three months ago, you had recovered from the evident betrayal inherent in expecting more from your date than a one-night stand. The next man was older, a partner at a law firm, and took you to dinner at a nice restaurant. He asked questions about you and reciprocated your enthusiasm for good cuisine. He was kind and treated you well. But an incendiary rage ignited in Joel at the sight of the bastard’s hand on your lower back. Another man was touching you. Another man was getting close to you, making you smile, whispering in your ear. Another man was attempting to claim what was rightfully his.
Joel followed your date home that night instead. He lived in a high-rise downtown, the sort of building that had a doorman and a valet.
Joel followed him down to the underground lot with a lead pipe in hand.
“‘scuse me.”
He shut his car door and turned around, giving Joel a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”
A calculated sheepish scratch on the back of his head. “Just… ah, shit, I don’t mean to bother, but my engine isn't turnin' over and my phone died. Mind if I used yours?”
He patted his pockets for his cell and gave it enthusiastically. Joel did not take the phone. He used the proximity to pull the man close and bring the pipe down across his head.
Blood bloomed, pretty and potent and rich as the roses he planted for you. The body made little noise, the skull shattered upon impact, the legs crumpling. It could never have been much of a man, going down so fucking quick. Should've put up a fight.
The man must not have liked you very much to let himself die. Joel, whose eyelids were tattooed with your radiant smile, would have crawled his way back out of a certain grave. Joel loved you. You belonged to him. This was a necessary consequence.
The pipe was dented by the time he was finished. Joel sank to his knees once the body fell, bringing it down again and again, the meticulous arc of the rusted metal uniquely stirring. It felt so fucking good, battering the skull to pieces, blood and brain and bone fragments accumulating on the ground and the pipe and his face. It felt good knowing he had kept another man from betraying you, hurting you, fucking you only to leave in a blur. He was being altruistic. He was becoming a good man for you.
Joel, kneeling in the pool of warm blood until his jeans were soaked crimson, rubbed his hand down his face and smeared the blood across it. Chest heaving, he let the grin stretch his face.
He had found his calling.
Two months ago, he slipped inside your apartment while you were asleep.
You had a rough day. Your boss insisted the company could not afford to give you a raise despite skyrocketing share prices and all the fucking work you’d done for them. The rain started just before you left the building, holding back tears, and a car splashed icy, muddy water on you during your walk home. Salt in the wound. You were sniffling as you let yourself into the apartment, your hands trembling with the effort of shouldering your bag and your misery. Joel approached you from behind and lifted the bag onto his shoulder.
“Hi, Joel.” Sad and soft and still so polite despite it all.
“Hey.” He opened every door for you on the way to the elevator and rode it up with you for good measure. “Wanna talk about it?”
You just shook your head and sidled up next to him, your cheek resting on his shoulder. He held his breath, overcome with the sensation that if he moved an inch, the spell would break, and the comfort you sought from him would slip between your fingers. Your arm brushed his, your dewy lashes fluttering as you finally let yourself relax. Joel inhaled, and the scent of you cleaved him down the middle: rain and perfume.
“Would you give me a raise?”
He looked down at you and smiled. “For a batch of those cupcakes, I’d give you whatever you like.”
It was a half-truth. He’d give you whatever you wanted, cupcakes or no. The sound of your laughter dripped into his bloodstream, saline. It cleansed him of the wrongs he'd committed. He was doing what needed to be done. The world had to realise it turned for you, and then all would be right.
Hours later, when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, shrouded by distant skyscrapers, he sneaked his way inside. His master key made easy work of the lock, but he had to pull the chain lock off with a pair of pliers because his hands could not reach between the gap. He made clinical work of it and stepped inside.
There was a chair in the corner of your bedroom for days you felt like reading by the window. Joel lowered himself into it and began his vigil.
It was a science to study the way you slept. He began to learn the patterns of your breathing, the minute movements of your limbs and how they translated to the moods of your dreaming. The amount of times you turned around, groaned, or hummed correlated directly to the sort of day you'd had. He began to map your tells in his head, drawing them out, formulating blueprints of the simple things that made you.
To Joel, it was like connecting a red string between thumb tacks, like pouring the varnish over a finished painting, sealing a promise, closing an envelope. He enjoyed the satisfactory slotting of each puzzle piece into place, creating your image, finally knowing you.
By then, he’d caught the virus. He’d let himself get close, and now he was infected with it—that insatiable need to be near, to watch, to admire from mere feet away.
He continued to acquaint himself over the weeks with your sleeping self to supplement the time he could not spend with you while you were awake. On more than one occasion, he got careless, letting himself succumb to sleep in that corner chair, joining you in the dream world. In those dreams, you were wrapped up in his body, warm and soft and tight, and he was taking. He was behind you, on top of you, beneath you, forcing you to look in the mirror as he spread you open on his cock and wrapped his fingers around your throat. In those dreams, your eyes rolled back and your lips moulded to the shape of Joel, yes, oh my God, and he'd whisper back to you—my sweet girl, my good fuckin’ girl, all mine.
And you were. You were his.
Tonight, he followed you to the festival.
He watched you make a beeline for the necklace you wanted only to pout when you saw it had disappeared. He watched your face fall as David’s rejection sank bone-deep. He reeled in his own gnawing rage, pushing deep down that urge to storm right in and rip out the asshole’s throat with his goddamn teeth, and waited until you called him.
He knew you would. You trusted him. You needed him. You needed a strong, capable man to take care of you the way you deserved. So he waited inside his truck by the phone, happy to at last hear your sweet voice on the other end of the line.
Thank you, Joel.
He tucked those words under his ribs, letting them flower and spread. Those words gave him purpose, made him buzz with erratic energy, validated all his actions. He was doing everything right.
Your dress was so fucking pretty. Jesus, he wanted to slip his hands under the hem, finger the waistband of those pink panties he knew you were wearing, and bunch the fabric up around your hips as he stuffed you full of his dick. Fuck, he would fill you up with his cum and tuck your panties back over your abused pussy, keeping all of him safe inside. You’d be so happy. You’d get drunk off his cock, begging for it, crying for it. He’d give you everything.
You do feel safe with him. You said it yourself.
Now, leaning against the doorway in your bedroom, Joel turns the heart-shaped pendant over and over in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the smooth gold surface. It’s cool and quaint and will kiss your skin beautifully. But he needs to wait for the right time. He needs to make sure you’re ready.
The sense memory of your fingers on his skin, gracious and gentle, the way you always are, is pushing at the edges of his control.
There's no one like you. He’s never been more certain of anything.
You're so goddamn sweet in those tiny silk pyjamas, your body curled up on the bed and your leg slung over a large pillow. You may feel cold and lonely at night, but that's only for now. He won't let you feel alone much longer; his body calls to you, singing your name. He has only so much restraint, and he's been waiting for six months.
Your lips are slightly parted, your face smooth and serene under the spell of sleep. You're the reason he fixes what's broken. The world needs to be better for you. It needs to be safe and bright and perfect.
He planted tulips today. You’ll appreciate them, he thinks. He wants you to wake up to vibrant colours every morning and go to sleep knowing that he thinks about you.
You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft moan leaving your mouth as you hug the pillow closer. Joel straightens in the doorway, wondering if your mind can sense him nearby. He doesn't know what he would do with himself if you were dreaming about him. His eyes move from your pretty face down your chest, barely concealed by the tiny top you're wearing, to find the apex of your thighs, temptingly spread on the mattress.
He won't. He can't. You’ll never trust him if he loses himself to desire. Joel grits his teeth, his cock achingly hard in his jeans, and unbuckles his belt as silently as he can. He pulls out his dick and squeezes himself at the base, staving off what he knows will be a too-fast orgasm. You move again, your body stretching out on the bed. Joel spits into his palm and begins to stroke his cock.
He can see a sliver of your waist where your shirt rides up, half of your ass where your leg is slung over the pillow, and your tits smushed together just over the hem of that scrap of a top. You're all of his fucking fantasies rolled into one. Joel breathes hard through his nostrils, his fist tight around the tip of his cock.
He wants to shuck down those little shorts and put his face in your pretty pussy. He wants to grab your hips and guide his cock inside you. He wants to slide into your addictive cunt until you forget your name. Until you forget every name but his. Your soul will be stained with him. His has never forgotten your shape.
God, your tight pussy would feel so fucking good around his cock. He jerks himself roughly, bracing his hand against the doorframe when a little whimper leaves your mouth. Fuck, he mouths, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw begins to ache. He fucks his own fist, sloppy and unrefined, eyes fixed to your waiting pussy between creamy-soft thighs. His cock dwarfs your slit, eager to spread you open—he’ll fix so nicely once he gets you ready.
Joel feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up, his jaw taut as he brings himself to a high over your body the way he has so many times. He switches so he can jerk off into the hand around which his gift to you is coiled, spilling his cum all over his fingers and the necklace as he bites into the heel of his palm. His spine decompresses and his cock slowly softens in his hand, the tension briefly relieved. His fist gradually loosens around the cum-slick necklace; the heart has imprinted its shape into his palm.
You stir, turning over in your bed, and Joel hastily departs, tucking his cock back into his jeans. He has enjoyed this brief interlude, but he has work to do.
Besides, he’ll see you in a few hours. He knows damn well the sink works just fine, but he’ll take any excuse to see you again. And it seems you’ll do the same.
~
Joel keeps him in a spare apartment in the building, one whose walls have been padded for soundproofing.
Joel’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he's occupying the chair across from David, who's taking his sweet fuckin’ time waking up. Joel’s been pacing for a half-hour, rubbing his fingers over his bottom lip, contemplative, but the bastard won't move.
So Joel takes a seat, grabs a fistful of the kid’s hair, and yanks it forcefully so he’s staring him right in the face.
One eye is already blackened—Joel got a little carried away. The sedative worked perfectly, but David has a punchable face. It took all he had not to keep going.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” says Joel as the kid slowly blinks awake, bleary and unfocused. “Eyes on me, now. Don't want you slippin’ away again.”
David only stares for a moment, gears grinding gently to life in his brain Once that animal instinct kicks in, the kid starts writhing against his restraints, bucking hard in Joel’s unrelenting grip. It's useless, of course. He’s tied by the wrists and ankles. Helpless.
Good.
“What—why the fuck… let me fucking go, man, please,” groans the kid.
“You made a mistake, David,” says Joel. “Think I’m gonna forget about that?”
David whimpers, flexing his hands subconsciously as pain undoubtedly prickles his scalp. Joel hasn't let go of his hair. “Please just let me go, man. I swear I didn't do anything. If you want money, I’ve got money.”
Joel smirks, a scoff slipping out. This is rich. The delectable flame licks up his throat again, indistinguishable from the pleasure of a good meal, a good fuck. It's craving. It’s darkness. He sinks deeper.
“You think it's manly to leave your date for your friends and leave her to find a way home herself? You think it's funny to treat her like a little toy and then leave her when you're done?” Joel sneers. “You didn't even call her back, David.”
He whines out another please, his ankles ineffectually kicking out. “I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Just let me go. Fuck, it hurts.”
“You don't know,” says Joel, repeating it, slow and savoury, rolling it around in his mouth. “You wanna know the most insulting part, David? You don't even care. You made her upset, and you didn't get on your goddamn knees to beg her forgiveness. You didn't do everything in your fuckin’ power to get her back.” Joel brings the knife from his pocket and idly pushes the tip into David’s cheek. “You think she ain't worth that, David? Tell me the truth, now.”
David shrieks, hysterical, the terror and pain so fucking delicious that Joel gulps it down and yet still wants.
“Are you fucking kidding me? No bitch is fucking worth it. She was cute, but that's it, I swear. I didn't know she had a boyfriend. I wouldn't have—”
The knife digs, gouges, splitting skin and prodding muscle. Joel can feel the edge of the blade slot between the kid’s teeth. He howls, screaming for help to nobody that can help, not quite gone enough yet to realise his utter hopelessness. Joel will have to rectify that.
“Oh, I ain't her boyfriend yet,” Joel says calmly. “But I am hers, way she's mine. And you hurt what's mine. I can’t forget that.”
The knife retreats to admire its handiwork. The cheek is split, the edges jagged, spitting blood. The kid’s tears slip down his face and dip into the wound, salty enough to hurt. He screams and he cries and it’s beginning to get on Joel’s nerves.
“Please stop,” he cries, watching his assailant rear back and grip the knife tight, like an ice pick. “Please… fuck, please—!”
He’s getting real sick of that word. Please. A mere please can’t excuse the look he put on your face last night. A please will not absolve him of the cardinal sin.
No one—no one—makes you frown.
Joel sinks the knife into David’s knee, using both hands to drive it to the hilt. The kid’s face is ashen, white and grey as clouds rolling in, and his frail screams begin to peter out; he’s losing consciousness. Joel won’t have that—not until he’s finished.
“Stop whinin’, David. A real man falls in front of his woman and makes things right. A real man fixes what's broken. And a real man”—he twists the knife, gorging, glutting on the feeling of making amends on your behalf—“does everything in his power to show her he loves her.”
“Please…” The final, feeble attempt of a doomed man to return from the cliff’s edge.
