married Jack and he’s doing u on his and his wife’s bed >_<
“ja.. jack..!” you squealed out, hands flailing to try and cover your mouth automatically. the man in question chuckled at your little face scrunch and how cute you looked panicked.
he tilted his head down at you, weight being held up by his forearms, grin spreading across his lips. shoulders flexing at every deep stroke, “yeah, sweetie? can’t hear you like that..” he teased.
you took in his calm expression, remembering she isn’t here. there’s no worry.. you let your hands slip away and find his chest, biting your lip on a smile. “you just.. ah!.. you feel so good..” you giggled out.
“me? oh, that’s all you little lady.. you treat me so well,” he pecked your nose before leaning back on his knees, placing your legs over his shoulders and gave your left knee a gentle kiss.
your eyes widened at the new vulnerable position, hands stuttering for something to do. jack smiled at how different you looked compared to who usually resided on this bed. how more at place you looked.. he rubbed the side of his face against your inner thigh, “i like you like this. in your bed. claiming this spot as yours, it’s all yours pretty lady.”
his serious face felt so reassuring. just for the moment, you let yourself melt into the fantasy. giving in to the urge to trail your fingers down yourself, encouraged by his words.
he continued rocking into you, kissing at your leg, other hand coming down to splay out on your lower belly, watching himself fuck into you. and how your smaller body shook at every push.
your little mewls and whimpers, big glossy eyes staring up at him, fingers fiddling at your clit. “mhm.. my little lady gonna help me sleep tonight? rub her scent into the sheets so i can smell it later? mark up the bed for me, sweetie. can you do that for me?”
Tags: SMUT, MDNI 18+, Pussy eating, Age gap (50s and 20s) (Not implied directly) , puppy play, slight praise kink, nicknames (puppy,baby), orgasm, fingering
W.C.: around 540?
Note: Hey everyone! apologies but not a really long one this week! If anyone is interested, i made a taglist for anyone who wants to stay tuned to my work! I’m also going to start working on a long fic because my creative juices are overflowing ahah! As always thank you for the love and support! It always makes my day :)
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
꒰ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ꒱
“Now look at that..” Joel chuckles and stares at you and your new ‘dog’ collar you’re wearing that he just bought, you lay down at the centre of the bed with Joel standing at the side of the bed, above you as he stares at your neck you adorned with your new collar, you weren’t wearing anything but your new collar just as Joel instructed you , before surprising you.
He eagerly bought it from the local pet shop, the collar has a pink and white plaided design with a little clasp making it easier to put on or off, just like most dog collars theres an added little silver coloured bell , ringing by even the smallest move of your upper body.
“It’s really pretty..” you giggle and beam from excitement as you stare at Joel , who’s still admiring you. “Saw it and just knew it was for you,” he smirks and lets his eyes wander on the rest of your body.
“Thank you.. I love it,” you say as the corners of your mouth twitch into a wide smile.
“Gunna let me enjoy this new little collar on you..?” he mutters lowly, you continue to stare at him and nod in confirmation and then he gently gets on the bed in front of you just in front of your lower body.
He takes a moment to enjoy your glistening pussy, covered with your juices, already wet and ready for him, he snickers and then in a beat he plants each hand on each of your thigh, he moves his head closer between your thighs and wastes no time to take a long lap on your cunt with his tongue letting out a groan.
You let out a sensual moan just from lap of his tongue, the little bell from your collar slightly chiming as your chest moves up and down by you breathing heavily. Tonguing you between your folds, making him groan again as he tastes your sweet juices, “Taste so good, baby..” he grunts still taking long licks between your folds. He then slowly lets two of his fingers enter your hole, letting his fingers move in and out of you in a moderate pace.
“Fucking delicious” he mumbles as his mouth continues, he then moves to tease your clit with his tongue, eventually overstimulating the poor little bud making you moan and whimper loudly.
You turn your head to the side the feeling causing you to shut your eyes as his fingers goes in and out of you,
“Only look at me, puppy,” he sternly says as he shoots you a quick look, you quickly open your eyes and turn your head forward to look at him again as he commanded, you then continue to let out moans and whimpers slowly reaching your climax.
“I’m gonna-“ You moan “Gonna come,” you whimper, Joel groans, “It’s alright, baby, let go, puppy” he mumbles as he mouth continues to work, still pleasuring your clit.
And in a flash you let out a stream of loud moans, your body twitching as you reach the peak of your arousal, you breathe heavily, your chest raising and falling in a quick pace making your collar bell slightly jingle and as Joel pulls away from you he smiles and praises you. “Good job, puppy..”
synopsis: you knew this universe would be different. you just didn’t expect to hear your own voice calling adrian “babe.” now there’s two of you, two of him, and way too many feelings you’ve been ignoring.
pairings: adrian chase x f!reader (reader is implied poc. see post for more details about it)
tags: friends to lovers, slow build, mutual pining, slowburn, fluff with a bit of angst
warnings: mentions of injury and blood, brief references to violence, canon typical violence
word count: 15, 980 ── crossposted on ao3
a/n: hello everyone, i highly suggest reading the post regarding the reader. i hope you enjoy reading and also, i made a spotify playlist for the fic. i suggest listening to it while reading :D magnets | adrian c. playlist
Instead of staying with Economos and Leota, you had decided to tag along with Adrian on his quest to find his so-called “other me.” You’d called him ridiculous, because, well, he was. But curiosity won out. What would another Adrian even be like? Smarter? Colder? Maybe less prone to talking about animal facts?
You didn’t know what you expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.
Because now you were standing in the middle of his secret room, the alternate-universe Adrian’s secret room. And the weirdest part? It was almost identical to the one you knew. Same cramped walls lined with gleaming weapons, same smell of metal and disinfectant hanging thick in the air. The only real difference was the absence of the stacks of cocaine and money shoved between shelves.
If it weren’t for that, you might’ve thought you were back home.
And then there were the two Adrians.
They faced each other like a live-action Spider-Man meme, each pointing, tilting their heads, speaking in the same cadence, so much so that you burst into laughter because of how ridiculous this was.
The “other Adrian” froze mid-point and looked at you with wide eyes.
“Wow,” he said, grinning, “you laugh exactly like her!”
You blinked, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Like… your me?”
“Yeah!” Other Adrian said brightly, as if this was the most normal conversation in the world. “Uncanny. It’s like you cloned her laugh and just dropped it in your throat.”
“Okay, weird phrasing,” you muttered, still smiling despite yourself.
Beside you, your Adrian was practically vibrating. “See? He gets it. You’re basically the same here too, which makes sense, because we’re basically the same, and that means we can totally trust each other.” He gestured between himself and his double like it was a done deal.
“Adrian,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You can’t just trust… yourself. That easily.”
“Why not?” he asked, genuinely baffled.
“Because—” you gestured vaguely toward the other one, “you don’t know him. Just because he’s you doesn’t mean he’s actually you.”
“That makes no sense,” both Adrians said at the exact same time, which only made you laugh harder.
Your Adrian grinned and leaned closer, as if he’d just landed the winning argument. “If you trust me, you trust him. Or, well, me. And him. Us.”
Other Adrian nodded enthusiastically, pointing at him. “Exactly. Finally, someone who understands how logic works.”
You groaned. “God help me, there’s two of you.”
One Adrian, you could handle. Barely. But two? That was like standing in front of a broken fire hydrant, water blasting out in every direction, and you had no choice but to sit down and let it drench you. So you sat down on the couch and watched the chaos unfold in front of you.
They were babbling at each other like kids comparing trading cards. What the best Pokémon is, random facts about animals, bizarre facts about themselves. The conversation ping-ponged so fast it was almost dizzying.
And while they rambled, you studied them.
Up close, the similarities were almost unnerving. The posture, the restless hands, the way their voices lifted with enthusiasm even when the topic was wildly inappropriate, nearly identical. Even their Vigilante suits were the same, down to the stitching pattern. If you squinted, the only obvious difference was the glasses. Your Adrian’s frames were silver and rectangular, sharp edges catching the light. The other Adrian’s were gold and round, softer, almost old-fashioned.
Which was the problem.
Because if this Adrian really was just like yours… then maybe, despite your better judgment, he was trustworthy. But then the other Adrian casually dropped the bomb.
“I fucking hate that guy.”
The words hit you sideways, sharp enough to cut through their endless stream of chatter. You turned, brows raised. “Wait, what?”
Other Adrian’s mouth twisted, and for the first time, his expression carried something darker than gleeful energy. “I’ve dedicated my entire life to tearing down everything he stands for.”
You opened your mouth to press, what exactly did that mean?, but didn’t get the chance.
Your Adrian jumped in, instantly defensive, insisting Peacemaker was his best friend, his other half in the field, two peas in a pod. His voice rose with each word, equal parts pride and exasperation. Alt-Adrian, however, was unshaken. To him, Peacemaker wasn’t a friend. He was an archenemy, the entire reason he’d joined the Sons of Liberty in this world.
That gave you pause. Because if Adrian hated someone this much, there had to be a reason.
You were slowly connecting the dots. From what Chris had told you, his father and brother were alive here, and not just alive, but thriving. All three of them, working together, some kind of untouchable trio. And the name Sons of Liberty… it wasn’t exactly subtle. You just needed confirmation.
You leaned forward, pulse quickening. “Okay,” you started, voice steadier than you felt, “Elaborate. Now. ‘Cause clearly somethings wrong–”
Alt-Adrian drew in a breath, like he’d been waiting for the chance to finally explain. His mouth opened, the words forming already, something heavy enough to split the room in half—
“Babe?”
The sound sliced straight through the air, through your skin, down into your ribs. A single word, but your body recognized it instantly. The cadence was familiar, achingly so. Familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.
Your head snapped toward the doorway before you could stop yourself. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d imagined it, that the weirdness of this world was finally unraveling you but no. The voice carried again, closer this time, playful and casual, the way yours sometimes was when your guard slipped.
“Babe, you in here?”
It was your voice.
Your voice. Calling Adrian babe.
You’d expected differences here. Of course you had. You weren’t stupid. But you hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t been braced for a version of you who spoke words you couldn’t even imagine saying out loud. You’d let your guard drop because both Adrians were so alike, because their sameness made you feel almost safe. And now this felt like the floor giving way.
It wasn’t just your voice. It was your voice, laced with a kind of closeness you’d always denied yourself, something you’d only let surface in the quiet, private corners of your mind. To hear it now, out loud, was unbearable.
Your Adrian went still, so still you could almost hear the gears in his head grinding to a halt. For once, the constant hum of chatter that usually spilled from his mouth was gone. Nothing but silence, wide eyes darting from you to the doorway like he was stuck in some bizarre nightmare he couldn’t logic his way out of.
And then she stepped in.
Her.
You.
Or rather, another you.
The sight of her nearly knocked the air out of your chest. Same face, same frame, same sharp lines in the brow and curve of the mouth, but different, too. Her hair was cropped shorter, cut uneven, like she’d taken scissors to it herself without much care beyond getting it out of her way. And though the outfit she wore was almost uncanny in its similarity to what you would’ve thrown on back home, there was a weight to it here. A sharper edge. As if the clothes weren’t just clothes but armor, built for the kind of world she had to walk through.
Beside you, your Adrian hadn’t moved. His expression was open shock, every emotion flickering across his face in real time: disbelief, wonder, confusion, and something else you couldn’t quite name. His mouth worked, opened, closed again. He looked from you to her like his brain was stuck in an infinite loop of error messages, trying and failing to reconcile what he was seeing.
“What the f—” you started, but her voice cut across yours, a perfect echo.
“What the fuck?”
Her hand was already moving before the words even finished leaving her lips. A gun appeared, drawn smooth and fast, barrel locking on you like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Your body reacted without thought. Muscle memory. Steel flashed in your grip, your own weapon raised and sight trained on her just as quick. Two of you, perfectly matched, mirrored down to the way your fingers curled tight around the trigger.
Your Adrian made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak, then tried to cover it with a nervous laugh. His hands shot up, palms out, like that would do anything against two barrels aimed so steady it felt like the air itself froze.
Alt-Adrian? He looked delighted. Absolutely beaming, like this was the single greatest thing he’d ever witnessed. He pointed proudly between the two of you, grin stretching wide.
“See!” he exclaimed. “Exactly the same!”
The other you didn’t lower her gun. Her eyes flicked from him to you, sharp and skeptical, voice cutting hard through the room.
“What the hell is going on?”
Alt-Adrian lifted his hands, palms out, as if he could soothe the tension right out of the air. His grin didn’t falter.
“Babe, it’s okay. Calm down. I mean—look at them! It’s us! You trust me, right? You trust yourself. So why not trust the other-universe us?”
You frowned. “You can’t just trust them because they’re us, Adrian.”
Your Adrian let out a sharp gasp. “Oh my God, she said the same thing! You’re right, they are the exact same!”
And before you could even process, both Adrians were practically bouncing, talking over each other, grinning like idiots.
“This is awesome—”
“—so awesome, babe, we’re literally synced—”
“Do you see this?!”
“Exact same brainwaves!”
Your pulse was still hammering, your gun still raised, and you finally snapped, in unison with her, voices overlapping so perfectly it was eerie:
“Adrian!”
Both Adrians stopped at once, blinking, then broke into twin grins like that was somehow proof they’d won the argument.
Your eyes cut to her at the same time hers cut to you. For a moment it was like staring into a warped mirror—same impatience, same irritation simmering under your skin, same quick calculation sparking behind the eyes.
Then, at once, you both spoke.
“What the hell is Sons of Liberty?” you demanded.
“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” she snapped.
The words tangled in the air, clashing hard enough that you both fell silent, studying each other like you could peel back the answers from each other’s faces.
You tightened your grip on the gun still angled low by your side, not quite willing to holster it yet. “I asked first,” you said, sharper than you meant to.
Her mouth pulled into a humorless smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Cute. Doesn’t work that way here.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Fine. We’re from a different universe. We’re here to get our Peacemaker.”
Her face scrunched, disbelief flickering across her features. “You’re friends with Peacemaker?”
You rolled your eyes. “Look, whatever he is in this universe, he’s not that bad in ours, okay?”
Alt Adrian frowned, visibly confused. “So he’s not a Nazi asshole?”
You blinked. “What the fuck? No! He’s just a normal asshole.”
Then you turned back to her, lowering the gun just a fraction. “Now what the hell is ‘Sons of Liberty’?”
Alt Adrian stepped forward and explained how “Sons of Liberty” was the only real resistance left in a world where the Nazis had won. His words hit hard, each one making the pit in your stomach deepen. You’d seen it on the way here, hadn’t you? Not a single person of color anywhere.
Your stomach sank as realization hit. Peacemaker’s father, who in your world was already a walking manifesto of bigotry, wasn’t just alive here. He was one of the ruling trio. The face of the regime.
It made a sick kind of sense. Your Adrian had explained how the American’s won WW2 to which Alt-Adrian replies with:
“You must live in, like, a utopia?”
You and your Adrian exchanged a look. One that said absolutely not.
“Uhm,” he started.
“Not exactly,” you finished.
And the truth hung heavy between you. Because as much as you wanted to laugh it off, say of course we’re nothing like this place, some part of you knew better. Things weren’t this bad in your world. Not yet. But it was close enough to sting. The cracks were already there: the headlines that blurred cruelty into policy, the quiet hate that no one called by name, the way it all felt just a little colder lately. Different, sure, but starting to hum the same tune.
Alt Adrian went on, voice quieter now. He told you that everything anyone had here. Their safety, their comfort, their power, it all came at the expense of everyone else. Outsiders, he called them. They’re all forced to toil away in camps their entire lives. And he just couldn’t stand by and watch it happen.
As he spoke, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. The other you had finally lowered her gun. Her posture stayed sharp, but there was something fragile in her face now. An ache is buried beneath the hardened edges. Her gaze flickered toward the floor, then away, jaw tightening like she was fighting to keep herself composed.
Your Adrian nodded solemnly. “Yeah. That’s kinda how I feel when somebody does graffiti. That’s not yours to draw on.”
You exhaled through your nose, finally lowering your gun. “Adrian,” you said tiredly. “That’s not the same at all.”
Both Adrians were sitting down, side by side, as Alt-Adrian finished explaining what the hell was going on in this universe. A beat passed before it hit you and your Adrian at the same time.
Your heads turned in sync.
“Adebayo,” you said in unison.
“Who’s that?” the other you asked.
“We came here with someone who’s… technically Black,” your Adrian said.
“Technically?” she repeated, disbelief sharpening her tone. “Like, you can’t tell?”
“No, you can fully tell. That was like one of the first things I noticed about her.”
“Shit,” Alt Adrian cut in, suddenly serious. “Then we'd better move. If they find your friend, you’ll never see her again.”
Your Adrian turned to you with that same ridiculous grin. “See? Aren’t you glad you tagged along with me?”
You shake your head, jaw tight. “We’re lucky no one saw me, Adrian.”
Before he could respond, probably with something catastrophically optimistic, the other you spoke up.
“Wait.”
Everyone turned. Her voice had that kind of authority that shut down a room, even when it sounded exhausted. She glanced at you, then at your Adrian, then at the window where the light was already starting to dim.
“You two go first,” she said. “We’ll wait until it’s darker. I’ll find something to cover her. Less chance someone notices.”
You nodded once, throat tight. There was something oddly grounding about hearing your own voice, harsher and more worn, say what you’d been too cautious to admit out loud.
Both Adrians were already nodding, preparing to move, when Alt Adrian suddenly stopped.
“Wait,” Alt Adrian said, spinning on his heel. He crossed the space in two quick strides and leaned down toward her.
You froze.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead first. It was gentle, almost reverent and then to her lips. And for some reason, the sight of seeing yourself get kissed by Adrian (well, other Adrian) made your heart cave in a little.
“Really?” Alt you said, eyebrows lifting even as the corner of her mouth curved up. “In front of them?”
“What? It’s literally just us,” he replied, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he jogged toward the door.
“Be careful!” she called after him.
Then it was quiet again.
You stood there, blinking, like your brain needed an extra second to process what you just saw.
Yourself. Kissing Adrian.
It felt like deja vu in the strangest way, like watching a memory that wasn’t yours but still somehow belonged to you. Because sure, it was her, not you, but the way she leaned into it, the way his hand brushed her arm like it was second nature…you could feel the ghost of his touch in your own skin.
You’d never even let yourself think about kissing him. Well, maybe you have, once. Maybe twice. Always in the quiet corners of your mind, where it didn’t have to mean anything. But seeing it now, seeing you do it. Seeing a version of yourself that didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink, didn’t stop to count all the reasons why she shouldn’t. It made something uneasy twist in your stomach.
It was a reminder. That maybe the only thing stopping you from that version of yourself was… well, you.
You glanced over, half-expecting Adrian to say something dumb to cut through the awkward silence. But he didn’t. He was still staring toward the door where the other Adrian had gone, his face caught somewhere between confusion and something almost vulnerable. When his eyes met yours, the look only deepened, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. The other you was still in the room, watching quietly, and somehow that made it worse, the air thick with everything none of you were saying.
Alt you let out a quiet sigh, shaking her head like she’d seen this play out a hundred times before. You caught her muttering something under her breath before she turned away to rummage through one of the shelves.
Adrian shifted beside you, hesitant for once. Then, without a word, he stepped closer and leaned in, pressing a quick, almost clumsy kiss to your forehead. He then immediately left the room and followed other Adrian. It was over before your brain could even register it, leaving a ghost of warmth in its wake.
The warmth lingered longer than it should’ve, a soft pulse against your skin that you tried very, very hard not to think about. You straightened, tugging at your sleeve like that would somehow fix the weird, fluttery feeling twisting in your stomach.
“Guess you and your Adrian aren’t together yet?” came a voice from behind you.
You turned to find her watching you, arms crossed, one brow raised.
“Yet?” you repeated, choking out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s never gonna happen.”
Alt you snorted, amused, and tossed you a bandana she’d pulled from the shelf.
“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “I said that too.”
You caught it on reflex, jaw tightening. “Just because you and your Adrian are in love or whatever doesn’t mean we are.”
She shrugged, unbothered. “Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “We’re not.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Good, because we’re not.”
Her lips twitched like she was holding back a laugh, and somehow that irritated you more than if she’d said anything at all. You tore your gaze away, focusing on tying the bandana around your face just a little too tightly, pretending your heartbeat wasn’t still tripping over itself from something as stupid as a forehead kiss.
She handed you a gun and a knife, metal cold against your palms. “Just in case,” she said, tone even.
You nodded, tucking the knife into your jacket and checking the gun’s safety. Then, together, you slipped out of the house. The air outside was colder, heavier somehow, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Both of you kept your heads down, faces hidden beneath the fabric, blending into the shadows as you moved.
For a few minutes, everything went smoothly. Until a door creaked open across the street.
You froze.
A man stepped out, leash in hand, whistling softly for his dog. The animal padded into view, sniffing the ground, with its tail wagging, and both of you ducked behind a rusted car, backs pressed to the metal as the footsteps drew closer.
You could hear her breathing beside you, steady, practiced. She’d done this before.
You, on the other hand, were still trying not to choke on your own heartbeat.
And maybe it was the adrenaline, or the quiet, or the weird ache that had been building in your chest since you saw her kiss her Adrian, but the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“So… how did you and Adrian even happen?”
Your voice was barely above a whisper, curious and cautious all at once. You weren’t sure if you wanted the answer or just needed to fill the silence.
She turned to you, eyes squinting above the bandana. Then, softly, she laughed. “You really wanna know, right now?”
You nodded. “Well, yeah. Looks like they’re gonna take a while.” You tilted your chin toward the dog, who was currently circling for the perfect place to poop.
Her smile curved under the fabric, faint but visible in her eyes. “He saved me.”
Something in your chest tugged, a mix of warmth and bitterness. Ugh. That’s such a “you” way to fall for somebody. You’re such a cliche.
“Cliché, I know,” she murmured, gaze drifting past the car as if she could see the memory playing out there. “We met at Sons of Liberty. He was new then, still figuring out what kind of mess he’d signed up for. I thought he was annoying as hell. Too optimistic for someone in a place like that.”
You could almost picture it: him, grinning, trying to lighten the mood in some half-collapsed safehouse. It sounded too familiar.
“But…” she exhaled, shoulders sinking slightly. “With all the fucked-up shit happening out there, I realized I needed him. And he needed me.” Her voice softened. “We were trying to save one of my family members from the camps. It was supposed to be quick. Get in, get out. But I got hit. Could barely move.”
She paused. For a moment, the world went quiet except for the soft jingle of a dog collar in the distance.
“When the guards found us, they were gonna shoot. He—” she swallowed, “—he took the bullet for me. Should’ve died. But somehow, he didn’t. Crawled both of us out of there.”
You stared at her, throat tightening. “And after that?”
Her eyes flicked to you, a ghost of a smile there. “After that, I stopped pretending I didn’t love him.”
The dog barked suddenly, and both of you froze, pressed against the rusted car until the sound faded. The man tugged on the leash, muttering, and disappeared back inside, leaving only the echo of her words behind.
He saved me.
You tried to reason with yourself. Her world was brutal and survival-driven, especially to people like you. Of course people clung to each other in that kind of place. Here, love wasn’t flowers or quiet moments; it was about who stood between you and death. It made sense that she’d fall for the one who did.
You told yourself it wasn’t the same for you. You and Adrian had met during Project Butterfly. Partners by circumstance, not choice. You’d helped each other because you had to. Him saving you that one time wasn’t an act of love; it was an act of impulse. Maybe duty. Maybe just plain Adrian-being-Adrian, the kind of guy who’d throw himself in front of a bullet without thinking, without realizing the mess he’d leave you to untangle afterward.
But now, seeing this version of yourself talk about him like that. Seeing the quiet conviction in her eyes, something inside you twisted. Not jealousy exactly. More like unease. Like watching someone else live out a truth you’d buried too deep to admit.
Meanwhile, a few streets over, the Adrians were crouched low behind a half-dead hedge, the flashing red-and-blue glow from the cop car painting their faces in uneven bursts.
“Dude, we should just take them out,” your Adrian muttered, squinting through the leaves. “Two quick shots, drag the bodies behind the dumpster. Easy.”
Alt Adrian shook his head immediately. “No, dude. Let’s wait for them. I don’t need another lecture from her about how I don’t think before I act.”