Joel stands, adjusting his grip on the kid’s hair, and brings his knife just beneath his chin. When he drives it upward, he can see the shimmer of the blade through David’s slack, open mouth.
“I told you to stop whinin’.”
~
He’s in your bedroom again.
He felt the need calling to him, vibrating with a particular intensity he could not ignore. He rarely comes to see you twice in one night, but now that he's here, he knows it was the only way to settle his nerves.
You're asleep, lips parted against your pillow and a piece of hair fluttering in front of your face with every exhale. Joel approaches your bedside and tucks it safely behind your ear. You don't wake, but you hum sleepily, hugging your pillow closer. Joel smiles, satisfaction sinking deep and assured into his core. He's done right by you. You’ll go happily to him. Moth to a gemlike flame.
He wanders around the edge of the bed, gaze lazily indulging in your body as he goes. His cock twitches again with a need he cannot yet meet, the desire to move your panties aside and fill you with him. He does not. He kneels at your bedside, closest to where your legs have scissored apart beneath your sheets. The temptingly sweet call of that warm place between your thighs has Joel shifting your comforter aside and ghosting his fingers across the soft skin of your calf.
Your breathing deepens slightly, like you're sucking in a long mouthful of air, and then you settle. It's the only indication you give that you can feel his presence. And then it’s gone, and he’s hooking his fingers in the waistband of your pretty panties and bestowing upon himself what he's only seen through screens for months.
You're spread open and glistening, an indication of some preceding dream or fantasy playing out in that keen, busy mind. Your body is wholly pliant, so soft and glowing in the faint silvery light streaming in from the window, and it would be so easy to—
No. He will not taste you. If he does, he won’t stop. You need to trust him. There is blood on his hands that hasn’t yet washed clean, and he will not imprint those rust-red fingerprints on your body. You’re his world—what kind of man willingly imparts such pain onto a world he loves?
Some infinitesimal fractal lodged in Joel’s head obliged him to return to you tonight, to cleanse himself of the events that transpired under the illicit cover of night. The very sight of you reminds him what he’s doing this for. He crushes his nose into the wet spot that darkens your panties and inhales deeply, acquiring some sense of what you will taste like. The smell makes his head go fuzzy, intoxicated, tang and sweetness and impending gratification. In your sleep, you sigh, melting against the mattress.
Joel brings your panties back up over your pussy and thinks, Tomorrow.
THE TENANT
You're miserable when Joel knocks on your door the next day.
“He hasn't called me,” you tell him, letting yourself stew, sulking from the feeling of yet another man deciding you weren’t worth a follow-up phone call. “Am I repulsive? Am I a total freak? Is it something in my perfume?”
Joel looks down at you, lips parted as if on the precipice of a response, sweeping his gaze up and down your body. You’re wearing a simple sweater and skirt, but fuck, he can make you feel naked. His gaze penetrates deeper than flesh. It’s only then you realise he’s holding coffee.
Two cups of coffee.
“Oh, Joel,” you sigh, licking your bottom lip. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” he says with a crooked smile, his voice a bit raspy, as if caught off-guard. He hands you your favourite drink—caramel macchiato, double espresso—from your favourite place down the block, and you could kiss him with how good it feels to hold the cool, condensation-slick cup in your hands. Your entire body deflates with the first sip.
“You’re my hero,” you tell him. “I mean it.”
Joel shakes his head fondly. “You got a funny sense of heroics.”
“They taste exactly like this,” you say playfully, tracing the rim of the plastic cup. “Thank you, Joel.”
He swipes his thumb across your chin. “It’s only coffee, baby.”
Since last night, something is inexplicably different. A new, once-forbidden boundary has been crossed. It may be technically inappropriate for your landlord to bring you coffee, touch you so intimately, call you baby. But it makes you feel like warm melting honey, and who is to say a feeling like that is wrong?
He’s wearing a blue T-shirt today. His hair is tousled like he slept on it, and your fingers tingle with the anticipatory sensation of how it would feel to take fistfuls of his locks in your hands. He’s stunning. And you catch yourself staring too late, tearing your gaze away the way one retracts their hand after burning it on the stovetop. Your heart skittering, you direct Joel to the sink and plan some excuse in your head for why it has miraculously fixed itself overnight.
But he doesn’t even spare a glance toward any of your appliances. He’s only looking at you.
“I got somethin’ else,” he says, almost shy, reaching into his pocket for a tiny box.
He grimaces when your eyes, wide and obviously panicked, meet his. “Jesus, I didn’t really think about how this looks. I’m not… proposin’, I swear.”
You both release a nervous laugh, but you cannot deny that your nerves are still fluttering at the sight of that simple suede box in his big hands.
He opens the lid and you gasp. It’s your necklace—the very same heart-shaped pendant you had been eyeing up at the festival. It’s shiny and polished and precisely, undeniably, the same one. “Oh my God,” you whisper, gently sliding your finger over the cool golden pendant. “It’s beautiful. Joel, how did you…”
“Turn around,” he says softly, the gentle direction guiding you better than any hand could. You obey, and Joel steps forward until his hard chest is flush to your back. He’s warm and sure and smells so good—cologne and coffee and mint and something potent, like iron—and all your questions fizzle to sparks in the air. You can no longer grasp for them. You reach out and you only find him.
His touch is careful. The heart-shaped pendant settles against your breastbone and shimmers in the afternoon light. Your chest briefly shimmers with the thought that you were made to wear this necklace. His large, rough hands ghost across the back of your neck as he secures the clasp, and you shiver. A single knuckle trails slowly down your spine, bumping every vertebrae on the way.
“It ain't your perfume.” His deep, grumbling voice is equivalent to the scratch of his beard against your temple as his jaw moves with each word. “And you're nothin’ close to repulsive. Look in that mirror and tell me what you see.”
There is a mirror, a full-length one by the entrance to your apartment, and it's surreal to watch your own body turn to face it, to watch yourself defer entirely to the man behind you. It feels nice to just let him steer you every which way.
“I see you,” you tell him, your hand lifting to the pendant on your throat. “And this.”
Joel clicks his tongue, his nose sliding up your temple. “What else do you see?”
You watch your lashes flutter, your head listing slightly to the side. “I see myself.”
“Hmm.” It’s a sound of approval, his palm now sliding around your waist and his arm banding across your body. He presses his hand to your hip bone and pulls you back against him. “Such a beautiful girl in that mirror. Ain't that right?”
“Joel, I…” You can feel his swelling erection prodding your ass and your head feels hazy with a heady, lustful desire you can no longer ignore or dismiss. “I don't think we should be…”
“No?” His mouth curves against your temple and you shiver at the coarse scratch of his moustache on your skin. It feels deliberate, premeditated. “I won’t tell a soul,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your hip right where the hem of your sweater begins to inch upward. You can see a strip of your own bare stomach in the mirror. He’s making your eyes droop, your lashes flutter, your body light up from one nerve ending to the next, a closed circuit.
Oh, God. His touch is measured, gentle yet barely restrained. It is dipping a finger into the water just as it nears its boiling point. Months of staring and dreaming and retreating to your bed to touch yourself to thoughts of someone you cannot touch have led you here: his necklace, his gift to you, sitting prettily on your throat, his capable hands moulding you slowly to the shape of him. He’s touching you.
“You like me?” His voice rubs hard on your ears, sanding you down, smoothing the rough edges. He lets you linger on the precipice, a firm grip on your hand, letting you make the choice: to let go, or to reel yourself in.
“I like you,” you whisper, snapping the tether and plummeting to the warm, wet earth below.
You watch Joel’s eyes close in the mirror, something like a prayer falling from his lips. It does not take the shape of words—it is gruff and yet soft, hardly loud enough to discern over the ringing in your ears—but it’s so reverent that you can picture yourself falling to your knees at the sound of it.
His hand skims up your waist until he finds your throat, gently pinching your jaw so he can direct the turn of your head. You go easily, tilting your gaze back to rest your temple on his shoulder, as his other hand slides up from your hip to your ribs, grazing the underside of your breast. “You like me enough to touch you like this?”
You gasp, finding an anchor in the deep brown—nearly black, now—of his eyes. They’re warm but they’re dangerous; once you look, the cage door slides shut, and you’re trapped.
This must be one of your many dreams.
“Yes, Joel.”
“Mmm.” He smirks, teasing his tongue across his plush bottom lip. You watch the movement and feel yourself tightening, want want want a chorus in your ears. “You wanna kiss me, baby girl?”
Silently, you nod, your fingers gently sliding through his silky locks while your other hand seeks the strong balancing force of his shoulder. His smile sobers to a deep, stunning severity, and you cannot think to let it frighten you when you’re already slanting your mouth over his.
It starts slowly. His mouth is soft, his hands deftly returning the fervour with which you hold him, cupping the back of your neck with his other hand warming your ribs. A small gasp escapes you, and a rumble of satisfaction passes from his chest through yours, and it flips an ineffable switch inside him.
Joel turns you in his arms, his chest pressed to yours, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall as he walks you back toward it. Sufficiently cornered, you let your body melt into him, his palm now warming your lower back, his tongue feverishly seeking the seam of your lips. You let him pry you open, tasting the coffee and mint on his breath and inhaling the rich scent of him, sticking it with greedy hands to the walls of your brain. You’ll never tire of him, of this.
He kisses you like a glutton seeking more fulfilment, like an aesthete seeking that exhilarating, fleeting moment in time, desperate and unwavering and famished. Tongues slide together, hands grope and wander, fabrics shift. You can feel your sweater lifting at the same time your fingers finally find the hem of his T-shirt, but he beats you to the chase. You’re dizzy by the time he breaks away to remove your shirt, but you dutifully lift your arms to help him.
You seek his mouth again to resume the kiss, but Joel is decidedly feeling pious. He kisses his way down your throat, the necklace dangling from it, your sternum, your belly, sinking to his knees as he goes along. His hands are firm on your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place, while his mouth draws a map of you, eliciting the honeyed sensation of warm water dripping down your body.
“Oh, God,” you whisper, your head knocking back against the wall. It's so much. You've never been the object of attention quite like this, the marble statue at which the devout kneel, obsessive in their worship. You've never had a man fall to his knees to put his mouth all over you.
Has he wanted you as long as you’ve pined for him?
Joel grunts, his lips dragging open-mouthed kisses from one hip to another, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your skirt and yanking it down. You yelp, grasping his shoulders.
Joel only growls into your skin, his hands dropping to your ass and kneading you while he continues down past your hips. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he grumbles. “So goddamn pretty. Don’t know how I waited this fuckin’ long. Jesus, baby girl, you're perfect. Goddamn perfect.”
His ramblings are poison. Every word infects, squeezing out your healthy cells, replacing them with the delicious scrape of fire against the ceiling of a room. The scratch of his beard. The sweet nurturing sound of his voice. The cared-for sensation of being kissed and touched and spoken to like you're someone worth a second date. Like you're worth the price of all the world and a couple stars, too.
And so the words slip out, shy and whisper-quiet and your cheeks burning hot enough to blister.
“Please, Daddy…”
Joel’s hands tighten on your body, a fractional movement that kicks up the frantic beating of your heart. He tilts his head back to gaze up into your eyes and you feel more naked with that single stare than ever before.
“That what you need, sweet thing?” he says, pressing his lips to your inner thigh. “You need Daddy to make you feel good?”
“Mhm,” you whine, the pitch of your voice pathetic and needy. You watch him crush his nose into your inner thigh, nipping at your sensitive flesh, and his name leaves your mouth in a sob.
“‘m gonna need words,” he commands, biting you again in reproach. “Talk to me, baby girl. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to make me come,” you plead, grasping his soft greying hair in your fingers. “Please.”
“You gonna call me what you wanna call me?” he prompts, smacking your thigh. “C’mon, baby, lemme hear it.”
“Daddy!” you cry out, your hand tightening in his locks. “Fuck, Daddy, please make me come.”
Joel growls, bringing your soaked panties down your legs. Your knees nearly knock together, but he’s shouldering his way between them, bringing one up onto his wide shoulder. You're spread open like this, bared plainly for your landlord to feast upon at his will. The sight of his lips parted, waiting and ready to take your pussy into his mouth, has you trembling.
He gives a slow, experimental lick, sliding the flat of his tongue through your wet slit. You shudder, your head lolling against the wall. One teasing drag of his tongue and you’re butter, humming and whimpering for more, Daddy, please as he takes his fucking time tasting what you have to offer.
“Goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, his blunt nails digging crescent moons into the flesh of your ass, pulling your body flush to him. “Waited so fuckin’ long for this.” You watch the fire ignite from red- to blue-hot in Joel’s eyes, his gaze shuttering as he loses himself, devoted entirely to the process of unravelling you.
The next time he dips his tongue between your folds, he does it deliberately, calculated, as if he has already memorised your shape and now seeks to pry you open. He parts your lips to make way for his mouth, hot and soft against your clit. Softly, you cry out, watching as he presses a featherlight kiss to your pearl. You try to grind against his face, needing more, but a resounding slap to your ass stops you dead.
“No takin’ what I don’t give,” he says. “You understand me?”
You pout, but you nod your head anyway.
He decides it isn’t good enough and abruptly takes your clit between his teeth in a scolding bite.
“Repeat. It.”