Adrian blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “No way! She tells me that, too. Like, exactly that.” He tilted his head, a smile tugging under his mask. “Guess that’s… kind of universal.”
Alt Adrian smirked, clearly amused by the symmetry. “See? Isn’t it kinda awesome? You and me, and our girlfriends. Basically the same.”
Your Adrian blinked. “Girlfriends?”
Alt-Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah? Is she not your girlfriend?”
Adrian eased back against the shrub, trying to make his voice casual. “We’re partners. She’s just one of my best friends. Like, top tier bff. Above Peacemaker sometimes when she’s really nice to me.”
Alt-Adrian chuckled softly. “Woah… I used to say that too not the Peacemaker part, obviously. tBut hey, don’t worry, you’ll figure it out eventually.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Fuck, no, dude. Nothing to figure out. She’s my best friend. That’s it. That’s all we’ll ever be.” His voice had that sharp edge, almost defensive, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
Alt-Adrian tilted his head. “Okay… but, like, do you feel the need to know everything about her? You know… all the little stuff? Do you feel the need to impress her, all the time?”
Adrian blinked, caught off guard, then muttered, “…Yeah. I mean… yeah.”
Alt-Adrian laughed, a low, teasing sound. “Hah. Then that means you like her.”
Adrian scoffed, waving a hand. “No! I do that with everyone I care about, okay? Doesn’t mean I love her.”
Alt-Adrian snorted. “Dude, never said anything about love. You dropped the L bomb, not me.”
Adrian paced a little behind the bush. “Look, I notice her, okay? I pay attention. I make sure she’s safe, I—damn it, I care. Doesn’t mean it’s… I don’t know… romantic. It’s just… literally part of being a best friend?”
Alt-Adrian tilted his head, smirking under his mask like he’d seen this a thousand times. “Yeah, okay. I get that. But it’s different with her, isn’t it? You don’t do this for just anyone. The way you worry, the way you… I don’t know… notice every little thing about her—it’s not just friendship stuff, man. You feel it differently.”
Adrian blinked, stiffening. “…Feel it differently how? Like, protective? I’m protective of everyone I care about.”
Alt-Adrian snorted. “Sure, maybe. But there’s a weight to it with her, isn’t there? A pull? You’ll figure it out eventually. Took me a while to figure it out with mine, trust me.”
Alt-Adrian’s smirk faltered for a moment as Alt-Reader tapped his shoulder.
“Figure what out?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
Both Adrians’ hands shot instinctively toward their guns, tense and ready.
“Oh,” Alt-Adrian said, lowering his weapon with a grin that you could hear even through the helmet. “Just you and… you.”
Alt-You ignored him. “What’s going on?”
Before either could answer, a voice drifted over from the road. One of the cops.
“Saw a Black woman, maybe thirties. Ran off that way. Probably an escapee.”
The words hit you like a punch. You didn’t even have to think about who they meant. Adebayo.
Your pulse spiked. “We have to find her. Now.”
Alt-Adrian tilted his head, casual as ever. “Or we kill them first, make it easier.”
“Babe, no,” Alt-You said immediately, steady hand on his arm. “Not now. We don’t need that kind of attention.”
You blinked. “Babe? How do you even know that’s your Adrian?”
She shrugged. “You just know.”
You stared at her, but she didn’t elaborate. The silence that followed felt heavy, the kind that hummed with everything none of you wanted to admit.
The cops’ voices faded as they turned the corner, their footsteps echoing until they disappeared completely. You waited a beat longer before stepping out from cover, brushing dirt off your jeans.
Alt-Adrian glanced around once, then started walking. “Well, that was fun,” he said. “So, what else is different in your world? You know, besides Cheeri-Oh’s being spelled wrong.”
Adrian snorted, trailing beside him. “Spelled right, actually. It’s Cheerio’s, with an O.”
Alt-Adrian shook his head. “Not in my world, it’s not. But seriously, what’s different? Like—stuff about you, your life, whatever.”
Adrian hummed, thinking. “Uh, décor’s different. My living room? Three cat figurines on the shelf. Here? Six. Same cats, though, just more of them. A bit overboard, honestly. What do six cats even have to talk about?”
Alt-Adrian barked out a laugh. “Maybe they form a little cult. You know, Cat Council.”
“Oh, yeah. Discussing deep topics like ‘why is the red dot uncatchable’ and ‘how many lives do we really have left.’”
Alt-Adrian nodded sagely. “Important questions.”
“Exactly,” Adrian said, completely straight-faced.
“Exactly,” Adrian said, completely serious. “Also, my dad’s not gay here. And she’s shorter in this universe.”
Alt-Adrian blinked. “What? She’s shorter? No way, really? I didn’t even notice that—that’s so funny and weird!”
You stopped mid-step, giving him a look. “That’s the part that shocks you?”
Alt-You, curious, stepped closer. “Hold on, now I gotta see. Let’s stand next to each other.”
You rolled your eyes but did it anyway, standing shoulder to shoulder. Alt-Adrian leaned forward, squinting between the two of you.
“Dude, you’re right,” he said, grinning. “How the hell did you even notice that?”
Adrian just shrugged, pretending to play it off. “I notice everything about her.”
The words hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t even what he said, it was how he said it. No hesitation, no irony. Just plain, matter-of-fact truth. Something warm flickered low in your chest before you pushed it down, fast.
“Let’s go, guys,” you said quickly, turning away before anyone could see the look on your face. “We do not have time for this.”
You started walking again, hearing the crunch of gravel as the others followed. Beside you, Alt-You kept sneaking glances your way until you finally sighed.
“What?”
She grinned, all knowing mischief. “Nothing. Just... that was cute.”
You frowned. “That was not cute.”
Alt-You hummed. “Sure.”
Adrian looked between you two, suspicious. “Wait, what are you guys talking about? You already have inside jokes? How?”
You scoffed. “No, Adrian, we don’t—” You stopped mid-sentence, blinking as the realization hit. “Wait. How did I even know that you’re my Adrian?”
Alt-Reader smirked, crossing her arms. “Told you. You just know.”
Alt-Adrian perked up immediately. “Ooh, maybe it’s like a soulmate thing! Like, across every universe. Cosmic connection, neural link, fate—boom. Like, our frequencies are synced across universes, you know?” He gestured wildly, clearly getting into it. “That would explain everything.”
Adrian’s head snapped toward him. “She’s not my soulmate,” he said, a little too fast. “Matter of fact, I would say Peacemaker is my soulmate.”
Alt-Adrian laughed. “Okay, pop quiz then. I bet Peacemaker doesn’t even know what your thing is when you’re anxious.” He pointed at you, grinning. “But I bet she does.”
Adrian straightened, instantly defensive. “That’s so specific! But you know what? He totally would, because we’re best friends. Soulmates, even.”
You groaned. “Can the both of you shut up?” You looked at Alt-Reader for backup, but she just gave you a look that said, you’re on your own.
Alt-Adrian leaned forward, undeterred. “Fine, but you still have to answer first.”
You sighed, finally relenting. “He, uh… taps his ring finger against his leg. Every time.”
Adrian froze, blinking like he’d just been exposed. His hand twitched unconsciously toward his leg before he caught himself. For a second, he couldn’t even find the right words, just felt this strange, quiet jolt in his chest. You noticed that?
Something so small, so stupidly insignificant that even he hadn’t realized he did it that often.
He laughed under his breath, a little uncertain, trying to mask the flicker of warmth that came with the embarrassment.
“How do you even know that?” he asked, pretending it was funny but sounding almost careful.
You just shrugged. “You’re not really subtle, Adrian. Plus, you’re not the only one who notices things.”
Alt-Adrian grinned under his mask like he’d just uncovered a secret. “See! Soulmates, man. You literally know everything about each other, even the tiniest, dumbest little things. Just like me and her.” He jabbed a thumb at Alt-You, still smirking.
Adrian groaned. “Oh, come on, that was really specific, okay? If you’d asked what my favorite food is, or my Pokémon game is, I bet Peacemaker would totally know that.”
Alt-Adrian perked up immediately. “Alright then, let’s test it. What is it?” he said, looking straight at you.
You opened your mouth, then stopped. Because you did know. It was Pokémon Emerald. You’d seen him play it over and over, even letting you play sometimes while he backseated every move, giving commentary on the best strategies, the ideal Pokémon team, and which areas to grind. Every. Single. Time. And his favorite food? Kraft Mac & Cheese, the boxed kind, extra buttery, with that little sprinkle of black pepper he always adds himself.
But there was no way you were admitting you knew that.
Alt-Adrian pouted. “Aw, c’mon, I know you know it—”
Thankfully, Alt-Reader cut in, smacking his arm. “Leave them alone, you menace.”
The Adrians finally went quiet, grumbling under their breath but no longer bickering. You let out a silent sigh and moved cautiously down the street, Alt-You matching your pace.
By the time you reached the edge of Peacemaker’s property, your stomach was tied in knots. Police cars were stationed along the perimeter, engines faintly humming, flashlights off but their presence obvious. You crouched behind the nearest row of bushes, pressing low.
A movement caught your eye, Adebayo and the Judo Master were pressed into the shadows a few feet away, crouched behind another patch of shrubbery. Relief washed over you.
“There you are,” you whispered, slipping closer to them.
“What the fuck?” Adebayo blurts.
Adrian holds up a hand, trying to act casual. “Hey. Don’t worry. It’s me. And… other me.”
Alt-Adrian just waves, helmet glinting. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”
Adebayo blinks at you and Alt-You. “Wait. There’s another you too? This is getting really crazy.”
Adrian spots Judo Master, and he stiffens, jaw tightening. Comments on how he hates him and how little he is. You feel that familiar irritation radiating off him.
“Adrian. Chill. We have bigger things to deal with right now,” you murmur, low.
Alt-Adrian squinted and pointed at the Judo Master’s chest. “What’s that symbol mean anyway? Looks like… someone splashed cum on you.”
The Judo Master raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why would you want to splash cum on me?”
Alt-Adrian’s head snapped toward Alt-You. “Fuck! What? I don’t! Babe, tell him I don’t wanna splash cum on him!”
“And if he did, it’d probably just be as a joke.” Your Adrian adds.
Adebayo’s eyes went wide, pointing at you and Adrian. “Wait… babe? Are you guys dating in this universe?”
“I know. Unbelievable, right?” you mutter, ducking a little behind the bush.
“Well… ‘ Adebayo looks at Alt-Adrian and Alt-You. “Out of all the things that are wrong with this universe… that actually makes sense.”
Adrian's hand twitched almost unconsciously, tapping his finger against his thigh. Once. Twice. He caught himself before the third, freezing mid-motion as if suddenly aware of how exposed he looked, even under the mask. He did the thing. The exact little thing you’d apparently noticed countless times before. He shifted slightly, uneasy under the scrutiny of the group, and pressed a mental reset button. Focus. Eyes on the mission. The bizarre, chaotic reality around him made room for no indulgence. He couldn’t afford to dwell on how Adebayo’s comment had brushed against the raw edges of something he’d been pretending didn’t exist.
You felt a rush of heat, almost embarrassment. All the comments from other you and other Adrian, and now Adebayo? They’re all slowly starting to make sense, but you couldn’t indulge in these thoughts, not now. There were bigger things on the line. Survival, strategy, and keeping everyone safe. You had to keep moving.
Alt-You noticed the shift immediately and gave you a sharp nudge, changing the subject and steering both of you away from the tense intimacy. Behind the bush, the distant sirens and the rustle of leaves reminded you that the real danger hadn’t gone anywhere.
The Adrians and Judo Master, true to form, began muttering again about “handling” the cops. While you, Alt-You, and Adebayo exchanged exasperated glances. Sneaking inside, careful and precise, won out over any rash ideas.
The glass shattered before anyone could blink. Adrian didn’t hesitate. He smashed through the window with brutal efficiency and the world went sideways. Chris’s father went down under the flash of Adrian’s knife, blood hitting the floor with a wet, metallic sound that made your stomach lurch. Chaos erupted.
Cops poured in immediately, shouting and firing, but the Adrians moved like extensions of the same mind. Each shot, each movement, mirrored, complementary and your own eyes couldn’t process it fast enough. Alt-Adrian jabbed, twisted, shot, ducked, all in one fluid motion, and your breath caught at how terrifyingly perfect their coordination was.
You and Alt-You had to match them, had to fight, had to keep moving. Every dodge, every sweep, every counter felt orchestrated, as if you four had danced this deadly ballet a thousand times in some other life. Horrifying. Beautiful. Absolutely horrifying.
You barely had time to think. Adrian went down suddenly, a shot ripped into him as he threw himself in front of you. Two times now, he had saved you, and even amid the chaos, you couldn’t help but wonder if this it was instinct or something more. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you yelled his name, and thankfully, Adebayo was there to drag him toward the trophy room.
Alt-Adrian didn’t miss a beat, spinning and firing at the guy who’d taken the shot, cold, precise, eyes darting back and forth.
“Good one, babe,” Alt-Reader called, grabbing your arm and rushing you toward the trophy room while Alt-Adrian followed, screaming, “Sons of Liberty forever!”
From there, the group moved as one. Every strike, block, and counter fell into place with terrifying efficiency. They overwhelmed Keith, and Chris stepped in just in time to stop the carnage, but the exact details of that were a blur, adrenaline and fear colliding into one endless, violent pulse.
Before leaving, the Adrians hugged. Alt-You gave you a nod, a small smile, and the moment ended as quickly as it started.
Adrian waited by the dimensional portal, muscles tense, looking at you. You didn’t step forward waiting for Harcourt. She had asked for Alt-Adrian for a gun to shoot Keith, but before she could do the cops swarmed the room. The second the cops rushed in, Alt-Adrian and Alt-You didn’t hesitate. Shots rang out like thunder. Adrian grabbed you forcefully, yanking you inside the door, then, without pause, pulled Emilia up and into cover.
Alt-Adrian glanced once, executed a perfect flip, and closed the portal door behind them. And just like that, you knew you’d never see them again…for a while at least.
Chris had decided to turn himself in, and Adrian was… well, he was bummed out, to say the least. Against your better judgment, you’d decided to stay with him, keep him company. You shoved whatever complicated feelings tangled up in your chest aside, deciding to be a friend first. That’s how you ended up in the kitchen, spooning cocoa into mugs, chatting quietly with his sweet mom.
“Oh, he likes that extra—” Ms. Chase started, nodding toward Adrian’s mug.
You quickly cut her off, scooping four generous spoons of sugar into his cup. “Extra sweet, I know. He’s got a real sweet tooth,” you said cheerfully, forcing the casual tone. Internally, though, your brain tripped over itself. ‘Cause, great—another specific fact you unfortunately know about him.
Ms. Chase smiled knowingly, sipping her own cocoa. “You know, I don’t even know why he dated that Hardcore girl in the first place. When someone like you is here for him…”
You froze for a split second before laughing softly, shaking your head. “Oh, Ms. Chase. Hartcourt’s actually nice, don’t listen to him. And also… we’re just really good friends.” You gave her a small smile, trying to keep the line casual, but you couldn’t ignore how much she knew about both of you.
She leaned in conspiratorially, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I know. But he talks about you all the time. Says you always like quizzing him on random animal facts and he absolutely loves it. And he told me, you always laugh at his jokes.And that time you tried to play D&D with him? He couldn’t stop talking about it.”
At that moment, Adrian shuffled into the kitchen. He rubbed his temples like he could erase the conversation by sheer force of will.
“Here,” you said softly, handing him the steaming mug.
“What—fuck, Mom! Shut the fuck up!” he groaned, flopping into a chair, face hidden behind his hands.
“Ah, and he told me,” Ms. Chase continued, leaning a little closer, “that you bite the insides of your cheeks when you’re nervous—oh dear…” she paused, eyes widening as she noticed, “…you’re doing it right now. Am I making you nervous, sweetie? I’m sorry, I’m just—”
You froze mid-bite, quickly pulling your cheeks away from your teeth, cheeks heating up as you forced yourself to stop.
“Mom, seriously! Shut the fuck up,” Adrian interrupted, voice sharp. He grabbed your arm before you could protest and tugged you toward his secret room. “We’re gonna go play Princess Peach in my secret room. Don’t come in!”
You looked at him, caught somewhere between confusion, embarrassment, and the faintest spark of amusement, as he disappeared with you into the secret space.
Inside the secret room, the door clicked shut behind you, muffling the faint sounds of Ms. Chase humming in the kitchen.
“You know,” you said, crossing your arms, “you should be nicer to your mom, Adrian.”
He groaned, slumping into the chair. “No. Fuck her.”
You shot him a look. “She’s letting you live in her house. You’ve got a dead-end job, you almost got arrested, and she’s still, somehow, super nice to you. Be kinder to her, dude.”
Adrian threw his hands up, rolling his eyes. “Well, I don’t want her to live alone, okay? She’s got no one else but me!”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s all you got from that? Be nicer to her, Adrian. Not everyone has the luxury of having a mom as kind as yours.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but something in your tone shut him up. After a beat, he sighed and mumbled, “Fine,” before grabbing his Switch from the shelf and tossing it to you.
You caught it easily, thumbing the joystick as the console booted up. But before you could select a game, you hesitated.
“Do you think they survived that?” you asked quietly.
“Who?”
“Us. Alternate universe us.”
He tilted his head, like he hadn’t really thought about it until now, then nodded confidently. “Totally. Did you not see the flip my other me did? They totally survived that. Plus, other you’s as strong and smart as you are, so…” He gave a small shrug, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I trust them. I trust us.”
You handed the switch back to Adrian. “Go on, you play. I’ll… watch,” you muttered, curling up on the edge of the couch.
He focused instantly on the screen, thumbs moving deftly, and you found yourself quietly observing him. The way he got absorbed, the little hum of concentration, the way his brow furrowed every time something didn’t go his way. It was almost comforting.
Part of you, the part that normally spun a thousand different scenarios in your head, just wanted to shut the voices off. The “what ifs,” the comparisons, the intrusive “what does he think?”, all of it. Right now, you didn’t want to think. You just wanted this quiet, this mundane moment with him, no alternate universe chaos, no “cosmic soulmates”, just Adrian being Adrian.
You considered asking him what he thought about… well, about the alternate versions of you two, specifically about then dating. But watching him completely absorbed, you realized that he wasn’t thinking about it. Not at all. And why should you? Maybe you’d just settle for this. Whatever this was.
Then, out of nowhere, his eyes flicked up at you.
“What’s wrong?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”
He leaned back slightly, studying you. “Look… I’m not good at, like… telling how someone feels. But you’re pretty obvious when you’re overthinking.”
You raised your eyebrows.
His gaze sharpened. “Your eyebrows get, like… super scrunched up. And you’ve got that frown. Come on, you’re practically radiating it.”
You blinked at him, voice small and uncertain. “…Why did you… you know, kiss me on the forehead back there? In the other universe?”
Adrian scratched the back of his neck, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to explain or run. “Uh… I don’t know, okay? I just… felt like I had to at that moment. I mean, other me did it, so… I dunno, I did it too. Doesn’t mean—” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t mean anything weird. I promise.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Right…well, the other us are dating. Does that mean we should too?”
“No! Absolutely not! I mean… come on, we’re not them, okay? Don’t—you’re overthinking this. I mean… the fact that our other selves are even dating is crazy, right?”
“Right.” You said, as your voice tight as you stood up. I get it. You don’t want to date me, Chase.”
Adrian’s head snapped toward you. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“I have somewhere to go,” you said, slamming the door behind you.
Alone, you feel the sting of Adrian’s rejection like a sharp snap in your chest. Embarrassment and hurt twist together, prickling under your skin. You don’t even know what answer you were hoping for, only that it definitely wasn’t that. The words hang there, heavy and impossible to ignore, and you’re left wondering if maybe this is just a universe where you two will never be.
Before you can even reach the door, Adrian’s mom’s eyes flick to you, noticing the tight set of your shoulders and the way your hands tremble slightly.
“Hey, sweetie… you okay?” she asks softly, stepping closer.
You force a small smile, shaking your head just enough to seem casual. “I’m fine, really.”
She doesn’t push further, just gives a warm, knowing smile. “Alright… just know, you’re always welcome here, okay? Don’t let anyone or anything make you feel otherwise.”
Her words linger, a quiet comfort as you steel yourself and head toward the door.
The next morning, your phone is blowing up. Calls, texts, notifications stacking one after another. Most of them are from Adrian, each one more insistent than the last. You ignore them all, leaving the screen to light up in silence on the nightstand.
Then a call comes through from Adebayo. You swipe to answer, trying to sound casual.
“Hey,” you say.
“You okay?” Adebayo’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge of concern. “We’re heading to visit Chris today, and… uh, Adrian’s been complaining to me. Says you’re not picking up his calls.”
You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m fine. Really. Just… busy.”
“Okay… well, I assume since you’re obviously avoiding Adrian, you’re gonna want to ride with me?” Adebayo’s voice is half-teasing, half-serious.
You sigh, exhaling slowly. “Yeah… fine. I’ll ride with you.”
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pick you up in thirty.”
You hang up, staring at your phone for a moment, feeling the weight of Adrian’s missed calls and your own stubbornness settling in your chest.
Adebayo pulls up in front of your house, the engine idling quietly. You slide into the passenger seat, and for a moment, the car is swallowed in silence.
“…So,” Adebayo starts cautiously, eyes on the road, “…you wanna tell me what’s going on?”
You shake your head, trying to keep your voice light. “Nothing’s going on, Ads. I’m fine.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Uh-huh… so, totally nothing to do with your alternate universe selves dating in their universe, and you and Adrian not dating in ours?”
That’s it. Something snaps inside you, heat rushing up your neck. “I said I’m fine!” you burst out, voice shaking, eyes stinging. “Just—just drop it!”
You lean back against the seat, trying to catch your breath, but the frustration and hurt are still raw. Adebayo glances at you, silently giving you a moment, her hands steady on the wheel, letting you crash out without saying a word.
You sink lower into the seat, cheeks burning as the heat of your outburst fades. “I… I’m sorry, Ads,” you mutter, voice quieter now, remorse creeping in. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just… everything’s been so messed up, and seeing them… seeing us… it—it threw me off.”
Adebayo glances at you, and you continue. “Do you even know how weird it is? To see yourself, literally yourself, kiss someone?” Her eyes flick toward you, sharp. “Worse… kiss someone you’ve been denying your feelings for?”
Adebayo keeps her eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against the center console. “Yeah… that would fuck me up too.”
“And I just don’t get it,” you confess, voice almost cracking. “I mean… me and Adrian in their universe? We’re literally the same! But they… they talk about each other so—so differently. With so much love, so much care. And in this universe… I get rejected by Adrian?”
She sighs. “I know you’re hurt and I get it. But you know Adrian! He can be a bit… stupid sometimes. He just needs time to figure out how he feels.”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Look, I get it. Alt me and Alt-Adrian… they have very different circumstances. But it’s not just that. It’s like… I see what they have, and I know what we have or what we could have and it feels like the universe is teasing me. Like, I get a glimpse of something real and… and it just quite literally slams the door in my face here.”
Adebayo’s grip on the wheel tightens just slightly, though her voice stays calm. “Look, I promise you. He’ll figure it out. And if he doesn’t? That’s his loss. You don’t need Adrian to be whole, okay? You’ve got yourself. You’ve got brains, guts, and more heart than half the people in this city combined.”
You glance at her briefly, the words hitting harder than you expect. She keeps her eyes on the road, steady and unwavering, but her voice softens just a touch. “Don’t let some messed-up version of him, or any version, make you feel like you’re missing something. You’re more than enough on your own. And trust me… the right people, the ones who really see you? They’ll get it. They’ll see it.”
You swallow, nodding slowly, trying to absorb it. The car hums around you, the steady rhythm of the tires against the asphalt grounding you in the present. Somehow, Adebayo’s words manage to cut through the chaos in your head, offering a quiet reassurance that maybe, just maybe, you can survive this heartbreak and still come out the other side intact.
The car pulls up outside the prison, the building looming gray and unwelcoming against the morning sky. Chris, unsurprisingly, refuses to see anyone.
Adrian’s complaints echo across the parking lot, loud enough to make a few passersby glance over. You step up beside him, hand lightly on his arm. “Adrian, calm down. Let’s just go.”