“I’ll only take what you give,” you tell him. “I’ll be good.”
Apparently satisfied, he hums, diving back in and finally—finally—sucks on your needy clit. “Oh!” He’s eager, sure, but he’s practised. He’s meticulous in the way he applies pressure to your clit, lapping at you greedily and pulling back to draw your pleasure into measured tidal waves. You crest only to recede from shore, and then his lips suction to you again, his hand snaking around to your front and pressing down on your lower belly.
“Fuck!” you squeak, your stomach tightening as the dizzying pleasure overcomes you. “Joel, I’m gonna—!”
The orgasm pulls you under, drowning you with a forceful hand, your lungs sucking in mouthfuls of air. You seize, your heel digging into Joel’s muscled back, your fingers fisting his hair, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing, begging to be filled. Joel keeps his mouth on you all the while, licking you through your high, and you think it’s a benevolent act until your orgasm gently fades and he continues to make out with your pussy as if it never happened.
“Ah! Joel, please—” It’s so much. Too much; your pussy contracts relentlessly at the endless attention from his tongue, happily licking your clit and relishing the faint throbbing underneath it. It’s like he’s starved. His eyes are closed, his beard glistening with your wetness, his fingers dimpling your flesh as he pulls you right along to another high.
Two thick fingers gather up the juices you’ve leaked onto your thighs and push them back into your hole, insistent in their desire to enter. You gasp, your heart in your fucking throat: “That’s only two?”
He chuckles, but the vibration only makes you jump, letting his fingers sink inside your cunt to the knuckle. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Daddy, that feels so good, please make me come again, I need it, please—!”
Joel groans into your pussy, curling his fingers toward him so they press against a spongy spot inside you that sends your head spinning, your mind folding in on itself. All you know is the next orgasm, the best way to get him to give it to you, the fastest way to reach that indelible place once more, just once more—
Joel’s hand applies more pressure to your belly, and you scream, clawing desperately at his shoulder as you give yourself over to something much, much stronger than an orgasm. It’s foreign, the creeping sensation of an invader taking up residence in your body. You cannot see, cannot hear. It assumes control, tearing a cry from your mouth and locking all your limbs tight and splashing your wetness all over Joel’s chin, beard, shirt.
You think he only stops because you begin to list; he catches you around the hips and presses a soft kiss to your used little clit. “Mmmmm,” is vaguely how you manage to thank him, your eyes peeling slowly open.
“I know, baby girl,” he says, stroking your hip bone with his thumb. He litters kisses all over your thighs, coaxing you through the minute twitching of your muscles as they relax. “You did so good for me, pretty girl. So fuckin’ beautiful. My sweet girl.”
You shiver in his grasp, watching as he makes his way back up your body. He swipes his forearm across his wet beard and you moan a little at the sight. “Nobody’s ever…”
Joel crowds you, his hand cupping the back of your neck so he can guide your gaze up to him. “That's what you don't understand, sweetheart,” he says. “You can try to find another man to make you happy, but he won't be me. I’m the only one who’s gonna treat you right.”
“Joel…” Sense begins to push at the edges of your brain, but you only slump further into his touch, letting him secure your hair behind your ear. “This isn't right,” you whisper. “I pay you every month to live here. People will know. People will talk about me.”
“People have suffered worse for a hell of a lot less.”
You have no time to decode his words because he grabs your hand and presses your palm over his chest. Beneath the shirt and the warm, tanned skin, you feel a strong, rapid heartbeat, hammering away at his ribs. He maintains eye contact, the gaze incisive, peering right into the cluster of wiring inside your head that calls his name. “You feel my heart and you tell me this ain't real. You think this ain't love? You think it's obsession? Infatuation? Think I can’t see you lookin’ at me the way you do?”
His words pin you to the ground. They’re possessive, covetous—jealous. He wants you, and he knows you want him. All these months, he’s wanted you the way you’ve craved him; all the comforts and the roses and the baked goods in lieu of payment for substantial repair jobs; the times he’s let slide some late payments because I know it’s tough sometimes, the inexplicable kindnesses in your everyday.
Joel Miller dedicated himself to you the second you arrived to see the prospective apartment.
“You’re mine,” he says, his thumb stroking your jaw. “And I wanna hear you say it.”
People will call you a whore. They’ll think you’re pimping yourself out for cheaper rent. They’ll send you filthy looks. But the man in front of you makes you feel wanted. Desired. You’re better than all the dates that failed. You’re better than a shitty boss who won’t give you the raise you deserve. Joel is good to you. He’s always been.
“I’m yours, Joel Miller,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Now please take me to bed.”
He grins, taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. You get grabby straight away, fingering the hem of his shirt with a pleading look in your eye. You can still see the evidence of your orgasm staining the collar. “You can take it off, baby,” he says with that cocky smile, letting you lift the shirt over his head. In the sunlight, the grey in his hair shimmers, and his chest is bared to you. You lick your lips, placing your hands on his broad shoulders just to feel the way your palms contour to his dips and curves.
You lean in and put your lips to his neck, tracing the shape of him down to the hollow of his throat, He tastes faintly of fresh air and sweat, and he smells like you. Your hands admire the warmth and strength underneath them, his body so tangible when only yesterday it was a distant dream. He lets you indulge, though his hands flex at his sides, and your fingers fumble with his belt buckle.
“Help,” you mumble against his chest, bumping your nose into him. Joel chuckles, relieving you of your burden and shucking off his belt. It clinks along the floor somewhere nearby, and you can unbutton his jeans to bring them down, freeing his hard, throbbing cock.
Your mouth waters at the sight. He’s thick and slightly curved, the tip leaking precum onto his belly, his balls heavy with the need to come. During those long nights after long days of work, you would imagine, for hours on end, what lingered just below his belt; the little trail of hair leading down his soft belly to your destination; the way his wide shoulders would bracket your body, shelter you from all the tough shit you could possibly suffer. You would picture all the ways you could thank him. You bite your bottom lip and ready yourself to sink to your knees, but Joel is having none of it. He attacks your mouth, kissing you deeply, his hands sliding up your back as if he's trying to count every vertebrae. He doesn't relent even when your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapse backward onto the mattress. He only crawls over you and pins you beneath his hard body.
“So pretty like this,” he says, lowering his head and nudging your chin upward with his nose to give himself better access to your throat. He sucks and nips at you all the way down, pausing at your heaving breasts. His fingers gently toy with one stiff nipple while his mouth occupies itself with the other, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. You moan softly, content to watch him explore your body, squeezing your tits before he migrates downward.
“Daddy,” you whisper, stroking his hair away from his face, your head falling back onto the pillows as his fingers part your folds once more. “Fuck, please, touch me. I need you inside me.”
Joel settles in between your open legs and takes his cock in his hand. You mewl for him, determined in the face of his big cock to fit it nicely inside you. “Mmm, you ready for me, baby girl? You need Daddy to fill you up, use you like a pretty little toy?”
You’re nodding frantically, the words igniting you. “Please take me.”
Joel slaps the head of his cock against your clit, once, twice, watching your thighs twitch. Spreading the slick wetness from your pussy onto the tip, he finally guides himself to your hole and notches just inside.
“Jesus,” he utters. “Jesus, you're a fuckin’ dream.”
“It’s real,” you pant, “I’m real.”
He begins to disappear inside you, wrenching you open, your poor pussy disused from going so long without decent sex. You feel the pinching pain give way to a delicious pressure in your core as he eases into you, taking it slow despite his taut jaw, his gritted teeth. Your cunt forms a tight seal around his length, your arousal lubricating his entry, and you feel lightheaded. He’s so fucking big—and he’s still going.
“Oh, my… Joel—”
“I know, baby.” He brings his thumb to your clit and helps you relax with every circular swipe. “I know what y’like.”
You keen up against him, your thighs squeezing his hips. He's only halfway inside you and it feels like being filled up to your throat, choking on the air you breathe. Your head falls back, your hands flying up to your tits and squeezing.
“Daddy…”
One of Joel’s hands overlaps yours where it grasps your breast. “That’s my girl. You can take me. Always knew you could.” Still, he's panting with the exertion of holding back.
“You thought about me?” you say coyly, trying to pull him deeper inside you. He obliges, if only because you're being so petulant, and his hips finally knock into yours. You release a bone-deep sigh of relief.
“All I do”—his hips thrust shallowly, baring his teeth as he paws at your thighs—“is think about you.”
You cry out at the angle, the depth he reaches, how thick and heavy he sits inside you. Your pussy sucks him in, begging for more, and Joel obliges by hooking his hand in the back of your knee and pushing your thigh toward your chest.
Your vision whites, a ragged cry leaving your mouth. “Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, yes, that feels so good—”
“‘s right, baby girl. I’m the only one’s gonna fuck you this good,” Joel grits out, dragging his thick cock along your walls, spreading you open, forcing himself to fit. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust, measured in their intensity, just enough to drive you up the goddamn wall but never enough to sting. “I’m the only one you want.”
Your mouth is open and his pounding urges a steady rush of ah, ah, ahs up your throat. Joel leans over you and tilts your head back with a hand in your hair to slant his mouth over yours. He lets you pour your cries into his mouth and he swallows them down, fucking you so hard that your hips begin to ache.
He smatters your jaw with sloppy kisses. You lift your hand to his face and trace the patches in his beard, your brows drawn together in your perpetual haze.
“I dreamed about you,” you whisper, taking his earlobe between your teeth to make him growl against your skin. “Touched myself thinking about you.”
“I know,” he says, his hips grinding hard against yours, rubbing up against your used clit. He answers your gasp by nibbling your throat, and you keep him fixed to you with your hand at the back of his neck. His soft hair is matted with sweat and you want to bury yourself here, etch the shape of him into your stone. He's strong, capable, so present in this moment that your heart begins to throb to the beat of his.
Joel surges upward and takes you with him, forcing you to sit on his lap. At this angle, his cock reaches deeper, somehow, your mouth falling open and your forehead dropping to his shoulder. His palm is a soothing presence on your sweaty back as he tells you things that make you flush from your chest to your ears.
“Thought about takin’ you on the goddamn bar last night,” he grunts, guiding your ass in a rolling rhythm along his lap, his cock gliding slowly along your walls. You moan, your thighs shaking around his hips. “Thought about spreadin’ you over my desk and fuckin’ you dumb with my cock.”
You sob into the crook of his neck, grinding down on his cock, the pressure of his navel against your clit sparking hot in your lower belly. “What else?” you ask, nipping at the strong muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. Your tits are pressed up against his chest, his warmth engulfing you, your body slowly lowering over him as he guides you the way he likes.
His palm coasts down your spine until he finds your puckered asshole. His name is jagged and rubbed raw on your tongue.
“Shhh, baby girl.” The pad of his finger teases your hole with just enough pressure to ooze electric ecstasy down your spine. “Feels good, doesn't it?”
Fuck, his voice is so gentle, so knowing. You curl your fingers in his hair, your nose tickled by the locks that curl over his ears.
“Mmmhmm,” you mewl, lifting your hips as best you can despite the growing aches, telegraphing your desire to be touched by him—played with.
“Thaaat’s it,” he coos, his nose nudging your cheek as he turns his head. His finger continues to prod your asshole while his hips buck up into you. “Openin’ up for me like a good girl. You’d let me take you wherever I want, hmm? Whenever I want?”
“Yes, Daddy, yes,” you moan, your mouth perpetually open against the skin of his neck. You can’t think. You can't breathe. You can only drink down mouthfuls of him and let your body succumb to the delicious weight of his cock inside you. “Yes, I’ll be your little slut. I’ll be whatever you want. You make me feel so good.”
He seems pleased with your babbling, grinning into your cheek as he keeps you spread wide and pounds up into you. His finger continues to tease your tight hole until he feels your body contract around him and apparently decides that he isn't quite through with you.
“Turn around. Hands and knees.”
Who are you to refuse?
You lament the brief loss of his cock as you shift into your knees, resting your forearms on the bed and teasing him with a wiggle of your ass. Joel hums appreciatively, sidling up behind you and grinding his hard cock between your asscheeks. You jolt forward, but he catches you around the waist and warms his palm at your ribs.
Something warm and wet lands in a glob on your asshole, and you realise he fucking spit on you. Your head spins, dizzied by your own arousal, and soon, the warm, wet head of his cock slips back inside your hole, and you relish the refuge of being taken by him all over again.
“You wanna know what else?” He begins to fuck you hard and fast and almost angry in its intensity. His thrusts knock against your ribcage and rattle the bars, your heart floundering for a way back to the surface. “I thought about knockin’ on your door every goddamn day and putting my dick in this pretty fuckin’ pussy. Thought about your tight fuckin’ body every single time I saw you walk by and a long time after. I thought about the noises you'd make and Jesus, I was right. So goddamn sweet.”
You’re drooling onto the pillow, your eyes rolling back in your head, your fingers uselessly clasping handfuls of your white sheets. Joel is an animal, mounting you from behind and taking you hard, deep, the slick squelching noises of your coupling so crude and indecent that they burn through your ears like a lit fuse. It's wrong. You never should have kissed him. But wrong shouldn't feel like this.