He grumbles but lets you steer him toward the car. Outside, the cool morning air does little to soothe the tension. Adebayo leans back, eyes on you. “You riding with him?”
Adrian exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Yes,” he says, his voice low but firm, “she’s riding with me.”
You give Adrian a pointed look, but get in the car anyways. The car falls into an uneasy silence, the kind that presses against your ribs. Neither of you speak for a moment, the tension thick between the occasional click of the turn signal and the soft rumble of the tires on asphalt.
Adrian shifts in the driver’s seat, clearly trying to distract himself or maybe you with some random knowledge. “Uh… so, did you know manta rays… like, they actually sleep upside down sometimes? And they can, get this: store water in their fins to breathe later when they’re out of the ocean. So cool right?”
You keep your gaze fixed out the window, silent, not even a twitch of acknowledgment. Which you are aware is very petty but right now, you don’t care.
He glances at you, then back at the road, shifting in his seat. “Okay… cool. No fun facts today. Got it.”
A few more miles pass in tense quiet before he exhales, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Look,” he starts, voice softer now, “I’m sorry, alright? I’m gonna be honest, I’m still not exactly sure why you’re upset, but I know you are. And I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”
He glances at you again, hesitant, almost boyish in the way he waits for some sign you’ll respond.
“Okay,” you say at last.
He glances at you, hopeful, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Does that mean… you forgive me?”
You shake your head lightly, letting a small smile slip through. “No, that’s why I just said ‘okay, Adrian.’ I acknowledge what you said, though.”
His grin grows, a mix of relief and excitement. “Okay… but do you acknowledge it enough to convince you to come to my place and watch stupid ’80s horror movies with me?”
You cross your arms, giving him a look. “What do I get out of it?”
“Uh… the joy of my company?” he tries, wincing the second he says it. “No, wait—okay, that sounded arrogant. You get… snacks! I’ll get all your favorites. Popcorn, Twizzlers, those weird chips you like that taste like feet—”
“They do not taste like feet,” you protest, laughing.
“They totally do, but that’s okay, I’ll still buy them,” he says quickly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Because I care. Deeply. About your weird snack choices. And also about you not being mad at me anymore.”
You try to hold back your smile, but fail. “You’re really laying it on thick.”
Adrian throws one hand off the wheel dramatically, eyes wide in mock desperation. “Look, Peacemaker’s gone, and I don’t want my other best friend to be mad at me, okay?”
You snort. “Other best friend?”
Adrian gasped like you’d just insulted his honor. “Yeah, other best friend. Don’t get jealous, okay? There’s room in my emotional support system for both of you.”
You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Wow. I’m so honored to be your othr best friend.”
“So…movie?”
You sighed, pretending to think it over before finally giving in. “Fine.”
Adrian’s grin split wide, triumphant. “Hell yeah. You’re not gonna regret it, unless you hate decapitations and bad practical effects.”
You step inside Adrian’s house, greeted by the warm, familiar scent of baked goods and something vaguely cinnamon-y.
“Hi, Mrs. Chase,” you say, smiling politely.
“Hi, sweetheart! So glad you’re back. I told Adrian off yesterday, you know? You can’t let a woman you care about just leave upset—”
“Mom!”
Adrian opens his mouth again, clearly about to say something rude. You glance at him, expecting the worst, but he exhales, shaking his head.
“We’re gonna watch a movie in my room, Mom. Don’t come in, without knocking.”
Mrs. Chase tilts her head, a knowing look crossing her face, while you shake your head at the insinuation. Adrian just shrugs, clearly unbothered, and leads you toward his room.
Adrian’s room is a weird, cozy blend of chaos and nostalgia. The walls are plastered with posters, classic rock bands from the ‘70s and ‘80s rubbing shoulders. A cluttered bookshelf, that’s crammed with game cartridges, comic books and well-used nitebooks.
Adrian’s bed is unmade, sheets a deep teal color rumpled across the mattress as if he’d left in a hurry or just didn’t care enough to fix them. His shelves are crowded with Pokémon figures, some dusty and some clearly handled daily.
On his desk, an old handheld console rests next to a random doodle, and a small Polaroid of the two of you together is taped to the wall above, slightly crooked. You pause for a moment, caught off guard by it. Something about seeing the two of you captured like that makes your chest tighten.
Adrian catches your gaze lingering on the Polaroid and quickly snatches it down, tucking it awkwardly into his pocket.
“Hey, don’t just stare at that,” he mutters, a little defensive.
You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Relax, man. I have my copy on the back of my phone case.”
He freezes for a beat at your words, a flicker of something soft passing through his eyes, but he quickly shakes it off, pretending it doesn’t affect him.
You both settle onto his unmade teal bed, the handheld console abandoned on the desk as the opening credits of a cheesy ’80s horror movie roll. The music is overdramatic, the acting hilariously bad, and you can’t help laughing at some of the more ridiculous scenes. Adrian throws a popcorn kernel at you, smirking when you dodge, and for a moment the tension of the past few days melts away.
As you laugh, you catch yourself thinking that maybe it’s okay that this is all you’ll ever be with him—his friend, his confidant, someone he trusts enough to share silly, unguarded moments with. And yet, there’s a quiet ache underneath that realization, a small part of you wishing it could be more. But for now, the warmth of his presence, the ridiculous movie, and the simple comfort of being here feels enough. You let yourself sink into the moment, allowing yourself to just be with him without expecting anything else.
The movie continues, laughably bad and over-the-top, and at some point, Adrian reaches over and nudges a stray popcorn kernel toward you. You catch it between your fingers, laughing quietly, and he cheers at your small victory.
Adrian shifts slightly on the bed, catching the subtle weight of your head leaning closer to him. You’ve fallen asleep. For a moment, just a heartbeat—he feels it. The pull that Alt-Adrian had talked about. It’s there, quiet but undeniable, in the warmth of your shoulder against his, in the sound of your laughter mingling with his when the movie hits another absurd moment. It’s something deep, magnetic, and way too real.
He exhales slowly, forcing a small smile as he stares at the screen. It’s not that, he tells himself. It’s just… comfort. Familiarity. A friend thing. He shifts a little, careful not to wake you, and keeps the thought boxed up tight. Because, sure, maybe his chest feels a little lighter when you’re close, and maybe your head fits perfectly against his shoulder, but that doesn’t have to mean anything.
You let out a soft sigh in your sleep, your warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeve, and Adrian swallows down the lump in his throat. He tells himself it’s fine, normal even to care about someone this much. It’s what friends do. Best friends, even.
The movie flickers across the wall, all bad effects and cheesy lines, but he barely sees it. He just sits there, steady and still, pretending that the quiet thrum in his chest is nothing more than comfort. Platonic. Harmless.
And if, for a second, he lets his head rest lightly against yours, well no one has to know.
The living room at Hartcourt’s place felt quieter than usual once she left, her heels clicking down the hallway a moment ago and the door shutting softly behind her. You, Adebayo, and Economos remained, the tension of Chris going missing still hanging thickly in the air.
Adrian leaned back against the couch, fingers tapping his knee. “If I were Chris… where would I go?”
Adebayo crossed her arms, frowning. “He’s probably holed up in some cheap motel, avoiding everyone.”
You let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Look, guys… we’ll find him. He’ll turn up eventually. He always does.”
Economos cleared his throat, eyes darting between you and Adrian. “Uh… I heard from Ads that apparently, in the other universe, you and Adrian are… uh… fucking. That true?”
You choked on your chips, sputtering, eyes wide as panic flared. Adrian’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide and flailing. “Does… does anyone know how to do the Heimlich?!”
Adebayo’s eyebrows shot up, half shocked, half trying not to laugh, while Economos immediately jumped to his feet, hands hovering awkwardly. “Uh—no? Are you—are you okay?!”
You waved your hands weakly, still coughing and sputtering. “I—I’m fine! Just… what the hell did you just say?!”
Economos scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly. “I… I don’t know, that’s what Ads said. I was just… confirming.”
Adrian’s face flushed, his hands gesturing wildly. “First of all, Economos, the other me and the other her aren’t just… you know, fucking! They’re in love, okay? In love! And it’s—look, it’s complicated, but also not, because it’s… love! And they’re perfect for each other, and it’s—ugh! You don’t get it!”
John held up his hands, trying to keep pace. “Geez, okay, fine. In love, whatever. But… is it true you saw yourselves kiss? Like… yourselves?”
You were a bit nervous to hear what Adrian thought about the kiss. Although, with his rejection of you a few days ago you expected him saying that it was weird or gross, however to your surprise, Adrian’s reaction wasn’t defensive about the thought of you and him dating. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms, and said firmly, “Yes, we did, Economos. And it wasn’t weird at all. In fact, it was… it was natural, and it made sense. Like… like everything was just right in that moment. Like they belonged to each other. And honestly? I think… I think if anyone else saw it without understanding, they’d just… misunderstand the whole thing. In fact… it felt so right that I kissed her too!”
“Wait… he kissed the other you?” Adebayo asked, eyes wide, glancing at you.
“No, fuck—” Adrian pointed directly at you, “I kissed her.”
“What?!” Economos and Adebayo shouted in unison, practically bouncing in shock.
You threw up your hands, trying to keep the situation under control. “Everyone calm down! He kissed my forehead because Alt-Adrian kissed Alt-Me’s forehead first. That’s it!”
“Ohh,” came the chorus of realization from Adebayo and Economos, the tension finally easing as they processed the explanation.
You wanted to dig yourself a hole and bury yourself in it. This whole situation was embarrassing, but at least Adrian didn’t think that the mere thought of being with you was crazy anymore. You could already feel the teasing that Adebayo and Economos were about to launch, and thankfully, a phone call saved you from being the center of it.
Poor Adrian, though. He looked like he wanted to argue, protest, or maybe just curl into a ball of frustration.
You answered quickly, a client of yours calling you for some task that couldn’t wait.
“I’ve gotta go,” you said, slipping your phone back into your pocket.
“Oh… can I come?” Adrian asked, a hopeful tilt to his voice.
You shook your head, regretful but firm. “Sorry, Adrian. Not on this one.”
With that, you left, the teasing, laughter, and Adrian’s slightly pained expression fading behind you as you stepped out.
Now it was just Adrian, Adebayo, and Economos.
Adebayo leaned forward, gaze steady. “So… how do you really feel about this whole “my other universe self is dating my other universe friend thing?”
Adrian shrugged, trying to play it nonchalant. “I told you, I’m normal about it. I don’t think it’s weird at all. I mean… yeah, it’s different, but so what? Doesn’t make it bad.”
Economos tilted his head, smirking faintly. “It’s okay if it feels weird. Doesn’t have to be ‘weird bad,’ you know? There’s… weird good too.”
Adrian blinked at him, incredulous. “What the fuck is ‘weird good’?”
Adebayo leaned back, letting the words hang in the air. “Well, you said it yourself, man. It felt right. Whatever that meant. Alt-you and Alt-her are obviously meant to be together.”
Adrian shifted, defensive, arms crossing over his chest. “Okay, but just because they’re meant to be together doesn’t mean that me and her are.”
Adebayo sighed, shaking her head. “Dude, the other you and you are literally the same. Same goes for her. And you literally kissed her on the forehead because it felt right. Does that not mean anything to you? Think about why it even felt right in the first place.”
Adrian’s mind went quiet for a moment, and for an instant, he could still feel the warmth of your skin beneath his lips. He replayed that moment over and over. The brush of his lips against your skin, the way it had felt completely unnecessary, yet completely inevitable. He hadn’t had to kiss you, didn’t owe himself or anyone else that gesture, and yet, for some reason, he had wanted to. And that thought, stubborn and undeniable, refused to leave him.
Then it clicked, slowly, like a puzzle piece sliding into place. He had always wanted to do that, always in little ways, in the way he tried to impress you with random animal facts, in the quiet moments where he lingered just a second too long when you laughed at his dumb jokes. His feelings had started to change somewhere in between the lines of friendship and banter, growing into something he could not ignore.
Now, thinking back, he understood the pull Alt-Adrian had mentioned, the invisible tug toward you, the one he had shrugged off as platonic instinct or familiarity. It was not just instinct anymore. It was him, truly wanting you close, wanting to protect you, wanting more than he had ever admitted, even to himself.
Adrian ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I… I think I might’ve ruined my chances with her.”
Economos raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Adebayo leaned back, arms crossed. “He basically rejected her. Said the idea of you two even being together at all was ridiculous.”
Economos burst out laughing. “Oh yeah, man, you’re screwed.”
Adrian’s eyes widened, panic creeping in. “No, no, wait, I didn’t mean it like that! I—okay, so I said some things, and maybe I was trying to be… I don’t know, casual? Normal? But I didn’t… I just… shit, I don’t even know what to do now! Do I text her? Do I apologize? I mean, I did but I apologized and I didn’t even know what I was even apologizing for—fuck!”
Economos was still chuckling. “Wait… you apologized and you don’t even know what you did? And she accepted it?”
Adrian shot him a glare, flustered. “Fuck off, man! This isn’t fucking funny. What the fuck do I do?”
Adebayo held up a hand. “Chill, man. Like Economos said, she literally accepted your half-assed apology. What does that tell you?”
Adrian blinked, utterly clueless. “Well… she didn’t really accept it. She… acknowledged it, or whatever that means.”
Adebayo let out a long sigh. “She likes you too, Adrian.”
Adrian froze. “What?”
Adebayo shook her head, leaning back. “Look, even though your apology was, like… half-assed, and you didn’t even know what the hell you were apologizing for at the time, she still accepted it or well acknowledged it. That tells you everything, Adrian. She likes you so much that even if your apology was sloppy and clueless, she doesn’t care. She just wants to be with you and make amends, because that’s how much she values you.”
Adrian’s jaw dropped, and his mind went blank for a moment, trying to process that someone could care about him that much, even when he barely got his own act together.
Adrian didn’t even respond verbally. His fingers flew over his phone, spamming text messages and calls to you one after another.
Adebayo groaned, reaching over to grab his arm. “Chill, man! She’s probably working. She won’t answer till later, so take a breath before you blow up her phone completely.”
Adrian’s voice sped up, tense and chaotic, words tumbling over each other. “But what if she already found someone new, right? And they’re like, cuddled on herbcouch, or worse, her bed, and he’s got his hands everywhere, whispering stupid shit in her ear, and she’s laughing, maybe slapping him, maybe biting her lip, and I’m just sitting here like a total idiot because I didn’t say anything, and now they’re probably kissing and ugh, I can’t even think straight!”
Adebayo threw her hands up. “What the fuck, Adrian? In the span of an hour? I seriously doubt that. Calm down.”
Economos chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, man. I don’t think she’s going to just throw herself at some random guy. Chill out.”
Adrian sat there, fingers hovering over his phone, staring at your name on the screen. The device stayed silent, no replies, and no calls. Just the glaring emptiness of your nonresponse. No matter how much they told him to chill, the gnawing panic lingered, leaving him tense and restless as the room settled into uneasy quiet.
You finally drag yourself up the walk to your apartment complex, every step heavy with exhaustion. That’s when your eyes catch the familiar shape of a Sebring parked just outside the gate, the faint glow of a dashboard light illuminating a dozing figure inside. You knock lightly on the window, and Adrian jolts awake, blinking like he’s been caught in the middle of a nap and a stakeout.
When he sees you, his face immediately lights up into a grin, unguarded and wide.
“Hey,” he says, voice thick with sleep and some kind of relief, maybe happiness.
You raise an eyebrow, tired and incredulous. “Adrian… what are you doing here? It’s like… two in the morning.”
“Well,” Adrian said, sitting up straighter in the driver’s seat, “I’ve been calling you all day and no response from you! Which is really rude, by the way. How hard is it to pick up a phone?”
You let out a long, tired sigh and held up your phone or what was left of it. The screen was completely spiderwebbed, the corner chipped. “Yeah, about that… I dropped it. On concrete. It died instantly.”
Adrian blinked at it, then at you. “Oh. So you weren’t ghosting me, you were just technologically dead.”
“Pretty much,” you said, too tired to even laugh.
He nodded, expression shifting from scolding to awkward guilt in two seconds flat. “Okay, well… now I feel like a huge asshole. I’ve been sitting here for, like, hours thinking you hated me and were off living your best life without me. Meanwhile, your phone’s out here in a coma.”
“I don’t know about ‘best life,’” you murmured, then lifted the hem of your shirt slightly, revealing a makeshift bandage around your side. It was tight, uneven, and stained through with a bit of red.
The fabric was clearly torn from a man’s shirt. It was gray and rough at the edges where it had been ripped. You’d done it fast, right after the fight, with nothing else around to use. The guy who stabbed you didn’t make it out of it, and when he went down, you’d ripped the shirt straight off him to stop the bleeding. You could've used your shirt, but well you were wearing one of your fancy shirts and you weren't about to ruin it.
Adrian’s grin vanished instantly. His eyes widened, his whole body jerking forward in alarm. “What the—what the hell happened?! You’re bleeding! Why didn’t you lead with that instead of the phone thing?!”
You waved him off weakly. “It’s fine, Adrian. Just a scratch.”
“A scratch?!” he nearly shouted, scrambling out of the car so fast he almost tripped over the door. “You’ve been stabbed! That’s not a scratch, that’s— that’s like the opposite of a scratch! That’s a penetration wound!”
You gave him a look. “Thank you for the medical terminology.”
Adrian didn’t even bother arguing anymore, he just grabbed your hand and started leading you toward the apartment building, muttering under his breath the whole way. “Unbelievable. You’re out here getting stabbed. You could’ve been bleeding out in some alley while I’m sitting in my car watching vidoes about spiders.”
You rolled your eyes but let him pull you along, his grip firm but careful. “Adrian, seriously, I’m fine.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what someone with internal bleeding would say,” he shot back, glancing down at your side like he expected you to suddenly collapse.
You sighed, fumbling with your keys when you reached your door. “You’re being dramatic.”
Adrian scoffed. “Dramatic? No. I’m being proactive. There’s a difference between ‘oh no, she’s fine’ and ‘holy shit, she’s dead,’ and I’m trying to keep you in category one.”
You couldn’t help but laugh as you shoved the key into the lock and turned it. “You’re unbelievable.”
The door opened, and before you could even kick off your shoes, Adrian gently but firmly guided you to the couch.
“Sit,” he ordered, tone serious in a way that was almost comical coming from him.
You sank into the cushions with a tired huff. “You know, you’re bossy for someone who doesn’t know the first thing about first aid.”
Adrian gave you a look, eyebrows furrowing. “What makes you think I don’t know how to do first aid?”
You shot him a tired but amused glance. “Maybe because you’re always making me patch you up.”
He hesitated for a beat, then grinned, tilting his head. “Yeah, well… maybe I just like being patched up by you.”
You froze for half a second, the words hanging in the air longer than they should’ve. Something warm and dangerous stirred in your chest, but before you could even process it, Adrian quickly backtracked.
“I mean—” he rushed, waving his hands a little, “—’cause, you know, it’s easier than patching yourself up. Way less chance of, uh, bleeding out or accidentally stapling your own skin or whatever.”
You just shaked your head and sighed. You pointed toward the cabinet near the kitchen. “First aid kit’s in there.”
Adrian moved fast toward the cabinet. He came back with the kit and knelt beside you, his usual grin replaced with a rare, quiet focus. His hands were surprisingly steady as he started cleaning the wound, brows furrowed in concentration.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of gauze being unwrapped and the occasional wince you tried to hide.
You exhaled shakily. “Okay… this hurts way more than I thought it would.”
He glanced up immediately, worry flashing across his face. “Do you want me to stop?”
You shook your head. “No. Just… distract me, Adrian.”
He blinked, thinking for a moment, then his face lit up like a kid about to tell a bad joke. “You wanna quiz me on manta rays?”
You gave him a tired but amused look. “Sure, why not.”
He grinned and handed you his phone, and you did a quick google search of manta ray facts.
You started scrolling through manta ray facts, reading the first one aloud. “Okay… what’s the largest species of manta ray?”
“Uh… the Atlantic one?”
“Wrong,” you said flatly.
He frowned. “Okay, but like, technically, that was a good guess.”
You smirked. “Next one. How many gill slits do manta rays have?”
He tilted his head and slowly said, “five?”
You paused. “Okay… that’s actually right.”
Adrian grinned proudly, puffing out his chest a little. “Yes! See? I’m a manta expert.”
You rolled your eyes, scrolling for another one. “Okay, expert. Next question. What do manta rays eat?”
He hesitated, his confidence faltering. “Uh… fish? Big ones? Like… tuna?”
You gave him a look. “Plankton, Adrian. They eat plankton.”
He groaned dramatically. “Okay, well, that’s misleading! They’re huge! You’d think something that big would at least eat something with teeth.”
You kept going, but he kept missing nearly every question. He’s getting facts wrong, mixing up species, confidently giving the most ridiculous answers imaginable. Each time, you tried not to laugh too hard because it hurt to move, but it was impossible not to smile.
You were already grinning before you even finished reading the last question. “Okay, final one. What’s the wingspan of a giant oceanic manta ray?”
Adrian sat up straighter, confidence reignited. “Easy. Fifteen feet.”
You looked at the screen. He was very, very wrong.
But you glanced at his face, how proud and confident he looked, how hard he was trying just to make you forget the pain and you found yourself smiling softly.
“Yeah,” you said, voice gentle. “That’s right.”
He beamed, sitting back proudly. “Knew it.”
You chuckled under your breath, watching him tape down the last piece of gauze.
“Thanks, Adrian,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “Really. You didn’t have to do all this.”
He glanced up at you, expression oddly serious for once. “Well, I don’t want one of my bff’s dying on me.”
You smiled faintly, shaking your head. “You should probably go, though. It’s like two in the morning. I’m fine now, really.”
Adrian froze mid-motion, tape still in his hand. “Go? Why would I go?”
“Because it’s late,” you said gently. “And you’ve already done enough. I’ll be okay.”
He frowned, like the idea of leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind until you mentioned it. “Yeah, but… what if you pass out or something? Or, like, your wound gets infected and you need to call someone but your phone’s still broken? What then?”
You sighed, a tired little laugh slipping out. “I’ll survive. I’ve handled worse.”
Adrian didn’t look convinced. He just sat back on his heels, studying you with that strangely stubborn set to his jaw. “You should at least let me stay until you fall asleep. You know, just in case. Medical supervision.”
You shook your head, hiding your smile. “Fine. But only until I fall asleep.”
He gave you a mock salute, his grin softening as his eyes lingered on you a little longer than usual. “Deal.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, wait. Can I borrow your phone again?”
“Yeah, of course.” He handed it over after unlocking it. “Why?”
“I should probably text Adebayo. She’s gonna freak if she finds out I got stabbed and didn’t check in.”
“Good call,” he said, busy gathering the first aid supplies back into the kit.
You took the phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The messages app was still open, the list of his recent conversations pulled up. Your name sat right at the top, just above Adebayo’s.
And under your name, faded gray preview text.
adrian: i know you’re probably ignoring me, but I need to tell you something important—
You froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking toward him. He didn’t notice, too busy fumbling with a roll of gauze, mumbling something about how it never fit back in the box right.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, the unfinished words still visible in that tiny preview. You knew you shouldn’t look longer than a second, shouldn’t wonder what came after important, but the thought lodged in your chest all the same.
You swallowed, quickly tapping on Adebayo’s name instead.
“Thanks,” you said, forcing your tone light.
You handed the phone back once you hit send, and Adrian took it with a small smile before setting it on the coffee table. He kicked off his shoes and dropped onto your couch like he owned the place, grabbing the throw pillow and hugging it to his chest.
“You know this isn’t a guest room, right?” you said, one brow lifting.
He grinned up at you. “What are you talking about? It’s perfect. Great lighting, excellent couch support, proximity to your fridge. Five stars.”
You let out a tired laugh, shaking your head as you turned toward your bedroom. But you didn’t make it more than a few steps before the question slipped out hesitantly.
“What are you even doing here, Adrian?”
He looked up, blinking like you’d caught him off guard. “I told you. I was just, you know, checking on you.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek, eyes flicking back toward him. “Is that really the only reason you’re here?”
Adrian froze, mid-adjustment of the blanket he’d been trying to wrap around himself. His mouth opened, then closed again like he was buffering.
“Uh… yeah,” he said finally, too quickly. “I mean—yeah, of course. What else would I be here for? Just, you know, normal friend concern. Totally platonic, medical-grade concern.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “Medical-grade concern?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding way too earnestly. “Like, you’re hurt, I’m concerned, boom: science.”
That pulled a small, reluctant smile from you, but you didn’t look away. “You’re deflecting.”
He blinked. “No, I’m… reflecting.”
“Deflecting,” you repeated, your voice soft but certain.
Adrian’s mouth opened, then closed again. His knee bounced a little, like the words were stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. “The truth is… I…”
You waited. And waited.
Finally, you sighed and finished for him. “You have something to tell me?”
His head snapped up, eyes wide. “How’d you? wait, how’d you know that?”
You hesitated, guilt flickering across your face. “Uh… I might’ve read your text.”
His whole body tensed. “You what?!”
“Just one text!” you blurted, holding up your hands defensively. “I swear, it was just the preview. Your message to me popped up right under Adebayo’s. I didn’t mean to, it was right there!”
Adrian’s face went red. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You saw it. You read the whole thing, didn’t you? You know what I was gonna say. Shit, I wasn’t ready to—fuck.”
“Adrian. Adrian, breathe.”
He froze mid-panic, looking at you.
You softened. “I didn’t read the whole thing, okay? Just a glimpse. Relax. You can tell me anything, you know that.”
Adrian stared at you for a long second, still pink in the face, lips pressed in a tight line. Then, quieter, almost to himself, he muttered, “Yeah. That’s kinda the problem.”
You shifted, leaning against the doorframe, studying him. “What do you mean by that?”
Adrian hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing. I just—forget it.”
You tilted your head slightly, voice soft but steady. “Adrian.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“That gentle interrogation voice,” he said, waving a hand at you.
“I’m not interrogatibg you. Just asking a question.” You said, shrugging.
He huffed, but his eyes flicked toward you, restless, searching. Finally, he sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay. Fine. You wanna know what I meant?”
You nodded.
He took a breath. “I was just… thinking about what you thought of, you know… us.”
You blinked slowly, pretending not to understand. “Us?”
He made a face. “Yeah, us.”
You lifted a brow, feigning confusion. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Adrian gave you a half-exasperated look. “You know what I mean, alternate universe us. The version of us that was… together and in love.” His voice dropped at the end, awkward and uncertain. “You ever think about that? About… them?”
You hesitated, eyes flicking down to your hands. “About them? Sometimes.” Your voice was soft, almost careful. “About them dating? …honestly, a lot.”
Adrian blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait, really? Like—a lot a lot?” he asked.
“As in… you’ve imagined them doing couple stuff? Like holding hands, going on dates, making breakfast together, maybe—” He stopped himself, eyes widening a bit. “—okay, not gonna finish that sentence, but still! You’ve thought about it?”
You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I mean… they seemed happy together despite everything.” You paused, your gaze softening as you met his eyes. “Like you said… seeing them together just felt right.”
Adrian’s expression shifted, that usual spark of humor dimming into something quieter, more sincere.
“Yeah, It did. Like it was supposed to be that way or something.” He hesitated, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “Kinda makes you wonder if maybe… that feeling doesn’t just belong to them, you know?”
Adrian’s words hung in the air between you, heavier than either of you expected.
Your breath caught. “What are you saying, Adrian?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “I’m saying… look after everything, I kept telling myself it was stupid to think about. You know, about the alternate universe us. But then I’d catch myself wondering if maybe they were onto something. Like maybe… that version of us figured something out that we haven’t.”
You felt something twist in your chest. Hope, fear and everything tangled together. You wanted to say something but your throat was tight, so all that came out was a whisper.
“Adrian, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” he said, voice low but firm, and the way he looked at you made your pulse skip. “Fuck, I do. I’m saying what if? What if, in this universe, we’re meant to be together too?”
You froze, the words hitting harder than you wanted them to. You’d spent the past few days burying this exact thought, trying to pretend it wasn’t there, and now he was dragging it out into the open with that same reckless honesty that always managed to undo you.
“Adrian,” you started, forcing your voice steady even though your chest ached, “the only reason you’re even thinking about an us is because of them. The other us. That’s it.”
He shook his head hard, stepping closer. “What? No, that’s not it.” His voice was desperate now, raw and sincere in a way that made it hard to breathe. “Look, other me said it was different with you. That you had this pull, and it made sense to him. And I didn’t get it then, but now I do.”
You frowned, trying to hold your ground even as your pulse stuttered. “What the fuck even is that supposed to mean? A pull?”
“It’s—okay, okay, it’s like…” He gestured wildly, searching the air for the right words. “You know how magnets work? Of course you do. But like, you can’t see what’s making them stick together, but they just do. They’re, uh… magnetically compelled or whatever.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you calling us magnets?”
“Kind of?” he said, tone helplessly earnest. “Except not in a creepy, science-experiment way. More like…” He trailed off, then snapped his fingers. “Like that thing where you’re trying really hard not to think about something, and it just keeps popping up in your head anyway. That’s what it feels like with you. Like there’s this… invisible gravity or force field or whatever, and it keeps pulling me back to you even when I try not to.”
You stared at him, thrown off by the mix of sincerity and total lack of filter. “Adrian, that’s not—”
He cut you off, stepping closer again, his voice quick and unguarded now. “No, listen, I mean it. I’ll be in the middle of work, or watching some dumb movie, or, like, cleaning my weapons and then I’ll just start thinking about you. And it’s not like, oh, random thought, whatever. It’s like—bam! You’re just there. Every single time.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
He took another step, close enough now that you could feel his breath when he spoke. “So yeah, maybe it’s a pull. Maybe it’s dumb. But I can’t stop feeling it. I don’t want to stop feeling it.”
You stared at him, every word sinking in deeper than you wanted it to. The air between you felt too heavy, too close. Like if you moved even an inch, you’d accidentally cross a line you couldn’t uncross.
And God, he looked so earnest. Eyes wide and a little nervous, but full of something real, something you’d been trying to ignore for far too long.
You wanted to say something, anything but your throat felt tight. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard to breathe around him.
So instead, you whispered the first thing that came to mind.
“Adrian… why did you take that bullet for me?”
“Uh… the first time or the second time?”
Despite the knot in your chest, a laugh slipped out. If you had a nickle for everytime Adrian took a bullet for you, you’d have two nickles which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice right?
“Both,” you said softly.
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck as if searching for the right words. “Okay, well… the first time was easy. You were nice to me. You… kind of saved me that day too, remember? It was the least I could do.”
You did remember. The chaos of that mission at the Butterfly base. There was gunfire, shouting, smoke so thick it burned your lungs. You’d been separated from the team, cornered behind a crumbling wall, and when you heard the shot ring out, you didn’t think—you just ran. You’d found him bleeding out, dazed but still trying to smile through it. You’d dragged him to cover, pressing your hands against the wound while yelling at him to stay awake.
You were still caught in that memory when he spoke again.
“The second time…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before finding yours again. His tone was different now. It was unsteady, sincere. “That one wasn’t about owing you anything.”
Your breath hitched. “Then what was it about?”
He swallowed, hands fidgeting slightly at his sides. “I don’t know. I mean—I do know, but it sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
“Adrian,” you said quietly, “just say it.”
He exhaled hard, like he was bracing himself. “Because I couldn’t stand the idea of you getting hurt. Not you.” His voice was quiet but full of conviction, every word hitting like a heartbeat. “It wasn’t logic or training or anything like that. I just, didn’t think. My body moved before my brain could catch up. It was like… that pull thing again, you know? Except this time, it hurt a hell of a lot more.”
Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in your ears. You could see the tension in Adrian’s shoulders, the nervous twitch in his jaw and still, he didn’t back away.
“So… just so we’re clear,” you said quietly, “you like me?”
Adrian blinked, like he couldn’t believe you had to ask. “Uh, yeah. Obviously. I mean—I just told you I think about you all the time, and that I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt, and that I’ve taken literal bullets for you. I feel like that kinda covers it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
He frowned, earnest. “Yeah, I’m sure. Unless you think I’m, like, in denial or something, but I’m pretty sure this is what liking someone feels like. Heart pounding, brain short-circuiting, doing stupid heroic stuff for them—yeah, that checks out.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed, shaking your head.
Then his expression shifted suddenly, the realization hitting him mid-sentence. “Wait. Shit.” He pointed at you, looking almost panicked. “I just said all that out loud, and I don’t even know if you like me back.”
You snorted. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, but like—” He gestured vaguely. “A hopeful idiot?”
You smiled then, really smiled, the kind that ached a little. You could’ve denied it, played it off, made some joke but instead you just said softly, “Maybe.”
The air between you thickened, warm and nervous. You watched him swallow hard, his fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“Adrian,” you said, almost under your breath, “can I kiss you?”
His breath caught. “What?”
“To you know…test the theory. See if we’re actually meant to be together in this universe. See if the “pull” you’re talking about is actually there.”
“Oh. Uh—yeah. Yeah, definitely.”
You leaned in first. The kiss started awkward. Your noses bumped, he tilted the wrong way, and for a second it was almost funny. He froze for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Then it clicked.
Adrian made a soft, startled sound against your mouth and kissed you back, clumsy at first, then really into it—too into it, almost, like all that nervous energy had finally found a place to go. His hand brushed your jaw, careful but eager, and you could feel the smile forming against your lips when you let out a small laugh mid-kiss.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was real.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. He blinked, a little dazed, hair sticking up from where you’d touched it.
“So…” he said, a small grin forming, voice still a little breathless. “I think that’s a yes?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Hmm. I don’t know,” you said, drawing it out. “I think we might have to kiss again to be sure.”
The smile on his face faltered immediately. “Wait, what? You didn’t feel anything?” His brow furrowed, eyes wide with the kind of genuine confusion only Adrian could pull off. “Did I mess it up? I can try again—maybe I used too much tongue, or not enough, or—”
You couldn’t help laughing, cutting him off as you reached for him. “Adrian, I’m kidding.”
His mouth opened, about to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance. You leaned in and kissed him again, firmer this time, surer. His breath hitched against your lips before he melted into it completely, hands hesitating for a split second before finding your waist.
This kiss wasn’t clumsy or uncertain. It was warm, a little desperate, and when you finally pulled away, he looked dazed, eyes soft and unfocused.
“Oh,” he whispered, a slow grin spreading. “Yeah… definitely a yes.”
You smiled against his cheek, heart still racing, and for the first time all night, neither of you said anything else.
Everything just… felt right. The quiet, the warmth of his hands still resting on your waist, the faint brush of his breath against your skin. You’d spent so long convincing yourself this couldn’t happen, that it shouldn’t but standing there in Adrian’s arms, it didn’t feel complicated at all. It felt easy. Natural. Like every version of you, in every universe, would have found their way right here anyway.
And as his thumb traced an absentminded circle against your side, you realized maybe that pull he talked about wasn’t so impossible after all.
a/n: do you guys know how hard it was to not use "Y/N" in this fic? I try my best to not use "Y/N" and opt for 'you said your name" or smth like that, and it was so hard to do in this fic cause honestly even i was geting confused on who alt-reader and main reader was T-T
anyways, i hope you enjoyed reading the fic :D comment down below on what's your fave pokemon game, i js started playing pokemon emerald cause of this fic :p
Summary: When Adrian finds you mortally wounded and left for dead in the library, mere feet from the portal that’s supposed to take you back to the safety of home, shit hits the fan. Both Adrian’s try to keep you alive. You try to stay alive. But with each passing moment, it becomes more and more difficult to keep yourself on the right side of life and death.
You can survive this. For him. For them.
…Right?
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of blood (A LOT of blood), Mentions of trauma, Mentions of death, Mortal wounds, Guns, Violence, Angst (so so much angst), Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: Part 8! So much tension! So much drama! So much pain! I’m so sorry! (but not really!). I hope you guys like this one!! As always, please let me know what you think! Especially at this part of the fic, your feedback helps me decide where to take things! Enjoy!!
(This is part of the Not Quite Him series. If you haven’t checked it out, please do!!)
-
You don’t know how long you lay there, hand pressed to the wound on your stomach as a steady stream of blood leaks from between your fingers. You’ve been injured before. Shit, you’ve nearly bled out before. More than once. You have plenty of scars on your body to showcase the amount of times you’ve flirted with death.
It’s never been like this.
It’s never hurt like this. It’s never been so dizzying, so nauseating, so…terrifying. Because you’re laying on the ground and the blood won’t stop. You can’t drag yourself to your feet and fight until you nearly pass out, like you usually would. You can’t brush this off until it becomes a real problem. It’s a problem now. It hurts so badly that you can’t think.
And you’re scared. You’re really scared. Because this feels different than the other times. This doesn’t feel like a story to tell later, or something for Adrian to fuss over in the van on the way home while you insist that you’re fine. This…this is bad.
You can’t do anything but try to hold the blood inside of you. Try to blink through the dizziness. Try with everything you have to focus as a blur of teal slips in through the door.
And freezes at the sight of you.
You don’t even know which Adrian it is. Not yet. For a moment, you just look at each other, the silence of the room louder than anything you’ve ever heard. It’s so quiet, in fact, that you wonder distantly if you might be able to hear the sound of all this fucking blood actually leaving your body. Adrian is completely still, staring at you like he’s waiting for the hallucination to fade away. Waiting to wake from the nightmare.
And then the spell breaks, and he moves.
“No. No no no no.” He’s beside you in a second, gathering you into his arms and as his gloved hand cradles the back of your head, so so careful not to jostle you too much even in his desperation to hold you close to him. His voice is a little lower than the one you’re so used to. His movements are too practiced, like he may have done this exact same thing before. This must be the Adrian from this dimension. Look at you, being able to differentiate even at a time like this.
You can fix it. You can fix this. You just need to focus. You just need to fight through it. Right? You’ll be fine. You just need to…
“M’fine.” You try, and your voice is way too hoarse and there is just a little too much blood in your mouth to make that convincing. You’re not fine. You’re scared. You don’t want him to be shaking like this as he holds you. You don’t want to feel the memories coursing through him, see how his own worst nightmare is coming to life in his eyes again as he rips the mask off of his head to get a better look at you.
How sick is the world, that this is happening to him twice? The look on his face makes you feel more nauseous than the blood loss. You wonder if he looked like this before. If this was the last thing the other you saw. What a horrible sight, to have been her last one. Such a beautiful face twisted into so much pain.
You don’t want him to see this. You don’t want your Adrian to see this. Even now, instinct makes you want to protect them above all else. To hide like some kind of wounded animal so they won’t have to experience even an ounce of the fear and pain you’re feeling.. But where will you go? What will you do? You can’t…you can’t….
“Oh God. No. Not again. Look at me, baby. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just look at me. I-I can fix this. I can-“ His hand is on your stomach, covering yours like he might help to stop the flow of blood. It’s not gonna stop. You tried. It just keeps coming. You didn’t know you had this much blood in you. “You were supposed to be safe. You-fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Stay with me. Just stay with me.”
The sound of gunfire gets closer, but it’s beginning to sound a little distant. That can’t be good. You know the battle isn’t moving away. If anything, the popping of bullets should be getting louder, not more quiet. You have an overwhelming sense of something fading from you. Something vital that feels important. Every moment pulls it farther away. Makes it more difficult to grasp at. You think, if you lose it, there won’t be any coming back.
And then your Adrian backs into the room, two guns held in front of him. He fires two shots down the hall. You hear two thumps as people just out of sight go down.
“Sick! I got that guy in the-“
Your vision is a little fuzzy, but you register the moment he sees you. You hear one of his guns clatter to the ground. Hear a single word rip from his throat like sandpaper.
“No.”
And then he’s on you, another set of hands frantically covering your own and coming back sticky and red with blood.
You try to focus. You really do. When your Adrian looks at you, eyes barely visible behind his visor, there is a fear so deep and clawing there that it seeps into your very bones, and you nearly have to look away from him. It’s too much. It’s too awful. He should never, ever look that afraid. That amount of shock and horror looks wrong on the face of your beloved, goofy, crazy boyfriend.
Fiancée. If you manage to get through this, you’re gonna marry the shit out of him. And you’ll spend the rest of your life making sure he never looks this scared again.
“What did you do?” You remember his voice getting low, almost frighteningly so, when he thought the alternate version of himself might have been the one to leave the bruises and stitched up cuts on your skin. That tone had been jarring, but it was nothing like this one. There’s more fury in his voice than you’ve ever heard before, and he sounds so genuinely dangerous that your own skin prickles as if from some kind of primal instinct.
The safety clicks off of his gun, and he slams it so hard beneath Other Adrian’s chin that you’re sure it will leave a bruise. “What the FUCK did you do?!” You’ve never heard him shout like that before, either. Never heard him scream with so much anger. He’s about to shoot. You know that better than you know the sky is blue and that everything hurts.
“Stop.” It hurts to talk. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire. The other Adrian isn’t fighting back. Isn’t arguing. He’s looking right at you, eyes rimmed with tears and flooded with agony. You think, at this moment, if Adrian were to shoot, he might welcome it.
Your hand reaches out, and you try to grab at your Adrian’s arm. You feel like you’re underwater. You can’t let him pull the trigger. You can’t-
His attention turns to you so quickly it feels like whiplash. He puts down the gun, anger momentarily dropping away as he reaches to lift your head into his lap, and his free hand flies up to rip his mask off so quickly you think he might pull some of his hair out. So easily distracted when it comes to you. Two seconds ago, he was the most frightening thing you’ve ever seen, and now with one touch he’s cradling you like you’re the most valuable thing on this Earth. Fuck, you love him.
“Hey, hey. I need you to look at me, okay? You gotta stay with me. Please. Please. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” His lips press against your cheek. Your forehead. He’s trembling all over. His begging is different from his alternate’s. A little more chaotic, just like the rest of him, and shakier. “I-I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna make it better. You gotta stay with me, okay? You promised you’d stay with me forever. It’s not forever if you die now. You promised forever. You fucking promised.”
The Other Adrian reaches for you. He doesn’t speak, just reaches for you. Your Adrian picks up the gun with one hand and presses the barrel of it into his forehead, barely moving his gaze from you.
“Don’t fucking touch her. You don’t fucking touch her.” He barely sounds like himself, and yet his other hand is brushing the hair back from your face. The gesture is more frantic than gentle, like he’s trying to touch and comfort you in any way he can, but he’s in such a panic that it’s more muscle memory than natural.
“Don’t…hurt him.” You manage, trying to sit up and nearly sobbing with the wave of pain that washes through you at the movement.
“Don’t move.” Other Adrian says to you, completely ignoring the barrel of the gun still pressed against his skull. “Don’t move. I know…I know how to-“ His eyes are nearly black again. He squeezes them shut, and the deep breath he sucks in through his teeth is cut off with a choke as he tries to push the insanity aside. As he tries to focus enough to remember what to do. It looks like a physical struggle. Like the effort it’s taking to keep himself from sinking into the mindless darkness is overwhelming him to the point of pain.
It’s your Adrian that sounds completely out of his mind, voice nearly unrecognisable through panic and fury as he holds you so possessively that you wonder if he might start growling like some kind of feral animal. “You did this. You fucking did this-“
Other Adrian’s hand darts out, fast, and the sound of the gun firing makes your ears ring and your heart stop. You shout, pain suddenly secondary as you try to shoot up again, only to nearly go blind with agony.
The gun clatters to the floor. Something liquid drips down the wall from a broken bottle on a shelf. Other Adrian moves toward you again, shoving yours to the side without an ounce of gentleness or apology. The memories, the shock and horror clouding his vision before, seem to be on some sort of back burner now. There’s clarity there, but it’s forced. He’s fighting every second to keep himself together enough to think.
“We need to stop the bleeding.”
“Get the fuck away from-“
“Do you want her to fucking live?!”
“I-” you try, but more blood catches in your throat and you choke. Your Adrian scrambles to hold you again, grabbing at whatever part of you he can reach, and he’s crying. Oh god, he’s crying. He never cries, and now each desperate sob that wracks his body is making your heart break over and over again.
You reach up, and when you touch his face you smear blood on his cheek. A mark to match your own.
“Don’t die. Don’t die. Please, please, please don’t die.” His voice catches on a sob. You want to cry too. You try to reach for him again, but it’s too hard to move. His hands are catching yours, kissing your bloody palms and reaching out to touch your cheeks. Your hair. Anywhere he can reach to feel your skin against his.
And then the world goes dark.
-
“Come here often?”
You’re in your living room. No. Not yours. It’s too neat. The furniture is just a little different. You’re in the other living room. Other Adrian’s living room.
And that’s you. You’re sitting on the couch, feet dangling over the armrest and head propped up by cushions. Her - your - eyes are turned to you, hands folded casually in her lap.
“Oh, shit.” Realization feels cold. Come to think of it, you feel cold. Really cold. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”
The other you shrugs, oddly nonchalant. “No, you’re not.”
You frown, and look out the window. There’s nothing there. You can’t tell if it’s even darkness or light. It’s just…nothing.
“Okay. So I’m not dead.” You try, and the other you smiles, shifting to sit up on the couch and perch cross legged on the cushions in a movement so smooth and familiar that it makes you frown a little more. What a weird thing, to see your own self in motion.
“Okay, I lied. You’re kinda dead.”
Okay. That’s not helpful. Definitely more than a little concerning. “This feels pretty dead.”
“Trust me. You’d know if you were dead dead.”
“Am I usually this…callous?”
“Nah. I am, though.” She cocks her head a little, assessing you. Looking you up and down. You know that you do that, too. You’ve just never seen it before. “Well, actually you are. You and I are pretty much the same.”
You’re not really sure what to say to that, so you just raise your eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You say back. That smile again. “I think I’m just…you know, dead. And you’re not. Not all the way.” A few expressions pass over your own face, and you wonder if that’s really how you look when you’re thinking about something. “We’re not exactly the type to come back in a white dress in a meadow full of daisies or whatever. Plus, life isn’t really like the movies. Neither is death.”
“This is pretty fucking confusing.”
Other You stands, and shrugs again. “So is death.”
“You’re being kind of frustrating.”
“I know.” She stretches, and rolls her shoulders just like you do. So strangely casual considering the circumstances. “I’m sorry my Adrian kidnapped you.”
“It’s okay. Kinda dicky of him, though.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty infuriating.” She looks at you, and raises her eyebrows. “But you love him.”
“I love my Adrian.”
“You can love them both. I do, and I didn’t even know yours.”
You frown. Try to piece that one together.
“Every version of you is gonna love every version of him. Vice versa. It’s just kinda…” she fiddles her fingers a bit in a vague gesture. “The way the world works, or whatever. We’re connected.”
“I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to. You do have to get back to him, though.” This time, there’s a sharpness to her smile. Something so protective that it sends a bit of a chill through you. “Like I said, I don’t even have to know your Adrian to know that I love him. But I died in front of mine. Fuck if I’m gonna let you do the same thing to either of them.”
Something catches in your throat. It tastes like iron.
Your body jolts. The room pulses.
“You’re kind of an intense ghost.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m not a ghost. Maybe I’m just a hallucination.” She taps the side of her head.
“Yikes.”
“Well you don’t have to be a dick about it.”
You smile. She smiles back. The room pulses again. Your body jolts. The taste of iron gets a little stronger and now it hurts.
You reach down to your stomach. The source of the pain. Your hand comes back red.
“Ow.” You mumble to yourself. Well, literally.
“Not much longer now.” She says, looking down at the wound before raising her gaze back to your face. “Take care of them, yeah? I know you will. It’s kind of a constant.”
Talking is a little more difficult. The pain is digging a little deeper. “Huh?”
“Us. Adrian. Every universe. It’s kind of a constant.”
You blink, squeezing your stomach a little harder. The room pulses again. You think you can hear shouting. Crying. Begging.
The Other You cocks her head to the side again. It’s a little unnerving. “Anything else you wanna ask? Going back is about to suck.”
You try to think. Another pulse. Another jolt of pain.
“Wanna make out?”
The sound of your own laughter is weird, but not quite as off-putting as you would expect. “Shit, we really are the same.”
“That a yes?”