Wrong shouldn’t taste like mint and coffee, shouldn't smell like roses and sawdust. Wrong shouldn’t feel like his cock sitting snug inside your pussy, some obscene jigsaw, seeping saplike pleasure down your spine.
This must be right.
His hands are rapacious, one wrapping around your hair and the other guiding the bend of your back, arching you perfectly to fit him while he takes you the way he likes. “Such a tease in those pretty dresses. Such a prim and proper girl ‘til she gets the right dick. You’ll get on your knees for this dick, baby girl, won't you? You’ll beg for it like a goddamn whore.”
“I will!” you moan, your cheek pressed into the mattress. The force of his thrusts have you travelling up the bed in minuscule movements, his thighs slapping hard against yours. “Fuck, I will, Daddy! Please, Daddy, I wanna make you feel good, I’ll do anything.”
“You're doin’ such a good job already, sweet thing,” he says, using his leverage on your hair and your waist to yank you upright, his chest pressed to your back, your ass now firmly sat in his lap. You moan long and low at the new angle, your back arching and your toes curling.
Joel groans against your jaw, his mouth travelling along the line of it in sloppy kisses that indicate he's about as close as you are. “Yeah, baby. Fuckin’ drunk on my cock. Fucked you good and dumb, hmm? Fucked you so good you can't even think.”
You can only manage a low whine, the sound of it a fleeting puff of air from your lips, the oxygen in your lungs depleting and replaced with the smell of him. You try to bounce on his dick—you really do try—but you cannot remember how to work the muscles in your thighs. You cannot remember what you had for breakfast nor the colour of the skirt you wore today. You can only vaguely understand the shape of the man behind you, the name that belongs to him, the way you curve and fit into him. You’re falling, the technicolour world outside your window fading to the sound of soft, beating wings—that may be your heart, fluttering in your ears—as you seize, yielding to the pleasure.
You will not recall the sounds you make when you come, grasping blindly at his thighs to keep yourself from falling over, your ears ringing. You feel his moustache scratching your jaw and his cock working you through your high, slowing his thrusts to help you land softly on solid ground. You may cry out his name, and you may call him something else entirely. But it's vibrant. It's radiant as the sunlight now dipping behind the distant buildings. It tastes just as sweet as the golden hour.
Joel does not stop fucking you when your body goes limp in his arms. No, he resumes his brutal pace, using you like a fucking toy to get himself off. You happily take it, your head lolling back against his shoulder and your eyes drooping.
“Nnh, fuck… I’m gonna… Jesus—oh, fuck—”
His hips press flush to your ass and he nuzzles his face into your throat, depositing kisses and love bites all over your skin as he pumps shallowly into you, his hot cum filling you up and leaking generously around the seal of your cunt. You gasp, your fingers threading through his already-tousled hair, keeping him glued to you as he flexes against your body and comes hard enough to double himself over.
He collapses on top of you, forcing you to bend at the hip, little puffs of air escaping his mouth and seeping into you. You whine, your sore hips battered and bruised, your pussy deliciously abused as you pulse continuously around his dick. “Joel, please…”
He comes slowly back into his body, his lips trailing down your spine as he lifts himself upright. “Shit. ‘m sorry, baby girl. You feel okay?”
You hum happily, letting yourself pant into the mattress. “Feels so good.”
Joel pulls out, savouring the tight drag of his cock out of your pussy, hissing through his teeth and watching his thick cum dribble slowly out of your hole. “Such a fuckin’ pretty sight. My sweet girl, all used up.”
You drop your face into your forearm and giggle. Joel smooths his hand over your lower back. “What's so funny?”
“Just…” You sound a bit hysterical as you continue to laugh. “I’m going to be late on rent this month. I put a down payment on a car.”
Joel lowers himself next to you and gently pulls you into him, his moustache tickling your cheek. “Planning on gettin’ the hell outta dodge?” he says playfully, nipping your earlobe.
Your eyes droop and you sink into him. “Think I’ll stay here for a while.”
“I know you will, baby,” he murmurs.
“Joel?”
“Hmm.”
“Thank you for the necklace.”
~
It’s night when you next wake, and Joel is next to you.
For someone so stern and strong, he looks utterly serene in his sleep. His lips are slightly parted, half his face pressed into the pillow, his hair curling around his ears and his arm lazily draped over you. You gently sweep a lock of hair away from his face.
Through the dark, the red light beams, and the arm around your waist tugs you closer.
the crystalline knowledge of you ; hell-bent (18+)
TLDR: Late at night, where you're not supposed to be, your ex-boyfriend, Joel, finds you and offers to take you home.
Warnings: explicit smut (MDNI) (fingering, uprotected piv, no pull out), ophelia cannot be stopped, no outbreak AU but Joel is as he is in TLOU 1 present day so like 50, no age gap referenced by I think their dynamic suggests there is, reference to another man being a threat to reader but it's brief and never amounts to anything more than Joel being SEXI, references of alcohol to cope and drink (not drunk by reader or Joel, nor is drunkenness mentioned), reader and Joel have their own issues - reader is emotionally volatile (same cariad), Joel is emotionally avoidant, references to comfort eating and drinking, happy ending though ;)
Notes: literally someone has put crack in my water supply, two fics in like a week wtf is wrong with me? it's been like a year?? fee fee on fyre
You used to be more prepared.
You used to be a lot of things. But this is the main one that bothers you now as you walk the damp road glowing under streetlamps, trailing the short distance to the gas station to buy soap and laundry detergent and paper towels and- Jesus, did you remember to get anything anymore?
Scatterbrained. That’s what your friends had called you after you were twenty minutes late to dinner one night, citing that you had forgotten it was happening and then lost your phone, your keys, your shoes. They’d said it with laughter and so you laughed too, but it was the perfect phrase for you now. Scattered brain. Brain in pieces. Fragments scattered over fifty states. Some you pass on your way to work and others you’ll never see again.
And you apologise, yes, you’re always apologising nowadays. Sorry, sorry, sorry, second nature, word vomit, like you can’t help the way it comes out of you.
Maybe it was for the best. Your newly crowned state of ‘forgetful’ would do you some good, you hoped. Better than never forgetting anything at all. That would probably be worse.
Between stormy showers, you had escaped your apartment and braced the cold night. Halfway there, the rain started again but you trudged on and barely noticed. What’s there to worry about? It’s not like you’re going home to anything, anyone, important.
The gas station was quiet. People avoiding the rain. There was only one guy filling his car, something old about him despite his young face, and not in a good way – as though his mistakes had aged him.
You head past them, ankles damp from puddles kicked up with your steps. A man leaves the store and he holds the door for you. You smile and nod in thanks and glide under his arm before it shuts behind you with a ding, a rusty bell marking your arrival.
You grab what you need at first. Soap. Detergent. Aren’t you out of shampoo? You grab the cheap one that’ll smell like paint stripper more than the green apples it says it will. Scratching your damp hair, you know you should shower tonight. You bundle the paper towels under your arm and then round the aisle, finding the snacks. Bingeing in front of the TV isn’t exactly the most glamorous way to spend your evening. Probably not even remotely good for you. Still, you grab a bag of cheesy tortillas. The one behind it falls over and hits the floor.
“Fuck.” You mumble under your breath, annoyed, scooping your items awkwardly to pick it up and stuff it back on the shelf.
When you peer up, the chocolate bars call you – fuck it, what’s a Mars bar to a shitty night?
You grab one too and then head to the till. Ah, booze. That’s another thing. The 2000s films all told you that part. Drink wine and eat ice cream and watch some romcom or something. That doesn’t really happen nowadays. It’s all about scrolling until your brain switches off, and when it does, you don’t feel much of anything at all, and that’s the point – you think, you’re sure – to make it all go away. Who needs drugs when you’ve got a million and one people shitting their opinion across your screen every minute?
Your friends told you to get into online dating. Tinder is the new coffee shop meet cute! You don't think there's much cute about swiping on guys the same way you swipe on a second hand turtleneck with a red wine stain on the collar. Still, you suppose it would be nice to have someone. Anyone to call your own. Like you'll have somewhere to put all your muchness. Instead of stuffing it down with tortilla chips and chocolate and smothering it with the buzz of a dead brain. All this, you think, as you gaze at a red wine that's on discount for three dollars.
At the clank of glass bottles, you look.
Joel.
He’d grabbed a beer. Just a beer. There are some rain drops in his hair. Does he look older? No, it’s the light. Have you seen him at this gas station before? If you had then you surely would’ve avoided it. That one was closer to your work, you think, you’re not sure. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s here.
Joel glances at you.
It’s all so much more real then.
Dirty jeans with some paint on the knees and rubbed from his hands to his thighs, though there’s still some in the ridges of his knuckles. His shirt is dirty too but not as much – he must’ve abandoned a jacket in the car. It’s a shitty day, even he would be freezing out there. You swallow, a rock in your throat now leaving a dent in your stomach.
Joel pauses. Oh god, oh god, it’s you, and he’s not the panicking type but he hadn’t expected it at all. He marks the droplets in your hair and how your fingers are curled awkwardly to hold all you picked up – too stubborn for a basket, obviously.
How these months have passed.
So fast and so slow, too.
You thought you might be decomposing before you saw him again. And by then, you could knit the bones of your fingers together and finally be free of the guilt that comes from wanting someone so much - so much that it scares you to death.
For a brief moment, oh so brief, too brief, you forget, then you remember all over again, grieve once more, remember the long months you spent together, an eternal summer made up of clingy hands, quiet smiles, and warm spaces, then scalded when you got too close to the sun, became too much yourselves. Always so far away. He was. He could be right next to you and a hundred miles away too.
How long has it been? Two months, maybe.
You should be counting the days. That’s what grieving people do.
But maybe, unlike grieving people, there is something to be done when the person you mourn is still alive - rules to break and conventions to cast aside like spoilt fruit, phones to call and houses to drive to, and there are actual consequences, like the look on his face and the words he calls you, not just to you but to his brother and all he knows. Crazy woman. You could hear the laugh, this vicous sort of chuckle that everybody would share, thinking that you re pathetic. You have tried so hard not to be seen like that anymore. Haven't you dealt with that feeling enough? The insignificance? The thing that will never fit? The only safe thing to do is not think about it - him - lest you hurt yourself more. How Joel smells and smirks and smiles, how his hand finds the small of your back, or how he wakes you up with a coffee and an apology about pulling you from your dreams at all. No, you can’t think of any of that, so you can’t grieve.
And Joel thinks to speak – politeness, that good old fashioned southern gentleman manners.
You turn away and head to the till, warm in the face, and Joel is left feeling a level of dejected that makes him hate himself.
The hell are you doing here like this?
You seem lonely. Cluttered. Overwhelmed. On a mission to not be yourself. He calls himself a hypocrite because maybe he's doing the same. He should have left work hours ago and been home eating dinner.
He swallows and hovers, letting you go to the clerk.
The bell above the door ringsand a cloaked man comes in, shrugging his wet hood off.
He queues behind you, too close, and not just too close for Joel’s liking but too close for yours. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You peer back, a quick glance, then shuffle forward to get away from him. Joel observes it all with sweat on the nape of his neck and a scowl stitching his brow.
It’s a feeling, he can’t explain, he’d call it intuition if he believed in mumbo-jumbo like that, so instead it's common sense. Weird fuckin’ guy walks in, acting like that the first chance he gets. The winter night is dark and it’s wet out, and there’s nobody here who looks like they’ll intervene if she – you – gets upset.
No, it just isn’t right. Just ain’t right.
He puts the beer back. Swallows, then heads out of the store, keeping an eye on you through the window.
You pay.
You walk away very fast.
You don’t see Joel on the way out. But he sees you and says nothing, lets you go.
The other man is quick as he leaves the gas station. He peers around both ways, then seesyou, and that’s when Joel’s hand finds the man’s chest, pushing him back. The man looks up at him wide-eyed.
“Think you’re meant to go that way, is that right?” Joel nods in the other direction.
“The hell?” the man grunts.
“That’s where you will be goin’ if you don’t get.” Joel gestures away, “Go on.”
The man gives up easily. He heads off then, shaking his head, tugging his wet hood up over his skull.
Joel’s jaw ticks and he sighs, and he watches you disappear into the dark and the rain, walking quickly. He gets in his truck. Tells himself not to go after you. But you are going the same way he’s going and the rain is horrible, and he’s a lot of things but he’s not an asshole – but maybe the asshole thing to do is pick you up and make this worse.
He passes you at first. Drive, old man, c’mon…
He slows before he realises. A few yards from you, he comes to a stop, tapping his steering wheel.
You recognise Joel’s truck, hell, you’d recognise it anywhere, and not just because of the obvious signs, like the big old branding Miller Contracting on the side with a hammer and a house in the head, smoke coming from the chimney. You pause, arms all crossed, holding a shitty paper bag that’s already tearing at the corners.
You walk past him, a stubborn thing. Joel tuts, honks, and drives forward again as he rolls down the window.
“Hey!” he calls, an irritableness to his tone, and you glance at him.
You keep walking because you don’t know what else to do without being a huge dick.
Joel drives slowly, a snail’s pace, keeping up with you.
“C’mon, let me take you home!” he tries again.
“I’m fine!” you yell.
“It’s five minutes- please, let me take you home.”
Your bag starts to fall apart in your grasp.