“Maybe next time you die.” There’s a sadness in her smile, now “Besides, if either of them found out that they missed it? Hell to pay. Might even end in another rampage.”
Another pulse. Your feet aren’t moving, but the Other You is advancing, and the door is getting closer.
“Did they get what they deserved?” You ask, surprised by your own question. The blood in your throat is trickling from the corner of your mouth, now. When you wipe it away, you don’t think it transfers to your hand. “For killing you?”
She raises her eyebrows. “You know him. What do you think?”
And then she kicks you through the door.
-
You come back to yourself like a bolt of lightning.
One moment you’re falling into the nothingness outside of the apartment, and the next, you’re in a thousand worlds of pain. You convulse, entire body on fire with agony and shock, and try to make sense of the world around you.
You’re in Adrian’s basement.
The portal is still active. There’s a trail of red flowing like a spotted path over the ground inside of it.
There is pressure on your stomach, stopping what must be a truly unbelievable amount of bleeding. Do you have more blood than most people? You must, right? You didn’t think this much could come from one person. You’re so, so dizzy.
A familiar voice is speaking. Hands wet with what can only be even more of your own blood are shaking against your cheeks. More hands are still pushing on your stomach. Those hands are shaking, too. Not quite as much, but every few moments you can feel a slight tremble in the grip.
Everything is blurry, and your vision is hollowed by darkness at the edges. But there’s Adrian above you, the rims of his glasses blinking in the light coming from the portal. And there he is again, a little lower down your body, pushing down on your stomach, no glasses and green eyes filled with an equal amount of bone-chilling terror. That same forced-clarity seems a little more faded now, like he’s beginning to lose his grip on it.
Your Adrian is the one cradling your face with shaking hands, and the rest of his body is completely still. His eyes are almost blank with shock. Something is creeping into them. Something dark and scary and too familiar - something like the insanity you’ve seen in the other version of him.
You try to say his name, try to blink away the black in the corners of your vision, and reach up with a numb hand to touch him. Blood is still smeared on his cheek. Blood is everywhere.
“We have to move her.” Your Adrian says, voice empty. Hollow with shock. “I have to get her to the ambulance.” His forehead comes to rest against yours. You go a little cross eyed as you try to look at him. “I’m gonna move you. I’m gonna make it better. Don’t leave again, okay? Don’t leave like that. You can’t- you can’t…”
The pressure on your stomach hurts. A lot. You hear the other Adrian mumbling something. He sounds so far away from himself. It sounds like he’s begging.
Oh, you know this. You remember this. Not too long ago, you told yourself you would figure him out. Figure out how to pull him back from that edge. You’re pretty sure he’s fallen over it by now, but you can still try.
“B…” huh. It’s harder to speak than you thought it would be. It would feel really nice to go to sleep right now.
When you reach out, you manage to catch his hand. The hold is weak and slick with blood. “Breathe.”
He doesn’t, but he does choke on a sob as he squeezes your hand. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he wouldn’t cry. It makes your heart hurt almost more than everything else does.
A forehead presses against yours again. You feel a shaky exhale against your face. The rims of glasses dig into your skin, and it feels nice. Familiar.
“Stay with me. Please.” And that’s your Adrian. That’s him lifting you off of the floor, making pain rip through your body again as he shushes your whimper of protest and kisses your bloody cheeks. Begs you quietly to stay with him again.
“Don’t go.” He half whispers, holding you as close as he can without squeezing you too hard. His voice is quiet, but there’s a desperation in it so raw that it feels like a living thing. “You went somewhere. P-Please don’t…don’t go there again. Don’t leave me.”
“Okay.” You whisper, and you mean it. You’ll stay. You’ll sleep later. For now, you can fight. For him. You’ll keep your eyes open. You’re just so, so tired…
-
You hear gunshots. You hear a siren. You don’t want to sleep again. You don’t want to leave him. Not again. He’s crying. He’s looking at you. You can feel his tears on your cheeks like delicate raindrops.
An unfamiliar voice tells him to get back. To move away. You hear a gun cock. You hear panicked shouting. The hands don’t leave you.
-
The lights are too bright. You don’t like how he sounds when he cries. You don’t like that you can hear it twice over. But the hands holding yours feel nice. The lips against your forehead feel nice. He’s still talking to you, and you can’t make out what he’s saying, but you love the sound of his voice. You melt into it like the comfort of a familiar bed, allowing yourself to relax for just…
-
“I thought I kicked you out of here.”
You frown, back in the apartment. Looking at yourself again.
“Yeah, you did. Literally. Not cool, by the way.”
“It was supposed to be a little dramatic.”
“It was kinda cliche, to be honest.”
“Go back.”
“Working on it. I didn’t mean to come here.” You kind of told Adrian that you wouldn’t, didn’t you? The memory is a little fuzzy.
“Go back. You can’t do this to him again. You can’t do this to either of them.”
“I’m working on it.”
The Other You advances, and she looks pained. Angry, even.
“I died. You don’t get to.” She shoves you towards the door, and you stumble. There’s no pulsing this time. No sudden little bolt of pain. Something bright and white is creeping into the corners of the room, and you wonder what would happen if you reached toward it. The urge to do so is oddly strong. You almost do, in fact, but the Other You shoves you even harder, seething. “You’re going back.”
You catch the doorframe before you fall through it, glaring. “Yeah, I got that. You’ve been pretty fucking adamant about-“
This time, when she kicks you through the door, it hurts more.
Oooh what about a Dark!Daddy!Clark? Maybe he likes a cute little intern at the Daily Planet and he obsesses and manipulates her into ddlg-esk relationship and she’s none the wiser??
If I’m not making sense, ignore me, pookie. I’m glad you’re back!!!!
𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 | 𝐜.𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭
pairing: Dark!Clark Kent x Reader
synopsis: You're a nervous intern at the Daily Planet, struggling to keep it together. Clark Kent watches quietly until his protection becomes possession.
warnings: +18, daddy/caretaker dynamic, obsession, infantilization, emotional manipulation, dubcon, shy reader with low self-esteem, age gap, possession, disturbing dynamics, minimal editing, proceed with caution.
word count: 2.3k (one-shot)
It starts small. So subtle that Clark hardly knows he’s doing it in the first place. You’re just so scattered. Overwhelmed.
He’s there at the elevator whenever you scramble out of it, carrying all your belongings and two drink carriers full of hot coffee. You rush out a few nervous thank-yous, and your lips part in shock when he grabs the drinks and your heavy workbag too.
Despite your job description, he doesn’t like to see you lifting a finger.
When he’s not working, he watches you from across the bullpen while you sit at your cluttered desk. You’re always in some shade of pastel, a knit cardigan, curly hair adorned with colorful hairpins or bows. Your socks always reach up to your shins, and on the days when you’re the most tired, you don’t notice that they aren’t matching.
He dislikes that Perry expects you to fetch coffee for the entire staff, and he hates it even more when you bring some sad excuse for a lunch in your strawberry-patterned lunchbox. Almost everyone leaves for lunch. You, a struggling student, always turn Jimmy down when he invites you. You don’t have the money, Clark assumes, so he joins you in the breakroom a few times a week.
When you whip out the same peanut butter sandwich and apple that you always bring, Clark sees the way your face falls.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and your heart quickens.
“Just tired.” You nod, then nervously tap at the table.
“Here,” he offers you half of his favorite sub sandwich he orders at the deli on the next block. “I’m not going to eat all of it.”
Your lips part to protest as he lays it out in front of you. “Clark, you don’t—”
“You look hungry,” he adds. “Did you eat breakfast?”
“Yes,” you answer quietly. His blue eyes are focused on you. Hard. Expecting. “…No.”
You find that the truth slips through your lips before he has a chance to question you further. “Y/N.”
“I had coffee,” you say next. “I have to get up at 4:30 if I want to catch the earliest train into the city, and sometimes I forget.”
Clark nods, understanding, although his mind is already working toward a solution.
After that, he shares his lunch with you when he can. When you get to work, there is always breakfast waiting for you. A breakfast sandwich from the deli or a Tupperware with homemade pancakes. It doesn’t take you long to put the dots together. When you thank him, he never answers directly.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“But—”
“You have to eat breakfast.”
“But you don’t—”
“And lunch. And dinner. I don’t want to find out you’re still skipping meals.”
Your lips press into a thin line then. It’s the first time he’s seen you frustrated. Embarrassed, even. Your brows furrow, and you turn in your pink ballet flats and walk away from his desk.
The thought crosses his mind that he should back off then. Give you your space. And he tries. Really tries. But you are so needy. So much more needy than he even realized.
He follows you home. Your tiny studio apartment that you’ve made into a home, but that doesn’t make it any safer or less cheaply built. He checks on you most nights, makes sure you’re tucked into bed, although you stay up way too late working on assignments for Perry.
The night he hears you crying behind the bathroom door at work, he nearly loses control. It takes everything in him not to storm into Perry’s office and toss him off the roof of the Planet.
He doesn’t, of course.
He waits until everyone clears from the office. You emerge from the bathroom as the sunset illuminates the room in shades of red. You clutch your heart, frightened, when you find him waiting for you. You wipe under your eyes quickly, but there’s no hiding from Clark.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Please, Clark.”
“Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart. I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
Clark can feel how fast your heart is beating. He closes the distance between the two of you, one hand finding the small of your back and the other cradling your neck. Your lips tremble and your sweater sleeves pull down over your fists.
“Clark—” you hiccup, and the tears start to fall again. “I just… I-I—”
He thinks of how badly he wants you not to call him Clark in this moment. He’s been telling himself not to rush this. It will take time. “You’re okay,” he says, deep and soothing. “You’re being so brave.”
You blink up at him through the tears. “He… h-he ripped into my article. The final one. For my class. He’s hated every draft I sent him and it’s due at midnight,” your voice cracks, high and thin. “I think he’s gonna fail me. On my review. I-I worked so hard to get this internship, Clark.”
Clark’s jaw tightens. “I know you did, sweetheart,” he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“It doesn’t matter,” you shake your head. “I’m not a good writer. I-I’d be a t-terrible journalist.”
Clark’s eyes darken as he looks down at you. He sees you crawling inside yourself. Retreating. He doesn’t think as he lifts you off your feet, wrapping strong arms around your torso, before he carries you toward his desk.
Your body tenses, though you don’t protest. Your eyes only widen, and you go quiet. You have no sense of fight or flight. He understands that your first instinct will always be to freeze. His entire purpose in life is to protect people like you.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Clark takes a seat at the desk before he settles you into his lap. You wiggle, but he holds you tightly. It feels like pushing at a steel door. You hadn’t realized he’d feel so… heavy.
He rolls his chair closer to the desk, effectively trapping you in, and he opens his laptop, your back pressed against his chest. In your ear, you hear him say, “I’ll help you rewrite the article.”
“What—”
“I know what Perry is looking for. I can help you clean it up.”
“I’ll miss my train.”
Clark pauses for a moment. He clicks his teeth. “I’ll take you home.”
“Oh…” What choice do you have? “Okay.”
His voice lowers, soft but firm. “Relax.”
“I’m trying,” you sniffle.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
Clark is a man of his word. He helps you write the ten thousand words in a way that Perry would approve of. He helps you with the pacing, the tone, the flow. It never crosses his mind that you’re a bad writer. Just inexperienced. He remembers being exactly where you are.
When Clark finally feels your mood lift and sees the tired smile on your lips, he isn’t willing to let you go just yet.
You were hesitant when he opened the passenger side door of a dark sedan that doesn’t match his reporter salary. You were even more hesitant standing on the threshold of his high-rise apartment. You thought he would take you to the subway station, only for him to insist that you stay in his spare room.
Noticing your hesitation, he grabs your hand and leads you forward. The door closes with a finality you weren’t quite prepared for. You turn and feel your feet trying to carry you back toward the door. Clark squeezes your hand, gentle but firm. When he notices your body start to freeze up again, he sighs, low and almost fond, before taking matters into his own hands. Literally. You let out a startled breath as he sweeps you off your feet like a bride.
He isn’t frustrated with you. He directs you like a child about to wander into the wrong room, or a pet that doesn’t know any better.
“Let’s get you out of these work clothes, okay?” he asks rhetorically, carrying you deeper into the apartment. “And then you can have a warm bath and something soft to sleep in.”
“I don’t have any other clothes, Clark.”
“Don’t worry, baby.”
Your resistance matters little to him. You expect a guest room that’s impersonal. Bare bones. Instead, you’re met with a room with cream-white walls, a cozy bed with a white, fluffy comforter, and a plush, oversized teddy bear in the corner.
“I—” You clear your throat. “Is this a kid’s room?”
“No,” he answers as he sets you onto your feet. “I just wanted it to be… comforting.”
Clark’s lips part to explain further, but out of the corner of your eye, you spot a tall bookshelf. “You have The Secret Garden and A Little Princess,” you say. Clark watches how your eyes light up and how you pad over the soft carpet. “I’ve never seen these editions before. They are so pretty. Look at these pink flowers.”
His hulking figure shadows you as he reaches past, taking The Secret Garden off the shelf for you.
“I don’t know,” you say instead of taking it, but he grabs your hand, lifts it, and places the book in your palm. “You like these books?”
“I know you like them,” he answers casually, and your mind skips over the absurdity of the situation because next you notice a line of figurines that look like fairies on the shelf below them.
“Look around and get comfortable, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll start your bath.”
You gasp softly as you lean down, studying a woodland fairy with so many delicate, adorable details.
Every detail in the room is perfect. There are even fairy lights hanging near the windows. Just like the ones you have hanging in your apartment. And on the nightstand?
A Hello Kitty nightlight.
The exact one from your Amazon cart. The one you’d bookmarked and rebookmarked, hovered over for months, but never bought.
“You ready?” Clark asks, snapping you from your daze. Your lips part to answer, only to realize his question is, once again, rhetorical. With a hand on your lower back, he guides you toward the attached bathroom.
The lights are dimmed to a golden hue, and the tub is filled with bubbles. A soft towel sits on the bathroom counter, and a pair of neatly folded pajamas rests right next to it. You glance at the older, taller man and realize he’s removed his glasses. You almost do a double-take, your eyes focusing on his features, and he’s almost unrecognizable.
You’re not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the fact that this all feels like a fever dream, but you can’t help but let this happen to you.
“You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?” It doesn’t help that his voice is deep and melodic. You look down at his fingers as he gently undoes each button of your cardigan. “Let me do this for you. Let Daddy take care of you.”
Daddy.
The word touches you somewhere deep. An embarrassing place.
“I don’t need you to,” you say, although you aren’t convincing. And now he’s undoing the buttons of your khaki skirt.
“Let me,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s reassuring you.
Isn’t that what you’re doing? Shaking like a leaf and letting him get you naked? It’s done with such care. His touch doesn’t wander in the slightest. It’s almost clinical. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and the glimpse of his arms—thick and muscled—makes your eyes widen. How had you missed this before? You’ve never felt intimidated by Clark until now. Never felt how much power radiated from him.
“I-I shouldn’t have come,” you stutter out, mostly to yourself. “I’m imposing,” you add next, politely.
He gives you a knowing look. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.”
It’s good to know. It’s reassuring. It isn’t completely your fault that this is happening. You cover yourself with your hands when he’s fully undressed you.
He guides you closer to the clawfoot tub and keeps you steady as you step into the warm water. His invasion of your personal space doesn’t stop there. You’re not sure if he understands the concept anymore. His hands are already reaching for the soap. He kneels beside the bath and continues to look at you like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever seen. You look down then. You don’t meet his eyes as he runs a washcloth over every inch of your skin.
He notices.
“I know you don’t understand it yet,” Clark says. “But you will. You don’t have to do anything but let me take care of you.”
You focus on the warmth. The comfort in his voice. You realize you have to or else your heart will jump out of your chest.
“Relax.” He says that word again. Your eyes focus on him again as his fingers sink between your legs. A large hand against a small area. His palm presses against your lower belly. He spreads your folds, and everything in your body tenses.
Determined, focused blue eyes stare back at you. “Clark—” you rush out, and your small hands wrap around his arm. His arm doesn’t move as you push. It doesn’t even tremble beneath your grasp. “Clark, please. P-Please—oh my—”
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he says. “But I will be firm with you. You need that, don’t you?”
Your eyes flutter as your body trembles.
His movements are so precise. Large circles, and then small, concentrated ones. Your chest heaves as your head tilts back. It’s almost as clinical as when he was undressing you. It’s something he has to do. He’s treating the act like a mission that needs to be accomplished. A step in a nightly routine.
Now you’re dizzy. The act doesn’t take longer than two minutes. He applies the exact right pressure. It’s almost painful how your orgasm rips through your body. It's embarrassing how quickly it happens. “That’s it,” you hear him say. You gasp for air in between your moans. Now you’re holding onto him instead of futilely pushing at him. “Good girl, sweetheart. You needed that, didn’t you?”
He takes your silence and shaking body as a sufficient answer.
“Let’s get you dressed and tucked in, sweetheart. Big day for us tomorrow.”
Oooh what about a Dark!Daddy!Clark? Maybe he likes a cute little intern at the Daily Planet and he obsesses and manipulates her into ddlg-esk relationship and she’s none the wiser??
If I’m not making sense, ignore me, pookie. I’m glad you’re back!!!!
𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 | 𝐜.𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭
pairing: Dark!Clark Kent x Reader
synopsis: You're a nervous intern at the Daily Planet, struggling to keep it together. Clark Kent watches quietly until his protection becomes possession.
warnings: +18, daddy/caretaker dynamic, obsession, infantilization, emotional manipulation, dubcon, shy reader with low self-esteem, age gap, possession, disturbing dynamics, minimal editing, proceed with caution.
word count: 2.3k (one-shot)
It starts small. So subtle that Clark hardly knows he’s doing it in the first place. You’re just so scattered. Overwhelmed.
He’s there at the elevator whenever you scramble out of it, carrying all your belongings and two drink carriers full of hot coffee. You rush out a few nervous thank-yous, and your lips part in shock when he grabs the drinks and your heavy workbag too.
Despite your job description, he doesn’t like to see you lifting a finger.
When he’s not working, he watches you from across the bullpen while you sit at your cluttered desk. You’re always in some shade of pastel, a knit cardigan, curly hair adorned with colorful hairpins or bows. Your socks always reach up to your shins, and on the days when you’re the most tired, you don’t notice that they aren’t matching.
He dislikes that Perry expects you to fetch coffee for the entire staff, and he hates it even more when you bring some sad excuse for a lunch in your strawberry-patterned lunchbox. Almost everyone leaves for lunch. You, a struggling student, always turn Jimmy down when he invites you. You don’t have the money, Clark assumes, so he joins you in the breakroom a few times a week.
When you whip out the same peanut butter sandwich and apple that you always bring, Clark sees the way your face falls.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and your heart quickens.
“Just tired.” You nod, then nervously tap at the table.
“Here,” he offers you half of his favorite sub sandwich he orders at the deli on the next block. “I’m not going to eat all of it.”
Your lips part to protest as he lays it out in front of you. “Clark, you don’t—”
“You look hungry,” he adds. “Did you eat breakfast?”
“Yes,” you answer quietly. His blue eyes are focused on you. Hard. Expecting. “…No.”
You find that the truth slips through your lips before he has a chance to question you further. “Y/N.”
“I had coffee,” you say next. “I have to get up at 4:30 if I want to catch the earliest train into the city, and sometimes I forget.”
Clark nods, understanding, although his mind is already working toward a solution.
After that, he shares his lunch with you when he can. When you get to work, there is always breakfast waiting for you. A breakfast sandwich from the deli or a Tupperware with homemade pancakes. It doesn’t take you long to put the dots together. When you thank him, he never answers directly.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“But—”
“You have to eat breakfast.”
“But you don’t—”
“And lunch. And dinner. I don’t want to find out you’re still skipping meals.”
Your lips press into a thin line then. It’s the first time he’s seen you frustrated. Embarrassed, even. Your brows furrow, and you turn in your pink ballet flats and walk away from his desk.
The thought crosses his mind that he should back off then. Give you your space. And he tries. Really tries. But you are so needy. So much more needy than he even realized.
He follows you home. Your tiny studio apartment that you’ve made into a home, but that doesn’t make it any safer or less cheaply built. He checks on you most nights, makes sure you’re tucked into bed, although you stay up way too late working on assignments for Perry.
The night he hears you crying behind the bathroom door at work, he nearly loses control. It takes everything in him not to storm into Perry’s office and toss him off the roof of the Planet.
He doesn’t, of course.
He waits until everyone clears from the office. You emerge from the bathroom as the sunset illuminates the room in shades of red. You clutch your heart, frightened, when you find him waiting for you. You wipe under your eyes quickly, but there’s no hiding from Clark.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Please, Clark.”
“Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart. I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
Clark can feel how fast your heart is beating. He closes the distance between the two of you, one hand finding the small of your back and the other cradling your neck. Your lips tremble and your sweater sleeves pull down over your fists.
“Clark—” you hiccup, and the tears start to fall again. “I just… I-I—”
He thinks of how badly he wants you not to call him Clark in this moment. He’s been telling himself not to rush this. It will take time. “You’re okay,” he says, deep and soothing. “You’re being so brave.”
You blink up at him through the tears. “He… h-he ripped into my article. The final one. For my class. He’s hated every draft I sent him and it’s due at midnight,” your voice cracks, high and thin. “I think he’s gonna fail me. On my review. I-I worked so hard to get this internship, Clark.”
Clark’s jaw tightens. “I know you did, sweetheart,” he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“It doesn’t matter,” you shake your head. “I’m not a good writer. I-I’d be a t-terrible journalist.”
Clark’s eyes darken as he looks down at you. He sees you crawling inside yourself. Retreating. He doesn’t think as he lifts you off your feet, wrapping strong arms around your torso, before he carries you toward his desk.
Your body tenses, though you don’t protest. Your eyes only widen, and you go quiet. You have no sense of fight or flight. He understands that your first instinct will always be to freeze. His entire purpose in life is to protect people like you.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Clark takes a seat at the desk before he settles you into his lap. You wiggle, but he holds you tightly. It feels like pushing at a steel door. You hadn’t realized he’d feel so… heavy.
He rolls his chair closer to the desk, effectively trapping you in, and he opens his laptop, your back pressed against his chest. In your ear, you hear him say, “I’ll help you rewrite the article.”
“What—”
“I know what Perry is looking for. I can help you clean it up.”
“I’ll miss my train.”
Clark pauses for a moment. He clicks his teeth. “I’ll take you home.”
“Oh…” What choice do you have? “Okay.”
His voice lowers, soft but firm. “Relax.”
“I’m trying,” you sniffle.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
Clark is a man of his word. He helps you write the ten thousand words in a way that Perry would approve of. He helps you with the pacing, the tone, the flow. It never crosses his mind that you’re a bad writer. Just inexperienced. He remembers being exactly where you are.
When Clark finally feels your mood lift and sees the tired smile on your lips, he isn’t willing to let you go just yet.
You were hesitant when he opened the passenger side door of a dark sedan that doesn’t match his reporter salary. You were even more hesitant standing on the threshold of his high-rise apartment. You thought he would take you to the subway station, only for him to insist that you stay in his spare room.
Noticing your hesitation, he grabs your hand and leads you forward. The door closes with a finality you weren’t quite prepared for. You turn and feel your feet trying to carry you back toward the door. Clark squeezes your hand, gentle but firm. When he notices your body start to freeze up again, he sighs, low and almost fond, before taking matters into his own hands. Literally. You let out a startled breath as he sweeps you off your feet like a bride.
He isn’t frustrated with you. He directs you like a child about to wander into the wrong room, or a pet that doesn’t know any better.
“Let’s get you out of these work clothes, okay?” he asks rhetorically, carrying you deeper into the apartment. “And then you can have a warm bath and something soft to sleep in.”
“I don’t have any other clothes, Clark.”
“Don’t worry, baby.”
Your resistance matters little to him. You expect a guest room that’s impersonal. Bare bones. Instead, you’re met with a room with cream-white walls, a cozy bed with a white, fluffy comforter, and a plush, oversized teddy bear in the corner.
“I—” You clear your throat. “Is this a kid’s room?”
“No,” he answers as he sets you onto your feet. “I just wanted it to be… comforting.”
Clark’s lips part to explain further, but out of the corner of your eye, you spot a tall bookshelf. “You have The Secret Garden and A Little Princess,” you say. Clark watches how your eyes light up and how you pad over the soft carpet. “I’ve never seen these editions before. They are so pretty. Look at these pink flowers.”
His hulking figure shadows you as he reaches past, taking The Secret Garden off the shelf for you.
“I don’t know,” you say instead of taking it, but he grabs your hand, lifts it, and places the book in your palm. “You like these books?”
“I know you like them,” he answers casually, and your mind skips over the absurdity of the situation because next you notice a line of figurines that look like fairies on the shelf below them.
“Look around and get comfortable, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll start your bath.”
You gasp softly as you lean down, studying a woodland fairy with so many delicate, adorable details.
Every detail in the room is perfect. There are even fairy lights hanging near the windows. Just like the ones you have hanging in your apartment. And on the nightstand?
A Hello Kitty nightlight.
The exact one from your Amazon cart. The one you’d bookmarked and rebookmarked, hovered over for months, but never bought.
“You ready?” Clark asks, snapping you from your daze. Your lips part to answer, only to realize his question is, once again, rhetorical. With a hand on your lower back, he guides you toward the attached bathroom.
The lights are dimmed to a golden hue, and the tub is filled with bubbles. A soft towel sits on the bathroom counter, and a pair of neatly folded pajamas rests right next to it. You glance at the older, taller man and realize he’s removed his glasses. You almost do a double-take, your eyes focusing on his features, and he’s almost unrecognizable.
You’re not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or the fact that this all feels like a fever dream, but you can’t help but let this happen to you.
“You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?” It doesn’t help that his voice is deep and melodic. You look down at his fingers as he gently undoes each button of your cardigan. “Let me do this for you. Let Daddy take care of you.”
Daddy.
The word touches you somewhere deep. An embarrassing place.
“I don’t need you to,” you say, although you aren’t convincing. And now he’s undoing the buttons of your khaki skirt.
“Let me,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s reassuring you.
Isn’t that what you’re doing? Shaking like a leaf and letting him get you naked? It’s done with such care. His touch doesn’t wander in the slightest. It’s almost clinical. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and the glimpse of his arms—thick and muscled—makes your eyes widen. How had you missed this before? You’ve never felt intimidated by Clark until now. Never felt how much power radiated from him.
“I-I shouldn’t have come,” you stutter out, mostly to yourself. “I’m imposing,” you add next, politely.
He gives you a knowing look. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.”
It’s good to know. It’s reassuring. It isn’t completely your fault that this is happening. You cover yourself with your hands when he’s fully undressed you.
He guides you closer to the clawfoot tub and keeps you steady as you step into the warm water. His invasion of your personal space doesn’t stop there. You’re not sure if he understands the concept anymore. His hands are already reaching for the soap. He kneels beside the bath and continues to look at you like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever seen. You look down then. You don’t meet his eyes as he runs a washcloth over every inch of your skin.
He notices.
“I know you don’t understand it yet,” Clark says. “But you will. You don’t have to do anything but let me take care of you.”
You focus on the warmth. The comfort in his voice. You realize you have to or else your heart will jump out of your chest.
“Relax.” He says that word again. Your eyes focus on him again as his fingers sink between your legs. A large hand against a small area. His palm presses against your lower belly. He spreads your folds, and everything in your body tenses.
Determined, focused blue eyes stare back at you. “Clark—” you rush out, and your small hands wrap around his arm. His arm doesn’t move as you push. It doesn’t even tremble beneath your grasp. “Clark, please. P-Please—oh my—”
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he says. “But I will be firm with you. You need that, don’t you?”
Your eyes flutter as your body trembles.
His movements are so precise. Large circles, and then small, concentrated ones. Your chest heaves as your head tilts back. It’s almost as clinical as when he was undressing you. It’s something he has to do. He’s treating the act like a mission that needs to be accomplished. A step in a nightly routine.
Now you’re dizzy. The act doesn’t take longer than two minutes. He applies the exact right pressure. It’s almost painful how your orgasm rips through your body. It's embarrassing how quickly it happens. “That’s it,” you hear him say. You gasp for air in between your moans. Now you’re holding onto him instead of futilely pushing at him. “Good girl, sweetheart. You needed that, didn’t you?”
He takes your silence and shaking body as a sufficient answer.
“Let’s get you dressed and tucked in, sweetheart. Big day for us tomorrow.”
W A R N I N G S : DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, ddlg, non con elements, straight up non con, dark themes, dom!joel, eventual submission, you do put up a little bit of a fight, starvation, imprisonment, master/pet dynamics, angst, corruption, i'm not joking when i say joel is fucked, murder, huge age gap (18/52), porn with plot, there is lore, no outbreak au, 90's au just because the 90s make sense for the vibes, cabin in the woods type deal, joel is off grid and lowk not real in that many people think he's dead, collars/leash, abuse, captivity, depression, suicidal ideation, family trauma, death
S U M M A R Y : There was the distinct feeling in Lexington, Massachusetts, that those who stayed would never leave: bound to the land and its transgressions. They clawed at the dirt, screaming and kicking, throats bloody and shirts covered in vomit spewed at the prospect of captivity. Those images came to fruition in the winter of 1992, with your starved body crawling on the floor of Willard's Woods, the wildness of his eyes a prominent picture in the back of your mind as the rope around your ankle burned with every pull towards the light. Then, suddenly, as if swept by a tornado and then spat back out, enlightened and concussed, those eyes turned into your soul, and you welcomed the ring of red around your skin that stung with every promise untold.
Content warnings: Explicit sexual content 18+, oral sex (f!receiving), pussydrunk!joel, overstimulation, power dynamics, possessive!Joel, addiction, dirty talk, pussy pronouns.
Summary: Joel is very drunk tonight, but not on whiskey. On you.
Word count: 500
Joel wasn't drunk on whiskey tonight. Wasn't high off cigarettes or Texas heat.
No, he was drunk on her.
On the warm, velvet-slick sweetness between her thighs. His broad shoulders were locked between her legs, keeping her wide open while his stubble scratched and kissed the insides of her thighs, tongue lapping at her like she was made of fucking honey. You squirmed against the sheets, the back of your thighs sticky with sweat, your fingers tangled in his graying hair. "J-Joel," you gasped, breath stuttering.."Joel, baby- fuck, it's too much."
He just groaned into your cunt like a man denied water for years. His voice was gravel, his drawl thicker molasses. "You hush now, sugar. Lemme eat." His tongue dragged upward in a long, messy stripe, mouth latching onto your clit like he'd die without it. The man moaned against your pussy, lips swollen, beard soaked with your slick, hands pressing your hips down as you writhed beneath him.
"Shit, how the hell's it feel this good?" He slurred like he was drunk. "You tryin' to kill me, babygirl? Givin' me this sweet little thing like it's not addictive?"
Your legs trembled, breath catching as his tongue circled your clit over and over again..he wasn't gentle, he was hungry. Like he hadn't had a proper meal in days and you were it. Every swipe of his tongue, every mess sick, was greedy and shameless.
Joel fucking devoured you.
He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to look at your soaked pussy and grin like a man gone mad. "Goddamn," he drawled. "Look at this sweet fuckin' pussy. Drippin' all over my face like it missed me." You whined, hips twitching up toward him and he chuckled darkly. "Yeah, that's right. She missed me. Missed this tongue, didn't she?" He kissed your clit like it was his favorite goddamn thing in the world. "She knows who owns her."
Then he dove back in, no teasing this time, no breaks, just pure, sloppy, addicted attention. His nose pressed against your mound, tongue fucking info you as his fingers gripped your ass and pulled you in deeper like he couldn't get close enough.
"Mm, tastes like a fuckin' dream," he moaned, practically incoherent, eyes shut as if he could memorize the shape of you with just bis tongue.
He was pussy-drunk. Gone. Dazed. Ripped straight from reality and drowning in toy. You cried out, thighs shaking, voice breaking. "J-Joel- I'm gonna- fuck- gonna cum!-"
But he didn't stop. Didn't slow down. If anything, he held you harder, face buried even deeper, tongue flattening against your clit and pulsing as your orgasm crashed down on you like a wave of fire. You sobbed, back arching, legs trembled around his ears.
He groaned like your orgasm fed him, like the sound of your moans was his favorite damn song.
And even after you came, even after your thighs quivered from overstimulation, he kept going.
You whimpered, tried to pull back and he growled, a deep, primal sound. Gripping your hips tighter. "Ain't done yet. Don't you dare run from me. This pussy got more in her- I know she does."
You shivered, overwhelmed, but melting all over again. And when his fingers replaced his tongue, sliding insjde you slow and deep while he sucked your clit again, you knew the man wouldn't stop until you were passed the fuck out.
He was drunk on you. And there wasn't a rehab on earth that could fix him.
fucking her deep and watching her thoughts pour out for every thrust into her pretty pussy. her trying to stop me, blabbering and begging that it’s too much while a vibrator tortures her clit and my strap dumbs her down. “That’s not your safe word, slut” punctuated by my hips fucking into hers
a/n: this is quite long, I hope it keeps you fed while I prepare the next part!! feedback is always welcomed!! i will be gnawing at the bars of my enclosure ok bye!
mentions: post-outbreak / apocalyptic setting, dubcon/coercion themes, blood mention, obsession/possessiveness, power imbalance, reader is of age (above 18), naive reader (soft/innocent/inexperienced), fingering, non-explicit violence & threats, gun use, manipulation & emotional control, possessiveness, praise kink, possible other kinks, punishments,, “daddy” kink, shared reader (Joel x Reader x Tommy), pet names (Bambi, sweet girl, good girl, our girl), domestic elements turned dark, mental confusion & emotional overwhelm, morally gray to fully unhinged dark Miller brothers
Reader discretion strongly advised. Dark themes throughout. Minors DNI ❌ This is a work of fiction and does not reflect healthy or ideal relationships!!!
Do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.
⟡━━━ ✦ 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗳𝗶𝗰 ahead ✦ ━━━⟡
The forest is quiet at night, too quiet for its own sake. There used to be more life out here. Crickets chirping. Frogs croaking. Birds or bats darting through the dark sky. Now there’s nothing. Just still trees and dead air, like the whole forest is holding its breath.
“You know what I miss the most about the woods?” Joel asks, voice low as he walks beside his brother, their shotguns slung across their backs.
Tommy turns to him and huffs, waiting for his brother to respond to his question.“Deers” Tommy hums in approval, “Used to see ‘em all the time, this time of night.”
“You miss watchin’ ‘em or huntin’ ‘em?” Tommy snorts, Joel huffs a quiet laugh—
—and then it happens.
A sudden flash of motion cuts through the trees. Small, fast. Barely there.
Both of them stop.
Silence.
Alert.
They are quick to grab their shotguns and scan the shadows with their guns pointed, expecting another movement. Eyes sharp, bodies tensed.
Joel’s voice drops, almost amused. “Well, speak of the devil…”
Tommy steps forward, eyes narrowed. “You saw that?”
Joel is already scanning the brush. “Yeah. Could’ve been a rabbit. Could’ve been somethin’ else.”
Another motion. Left this time. Farther.
They both turn, guns half-lifted.
Joel mutters, “Whatever it is, it’s movin’ smart.”
Tommy nods. “Too smart.”
A beat passes. Then Joel speaks.
“Split?”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, already turning to flank. “We circle the woods. If it’s still out here—we’ll find it.”
They part in silence, each splitting through the trees like they already know the drill, they’ve done this a hundred times by now.
Joel moves through the right, slow and deliberate, each of his steps deliberate. Meanwhile, Tommy veers to the other direction; his steps are lighter and his eyes cut through the dark like a blade, scanning everything in sight.
You’re out there moving fast, barefoot and running out of air. Your legs are tired and bruised from all the times you’ve tripped. You don’t know how far you’ve gotten by now, but you can’t risk it, you can’t risk being found by him.
You’re trying your best, but panic keeps you clumsy, and every snap of a branch is louder than it should be. The leaves rustle with every move you make, which guides Joel closer to your location.
You don’t know they are close.
They don’t know if you’re a wild animal, a person, or just an illusion.
They’re not here to hurt you, but you don’t know that. They are just as curious as you, and just as cautious.
They keep circling you, it’s like a never-ending game. They move, you move, they move again. Joel on one side, Tommy on the other. Each move draws the noose tighter, but they don’t know how close they are yet; they just feel it.
You’re not trying to be found, but you’ve been on the run for long enough now. Your body aches, and your vision is blurry from the adrenaline and the fact that, along the way, you had lost your glasses. You weave through the trees, ducking under branches and trunks of trees, your hands in front of you leading the way until your foot catches around thorns.
You don’t scream or cry, but it’s evident you’ve fallen due to the solid thud of your body hitting the ground. The game is over; they’ve found you. Joel turns and runs in your direction. Tommy, though a bit further, hears the sound as well and freezes.
Branches hit Joel’s body as he pushes forward through the forest, deeper into the darkness, with only his flashlight in hand, his shotgun lowered in his other hand.
And that's when he finds you curled on the ground, legs smeared with dirt as well as your clothes, and your hair is a tangled mane with leaves. You stare at the figure of Joel like a deer caught in the headlights. Your eyes are wide, frozen.
He just stands there looking at you, neither of you says a word. A part of him relaxes, you’re just a girl. His eyes then trail over your shape, too small, too soft, too human.
“Huh, not exactly what I expected to find.” He murmurs mostly to himself.
Joel keeps the flashlight on your face just enough to keep you stunned, your eyes don’t leave the light, too afraid to move, and quite honestly, too blinded to know what to do next, but your body remains tense, muscles twitching like you’re ready to bolt and run in any direction.
You watch him as he moves two fingers close to his mouth and lets out a specific whistle, alerting someone else that he has found you. Low and controlled, he repeats it for Tommy to hear and waits for his response.
Tommy whistles back as he makes his way to Joel, and to you now as well.
Joel crouches slowly as if he were face to face with a wild, wounded animal. You don’t move at all. You don’t know who or what he is or what his intentions are. Joel is checking to see if you were infected. Thankfully, your short dress allowed him to inspect your body without getting too close. He’s seen enough infected people by now to know what to look for and how they look alike. He also looks to check if you carry any weapons on you, investigating what kind of girl you are.
Were you a savage?
Were you running from danger?
Were you lost?
“You gon bite me if I touch you?” he asks in a low voice. You don’t answer, just shake your head, barely breathing. “Alright then, let’s see what you are.”
He gets slightly closer now, you can feel his breathing close to yours, and the warmth that radiates from his body. Joel kneels right in front of you, flashlight set on the ground gently. He scans your body, not touching yet.
“Were you hurt?” he asks softly, afraid to scare you off. “Can you tell me your name? Where you come from?”
You don’t make a sound, just blink up at him slowly, your chest rising and falling like the adrenaline is coming down. He watches your face, tight with fear and filthy with dirt, and he reaches out to you with his arm slowly. His fingers are rough, but he remains gentle nonetheless.
He moves the hair from your face, gently cradles your chin as he looks into your eyes, before lowering his sight to check for scratches.
Your eyes are clear. Not infected, checked.
Lips are dry, but no blood or foam in sight.
No signs of a bite.
Joel shifts closer, now checking your arms, elbows, and shoulders as he scans for any wounds or shivers. You don’t move at all the whole time. Too scared to try anything or make him think you would do something.
“My name is Joel,” he says, meeting your eyes again, “I’m not here to hurt you, understand me?”
You stare at him for a beat too long, Joel wonders if you can even speak at all.
You nod once, small but enough for him to catch.
Joel exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Encountering you feels like an encounter with a deer, wide-eyed, silent, frightened and too delicate for this kind of world.
Yet still alive, and perhaps willing to be led.
The moment is interrupted by the appearance of Tommy.
Branches crack under his boots as he pushed through the brush, eyes sharp and his gun still raised. His flashlight lands on Joel, then on you.
“What the hell?”
Joel lifts a hand. “Easy. Put it down Tommy”
Tommy doesn’t move at first, his gaze set on your dirt smeared wide eyes as you stare back at him.
“She infected?” he asks, voice low.
“No” Joel says “Not infected, not hurt either. I checked”
Tommy hesitates and Joel asks him to put down the gun again. He obligues, slow and careful like defusing a bomb.
Joel turns back to you “C’mon sweetheart, let me help you up”
He reaches for you, carefully. You hesitate and after a pause you take his hand.
Tommy watches your legs tremble as you rise, body sluggish, muscles weak from exhaustion but you don’t stumble. It’s like watching Bambi trying to stand.
You move behind Joel.
Your hand curls tight around the fabric of his sleeves, fingers digging into his forearm enough to anchor yourself. You watch Tommy as you hide behind Joel’s shoulder.
Joel doesn’t flinch but Tommy watches you closely.
“You trust him already?” he asks.
You don’t respond, but Joel does.
“She doesn’t know me,”
Yet still you stand right there, behind a man you just met.
Joel feels the way your figure warms his back, looking for warmth yourself, your fingers digging into his arm and hears your staggering breaths.
You don’t know him at all, but you know he’s not the one you’re running from. Neither is Tommy, although you’re just as skeptical as him. Your nose twitches slightly catching smells. The men scent, wood, sweat, trees and dirt.
They smell like the woods, like safety in a way that confuses you.
You don’t know why you lean into trusting them, but you do.
“Well shit, what did we just find?” Tommy mutters finally “What do we do about her?”
Joel doesn’t answer. His hand rises, steady and low and rests over yours on his arm. You feel the calloused rough palm set on top of your frozen hand.
It’s not spoken, but they both seem to have agreed to take you back to their cabin.
They lead you through the forest path, Joel at your side while Tommy walks behind watching the two of you. His gun is still lowered but his arm remains tense.
The flashlight leads the way and cuts forward, flickering over roots and moss. The arm that’s not gripping Joel presses against trees, guiding yourself through your senses like you don’t trust the flashlight enough.
Joel keeps a close eye on you, glancing over in case your legs give out and he has to carry you himself at any given moment. The two of you are silent, but Tommy though, he’s certainly not quiet.
“So where do you come from?” he starts, voice firm as he asks a thousand questions. “You got family out here? Camp nearby? You run off from someone?”
You turn your head to look at him, your lips parted but you don’t emit an answer. You neither shake or nod your head.
Tommy keeps asking questions.
“Why were you running?” Still nothing. “You look like you’ve been out here for a while, someone chasing you?”
You swallow hard, your steps falter and you almost trip.
You turn your head forward, focusing on your steps that you barely see.
“I’m talkin’ to you” Tommy says now louder.
You flinch at the tone of his voice. Head ducking and your body curling to Joel’s looking for a sense of protection.
“I–” you don’t remember a single thing, memories blur as you try to think of what to say. “I– I don’t know”
“You don’t know?” He scoffs and stops walking. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You don’t know?”
You shrink back instantly. His tone, the pressure of his questions and the rapid fire of them banging at the door. If you weren’t holding yourself so tightly to Joel right now, you’d flee like a scared deer.
“Enough questions now, Tommy” Joel cuts in, exhausted from the scene. “Let’s get her inside and we can keep going at this there”
“Oh so we’re bringing complete strangers into the cabin now. That’s great”
“Tommy–”
“What if this is a trap, huh? What if she’s not alone? What if there’s a group of people expecting for us to be at the door and storm in? What if they’re waiting for us to drag her inside?”
Joel hesitates.
He doesn’t want to believe a word he says, he doesn’t think any of it its true.
They both turn to you. You’ve gone silent again with the tone of Tommy’s voice.
Their flashlight catching your face again.
Lips parted. Eyes glossy filled with fear. Trembling breaths.
Not the kind of fear you feel from hiding something, rather the kind of fear when you’re about to break.
You’re a deer caught in the headlights. Too scared to breathe, lie or even run away.
If you knew anything or had any kind of information, you’d spill the second they push harder.
“Let’s just get her inside first.”
The door creaks open and you step into a bubble of warmth. Your leggs stutter as you cross the threshold. Fire crackles somewhere in the corner, inside a black box.
Their scent is so much stronger inside the cabin, it smells of pine, smoke and whiskey.
There’s a couch sitting under a large window, it’s covered with a few worn in blankets and a jacket lays in the arm rest. There’s a small kitchen good enough for both of them to make use of it and a wooden table with four chairs.
Tommy shuts the door behind you and stays near it. Joel on the other hand, moves slowly, guiding you over to the couch.
“You can take a seat” he offers “You’re safe”
You hover over to the couch but you don’t sit just yet. You’re not sure what to do with all this warmth, the cushions, the blankets.
Joel sighed and heads to the kitchen, you watch as he takes a can and sets it on the surface. He pours into a bowl and brings it back to you. The smell of stew becomes more intense with every step he takes in your direction.
You stare at the bowl in his hands like it’s a test. What even is it? Is it really for you?
“You should eat something” he says gently.
You look up at him, then back at the bowl, then at him again before taking the bowl from his hands slowly.
Tommy watches the whole scene and mutters under his breath. “Yeah, totally not suspicious”
“Tommy” Joel shoots him a look, “She’s probaby in shock”
“She’s in something”
You flinch again and Joel catches it. He takes the bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“Alright, you can eat when you’re ready” he murmurs “We will give you space.”
He backs away, nodding toward the kitchen. Tommy hesitates, then follows—just a few meters, not far. Not out of earshot. Definitely not out of sight.
Joel opens the fridge with a soft creak, pulls out two beers, and offers one wordlessly. Tommy takes it, eyes never leaving you as he brings the bottle to his lips.
No one speaks.
The fire crackles quietly, casting dancing shadows along the floor. Somewhere outside, the wind brushes against the cabin walls like a whisper.
You hear your own breath, and then – your stomach growls. Loud. Desperate.
The sound feels foreign, you hadn’t heard it in a while and it seemed your body just remembered it needs something.
Legs folding beneath you as you sink onto the edge of the couch, cautious and unsure. Your fingers reach for the bowl Joel left behind.
You inspect the bowl before you take a bite, stirring the thick mixture—bits of potato, carrot, some kind of meat. You don’t care what any of it is. The stew hits your tongue, a warm salty flavour that seems to wake up a memory. It’s so distant in your mind that you can’t reach it.
They both watch you as you eat from the bowl, Tommy leans on the counter, his expression unreadable. Joel is less obvious as he drinks his beer.
You finish the last bit of stew and the spoon clinks softly against the bowl. You set it back on the table and Joel takes it as a signal to move closer, perhaps you’re ready to talk now.
You clean your mouth with the back of your hand and rest it on your lap, anchoring yourself to the couch.
Joel’s boots step closer, slowly through the wooden floor. He crouches down beside you at eye level while Tommy watches from the kitchen. He’s still suspicious—but something in his gaze shifts. Just a little. Less predator. More puzzled. Curious.
“You remember anything yet?”
You stay in silence and shut your eyes tightly. As if you could squeeze the memories, look through your skull for any piece of information. And it does, but its not what you want. It’s far too painful to open that door inside your memory lane.
There’s a shotgun, your mother screaming, crying in pain and lots of blood. And then running endlessly. Your breath tearing through your lungs, your barefeet raw agains stone and soil. Your glasses fall somewhere in the middle of the road.
You gasp and your eyes open – wide and glassy.
Joel doesn’t move an inch.
Tommy straightens, his jaw tightens.
“What was it?” he asks gently. You shake your head.
“I don’t…I don’t know” you whisper, your voice hoarse from not having spoken in so long.
“Try” Tommy says from the kitchen, you both turn your heads to him and you nod.
“There was…blood. And someone crying. I think—I think it was my mom”
Joel’s gaze darkens but his voice stays at the same level as before. “You remember a name? Yours? Hers?”
You shake your head again, frustrated at the lack of memory.
Tommy shifts his weight and rubs his hand along the back of his neck. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
You look down at your lap, Joel interrupts. “You’re safe now, that’s what matters”
But are you really safe? With them?
You want to feel safe, a part of the warmth allows you to.
But there’s something left unsaid, something you quite haven’t figured out yet.
Joel takes the blankets without saying a word and moves slowly over you. You’ve curled yourself on your side, he set a cushion under your head. He tucks the edges so the blanket doesn’t slip when you turn.
You don’t move at all.