Pausing, you look at him properly then. The torrential rain drowns you in moments. Sighing, you look up and down, and you think about being an asshole to him so he will leave you alone, but truthfully, you’re still shocked to see him at all.
“You remember where I live?” you ask him.
“Just up that way…” he nods, “look, please?”
And he begs again. You sigh.
Shivering, you break and get in the car. You dump your bag in your lap and settle right at the edge, as far away from him as you can be in the confined space.
You hate yourself for it but you check the truck. You look for signs of other people having been here. There’s mud on the floor beneath your feet. The fans are closed, no cold air allowed in your direction. For kicks, you tug down the mirror to check yourself. It’s a little mucky, not wiped clean, a thick dusty thumbprint on the corner – Tommy, probably. You wipe the rain from under your eyes and shift your hair from your cooled complexion.
Flicking the mirror back up, you sniff and look at him.
And Joel is trying very hard to be polite. Respectful. Understanding. Even if it hurts.
Your presence in the car is like pressing an old bruise, one you push just to remember how it hurts.
“I…” he goes to speak, then realises he doesn’t have much to say, “you cold?”
He doesn’t wait, instead opting to turn the heat on.
You flinch when he does, at how his hand shoots out between the two of you. Joel catches it and thinks to speak but says nothing. You’re not sure what has you so jumpy. Like Joel would ever hurt you. He never tried to do that; in a way, that was sort of the problem, how little effort it took.
The truck rumbles down the street, newly fuelled, the rain beating the glass like bullets. You think it’ll shatter and pierce your skin with a thousand cuts and it still would be a warm compress to the agony of sitting beside Joel, pretending everything’s fine, and knowing it’s so clear that nothing is at all.
Joel glances your way.
“Thanks for giving me a ride.” You tell him softly.
“’s fine, it’s…” I’d do it a hundred thousand times, do this short journey, drive across town to take you from here to home. He swallows and feels pathetic, shifting in his seat, “shouldn’t be out late anyway.”
“I didn’t intend to be.” You tell him, jaw ticking.
“I ain’t tellin’ you what to do.” Joel’s voice is harsh and a reminder to both of you.
“Well…” you trail off with nothing else to say.
The rain continues on and threatens thunder too. You look up to the dark clouds that have muted the sky’s attempts at softening. A draft coming from Joel’s slightly open window bothers you but you won’t say anything.
Joel watches the shapes of raindrops cast on to your face as you drive under streetlights. Blurs of gold and orange, shadows and images brushing your face like he’s cloud-gazing, searching for shapes in the nothing.
“’s just here.” You say.
“I got it.” Joel’s voice is dismissive and almost amused at the prospect of him forgetting where you live, where you’d moved to, leaving the home empty for him to relish in.
“I saw you scare that guy.” You tell him.
“What guy?”
You glance at him, knowing, and it’s like looking at the sun, how it hurts you. You think you see a smirk on his lips. He doesn’t change.
“I got a switchblade on my keychain now, anyhow.”
“Jesus. You know how to use that thing?”
“Think I can work out how to stab somebody. If I have any issues, I’ll call you.”
“Good.” He murmurs.
Some more quiet, then he speaks again.
“Hey, I forgot to ask you. Did you take that big multipack of batteries when you moved out?”
“What?”
“You know, the huge one with all those different batteries in it – we coded it with that label maker.”
“Oh. Yeah.” You say, “Why?”
He scoffs, head shaking, “Had a power cut the other week. Damn batteries in my torch were dead, I couldn’t find any. I was in the dark for hours.”
“Oh. Sorry.” You say then.
“That’s alright.” He shrugs, “Least I know what happened to ‘em, and I’d rather you have them in an emergency than me. Worst case, I look like a damn fool bumpin’ into all my shit.”
You want to smile or laugh, but you bite the urge down. It slips out, right at the corner of your mouth, and Joel catches it. Always so quick to see your micro-expressions. He’s more perceptive than people give him credit for.
You’re sitting on his jacket, too. It has the same logo that the side of his battered truck has. You’ve worn this thing many times – when you get cold, when you forget your coat, or when you’d been straddling him, the zip down, your thighs bare. It always smelt like him, that was the thing, and all he’d done that day. Joel would beg you back then, let me buy you one, honey, this one’s all dirty, you don’t want this on you, and he even did, trying to convince you, but you preferred the one that he had.
“I don’t think I got anythin’ of yours. You need those batteries?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” His head shakes.
“You can have them – I don’t think I’ve touched them. Just sitting in a new drawer.” You pick at your fingernails and a shiver runs through you, cold from the rain, and Joel turns the heating up higher even when he starts to sweat, “Anything else you’re missing?”
He looks at you, wondering if you’re being malicious or starting a fight, but he says, “No,” and tries to sound hard like he means it.
You hadn’t meant it any special way, but his response, so firm, unsettles you.
“Good.” You rasp quietly.
You tighten the noose around your upset, scared of letting it show.
Joel’s truck slows by your apartment building and he sighs. His grip tightens and loosens on the steering wheel, one hand leaving to push hair out of his face. He had only been here once when he was dropping off some of your things. Unsure of the area, he couldn’t help but scrutinise the area, the people, how strong the buildings looked. He even asked Tommy if he’d taken an odd job around there just to see if there were any problems localised to where you’d taken up residence.
He puts the truck in park. It all goes silent without the white noise of the AC.
“Thanks, Joel.” And it sounds like a whimper, maybe it is, “’m sorry.”
“What for?” Joel’s tone is tender now. He leans forward and tries to observe your expression, but you look away and make it all the harder for him.
“Uh, I-,”
“You got nothing to be sorry for. You ain’t do anything wrong.” He swallows hard, “You get yourself inside, alright? Get warm, get out of those clothes, ‘fore you get sick.”
“That’s just an old wives’ tale, I think.”
“Just listen to me.” He says this sadly. The rain taps the windscreen relentlessly, “For old times’ sake or somethin’.”
You nod and swallow, much softer and quieter than you had been. Forcing a brief smile his way, you grab your bag and head out into the rain.
He doesn’t drive off. You get on to the sidewalk and feel the weight of his gaze on your spine. Looking at that building, the one you’d run to – because, you suppose now, you had run here, took the first place that was remotely acceptable and moved everything out of your home with Joel so quickly you didn’t have time to feel anything about it – there is this gaping wound across your chest that tears open more and more.
Turning to peer at Joel now, you try to think before you speak but can’t.
“I didn’t want to break up.” you roar over the rain, a stubborn thing, looking back at him through the storm that blurs the world – makes you untrusting of everything you hear or see or feel – and Joel stares back at you through the half-open window, the glass misting most of him. You see his eyes clear as day. Always have.
“What?” he calls.
“I said I didn’t want to break up!” there’s a moment of quiet where the truth hangs high above you, then you know you must explain yourself, “I just… it felt like we were supposed to, you know?” Say you know, say you agree, “I felt like I made you… so unhappy all the time… and you said from the start that you didn’t want drama o-or chaos or anything like that, you didn’t have time for it, and… and we would argue and it would always feel so – just – like nobody was gonna win but we had to fight because… because if we didn’t fight then it meant we were happy and we weren’t!” you wipe rain from your face, from you brows and lashes and cheeks, “And I hate that I wasn’t happy. That I couldn’t make you happy. Because I really wanted to, Joel, I did… I did…”
“Hey now, don’t…” Joel gets out of the truck and slams the door and braces the rain like any good man would – without fear or vanity, “don’t ‘chu cry, don’t talk about makin’ me unhappy, ‘bout any of that stuff. You didn’t make me unhappy.” He leaves the truck and comes to stand in front of you, and his hands twitch to touch you and hold you and make this all go away, but he knows that’s not his place anymore.
“I did, I did, and the worst part is we didn’t even fight in a normal way! We both went quiet! And I went crazy and you got distant – is that even fighting? I’m not even sure what we thought we were doing to each other!” you sniff and cry and laugh, “But we did it wrong.”
“I know.” He says simply, like it’s an obvious truth, and his gaze flicks about your damp face and see how your eyes wander the dark roads and the blurry sky and the passing cars with headlights that burn.
Joel pushes his hair from his forehead as it flattens against his skin, and the muscle of his arm is prominent under the streetlight.
“I do, I know.” This, he says more annoyed, but not at you. At himself, maybe, “I wasn’t tryna… be distant… or maybe I was, Jesus, I don’t even know anymore.” There is shame in this one, in the way his eyes drop and he looks down to his shoes.
Your chest is harsh with every inhale and exhale. There is a version of you that is many decades old now that wants to fight – fight the way you were taught not to. Always speak with a smile, never be confrontational, never raise your voice.
“You were!” you yell at him, brows all scrunched, “You refused to talk to me about anything, you pulled away, and whenever I said anything, you made me feel stupid! Like I was a… a silly kid for bringing something like that up!” your whole body vibrates now, an adrenaline junkie.
“I did not.”
“You did!”
“Well, I didn’t mean to.” He looks back up at you, very sincere, and he fights the dog fight, “Believe it or not, I actually liked that you were all heart… ‘nd no brain sometimes.”
“See!”
“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing.” He shakes his head and steps toward you, hand waving dismissively of the hurt his words held.
Your brows scrunch, unsure, and your arms cross your chest. Maybe it’s a vain attempt to conceal how you feel. You’ve always tried very hard at that.
“You didn’t make sense to me a lot of the time – I didn’t mind that. What I couldn’t deal with is how you’d get so upset and mad and anxious that it made the whole house feel like it was in a damn tornado or something. You got any idea what a girl like you does to a space? And over nothin’, too, I never got what you were so upset about! And you’d never tell me!”
“You wouldn’t have gotten it!”
“How the hell would you have known that? You didn’t talk to me. You ain’t know a thing about what I do or don’t get. I sure as hell get this just fine. Don’t talk to me like I’m some asshole who didn’t feel a thing, I l-,” then he stops, pissed off with it all, at how conversations are like graveyards and you both hold spades, and there’s nothing good, nothing alive, down there, but you dig anyway because you must – because, like you said, you have to dig because of what it means if you don’t.
You gaze up at him, not so teary anymore. Still buzzed on adrenaline, whole body shaking, it’s hard to distinguish your nature from the natural. Is it you? Is it the cold? Is it the storm? Is this just the way you've always been, always felt, like the rain has never stopped? And you think you will always feel that way.
“How the hell was I supposed to talk to you when you acted the way you did? When you’d get sulky and brooding and you’d fuck off-,”
“Jesus…” he paces a little then, head shaking.
“You’d fuck off to whatever job you had going at the time – whatever room was the furthest away from me!”
“Fine, so I’m the bad guy. Have it. Fine. I don’t care.” he catches himself when he says that – stupid man, you’re right - he pulls away, shuts you down, makes you feel tiny.
You go very quiet. And it’s your relationship all over again.
Looking back at your apartment building, you breathe a big sigh, then turn away and head down the path to the double doors, stained with rain and dirt and all sorts, yanking the handle too hard and heading on inside. Your shoulder aches in its socket but you refuse to appear in pain.
Joel stares after you.
The animal in him says to cut his losses. Leave you here. The world would say he has no obligation to you anymore – to your happiness, your peace, the ease of which you fall asleep at night.
Then, there is the lover. He was always capable of it. For a long time, he hated himself for how it consumed him. The Hermit and The Lovers. They are the same card. They are either side of one angry man.
Locking the truck and not looking back, he heads down the path in a hurry, steps wide and heavy, and he knows what it means to fight now – to truly fight like this.
He slams the door open and follows the wet footprints up the stairs, two at a time, until he find you halfway up to the second floor.
“Hey!” he calls.
You look back, and you’d been trying very hard not to cry and to be annoyed instead. It might not do you any good but it felt more dignified than breaking down.
He is two steps below you.
“I wasn’t done fighting with you.” He says.
“I was done.” Your voice cracks.
“Well…” he blinks, “too bad.”
A big sigh leaves you and turns to fog – curse the winter, curse this storm – and you take in his soaked state, how he looks up at you. There’s something so familiar about it. His eyes.
He swallows hard. The lights all flicker. The wind picks up and you can almost feel it grate your skin.
“I didn’t want to break up.” He tells you then, “Don’t I get to say that as well? You go puttin’ words in my mouth, about… 'bout all you think I did and didn't feel or want or think. I didn’t want to break up but I thought that’s what you wanted.” He swallows, shifting where he stands, the light making his features lighter in some areas and darker in others – shadows over his bright eyes, his prominent nose highlighted, the wrinkles on his forehead on show, “I didn’t know a damn thing about being with a woman. I ain’t been with anybody since…” his head shakes, but you know – the woman who loved him for a little while, maybe, in her own way, who gave him a daughter and left him with her, “I didn’t know what to do… with all I had. But that don’t matter – I just wish you’d have talked to me, baby, why didn’t you just talk to me?”
Joel feels it all still. How he felt right at the start, at the middle, at the end – especially at the end, when he ripped himself into two futures; the one where he fought you and the one where he fought for you. He chose wrong, God, he knows that now.
“You were hard to talk to.”
“I’m sorry for that – that I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me.”