Not when his hand pauses near your shoulder, not when he lingers too long watching your face in the soft flicker of firelight. Joel pulls back, leaving you alone on the couch and you heard the floorboards creaking under his boots. He turns to Tommy and signals to go outside to talk in private.
You can’t sleep.
You should be exhausted due to all the running and the adrenaline rush, but your body remains alert. You hear them talking somewhere near the window, their voices low like the things they’re saying are not meant for your ears.
Your eyes stay shut, breaths slow and steady.
“What are we going to do with her?” Tommy murmurs.
Joel doesn’t answer right away.
“You saw her,” he says after a beat “She’s got no one. Not a memory, not even a name”
“Yeah, not even a single survival instinct” he scoffs. Joel nods slow, agreeing with Tommy.
The silence stretches long enough for both of them to sigh.
“We’re keeping her” Joel says after a beat.
“You serious?” Tommy turns to him “Joel, this isn’t some dog we found in the woods”
“No, it’s not a dog, it’s a deer if anything. You saw her wide-eyes staring at our flashlights like a deer caught. She’s lucky we found her first”
Your chest tightens as you listen to Joel’s voice.
“The way she followed me, grabbed my arm. Like i was hers, like i was her anchor if something bad were to happen” he pauses “It means everything”
“You like her?” Tommy turns to Joel, their eyes meet. Joel doesn’t answer. “I do too”
More silence.
“We’ll take care of her”
Joel flicks ash off his cigarette and says nothing, he turns to look at the cabin as if you could hear them through the walls. He wishes you could.
You curl deeper under the blanket. The fabric still smells like firewood and soap and something faintly like him.
And behind your eyelids, all you can see is that shotgun again.
The blood.
Your mother’s scream.
And their voices now too.
Eventually your body gave out. Not from safety but pure exhaustion that had clawed its way through your body. You didn’t dream of anything. Didn’t make it to the edge of a nightmare.
Just completely blacked out. But before sleep took you, you’d felt them.
The cabin door opened and you could hear quiet steps across the floor. You remained still with your eyes closed. Joel stood near you, close enough to feel. Then Tommy did as well. Neither of them touched you but you could feel their gaze before they each went to their rooms.
Next morning
You wake up to the smell of bacon.
Salt and smoke and something almost sweet. Maple perhaps? Your eyes flutter slowly, vision still clouded with sleep.
Joel is in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, a pan sizzling in front of him. The morning light cuts through the window in long slats casting a golden color over the room.
Tommy is already awake. He’s sitting at the table, leaned back in the chair, a mug in hand. He’s not drinking, just holding it. Watching you.
You sit up slowly and the blanket slips off your shoulder, pooling down your side. His eyes follow and look at your bare skin. He doesn’t look away, just looks harder. He’s not being subtle in the slightest and he knows it.
Your throat tightens and you shift, you pull the blanket back like an armor and Tommy watches as you do.
Joel glances over his shoulder as he serves the bacon in three different plates. “She’s up”
“She sure is” Tommy’s gaze lingers for a moment before taking a sip.
You feel uneasy, not unsafe but the way he’s staring at you like he could eat you right there and then was disturbing.Just yesterday, he didn’t want to let you inside the cabin. Now, you can feel it in his silence:He wouldn’t be able to let you out.
Joel, on the other hand, moves like nothing’s wrong.
He sets two plates on the table, one in front of the empty seat—yours. He nods at it casually, then looks down at you with a faint, unreadable smile.
“Here you go, Bambi.”
Your brows pull slightly. “What?”
“Figured since you don’t remember a name,” he says, setting down a mug of something warm—tea surely—“we might as well call you somethin’.”
You blink at him.
Bambi.
You should protest.
But you don’t.
“That alright with you?” Tommy smiles at you.
You just nod, slow, your stomach fluttering in ways you can’t explain.
The nickname clings to you like smoke. Innocent, sweet—and completely theirs.
You pull out the chair with a soft scrape and sit down, directly across from them. Tommy starts eating his plate of bacon while you stare down at yours as if trying to figure out what it is.
“So we talked last night,” Joel starts as he takes a seat and relaxes back into the chair, chatting like its an everyday breakfast. You glance up at him, his voice is warm and calm.
“You’re going to be staying with us,” he adds “if you want to, of course.”
He lets the words sit there, lets you feel the kindness in them. Like you have a say.
But the truth seeps in anyway.
Where would you go?
Who would you find out there?
Would you have food? A warm place to sleep?
Would anyone keep you safe the way they would?
You hesitate.
Not because you’re unsure of the answer.
But because you know you’ve already lost the choice.
Joel watches you with a steady, comforting gaze—like he knows you’re working it all out. Like he’s giving you time to accept the truth.
And then Tommy speaks.
His voice is quieter this time. Measured. Different from the way he barked at you in the woods.
“Look,” he says, leaning slightly forward, elbows braced on the table. “I know I was... rough yesterday.”
You don’t meet his eyes.
He notices. He softens further.
“I get it. You’re scared. That’s fair.”
Tommy’s voice is lower now, softer than you’ve ever heard it. No edge, no sharpness—just quiet understanding. He offers the faintest smile.
Trying to shape himself into something gentle.
Something safe.
“But you don’t gotta be scared of us,” he says, eyes fixed on yours. “Ever.”
You glance away, uncertain.
He leans in just a little, voice dropping further—soothing, almost tender.
“We just want you to feel safe. That’s one of the many things we can offer you, if you let us.”
You swallow.
The words settle deep. Deeper than you want to admit. There’s no threat in them—but somehow, they still hold weight.
If you let us.
As if there’s a choice.
As if you haven’t already been folded into the center of their world without even realizing it.
Joel stays quiet, letting Tommy do the talking. But his eyes are on you, steady.
The air feels thick.
You grip your fork tighter.
Your eyes burn, but not with tears—just heat, tension, exhaustion.
And still—something in you wants to believe him.
Wants to believe it could be that simple.
You nod, barely.
And your voice—quiet, hoarse, uncertain—slips out before you can stop it.
“...Okay.”
Just one word.
But Joel shifts when he hears it.
His eyes flick toward Tommy, then back to you. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something settled.
Tommy leans back slightly in his chair, but not far. Like he’s giving you space, but not too much.
Like he’s proud of himself.
Joel speaks next, quieter than before.
“Good, Bambi,” Joel says, voice low and easy. “Happy to have you on board.”
You give him a small smile—tight, unsure. But you offer it anyway.
And that’s more than enough.
He sees it. Feels it.
That flicker of willingness, of trust—however faint—is all he needs.
His hand brushes his thigh as he stands. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast,” he says, gesturing to your full plate, “and we’ll find you something clean to wear.”
You glance down at your clothes—mud-streaked, torn at the hem, dried blood in places you don’t want to think about.
You nod, quiet again. “Okay.”
Tommy stands too, stretching his arms, voice light. “Reckon we got some stuff she can use in the back. Closet’s got a few things.”
Joel takes his and Tommy’s plate and heads to the sink to clean up while you dive into your bacon and eggs.
“How’s the taste, Bambi?” he asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You pause, blinking at him. Chewing.
“It’s good,” you say softly, then add—because it feels expected—“Thank you.”
His smile deepens. Not smug. Not proud. Just… satisfied.
“Good girl,” he murmurs under his breath as he turns back to the sink.
You’re not sure if he meant for you to hear that.
But you do.
And it settles deep.
Tommy returns from the hallway with a modest pile of clothes in his arms—folded, clean, and smelling faintly like cedar and something deeper beneath it.
“There weren’t many options,” he says, setting them down neatly on the couch, “but it’s more than I thought we had.”
You glance at the stack. An old flannel. A plain black hoodie. Two shirts. Pants. Sweatpants. Even a pair of underwear—too big, but clean.
You blink. It’s more than you expected. More than you’ve had in a long time.
Tommy takes a step back and gives you a quick once-over—not leering, but assessing. His gaze lingers just enough to make your stomach tighten.
“Think you might wanna get cleaned up first,” he says, tone still easy. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”
You look down at yourself—dirt-streaked skin, dried blood on your arms, your clothes stiff with sweat and earth. Your face grows hot.
You’ve been so focused on their scent.
So taken by the safety, the fire, the comfort of not being alone—
You forgot your own.
Do you stink?
You shift in your seat, suddenly self-conscious. You don’t meet his eyes. You just shake your head slowly.
Tommy nods once and gestures down the hallway. “Bathroom’s the first door on the right. Hot water still works. Use whatever you need.”
Joel speaks up from the sink. “We’ll keep your breakfast warm.”
You stand, hands curling around the blanket at your chest.
Still watching. Still being watched.
The hallway is dim, the floor cool beneath your bare feet as you move toward the door Tommy pointed out. You clutch the pile of clothes against your chest, the blanket slipping away behind you.
The bathroom is small but clean. A mirror above the sink, fogged slightly from earlier use. You can still smell them in here—soap, cologne, cedarwood.
You lock the door.
Not because you think they’ll barge in.
But because it’s the first time since arriving that you’re alone.
You exhale shakily and set the clothes on the edge of the sink. There’s a towel waiting for you, neatly folded on a stool. A bar of soap. A bottle of shampoo that smells vaguely like pine and smoke. And draped carefully over the hook behind the door—
a shirt.
Too big.
Soft cotton.
Joel’s, clearly.
You know it before you even touch it. You’ve smelled it on him, in the air, in the kitchen. It's clean, yes—but it carries him.
Your hand trembles as you reach for the hem of your shirt. You strip slowly, peeling away the days-old clothes, layer by layer, like skin that no longer belongs to you.
You avoid the mirror.
You don’t want to see yourself like this—hollow-eyed, bruised, thin.
You step into the shower.
When the water hits you—hot, real—it almost breaks you. You brace a hand on the wall, forehead pressed to cool tile, body trembling under the weight of heat and memory.
You don’t cry.
You just breathe. Shallow, shaky. Like you’re still hiding in the woods.
When you finish, you dry off and reach for the clothes. You pull on the underwear—too loose. The sweatpants—soft, drawstring pulled tight. And then…
Joel’s shirt.
It slips over your body, down past your thighs, sleeves hanging low. You wrap your arms around yourself instinctively, inhaling the scent baked into the fabric.
You step out of the bathroom, warm skin wrapped in softness—Joel’s shirt, pulled from the hook behind the door. It’s not the one Tommy had folded for you. It’s not even one either of them offered.
You just… took it.
It hangs loose over your frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Paired with the sweatpants—drawstring cinched tight at your waist—you feel strangely small. Hidden. Safe.
You walk barefoot into the main room, fingers tucked into the hem of the shirt. Your hair is still damp, clinging to your neck.
Tommy’s sitting at the table, lacing up his boots. Jacket already on. About to leave.
Joel is leaning back in his chair, cradling a mug in one hand. His gaze finds you the moment you walk in—and stays there.
Not moving. Not blinking.
Tommy glances up at the sound of your footsteps.
You hesitate, arms tightening around yourself just slightly. “It’s… all a bit big but…” you say quietly, eyes flicking to him. “Uhm… thank you, Tommy.”
His gaze dips over the outfit—familiar fabric. Joel’s shirt. “No problem, Bambi,” he says with a soft smile. “We’ll find you proper clothes real soon.”
Joel doesn’t say anything.
But you feel his attention settle on the shirt. The way it drapes over your frame. The way you picked his without being told. Something shifts in his eyes, he’s got that look again—like you’re already his, and now you’ve confirmed it.
He sets his mug down and rises to his feet slowly.
“You hungry?” he asks, voice calm. “We kept your plate.”
You nod.
And when he walks past you to reheat the food, his hand brushes gently along your back. Barely there.
You eat slowly, the warmth of the food grounding you more than you expect.
The cabin feels quiet this morning. Still. The kind of stillness that hints at routine, at repetition. You watch as Tommy zips up his jacket, slings a rifle over his shoulder like it’s second nature.
He moves with practiced rhythm. Comfortable. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
And you wonder—what is this?
What do they do all day?
How far do they go?
Where do you fit into that rhythm?
You swallow your bite, fingers tightening slightly around your fork.
“Tommy?” you ask, voice quiet, gentle—like it’s not even your place to know where he goes.
He turns, halfway to the door. “Yeah?”
You hesitate for a moment.
“Where are you going?”
He pauses, then lets out a small breath, turning fully to face you.
“Just out on a run,” he says. “Checkin’ the perimeter, makin’ sure the traps are still set. Gotta keep this place safe.”
You nod, looking down again.
It’s not the answer that matters.
It’s the fact that you asked.
Joel glances at you from across the room, something flickering in his expression. You don’t see it—but Tommy does.
“Joel’ll stay with you,” Tommy adds after a beat. “You’ll be alright.”
You nod again, smaller this time.
Joel, still watching, sets your reheated plate down in front of you and murmurs, “You can ask things like that, y’know.”
You blink up at him.
Joel’s voice is warm. Steady. But there’s a weight under it.
“You live here now, Bambi,” he says. “That makes this your place too.”
And something about that… feels final.
The door clicks shut behind Tommy, and for the first time since last night—it’s just you and Joel.
The quiet returns, thicker now. It settles in the cabin like fog.
Joel clears his throat as he moves to the sink, rinsing your empty plate. “You eat good?”
You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”
He glances at you over his shoulder. “You’re polite. That’s good.”
You don’t know how to respond to that.
He dries his hands and leans against the counter, just watching you for a moment. Not in a way that makes you shrink—more like he’s thinking something he’s not saying.
Then, his voice lowers slightly. “You look better.”
You blink up at him.
“In clean clothes,” he adds, gesturing to the shirt you took. “In mine.”
Your face warms. You hug your arms across your stomach.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it.”
He shakes his head, stepping toward you. “Don’t be sorry. I like it.”
Joel’s closer now, only a few feet away.
The fire cracks gently. Rain starts tapping at the windows. The outside world dulls, disappears.
“You tired?” he asks.
You shrug. “A little.”
Joel nods toward the couch. “Wanna rest? I’ll sit with you a while. Won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”
You hesitate.
But you nod.
He sits first, leaning back on the cushions, legs spread. He pats the space beside him.
“C’mere.”
You sit beside him slowly, careful not to brush too close. But the couch is small, and your shoulder rests against his bicep.
His warmth seeps into you.
His scent as well.
You don’t speak. You just sit there, soaking in the quiet.
And then—Joel shifts slightly.
His hand lifts. Not fast, not forceful. Just rises and curls gently over the back of your neck. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw.
You turn your head slightly, looking up at him.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Almost a whisper.
You nod. “Mhm.”
And you mean it.
For the first time in a long time, you feel okay.
Joel leans in just enough that you feel his breath against your temple.
“You don’t ever have to be scared with me.”
He presses a kiss to your temple. Barely.
And it lingers longer than it should.
Joel's hand remains at the back of your neck, thumb brushing absentmindedly at your hairline, slow and steady. The kind of touch meant to soothe. But it does more than that.
It roots you.
Tethers you.
Pulls you closer to something you don’t quite understand yet.
You don’t think about it when you shift.
Just a soft movement—turning into him, resting your temple against his chest.
You didn’t mean to invite anything.
But Joel took it as one.
Then his arm wraps around your waist, firm and deliberate, pulling you the rest of the way in until you’re practically in his lap.
Your thighs straddle his. His palm spreads across the small of your back.
You freeze for a moment—not out of fear, but surprise. Your hands rest flat on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath them.
Joel doesn’t move.
He just watches you.
His eyes low. Lidded. Dark.
“You okay?” he asks again, voice like gravel and smoke.
You nod, slower this time.
“Good,” he says.
His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. His gaze flicks across your face—your lips, your throat, your lashes. He’s not pretending to be subtle anymore.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You swallow.
His fingers trail along your jaw, then down to your collarbone—his shirt hanging off one shoulder, slipping just enough to expose skin.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push, but his grip on your waist tightens.
And when he leans in again—closer this time, his nose brushing your cheek—he whispers,
“Feel good, don’t it? Bein’ taken care of?”
You nod before you realize you’re doing it.
Joel smiles at that, knowing what he’s causing you while you’re sitting on him. The second your body suddenly starts reacting, he clocks it.
Not to mock you or shame you. He uses it to train you.
You feel… safe. Anchored.
But also—
Something else.
A pressure. A warmth that’s begun to build under your skin. Between your thighs. Inside you.
You shift again, just a little.
And that’s when you feel it.
Him.
Hard. Solid beneath you.
Your breath hitches, and your thighs instinctively press together over his. Your body feels strange—hot, sensitive, like it’s humming. And you don’t understand it fully. But it’s there.
Joel doesn’t move.
His voice cuts through the silence, his voice—low, rough around the edges- curls into your ear like smoke. “Somethin’ bothering you, Bambi?”
You blink slowly, your brow furrowing.
You don’t want to lie.
So you nod. Just once. Tiny.
Joel hums quietly as his palm strokes slowly down your spine.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought so.”
You shift again, uncomfortable, but not wanting to leave. Wanting something else. Something you don’t have a name for.
Joel tilts his head, eyes dragging over your flushed cheeks, parted lips.
“Need me to take care of that, Bambi?”
You glance up, eyes wide, searching his face for the answer—because you’re not sure what’s happening to your body, only that it feels overwhelming.
You’re hoping he knows the answer.
Because you surely don’t.
So you nod again, causing Joel to smile.
He takes your hand gently and guides it down, resting it over the hard line straining beneath his jeans. The heat of him throbs through the fabric, solid and undeniable.
“Feel what you do to me?” he asks, voice low, roughened with restraint.
You blink, fingers twitching slightly against the pressure. You can’t speak. You just look at him—uncertain, dazed.
Joel’s hips roll up, slow and heavy, grinding against your palm as his grip tightens on your wrist.
You gasp—sharp and surprised—and immediately drop your gaze, cheeks burning.
He catches your chin with two fingers, tilting your face back to his.
“Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “No shame in that.”
You look up at him, breath shaky, and he smiles again—gently, reassuring.
“Your body’s reactin’ the same way to me. That’s a good thing, baby.”
His hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing over your bare stomach. Then lower past the waistband of your sweatpants.
“You’re not doin’ anything wrong. You’re just learnin’. I’ll teach you everything—nice and slow.”
He moves slowly.
And when his fingers slip past the edge of your panties, you tense—not from fear, but from something deeper. Something pulling.
“Shhh,” he soothes. “That’s it. Just let me.”
His hand finds the warmth between your legs—already sticky, slick, and aching. And he groans under his breath.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You really needed this, didn’t you, Bambi?”
You whimper. Your hips twitch without your permission.
He strokes you slowly, just enough to build the pressure. Drawing circles with enough pressure.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers against your temple. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
Your hands clutch his shoulders, and your voice breaks on a breathy plea:
“Please—Joel—please…”
And god, he loves it.
His lips curl against your skin.“There she is,” he murmurs, picking up the pace just enough to make your thighs shake. “Beggin’ so sweet. Didn’t even have to teach you.”
You press your face against his neck, trying to stay quiet, but every touch burns. Every movement tightens something inside you that you didn’t know was waiting.
Joel keeps whispering.
“That’s it, Bambi. Doing so good for me”
His fingers slide lower—slick, wet, so sensitive that your hips jolt. He strokes you slowly, gently, like he’s memorizing your every twitch.
“There you go, baby,” he whispers, “You just stay with me. Let me feel how good you are.”
You make a sound, quiet and shaky at first. But when his fingers circle just right, a soft moan escapes before you can stop it.
Joel groans at the sound. “Goddamn.”
You press your face against his neck, biting your lip, but the sounds keep slipping out—wet, breathless, desperate little whimpers that only make him touch you deeper, slower.
And outside—
Tommy freezes halfway up the porch steps.
He hears it.
Muffled, but clear.
Your voice.
High and soft and needy.
A moan. Then another. The kind of sound no one makes unless someone’s got their hand deep between their legs—and Tommy knows exactly what Joel is doing with you
He stands there, jaw tight, heart pounding. Heat spreading beneath his ribs… and lower.
Joel beat him to it.
He fucking knew it would happen. Knew Joel was soft on you the moment you stepped out in his clothes, all wide eyes and soft thank-yous. But he didn’t think Joel would take it this soon.
And now, standing on the other side of the door, Tommy hears you cry out softly again.
He presses a hand against the wall beside the door. Breath heavy. His cock throbs behind the zipper of his jeans.
Fucking Joel.
A growl curls in his chest, low and frustrated.
He wants to be the one inside.
He wants to see your face.
He wants to hear you say his name like that.
And next time—
He will.
⟡──────────────⟡
Guess next time it's Tommy's turn...
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tag list: @heavens-whore @ilovetoomanymen @chick66i @grayandthyme @codenamekitten @millersdoll @med494 @pedrosgirl03 @starfruitlily @fan-fiction-floozy @darknight3904 @anitraivx @sweaters-and-socks @umadirectioner (just ask in the comments and you'll be added loves)
summary: Uncle Tommy gives you everything you want for your twenty first birthday.
pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap (reader is 21, Tommy in his mid thirties), size difference, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, begging, dom/sub undertones, tommy yearns bad in this one, a bit of angst mixed in, alcohol overconsumption, reader is made uncomfortable by someone at a bar, references to being drugged (but doesn't actually happen), allusions to addiction, reader gets a facial
note: if you haven't heard yet, i'm turning this into a little mini series!! you can let me know here if you'd like to be added to the taglist. thank you to everyone for the support on this one, I'm so glad you all love uncle tommy as much as i do. let me know what you think of this chapter, i love love love talking to you guys and i promise there's more to come!
wc: 10.8k
[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]
Tommy Miller is a high functioning addict.
Self aware enough to admit it, hedonistic enough to only manage it. Has been that way for as long as he can remember.
He likes the head buzz of nicotine and the dizziness of liquor and the adrenaline rush of a real bad decision. His favorite high, though, is you. His favorite sound, his favorite taste, his favorite sight.
His favorite girl.
After that fateful night in his apartment, the two of you get good at the balancing act. The push and pull. You ride the line of too much and not enough religiously. Have gotten it down to a goddamn science.
But the problem is that an addict never knows when to quit.
He does well for a while. Truly. Learns that it’s a whole lot easier to manage his longing with witnesses around, and goes out of his way to avoid being in an empty house with you. He interlocks his fingers together and squeezes when the urge rises in him to touch you. To cradle your pretty face, to run his thumb over your mouth when you make some filthy joke and smile up at him. He bites the inside of his cheek when you’re sitting beside one another and turn to whisper something in sync, bringing you face to face, so overwhelmed with a craving for the taste of your tongue that his heart hammers against his sternum.
For what it’s worth, Tommy tries. Loses sleep over it, even. Stares up at his ceiling for hours, warring with what he wants and what he knows is right.
The right thing would be to wean himself off of you. Cut back a little at a time. Day by day, until eventually the thought of you becomes less persistent. Until he stops smelling the faintest trace of your shampoo in his sheets, until he stops transferring that half-smoked cigarette with cherry lip gloss on the filter from pack to pack.
But then, sometimes, he catches this look in your eye when you’re listening to him speak. He could be talking about something shitty that happened at work or telling you about a song he heard on the radio that he thinks you’d like, and you just stare at him like he hung the moon in the sky.
He’s important to you, and you make him feel it. And it’s this, this that he can’t give up. The way you trust him so completely, the way you love him without a trace of doubt.
You say it once, in passing. Everyone’s sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard, enjoying the nice weather before the rainstorm moving in from the west hits. You’re sitting next to Sarah, but your feet are resting in Tommy’s lap.
Sarah’s talking animatedly, telling everyone about her college English professor and how they’ve been playing matchmaker all semester. On three separate occasions, they’ve paired groups together, and couples have emerged from them. Sarah thinks it’s intentional, but your mom and Joel aren’t so sure.
Tommy stays quiet for most of the conversation. But then he says, “Definitely a little weird. But, uh…anyway, I wanted to let everyone know I’m a changed man. Dropping the whole blue collar act and going back to school to study English.”
Everyone laughs, and you kick the side of his thigh lightly with a shake of your head. Through your giggles you say, “I fucking love you,” and it fills him with so much warmth he’s overflowing with it.
He rides that high for days. Gives you shit for it, even.