You nod, sniffling. He’s so sincere. That’s the thing about Joel. He’s not a liar, and he probably wouldn’t even be a very good one. He doesn’t see a point in lying or telling stories or cushioning where somebody falls if that fall be honest and deserved.
“I am, baby, I swear.” He insists.
“’m sorry for how I was.” You mumble softly.
“It’s okay,” he takes a step up, nearer to you now, and you wipe your eyes and think to reach for him – what would it be like now? Would he feel different? “’s fine, it is.”
But it all feels very simple in that moment, when the lights flicker again, when the wind beats the building that tries to keep you both safe – maybe you could’ve tried to tell him how you felt more, maybe he could’ve tried to seem more approachable; like he cared, like he loved you, and you know he did.
“It’s not. It’s not. We’re not together. It’s not okay.”
“Nobody said forever.” He rasps.
You try hard to fight that feeling – that you should run, turn the place electric, make everything feel alive and constricting as you apparently had before, the emotional whirlwind that you are. Standing there makes that hard. Breathing the same air as him, looking at him as his light eyes trace your features, you are struck with this profound notion that it doesn’t have to be this way.
Nobody said forever. It wasn’t law. It wasn’t gospel. Your breakup wasn’t carved in stone.
And if he didn’t love you then he wouldn’t have followed you, right? Wouldn’t have pleaded his case to your jury, have your delicate hand as a ruthless judge?
Or Mother Nature. The will that drives his storm.
“I was just really sad.” You say quietly then.
“I know.”
Joel’s whole manner draws you in. His cool collectedness. How level-headed he can be. You stand here crying and he doesn’t make everything about your tears.
You shift on your step and wonder if he’ll move too, but he doesn’t. He waits for you like sunshine. You drop that useless brown paper bag of groceries to the floor with a thump. When your tiptoes are hanging off the step, when your body brushes his and he feels a warm puff of your breath along the bridge of his scarred nose, Joel breaks and his hands raise to your waist. He tells himself it’s to keep you steady. The tiles are damp and you can’t see straight. You might fall, might hurt yourself. Clumsy thing, he’s decided you are.
“I don’t know how to do this.” you whimper, “I don’t know.”
“You’re alright, baby, c’mere.”
And he kisses you then. Easily picks you up by the waist so your feet are lifted from the wet ground. He cradles you like satin. Your fingers knit in his hair and keep him still, and you can feel the warmth radiating from him through his clothes despite the rain, sure to dry faster than you will. It aches to be like this. You hoped you’d feel relief but there isn’t any yet – just this bullseye hurt, finding your weakest point and breaking you from the inside out.
Feeling your hot tears maybe, Joel lowers your feet back to the ground so a hand can come to your cheek and wipe the dampness away, stroking it back along your cheek. He pulls away for a brief moment, checking in, then kisses you once more, no less adoring than the first time. Maybe even more certain in his adoration. Accepting.
This is it. This is it. He feels very himself now. All pieces back together, a whole man, no longer running or fighting or searching.
He paws at you even, thick hands grabbing and pulling at your waist, your back, the crook of your neck, and you oblige so easily. It’s natural for you to let him find comfort in the shape of your body and how well you fit against him.
The lights flicker. You fear, when they come back on again, this will all disappear. But he – Joel – is still standing there with you on the precipice of a step.
When you pull away, out of breath and unsure if you’re still crying, you tug him wordlessly upstairs.
He follows, devout. He grabs the brown paper bag you'd walked so easily away from and he thinks you're scatterbrained too.
Shakily, you unlock your apartment. The door closes and Joel tosses your bag aside and instinctively goes for your jacket. His hands push it off your shoulders as he feverishly kisses you, some kind of urgency to him now, and you feel it too, how there is this time that needs catching up on. His beard scratches your chin and leaves it tender but you don’t care – can barely feel anything – just his hands and his lips and the sturdy weight of him as he pushes you back on to the kitchen table.
Legs either side of his waist, fingers tense on his shoulders, it takes little coaxing at all to get Joel’s hands at your trousers. He unbuttons them, rips the zip down, and works them off you. You hoist your hips to help. And then, when they’re abandoned on the floor, his hands return to your cheeks and nurture your face for a moment before one disappears between your legs to stroke at the wet heat burning between them.
Your hips twitch instinctively into him and a small whine leaves you. He pushes your thighs further apart and toys with your clit. Needy but not sensitive – you haven’t been touched here in a while. Joel knows how you used to get whenever the both of you would be too tired or not in the mood, and how your body would react to his when the time was right. Joel knows he can hardly talk. He’s been burning for you for so long that he swears smoke will slip from his collar.
His thick fingers draw circles into your clit and you suck the air out of his mouth, a sharp and shy inhale, a heat crawling to your cheeks.
“Joel…” you mumble softly.
“Mhm?”
But you say nothing else. His name grounds you. You rut into his fingers just as he digs into you, and his lips work at yours until you need to breathe and moan, so he dips away to kiss your cheeks, your temple, your forehead, the bridge of your nose, then down your neck to suck tiny bruises into your skin. He remembers what you’d said at the very start, when he'd first kissed down here so long ago. Not too visible – I have work to do and people to see. No, he may not have been a great listener, but he always respected what you wanted.
But he’d change, he swears it now, he’ll sit with awkward conversations and upset and conflict, he wouldn’t shy away from it and make you hide, hoarding all your muchness.
He slows his fingers to hear you whine, then speeds up once more until you’re moaning and tightening your legs around him.
Slipping then, tracing the path, he finds your aching hole that twitches toward him before he’s barely reached the edge. He slowly thrusts two fingers into you, testing you, and you clench and whine and roll your hips to take him. He smiles at the crook of your jaw, almost groaning. How easy it would be to take you here.
But Joel’s a gentleman. Quick sex on the table or the counter or the back of the couch may have been routine when you dated, but now he has something to prove, so he’ll take you like this here and then take you properly in the safety of your bed. Your sanctuary.
Fucking you on your table, two seats either side gathering dust, the man grunts in your ear – “You tell me right now if anybody’s had you since me.”
Your head shakes vehemently, appalled by the idea.
“No?”
“No, Joel, no, don’t even-,” and he wedges a third finger inside you and your words turn into gasps, “don’t even say that.”
“’m sorry, baby, I am.” He insists, words muffled against your well-kissed throat, “Any idea what it’s been like without you in the house?” your teeth scrape his shoulder and he shivers, “God, darlin’, it ain’t right without ‘chu – might’ve been my place when you moved in but it sure as hell was yours the second you left.”
“Joel…” you tighten and burn and sweat, tugging at his damp clothes, warmed by the weight of him.
Your whines and moans go quiet, breaths shallow and soft and focussed.
“’s alright, you go on now, show me what I been missin’ – make me look a fool.”
Your orgasm hits you suddenly. With the time that’s passed, your whole body constricts and pulls him in, holds him accountable for what he did to you, and you moan right into his ear. He fucks you through it, a diligent man, hell-bent and heaven-sent. He kisses your jaw, the same spot, his spot, over and over, and if he weren’t a better man then he’d continue a brutal, punishing pace, but he’s not the punishing type, so he slows to feed your flames as your orgasm settles and he stops right before you get overwhelmed.
A damn fool, a stupid old fool - but a happy fool now.
With another kiss to your forehead, I'm your fool, I'm your fool, Joel hoists you up and crosses the small distance to your bedroom. He kisses your swollen lips that ache to have him just as he’s had you.
You scratch all over him and you remember the time he called you kitten – the only time, when your nails were unusually long and you scraped a maze down his spine on an occasion just like this one, bad kitten, he’d called you, nasty girl, look what you did to me, and he said it all with his head between your thighs.
Joel lowers you to the bed, hands tight and constricting your thighs, keeping your whole body cradled against him. Careful not to stop kissing you, feeling you, he reaches between the two of you to unbuckle his belt and force his trousers down, freeing his aching cock and satisfying it immediately by running it up and down your seam, nudging your sensitive clit, piercing your hole just slightly with his purple tip, already beaded with precum that he feeds you with a hiss that escapes his gritted teeth.
“Gon’ drag you home with me. Back where you belong. Jesus, how the hell did I let you leave?” he murmurs this against your cheek, still mostly clothed. He knows he should undress and do this properly, so he can worship you as he’d thought about for months. Fucked his fist thinking about. Ain't that such a terrible thing? He did it guiltily, for guiltily was the only way to do it.
His face drops to your chest and he tongues and licks at your clothed nipple, nipping and biting at your cold skin. When he’s taunted you enough, and you feel it too, nothing but a bundle of electric shocks, he pushes your shirt and bra up. Your peaked nipple craves the warmth his mouth offers as he sucks it between his lips and curls his tongue in circles to feel how it stiffens. Violent hands pull him closer and you’re not sure you’d ever been so desperate to feel him feel you, like it all makes you real and all the better for it.
At your little whimpers, Joel pulls away, worried he’d finish too fast if he listened to them for any longer as he drags his cock through your wetness. He pushes your shirt up over your head and throws it away, leaving you messy but comfortable, a chill to your skin, slightly dewy with the rain.
When he’s done with you, he tells himself he’ll take good care of you – dry every hair on your head and kiss every part of you twice.
Overly aware then of how he’d undressed you completely, he shifts up to kick off his jeans and then tugs his shirt over his head in one swift move.
Dragging you down to the end of the bed, he crowds your body and tugs you about him, sliding in slowly, your core hot and perfect and just as he’d remembered – better, even. You whine and keen and pull at him. Joel’s missed how your insistent hands search for him everywhere.
Joel can’t waste any time. A few thrusts to test your limits then he fucks you. Hands gliding to your waist and your ass and your thighs, he keeps you where he wants you and forces you back against him, his cock reclaiming its space, you offering it to him without words. Sweat builds quickly on his forehead and chest with his pace, enough to leave both of you breathless and fuelled merely by the desperation your separation had left each other. The bed bangs against the wall with every slam of his hips into yours.
Joel’s mouth is open against your decolletage, and he focuses only on the feeling burning from the way you tighten and shift back against his movements. You’re a pliant thing. Numb in the brain and electrified everywhere else. It flows through you like gold, veins set alight, remade in his image.
“Joel…” you whine, breathless, feeling all the places that will ache tomorrow but, for now, are blissed out.
“Shush, it’s okay, honey, swear, it’s alright.”
Regaining his senses, Joel kisses your jaw and then finds your mouth, kissing that too. Fuckin’ beautiful thing, you think you hear. One hand comes to your cheek and his thumb pets your jaw until it finds your lips, where he tugs your lower lip down to coax you open for him. You welcome him easily, his tongue in your mouth, tasting all he’s missed.
And in your bewitched state, you hardly process the feel of his hand lifting one thigh up and higher until you’re opened so painfully for him that you may cry.
“Don’t ever leave me.” You say, very quietly.
“No, no,” his head shakes, “no, ain’t gonna happen – that’s all done now, it ain’t gonna happen again. Tried not bein’ with you and it weren’t no good.”
Shifting then on to his hurting knees, he rams into you with such a force that you’re pushed up the bed, but Joel only drags you back down again and traps you there with a bruising force. Despite the temper of his hands, there is no denying that his actions are nothing short of adoring.
He’s a beastly man with a beastly appetite.
But something in you starts to pull tight. Your whines turn to pants that soon quieten.
“Right there, ain’t it?” he mumbles, “C’mon, honey, I missed you.”
It all snaps in one go. You come hard. Your legs trap him and you rut against him, searching for more of him that you might take, because you’d take anything he gave you. Part of you thinks to ask for it too – please, Joel, anything, I’ll take anything you want me to. There’s no time for shame in your need. Despite your craving, you come so savagely that you almost push him out but he tightens his hold and fucks you through it.
And when you start to come down, Joel murmurs, “Gonna come in you, sweet girl.”
No asking, no nothing – knowing you too well, knowing himself too.
“Please…”
“Baby, in bed, that’s the only time you’re ever gonna have to beg me for anythin’ ever again.”
And he comes suddenly, hands firm on your hips, keeping you still as he grinds and fills you. A warm flicker tingles in your stomach. You quieten. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack.
“Come again, pretty thing.” he tells you then, and his hand drops down to your clit, intent on pulling another one out of you. You whine and shake your head with no real conviction at all. “No, you’re gonna, I know you can.”
So, he sets a pace, quick circles on your bud and just above it, until you’re arching again and coming around his sensitive cock once more. This one is snappier. It comes suddenly and fades with ease, leaving you limp and tired. His hips crush yours and he stubbornly ignores the impulse to move from the overstimulation you cause him.
He kisses you gently then. Far gentler than he’d done anything whilst he’s been with you tonight. Maybe he’s trying to prove he can be.
Still, your hips move, hurting now, pushing yourself, and you think you’ve always been like that. Joel smiles at you, breaking his small kisses, and he runs a hand up and down your thigh, wanting to settle you. You follow his silent instruction and let your legs drop, a sigh leaving you, both in the pain of moving them and the relief in them relaxing.
“Easy, girl.” He tells you then.
Joel pulls out slowly, not to hurt you. Staring down at the place you met, his fingers dip between your thighs to push his spend back into you. You flinch and wince, sore now.
“Sorry.” you say.
“No, no,” he pets your cheek, “you were perfect, you are.”
“I’m not.”
On rare occasions, Joel had watched tears prick in your eyes when the act had ended. He never minded. The first time, it scared the living hell out of him. He thought you were running for the hills the second you got your pants on.
But no.
The emotional thing you are, the come down from your high often left you reeling.
Your jaw tightens and you’re teary again. Joel just smiles kindly and kisses your cheek. Grabbing blankets from the bed that had been dishevelled, he nods for you to sit up a little and, wiping your eyes on the back of your hands, you do so. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders.
“No need for cryin’, honey.” He tells you, “Gon’ take care of you now.”
And, like it was only yesterday he’d done this exact routine, he does what’s natural to him – cleans you up, dries the sweat from your skin with a towel, dresses you in sweatpants and an old t-shirt for a band you don’t listen to anymore. He persuades you to take two painkillers, knowing he’d pushed you as far as he could, and watches you down a glass of water.
He speaks to you gently. Offers reassurance often. Pretty girl. That’s right. You got it, you’re okay.
Until your mind has settled and you’re back with him properly, able to gaze at him in the dim light of your bedroom without tears in your eyes.
Only wearing his briefs, he’s still somehow warming you up under the blankets. You feel the weight of his cock against his inner thigh as you rest against him, your core close. You could so easily grind on him and wind him up all over again, but you're already hurting. His fingers trace circles on your shoulder whilst you map the hairs on his chest and the scar on his stomach from a construction accident he had many years ago – almost died, he’d told you, never trust a fool to do a man’s job, damn fence weren’t secure properly at all, fell right through it on to some rubble and metal and pipes - any further to the right and it’d have cut my intestines up like beef links.
“I saw you once.” He tells you then, and his voice is very quiet.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” He says, “You ain’t see me, obviously. You were headin’ out somewhere. Runnin’ late, you were walkin’ all fast and looked frazzled. For a second, I forgot about…” his head shakes and he doesn’t think to say it – maybe you can just move past it now, be a new thing, “but then I remembered.”
“I get that.” You sigh, “Some days, it felt like having to remember over and over again.” You shift so you’re looking up at him and he adjusts you against his chest, “I saw you once. I mean, I saw your truck. You were getting gas. I ran the other way.”
“I ain’t that scary, am I?”
“No, I mean… no…”
“What?”
“You’re not scary. But… I think what we made of each other was scary. I’m not scared of you now. But, when we were separated… yeah, I was scared. Of what you’d do or say or how you’d look at me. Or if you’d be with anyone else.”
“That-,” his head shakes, “no, no, not even slightly, never, baby.”
His beard brushes your forehead, and he kisses your warm skin. Arm wrapping your waist, he hoists you more on to him, hips firmly pressed around his thigh and hip.
“Tell me you love me.” Your little demand reminds him of your most vibrant self – I know you love me, say you love me, go on, say it, and you used to nag him like that with the biggest grin on your face because you knew how to get under his skin just right, “If you mean it.”
Joel sighs, hands all over you, refreshing his memory, trying to erase the last time he’d seen you properly before now; all upset and angry and not saying any of it at all as you took the last box of your stuff – neatly folded and arranged, clothes cleaned, books in a neat pile on one side – and replacing that with this image of you here, content and curled up and warm, safe, held.
“Oh honey… I love you.”
joel miller masterlist
if you like angsty fighting, you may enjoy moon-bug, and if you enjoy yearning smut then you may like unearthed
crystal - stevie knicks
work song - hozier
moon song - phoebe bridgers
i do not care if he's gay or bi or whatever and it's so stupid to see people online speculate about him possibly having a boyfriend. people are dying. 😭
The sex is great. It really is. Clint makes you come more than any man ever has, is attentive to your needs and makes you feel like a goddess, but… It's so sweet it swerves into the lane of boredom. And while Clint's loving nature is a very welcome change to what you're used to, you still feel like there's something amiss.
So, one late night on the phone with your best friend, you concoct a plan to get freaky.
read it on archiveofourown / click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: established relationship, reader is afab and goes by she/her, this takes place around six years after freaky tales, early 90s, you don't need to have seen the movie to understand the fic, no y/n, there's no physical description of reader, clint is very vanilla and then he isn't, mentions of food, hardcore porn vhs tapes, clint flood's huge cock, poor communication, smut (d/s dynamics, lil bit of brat!tamer clint, choking, belt spanking, creampie, face slapping, a lot of degradation, face-fucking, titty-fucking, dirty talk, unprotected piv).
rating: +18.
word count: 4.8k.
fox says: hello friends, thank you so much for reading! this is my first time writing for clint and i have to say it was kind of like pulling teeth lol i rewrote this twice and went back and forth a lot on how i wanted to go about the story and maybe put too much thought into the characters' relationship for something that was supposed to be just smut (and then i ended up removing most of the backstory anyway smksmkms) also i know clint's wife was named grace but i'm not sure if they ever named his daughter in the movie and i couldn't be assed to rewatch it to find out so i just named her myself sorry if its not canon it is now!! anyway enjoy the debauchery and pls let me know how we feel about it!
entry for the 2026 kinky challenge hosted by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking! my character was clint, obviously, and my kink was choking!
Clint is nothing like the people you've dated before. He's closed off and mean-looking, but he is the sweetest man you've ever met, caring and funny and he loves his daughter like your parents never did to you. For a man that makes a living out of hurting people, he is the least violent of your paramours, always being extra gentle with you and the people around him— The people he isn't being paid to kill or maim, that is.
The two of you meet at the record shop you work at, a frazzled single father of a young child that wouldn't sleep unless she could listen to the same Sesame Street LP every night, which Clint had lost during their move to Piedmont. You help him find the vinyl and, against your own better judgment, take the leap of asking him out that same day.
When Clint finally comes clean about what he did for a living, about two months after your first date, it doesn’t make you run like he seems to expect: It only makes you want him more, the thrill of a dangerous man that treats you like a queen, a man with violence in his eyes and bloodied fists like a dog guarding its sheep. That's not who Clint is, though— He is who he is despite the violence, not because of it; a quiet, soft man with a shy smile and warm brown eyes. A gentle giant, in every aspect of his life apart from his work.
There is, however, one more place you wish he would forgo such gentleness: Your bedroom. The sex is great. It really is. He makes you come more than any man ever has, is attentive to your needs and makes you feel like a goddess, but… It's so sweet it swerves into the lane of boredom. You're used to fast, rough fucks that leave you bruised and sore and, while the loving nature from Clint is a very welcome change to that, you still feel like there's something amiss.
You just don't know how to bring it up. It's not like you can just say his lovemaking is boring without offending him or, worse, suggesting something that will make him think you're disgusting.
You tell your best friend your plan over the phone one night while Clint is busy putting Lua to sleep, giving her all the nitty-gritty details of how you’re going to get your loving boyfriend to treat you like the whore you want to be while she giggles and tries to give you some sort of helpful advice. She’s the one that brings up the idea of nonchalantly trying to ease him into something kinkier like a crab in a cold water pot. Talk to him about what he likes, is her real advice, start simple and find some common ground first. But you like the analogy of the crab too much to pay any attention to the important part of what she says. You know there’s a certified freak hidden somewhere inside that giant soft man, he just needs the right push to get it out.
You and Clint have scheduled date nights— Between the awful hours of his work and the difficulty of finding a babysitter, setting specific day reserved just for the two of you is what works the best; it's not the most exciting thing in the world, but his baby needs a regular schedule, and you're fine with that. Gives you time to prepare yourself, shaving and scrubbing and moisturizing every part of your body, stomach thrumming with the knowledge of where the night is going. It also gives you time to get his house ready— You both agreed to go out for the evening, but you drop Lua off at the babysitter’s about an hour earlier than you’re supposed to, and then drive to his house. You have a whole plan: A cozy movie night, lots of wine and snacks before you make your move.
Even the movies you’ve chosen are carefully curated: Fright Night, because Clint has been saying he wants to watch it for almost a decade now, and Animal Instincts— Which was a recommendation from your friend, who swears it’s not porn despite the movie being in the triple x section at the video store. It seems like the perfect fit, getting his blood pumping from a scary movie only to bombard him with steamy sex scenes afterwards. Maybe, with that combination, he might be tempted to try something else other than missionary. You sneak into his house with your bag of goodies – Clint had given you a key about three weeks earlier, when he got caught up at work and needed someone to check on his kid, and this is the first time you show up unannounced – and set the snacks in the fridge, the popcorn on the stove ready to be popped, chocolates and candies and a small assortment of pretzels set on a pretty dish. You take your time with the pullout couch, going through Clint’s linen closet to set up a small nest with the softest blankets he owns, the toys scattered across the living room packed away back into Lua’s bedroom. You have the lighting set just right, soft and warm coming from the floor lamp next to the couch, all you have to do left is set up the movie in the VHS player.
There is a tape inside the player already— Bright red plastic, no name on the side, and you get far too curious about it to simply take it out and replace it with your copy of Fright Night, so you pop it back in and hit play.
Clint hadn’t rewinded it yet, and so the movie starts exactly where he left off: A woman on the ground on all fours, her hair soaked with sweat falling over her face as the man behind her pulls her backwards by a metal leash. They’re in a room with red velvet walls and carpeted in the same blood-like color, a messy bed behind them but they’re both on the ground, the man holding the leash tight with one hand while the other grips her ass so tightly his fingers dig into the flesh. The woman is still half dressed, her tits spilling out from a black leather corset and her legs covered by fishnet tights that have been ripped down her legs at some point, the flimsy fabric hanging off of her thighs; there’s remnants of cum of the back of the corset, the video already at the forty minutes mark.
The woman is getting absolutely railed, her entire body shaking as the man pulls her by the leash onto his cock over and over again, but all you can focus on is the other man, the one in front of her, one of his legs kneeling while the other is bent by her head. He’s big and burly, stomach jutting a little over his giant cock, his graying curls falling over his forehead and for a quick, ludicrous moment you think the man on the screen is Clint. It isn’t, though— The man has a big tattoo on his arm that you know Clint doesn’t have, and his cock despite how big it is, is still not as thick as your boyfriend’s. The woman has some trouble swallowing it whole, though, gagging for a moment before the other man yanks her head back by the leash. The man in front of her grabs her by the hair on the top of her head, tilting it so far back you think it might snap her neck.
“You like that, don’t you, slut?” The man that looks like Clint asks, his voice heavy with a distinctly Eastern European accent that you can’t properly place. He hits her face twice, slapping her cheek so hard the smacking sound reverberates through your body straight to your cunt. The man pulls her jaw open with his thumb, spitting inside her mouth before delivering yet another harsh slap to her face. “Getting fucked lik—”
You’re so engrossed in the movie you don’t even notice Clint’s car pulling up to the driveway until it’s too late, and you fumble with the remote to pause the video. You dive from the couch, but the front door opens before you can hit the eject button.
Clint pauses by the front door, one hand holding his leather jacket, the other still on the doorknob. There is a brief, heavy silence as he looks at the screen. You hit the eject button a second too late, kneeling on the floor too far away from the VCR, having to stretch yourself to reach it.
“You forgot to rewind it.” You say, mostly because you’re not certain what to do when getting caught watching the hardcore Eastern European porn your boyfriend had been watching in his living room TV. “I wasn’t sure what it was, so I just hit play and… Uh… I can go back to the part where you stopped if you want.”
“I was doing research.” Clint tells you. He closes the door behind him, but makes no move to leave the entryway. “Heard you on the phone the other night, gossiping with your friend. Naughty girl, telling someone else all about our business.”
His words send a thrill down your spine. “I’m sorry.” You say, but you’re anything but. “I know how private you are. I didn’t mean to—”
“I didn’t say you could talk.”
The rest of your sentence dies in your throat, and you have to fight off the smile that is trying to break through your apologetic façade. You stay silent, staring up at him from your position on the ground, Clint’s eyes flitting to the TV screen before falling back to you.
“Stand up.”
You do as you say, hands clasping behind your back as Clint approaches you slowly, his boots hitting the ground hard as he comes to stand in front of you, your head tilting backwards to stare at him in the face. You’re not certain what he’s about to do, you think he might kiss you or laugh it off or even tell you to start the tape again.
Instead, Clint’s hand sneaks underneath your skirt, his thick fingers pulling your underwear to the side as he dips a little into your core.
“You’re wet.” His voice is low but taunting, as if he’s making fun of you and you bristle, pulling back from his touch, arms crossing over your chest.
“Well, you’re the one that left porn playing on the TV. It’s quite a natu—”
Your words are cut off when his hand comes down onto your face, the sharp sound of his palm connecting to your cheek taking space over your voice. The slap is hard but not too painful, and you know he’s holding back.
“Didn’t I just say you weren’t allowed to speak, girl?”
You open your mouth to apologize, but one quirk of Clint’s eyebrow has you snapping your jaw shut. He hums in approval, his knuckles brushing carefully over the warm skin of your cheek.
“You’re going to go upstairs, take off your clothes and lie down.” He tells you, and you nod, jumping a little when he smacks your ass as you walk past him. “Keep the panties on.”
Clint takes so long to come upstairs that you decide to start by yourself — a small part of you hoping he’ll punish you for it —, your hand sneaking inside the red lace you bought especially for him, one hand toying with your clit while the other teases a nipple lazily. He’s removed his flannel, wearing nothing but his jeans and a gray shirt that you’re certain was black when he first bought it. He pads quietly into the room, stopping about halfway in when he finally notices the hand inside your underwear.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“You took too long.” You say, giving him your cheekiest smile. “Figured I should start without you— If you took long enough I might’ve finished without you, too.”
That’s not exactly true; you’re still far away from an orgasm, but the look on his face makes you giggle. Clint grabs you by the ankle, tugging you harshly until your legs are dangling from the bed. You squeal, your heels coming up to rest on the mattress, fully opening yourself up to him.
“This pussy is mine.” Clint growls, pulling your underwear to the side. You spread your knees a little more, breath stuttering when his knuckles brush against your clit. “You don’t get to touch it unless I let ya, you hear me?”
“Yup.”
Clint pinches your clit, not hard enough to hurt but enough that you jolt. “None of that shit. You’re going to be polite, call me sir and mind your manners, or you won’t get to come.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Atta girl.” His words go straight to your cunt, a fresh wave of slick dampening the finger that is now toying with your entrance. “Now, you’re going to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
“I want you to fuck me, sir.”
Clint tuts. “I need more than that. You were very specific with your friend on the phone.”
“I want you to fuck me like a whore. I want you to use me, get real’ rough.” You lick your lips, trying to remember what it was that you had said on the phone. “I want you to pull my hair and smack me around and choke me until I feel like I’m going to pass out.”
The hunger in Clint’s eyes could swallow you up whole. “Like the woman on the tape? You want to be my lil’ cumdump?”
“Yes, sir.”
Your legs move to snap together subconsciously at his words but Clint simply gives them a rough tug, spreading you even further than before; you’re certain your underwear is drenched by now even though it’s still pulled to the side, your wetness smearing all over your inner thighs and slowly dripping down to your ass. Clint runs a hand over your cunt for a moment as if he’s deciding what to do before stepping back.
“Turn around and raise that pretty ass for me. You’ve been real naughty, mouthing me off and touching yourself without permission. Gotta teach you a lesson first.”
You flip around with shaky legs, taking a deep breath as you settle on all fours, back arched as prettily as you can; you wish there was a mirror somewhere, anything that could make you see what Clint is doing. The sound of his belt buckle clicking open has you shuffling, cunt clenching around nothing; you almost think he’s going to fuck you like that, on all fours with your panties still on but instead you’re surprised at the snapping of his leather belt, the thin strip connecting with the back of your thighs in a striking blow; he hits you high enough that it catches on your pussy and you wail, body jolting forward as you cuss.
“God— Fuck.”
“Watch your mouth.” Clint says before delivering another hit, the belt this time hitting you on the fat of your ass. You bite down on your tongue, moan reverberating through your teeth and eyes shutting close at the sting that persists even after he pulls away. “Think you can take another one?” His voice is soft, slipping out of character and you smile through the pain.
“Yes, sir.”
The last one is harder than the first two, and this time as the belt hits your pussy you think he might’ve done it on purpose; you shudder, the pain mixed with a pleasure so strong you need to fist the sheets to stop yourself from touching your clit. Clint leans down, pressing a kiss to the welt that is already starting to form on the back of your thigh before he steps away; you hear the rustling of clothes as he undresses, and you need to hold yourself from looking over your shoulder, unsure if that is something he would allow. Clint brings his hand to your left hip, pulling harshly so you flip over, bouncing on the mattress with the power of his tug; you let yourself sprawl now that you’re on your back again, hands above your head as you stare at the man kneeling at the edge of the bed. He’s broad and strong, thick everywhere, muscles hidden underneath a healthy layer of fat— You love that about him, how he reminds you of the burly men from a decade ago rather than the gym rats you see now. His cock stands proud from a base of well-trimmed hair that is starting to gray, just as thick and big as the rest of him, the tip drooling and dark enough that you think it might be painful.
Clint pushes your legs closed, crawling up your body until he is hovering over your stomach. You open your mouth, thinking he might feed you his cock but instead Clint shoves two fingers inside your mouth; you close your lips around them, sucking as if they were his cock, head bobbing as you run your tongue over the pad of his fingers. Clint groans, and then pushes another finger inside your mouth, curling all three a little to the side, catching on your cheek. His pupils are blown wide by the time he takes them out of your mouth, using a mixture of your spit and his precum to wet his cock.
“Are you going to let me suck you off?” You ask, unable to stop yourself, and Clint pinches one of your nipples.
“Shut up.” He squeezes your tits, pushing them together and kneading at the flesh, his thumbs rolling over your nipples. “You don’t get to make demands. You’re going to lie here and take what I give you.”
“Yes, sir.” You say, watching mesmerized as Clint pushes his cock in the valley of your breasts, squeezing your tits as he starts to fuck them. Your hands take hold of his powerful thighs, grounding yourself as Clint grunts above you, his slick cock moving fast between your tits. Even though he told you not to, you can’t help but to stick your tongue out, head slightly bent, the head of his cock tapping on the flat of your tongue with every thrust. Clint moans at the sight, his hips stuttering long enough for the tip of his cock to push into your mouth; you lap at it, taking advantage of the moment.
“Fuck, you’re such a cockslut you can’t even follow simple orders, can you?” He barks out above you, letting go of your tits so he can pull you by the hair, setting you in the position he wants— half sitting up, head slightly turned as he mounted over you, pushing his cock into your mouth without preamble.
Clint has always been very well behaved when you go down on him. He doesn’t thrust into your mouth or push you by the head, sitting as still as he can and letting you take the reigns but this time he is brutal with it, hand still fisted in your hair, shoving his cock so far down your throat that your nose pushes into his pubic bone. Your hands flail back to his thighs, holding yourself steady as you panic for a brief moment but Clint just holds you there, the tip of his cock nudging down your throat, not moving and not letting you move as your throat clenches around him.
“Look at me.” He orders, and you look up through the tears, your lips stretched around him. “Breathe through your nose.” Clint tells you, his voice once again taking that soft tone you’re used to— His eyes burn bright, though, and he only starts moving after your breathy exhale. His thrusts are slow at first, careful despite the harshness of the first one and you can only take; you don’t even have time to properly suck him, just keeping your mouth open and drooling as he fucks into you, picking up speed as he seems to lose himself in it. “Such a good mouth. Maybe I should keep you like this— Good girl only when you’re stuffed full, huh? Fuck, you were made for this— Just takin’ my good down your throat like the perfect little slut you are.”
Clint stops abruptly, your nose once more smushed to his pubes and you don’t have to look to know he’s trying not to come, his breathing ragged and unsteady before he pulls out of your mouth. His cock is covered in your spit, dripping down his balls as he pulls back. Your jaw aches but you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this relaxed, your head a little fuzzy as you wipe the drool from your chin. Clint kisses you, the first he’s done so this evening, both of his hands cradling your neck.
“Up the bed.” He tells you and you scramble backwards, laying down with your head on the pillow, hooded eyes staring at the man as he crawls after you. Clint tugs at your underwear, ripping it at the seams as he pulls it off of you. You open your mouth to protest but think better of it and he smiles at you, sharp and nasty. “Maybe I’ll gag you with it next time. Gon’ look damn pretty all tied up and gagged in my bed.”
Your entire body shivers at the thought, your cunt clenching around nothing and Clint notices it. “You like that, don’t you?” He runs a finger up your slit, collecting your wetness before he brings it to his mouth. “Don’t think you’ve ever been this wet before. If I knew I had such a dirty little whore, I would’ve fucked you like you deserve a long time ago.”
You whine, wanting to beg but knowing there will be consequences if you speak, your hips pushing up to chase him.
“Oh yeah, got all sorts of plans for my perfect little slut.” He says, lining up his cock with your entrance. You tense for a moment, knowing that despite how wet you are, you’re not nearly prepared to take someone as big as he is. “Gon’ have you naked and begging for me all the time, making you lick my come off the floor and having your ass black and blue from my belt. And you’ll take it, won’t you? My perfect cumdump, the tightest hole always there for me to use—”
He pushes inside of you at that, one brutal thrust that has you wailing, head thrown back against the pillow. It hurts, the stretch just on the side of too much, but Clint stays still and toys with your clit as he waits for you to adjust. “Holy shit, you’re so tight like this.” He pants. “Don’t think I’ll ever finger you open anymore. Just bend you over and shove my cock inside. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You don’t answer, the pain quickly melting into pleasure, and Clint smacks you across the face. “I asked you a question, whore.”
“Yes.” You answer immediately. “Yes, sir. Want you to use me all the time. Whenever you want, I’m ready— Always ready for you.”
Clint starts moving slowly, half-thrusts that are more to get you used to him than actually pleasure but it soon has you keening, the wet squelches of your cunt drowning out the small noises you make.
“Please.” You whisper to him, your eyes glued to his face. “Please fuck me, sir. Like the girl— Like the girl from the movie—”
Clint pulls your legs up, your ankles by his shoulders as he slams into you in hard, long thrusts that have you jolting upwards on the bed.
“This what you want? For me to wreck this pussy?” He grits out, leaning over you, your body folded in a way you didn’t think was possible. “Calling me boring because I was trying to respect you, treat you like the lady I thought you were.”
All you can do is call his name, not a single coherent thought going through your head as he fucks you insanely hard, all of your focus on how big he felt inside of you, how his cock rubbed in the right spot inside of you with every brutal thrust. You’re wailing, tears polling around your eyes and drool collecting inside of your mouth, and all you can think of is him.
“Gonna ruin you for anyone else.” Clint said. His hand comes up, wrapping around your neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there so you don’t slide upwards on the bed. “Nobody is ever going to fuck you the way I do. Y’hear me? You’re mine, mine to fuck and use as I please.”
“Yes, sir.” You mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Just you, just you—”
“Fuck, I’m gonna come in this pussy, mark you as mine, fuck my own cum deep inside of you—” Clint squeezes your neck, cutting off the string of words you’re barely aware you’re repeating. You struggle to breathe, entirely forgetting that you could do it through your nose— Every single cell on your body feels like it’s on fire, pleasure and pain and adrenaline kicking in as your brain tries to fight for survival while you pussy spasms against Clint’s cock.
You black out for a moment, your orgasm ripping through you so powerfully that you’re not even aware of how your screams are dampened by the hand pressing down on the sides of your neck with enough power to bruise, or the way you gush around his cock and your body shakes underneath him.
When you come to, it is to Clint’s concerned face hovering over yours. He has a wet rag running down your neck, warm and fluffy as he wipes away your sweat.
“Are you okay?” He asks, concern laced in his rough voice. “I’m so sorry, honey, I went too hard on you, I—”
“Clint.” You say, your voice raspy, throat sore from all the screaming and the fucking. “I’m fucking perfect.”
“You passed out.” He says, the rag now down to your stomach. “That’s not normal. I shouldn’t have pushed it, I got too into it and I thought you—”
“I loved it.” You say, legs spreading a little as he wipes you clean of his spend. It makes you feel a little overexposed, embarrassed by your nakedness as if you hadn’t just let him twist and turn you into a fuck puppet. There is only affection in his eyes and care in his touch, which is light and brief in the parts where you feel the most sore. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He laughs then, relieved and embarrassed at the same time. “Neither did I.” Clint drops the rag, laying down next to you and pulling you to his chest. “I’ll go get you some water in a minute, just need to get my legs working again.”
“Did you…” You bite down your lip, fingertip drawing little patterns on the hair on his chest. “Did you enjoy it too?”
“I did. God, I did.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Didn’t know all that stuff could be good. Wasn’t sure I was going to enjoy it, honestly.”
“Thank you for giving it a try.” You say. “And I’m sorry I spoke to someone else about it. You should’ve told me you heard it.”
“Kind of wanted to surprise you.” He replies. “And I wanted to do a lot of, uh, research on it first. Didn’t want to disappoint you again.”
You swivel, your forearm resting on his stomach and he oofs when you rest your weight on top of it. “You never disappointed me, Clint. Not once. You’re the best fucking boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
He runs his fingers over your throat, tracing the spots that are sore and you know will bruise in the morning. “Never thought I’d use my hands on you like that. Can’t be right.”
“It’s just a hand, Clint.” You bring his hand up to your face, pressing kisses to his knuckles, some of them swollen from years of being broken over and over again. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”
“I love you.” He says, his fingers lingering on your bottom lip. “And I want to make you happy.”
“I love you too.” It’s the first time either of you have said those words, and the moment feels far more intimate than anything that has happened in the last hour or so. “You make me happy everyday. I’ll take an entire lifetime of missionary with you rather than freaky sex with anyone else.”
“Hopefully you can get both of them with me.” He smiles, a little shy, eyes squinting. “I had a really good time.”
You smile, and kiss him, and think about the tape still on the VCR downstairs, still unfinished.
A really good time indeed.
general taglist: @itsafullmoon @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hopecomesbacktolife @amourflores @rosharanfiction @shadowqueen2024 (if you'd like to join, please let me know!)
also tagging peeps who showed interest in reading this: @shilohispunk @honey-moon-13
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
origamiaround
gummygunk
discoholicmusic
dailybridgerton
pixelskylines