When he steals your half finished slice of pizza right out of your hands and you call him a dickhead with a smile on your face he says, “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
You don’t deny it, and even that makes him feel special. Tommy takes every crumb of affection you throw at him and eats it up with a fork and knife like it’s the most delectable meal he’s ever had. Consumes your sweet words and your closeness so thoroughly, it’s almost comical. Like he’s a dog with a bone, desperate for it, because he is.
He stays balanced, though. Never lets it go too far. Can feel right when his desire begins to cloud his judgment and knows when to call it.
But things change one night at the dining room table.
You and Joel sit beside each other. He‘s in front of that shitty laptop he bought decades ago, trying to write an email that sounds both professional and assertive without using the words asshole or fucking idiot.
He’s grumbling and typing with his two pointer fingers and a single thumb on the keyboard, shaking his head as you explain, “You have to capitalize her name, Joel. You’re not sending an email to your friend, she’s a CEO.”
“Yeah, well, capital letters are meant for people. Not for corporate lizards trying to fuck with my company.”
You catch Tommy’s gaze from across the table, making you both snort and fall into rambunctious laughter, earning you a glare.
“It’s not funny,” Joel says sharply. “Stupid I even have to do this. I don’t know why people don’t just leave well enough alone.”
“Everyone wants a piece of the pie,” you explain. “You’re making good money doing good things, and she wants to be a part of it. You guys keep taking on more projects this year, and inquiries like this are just the beginning.”
“It’s a good thing, ain’t it?” Tommy shrugs. “Means you’re doing somethin’ right.”
“Exactly,” you agree. You lean across the table and swipe the glass bottle from his hands to take a sip.
Tommy knows you don’t like beer and isn’t surprised when you cringe at the hoppy flavor, wrinkling your nose at him. He thinks maybe you drink it anyway not for the alcohol, but to put your lips to the same place his were seconds ago. He tries not to let the warmth that idea elicits in his chest spread too far.
“Well, I don’t need some uppity lady who works in an office telling me how to do my damn job,” Joel adds.
“So say that,” you tell him. He starts typing on the keyboard again, so you lean in close, peering over his shoulder. “Oh my God. Not word for word. You have to paraphrase.”
Joel throws his hands up in the air and groans in frustration. “How do I say fuck off in a nice way?”
You and Tommy both laugh again, which only serves to piss Joel off even further. It’s not funny, not really; it’s just the dramatics of it all. And, truthfully, Tommy finds everything funny when he's with you.
“You write it,” Joel says, pushing the laptop towards you.
“That’s not gonna solve anything,” you say, shaking your head.
“What if I pay you?”
“Then you’ll be in the same situation next time. You’re gonna have to learn how to be a business owner, Joel. Not just a contractor.”
“Okay, so make it permanent, then,” Joel says, shrugging. “Like a…a receptionist. Come work for me and quit that coffee place. They don’t even offer health insurance.” He says it with such disdain, and Tommy knows exactly why.
They’d discussed it on the way home from work one afternoon. Too god damn smart for a place like that, Joel had said, and Tommy could do nothing but agree.
“I can’t quit my job to write your emails for you,” you argue.
“Not just that,” he says. “Can be in charge of payroll and schedules and the licensing bullshit. All the things I’m bad at. Weekends off, whatever hours you wanna work. I’ll pay you double what you’re makin’ now, and you get health insurance.”
Hesitation shows on your face. Tommy knows his brother means what he says, and he thinks you know it, too. But it’s a lot to consider. A big change.
“You’re good at talkin’ to people,” Joel continues, closing the laptop. “An’ it would mean a lot to me.”
That’s what does you in, Tommy knows. The nail in the coffin. He sees it in the way your shoulders drop and your eyes soften. Selfless girl, he thinks. Always taking care of the people you love. “What if I don’t like it?”
“You will,” Tommy answers. Because he knows Joel will take care of you, too. Make sure you have everything you might need. But more importantly, Tommy knows you. And even though he can sense the way it threatens his balance on that already thin line between safe and depraved, he knows you’ll enjoy it.
And he’s proven correct on that very first day.
Joel sets you up in the air-conditioned trailer they haul from job site to job site. Mostly, they use it to cool off during lunch, everyone piling into the small space for half an hour before going back out into the Texas heat.
The two of you spend most of the day going over all the contacts Joel’s acquired over the years, and how to schedule a consultation, and where to order materials. He gives you all of his passwords and clears off the cluttered desk that never gets used.
Everyone on the team is awfully eager to meet you, and Tommy’s no fucking idiot. He knows exactly what goes through their heads as they shake your hand and introduce themselves and stare a little too hard at the shadow of red lace beneath your thin white top.
They conveniently wait until Joel’s out of earshot before the comments start pouring out of their foul mouths.
Pretty little thing, ain’t she?
Joel’s got that livin’ under his roof? Christ. Poor old man.
You see the way those jeans fit her?
Is it too early to start callin’ Joel ‘pops’?
Tommy wonders briefly why they feel so comfortable saying shit like this in front of him, knowing who he is to you, but then realizes he’s said far worse in the past about girls half as pretty. They feel comfortable because in any other situation, he would be joining right in.
Noah’s the worst of it. Takes things a little too far when he says, “Stepdaughter videos ain’t number one on the hub for nothin’.”
Tommy clenches his teeth. Keeps his head down. Tries and fails to fight his smug ass smirk when you come grab his truck keys a little after four and return to the trailer wearing his Carhartt hoodie, the one he’d left in the back seat a couple days ago.
Later that night, Tommy follows you up to your room. Door wide open, with Sarah just across the hall and Joel and your mom downstairs. Not that he has any intentions other than checking in after your first day. It’s just…precautionary—an added layer of security to prevent a backslide.
He flops back in your unmade bed, hands folded behind his head, and watches a little too closely as you bend over to unlace your sneakers. “Well?”
You unclasp your necklace and drop it into a ceramic bowl on your dresser. “I loved it,” you admit. “It was a little stressful, but…I don’t know. I liked feeling like I could make a difference. Like I’m not just going in there to do my job and go home, I felt like I was being productive. It was nice.”
Tommy’s pleased to hear it. Loves the way your voice sounds in his ears. Happy, satisfied. He knows right then and there that he needs to set a firm boundary with Noah because you’re never going back to that coffee place, and Noah’s not going anywhere near you. “Said you’d like it, didn’t I?”
With a roll of your eyes, you sit beside him and pull your legs close to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees. “Joel’s kind of a hard ass.”
It makes him laugh because it’s true. Can’t count on both his hands just how many times his brother has nitpicked the way things are done. He can only imagine the pressure you'd felt in that trailer, likely being told how to talk to this person or that one. “Only the beginning, darlin’,” Tommy says.
The sunlight leaks in through your bedroom window, sheer lace curtains casting rays of gold over your skin. You’re beautiful, Tommy thinks. Painfully so. Sometimes he’ll catch you at a certain angle, just like this one, and it makes his heart rate stutter.
In another world, Tommy wouldn’t let you out of sight fucking ever. Would accompany you whether you were going to a nightclub or if you were just going to the corner store. Because he knows from experience that all it would take for a man to fall to his knees before you is a single look from those pretty eyes. In another world, one where he wasn’t your Uncle Tommy, one where he could just be yours, he’d make damn sure you’d never need anything from another man.
Never need a door opened for you, never need to pay for a meal, never need to confide in anyone else. He’d take care of you. Do it all. Satisfy you in every way of the word because it’s what you deserve. He wants to take care of you, wants to be a provider.
Tommy supposes it’s what he’s always wanted, despite his actions reflecting the opposite. He wonders if maybe he’s just been waiting for you this whole time.
You ask, “What are you thinking about?”
And he doesn’t lie. “You.”
With a scoff, you playfully pinch his side. A sliver of his abdomen is exposed where his t-shirt has ridden up, and feeling you there is a shock to his nervous system.
And when your touch lingers, his body tingles, and his brain becomes foggy. Tommy Miller has never wanted anyone the way he wants you. Is reduced to the simplest, most carnally driven man just at the feel of your delicate fingertips on his skin.
Your attention is centered on your hand as you slowly move it across his soft belly, eyes hooded and filled with desire.
Tommy knows that look now. Knows the filthy thoughts invading your brain, knows exactly what you’re reminiscing about. He knows, too, that the balance is skewed. The longer he lies here with you, the closer he comes to caving. “Your turn,” he says. “Spill your guts.”
When you speak, your voice is quiet. A barely-there whisper. “It would be so easy, you know.”
He does. Has rolled the idea over in his head a million fucking times. “S’the problem,” Tommy explains. “Can’t stop myself twice.”
“Then don’t,” you say simply, continuing to run your fingers over his skin. He sees his favorite troublesome smirk begin to form on your sweet mouth and has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from finding too much joy in it. “Could do it right here. Bet they’d never know.”
The edge of your pinky finger dips just below the waistband of his jeans. Barely there, but Tommy notices everything you do, and this is no exception, hyper aware of your every movement. He lets out a slow, shaking breath and swallows hard. He can’t bring himself to move or push you away like he knows he should. All he manages are two, hesitant words. “Ain’t right.”
Your response is quick. Honest and true. “I don’t care.”
It only makes his will to abstain that much harder. Knowing he isn’t alone in his longing, knowing you’re suffering in such a similar way…it hurts him just to think of it. But it’s different for you. Easier. Because you’re just at the beginning of your life, while he’s nearly halfway through his.
You have time to bounce back from this. To choose someone your age who’s a lot less twisted. Someone you don’t have to hide from the people closest to you, who you can kiss out in the open without shame.
And Tommy’s…well, Tommy knows there will never be anyone else for him. Has sat with that fact for quite some time. Accepted it by now, and considers himself lucky just to have had that one, stolen night.
Slowly, you move further down the mattress. The same one he once slept on that now belongs solely to you. You slot yourself between his strong thighs and his cock swells as you look up at him through your lashes.
There’s an experiment here, Tommy knows. The two of you are just alike. So similar that sometimes it frightens him. He can see the challenge in your eyes, testing the waters, seeing how far you can go before he pulls you back.
You lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his hips. And when you press your lips to the bulge in his jeans, Tommy bites back a moan.
This is too far, he knows. Way too fucking far.
His heart hammers in his chest. The door is still wide open, and everyone is home. All it would take is one person to walk down the hallway, and it would all be over.
But it would be easy. Quick, too—Tommy’s never had much control when it comes to you.
With a quick flick of your thumb, you pop open the silver button. Saliva gathers between your parted lips, mouth watering for a taste of him.
Tommy Miller is weak. Corrupted. Sick and twisted and perverted and— “Beautiful, baby,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking…Christ. You got any idea how fuckin’ pretty you are?”
He gently strokes your hair, and when you smile up at him, he grins right back. His cock is already hard but then you pull his zipper down with your teeth and Tommy thinks he might die without relief.
Sarah calls your name from across the hall.
You scramble away from each other, sitting at opposite ends of the bed seconds before she rounds the corner.
“Do you remember Summer? That girl from my biology class?” Sarah pays Tommy no mind as she sits beside you.
It’s not out of the ordinary for him to be in your room, after all. He’s the first to lend a helping hand when you get the urge to move your furniture around and has carried up your laundry from the basement countless times.
“Yeah, of course,” you say. “The one you…”
Sarah flushes a deep crimson. Her eyes flicker between your face and Tommy’s, and he’s smart enough to read the room.
“Guess that’s my cue,” he says, standing from the bed, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.
You grab his hand as he walks past. Just briefly, but it turns his insides molten. One more lingering touch before he leaves. A way of saying, I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to.
Once out in the hallway, Tommy zips up his jeans and takes a few long, deep breaths before he goes downstairs to say goodbye to your mom and Joel. The two of them talk briefly, and Joel asks how you felt after your first day.
He says, “An’ I know you know that girl like the back of your hand, so don’t lie. She like it or not?”
Tommy isn’t quite sure why the words leave him feeling dizzy, but they do. He likes that he knows you so well and likes even more that the closeness you share is so visible. If he can’t outwardly call you his, if he can’t outwardly be yours, then he’ll take whatever this is. “She likes it.”
Joel’s shoulders sag in relief. “Good, cause she’ll make my life a hell of a lot easier.”
The next morning, Tommy stops by at seven to pick you and Joel up before heading to the job site. You carry a steaming travel mug in each hand, and before you climb into the back seat, you poke your head through the open driver's side window. “Just milk and sugar,” you say. “Right?”
He doesn’t know why you ask when you know the answer. “You didn’t have to do that, darlin’,” he says. But he happily takes the coffee anyway and takes a careful sip. It’s the perfect ratio. Tommy’s not surprised.
There’s a playful lilt to your voice as you say, “I usually take mine with cream, but we were all out. Thought maybe you could supply me with some.”
He laughs hard and shakes his head. “Un-fuckin’-believable,” he says through his mirth. He glances over the top of your head to see Joel locking the front door behind him.
You uncap the lid. “Well?”
His face burns, but Tommy thinks he’s never had such a perfect start to his day. “Get in the truck before you start somethin’ you can’t finish.”
“But that’s my favorite thing to do,” you whine, pushing your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. You listen, though. Replace the lid and climb into the back seat behind him.
Tommy scoffs and says with a grin, “Don’t I know it.”
It doesn’t take long for you to get awfully good at your job. That first week alone, you manage to slice their payment for materials in half just by haggling with the lumber mill Joel’s bought wood from since the nineties. You accompany him to a handful of consultations, learning what to look for in a client and how to pick and choose which jobs are worth taking.
You convince Joel to buy a mini fridge for the trailer that you keep fully stocked with bottles of water. And when you bring in those electrolyte drink mixes, it’s all anyone talks about for days.
Noah says, “The peach one is my favorite. Wanna taste hers next.”
Everyone finds humor in it but Tommy.
The words come out sharper than intended. “Quit sayin’ shit like that, man.”
Noah laughs. Like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t want a piece of that ass?”
“What I’m telling you is to shut your goddamn mouth,” Tommy answers. He stops digging through the sand they’ve been moving for the last hour, left hand squeezed tightly around the red handle of his shovel.
“It was a joke, Tommy. Lighten up.”
“Don’t care what it was,” he says, staring Noah in the eye. “I hear some shit like that again and I’ll fuck you up. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Noah sizes him up, and for a split second Tommy thinks he just might be brave enough to step. But Noah just sneers and returns to the task at hand, an awkward silence lingering between the group of them.
But Tommy doesn’t care. Sits in that silence happily knowing he won’t have to listen to anyone speak about you like that anymore.
Joel cares, though. And on the way home, he says, “Mike told me about you giving Noah a hard time today. You two gonna have a problem?”
“Wait, what happened with Noah?” You slide to the center of the leather seat in the back of the cab.
“Nothing,” Tommy lies. “Ain’t gonna have a problem.”
Joel narrows his eyes in warning. “Good. 'Cause that’s the last thing we need right now. Behind enough as it is.”
He thinks that’s the end of it.
But then you say softly, “He asked me out the other day.”
“He what?” Tommy and Joel say it in perfect unison. Equally floored and equally irate.
Joel turns almost completely around in the passenger seat.
You raise your hands in surrender and look at Tommy through the rearview mirror. “Said he wanted to take me to dinner, and I told him I’d rather starve.”
“Listen to me,” Joel says with that stern, no bullshit dad voice he sometimes still uses on Sarah. “I don’t want you anywhere near those boys. Ain’t a single one worth a damn. Liars and cheaters and fucking criminals. All of ‘em.”
A crease forms between your brows. “So why the fuck did you hire them?”
“Cause they’re good at what they do,” Joel explains. “But that don’t make them good. Deserve better than that. You hear me, kid?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Keep it professional with everyone,” you say. “Except for Uncle Tommy.”
He chokes. Tries to cover it up with a cough, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. His hands pale around the steering wheel.
“Exactly,” Joel says.
Later that night, Tommy is smoking on the back porch when you step outside to join him. It’s the first moment he’s had alone with you all day. “You tryin’ to get me killed or somethin’?”
“Or something.” You lean back against the siding and shrug. “Kinda sounded like Joel’s blessing to me.”
“You’re fuckin’ trouble, girl.” Tommy chuckles and passes you his lit cigarette when you reach for it. “Joel wasted all that breath warnin’ you about those boys when he should be warnin’ them about you.”
“Yeah, probably. But you love it.”
Tommy can do nothing but agree because it’s the truest thing he’s ever heard. “Your birthday’s comin’ up soon,” he says, watching as you take the nicotine deep into your lungs. “Twenty-one. Anything you want?”
That too familiar smirk forms on your face, and Tommy knows what you’re going to say before you even open your mouth. Can see all those filthy thoughts behind your eyes, can almost hear whatever dirty joke you’ve got locked and loaded on the tip of your tongue.
“Don’t even fuckin’ start with me,” he warns, a playfulness to his voice. But there’s no weight to it. Your inability to take anything seriously is one of his favorite things about you.
Your lips part in a mockery of surprise. “I didn’t even say anything!”
“Didn’t have to,” he says, plucking the cigarette from between your fingers. “Give me something realistic.”
“Okay…” You tap your index finger against your chin, contemplating. “What about…a pearl necklace,” you say with the sweetest, most innocent smile.
Tommy laughs. Can’t help himself. “Alright, you know what? I take it back. You only get gifts if you’re good.”
He thinks the sound of your giggling might be the only thing that’s ever truly brought him peace. Finds comfort in your joy, in knowing you’re happy. But when your laughter dies down, there’s a sad sort of look in your eye. A melancholic longing.
Then you quietly say, “I just want you.” And Tommy’s ears ring.
This is what hurts him the most. The heavy truth of it.
He’d known that taking your closeness to new heights would change him in irreparable ways. Known that nothing would ever compare, and he was ready and willing to live the rest of his life with that dull ache in his chest. Welcomed the haunting of emptiness with open arms because it was you and it was him and that one fucking night was yours.
But Tommy wasn’t the only one who’d been changed by it. Wasn’t the only one to suffer in the aftermath.
He wants to comfort you. Wants to take your hands in his and kiss each of your knuckles until his lips turn blue. He doesn’t move, though. Not even an inch. Because he’s never felt nearer to a relapse than he does when you look at him like that. Like you see him. Like he’s all you see.
“I’m right here,” he says. “Always will be.”
Tommy means it. He thinks he would follow you anywhere just to feel the faintest warmth of your affection.
It seems to satisfy you. For now, at least. You give him the tiniest smile, a half effort, but it soothes the sting for him, too. Just a little.
Your birthday falls on a Friday. Tommy gets up early and stops at a bakery before heading to Joel’s, and is pleased when he uses the key under the mat to find that the house is quiet. Still.
He creeps up the stairs and slips soundlessly into your room. The day is just beginning, and the light of dawn spills through your cracked window. Tommy sits on the edge of your bed and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
When he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, you stir and stretch out your limbs. Your voice is tired and filled with sleep as you ask, “Uncle Tommy?”
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he whispers. He cradles your face in his hands and strokes your cheek with his thumb as clarity slowly finds you.
You smile up at him with starry eyes, and Tommy’s stomach flips. You’re so good, so perfect that sometimes he wonders how the fuck you’re even real.
“C’mon,” he says. “Sit up for me. Got you somethin’.”
Tommy holds your hands when you reach for him and pulls you forward. You push yourself up the rest of the way and fold your legs over one another beneath the blankets.
It’s only at that precise moment that Tommy realizes you’re wearing one of his t-shirts and the sight of it steals the air right from him. He likes it—loves it. Loves that a piece of him lives here with you. In your closet, in your room, in your sheets.
He’s not quite sure how you ended up with it, though. Thinks he might’ve left it on a lawn chair after spending an afternoon in Joel’s pool, or missed it in the dryer when the ones at his apartment were out of order.
But then you say, reading his every thought, “I stole it.”
Tommy laughs. “Think you’re supposed to ask before you take things that aren’t yours.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” You lean forward, lips an inch away from his ear. “And I know I’m not the only one with sticky fingers, Uncle Tommy.”
His face burns. He thinks of your cherry lip gloss on his bathroom sink and your tank top on the right side of his bed and your lace panties in his nightstand. Tommy thinks he should know better than to hide things from you anymore. You’re too close, too similar. “Caught me,” Tommy mutters.
And then he digs his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and lights the ten cent candle he’d found at the back of Joel’s junk drawer. He sticks it into the center of the cupcake he’d picked out just for you—lemon flavored, with vanilla frosting and lime colored sprinkles.
He holds it between you and says, “Make a wish, birthday girl.”
The flame flickers as your gaze darts between Tommy’s eyes and his mouth. You smile widely, and he can’t resist mirroring your joy. Feels it as thoroughly as if it were his own. Tommy’s never cared much for his birthday, but he feels overwhelmed with gratitude for yours. Thankful.
You close your eyes, make your silent wish, and then blow out the candle. He unwraps the wax paper for you, crumbs sticking to his fingers, and laughs when you take a bite and let out a blissful moan. “Holy shit,” you say.
Tommy feels pride bloom in his chest. Thinks pleasing you might be his favorite thing on the planet. “S’good?”
“It’s fucking amazing,” you answer. And then you turn the cupcake towards him. “I’m not kidding. Try it.”
He does. Leans forward and takes a careful bite right from your hands. You’re not wrong, either. The lemon is refreshing, and the vanilla buttercream is the perfect sweetness. Tommy nods as you take another bite. “Christ,” he says. “Worth every damn penny.”
You touch your thumb to the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got frosting on your face,” you say with a teasing grin.
Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I get it?”
“More to the left,” you instruct. But when he tries again, Tommy knows it’s still there when you hold in your laughter. And then you say, “Can I…?”
Tommy doesn’t understand right away why you even ask. You’re always laying your head on his shoulder or draping your legs over his or running your hands through his hair. This is no different, nothing out of the ordinary.
But when he nods, you lean forward and lick the frosting off his bottom lip.
It freezes him in time. Seconds feel like minutes as they tick by. He can feel the wetness of your tongue on his mouth, and you linger. Close enough that he can taste the sugar on your breath.
His morals hang in the balance. Sobriety threatened. Tommy Miller wants you so badly that he starts to wonder if you’re some fucked up form of punishment. Karmic justice for all those hearts he’s broken in his youth, just to be denied the one woman he’s ever truly wanted.
When you speak, it’s breathless. Nearly inaudible. “Kiss me.”
It is your birthday, after all.
He fights the intensity that batters against his every impulse and instead presses his mouth to yours gently. Unhurried. So much different than the first kiss you’d shared. Your lips move against his in sync, one soul split into two bodies, whole again for the first time in months.
Tommy thinks it’s just instinct when his tongue meets yours. You taste just as he remembers. A little warm and a little honeyed and a little like opium.
When you pull away, he feels the loss like a knife.
But then you cover your mouth with your hand and laugh, elation spilling through your fingers, and it’s like a balm to his heart.
Around another mouthful of confectionery, you insist, “Here. Have some more.”
Tommy sits there with you, waiting for the sun to rise, and the two of you share your birthday cupcake before the rest of the world wakes. You close your eyes and drop your shoulders as if it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten, giggling between each bite.
It’s such a soft, quiet moment. Only the two of you. For just a little while, you have nowhere to be, no one to perform for. It’s just you, and it’s just him, and when you take the last bite, Tommy licks the frosting from your fingertips.
Joel’s alarm echoes down the hallway, and Tommy taps the tip of your nose, delighting in the pretty way it scrunches in response. “I’ll see you outside,” he says. “Happy birthday, darlin’.”
On the way to work, Joel asks about your plans for the weekend, and you tell him about how your friends are taking you to that new bar that just opened up downtown. He warns you to be careful, tells you it’s been packed full of people every time he’s driven by it, and says to call if you need anything.
You promise you will.
For dinner, your mom makes all your favorite foods, and Sarah gifts you a handmade pony bead bracelet. She wears a matching one on her wrist with the colors inverted, and they both say 4EVER in little black letters.
When Tommy returns to his empty apartment that night, it’s with a deep sadness. He tries to drown it out. Showers off the sweat of the day and watches something mind-numbing on television. But the main character in the sitcom rerun makes a dirty joke, and he can almost hear you laughing at it beside him.
Everything reminds him of you.
He thinks about calling one of the women he’s hooked up with on and off throughout the years, but the problem is that Tommy knows how that ends. Knows he’ll ask them to leave halfway through, and he’ll lie there, unsatisfied and painfully in love with a girl he can never have.
His longing chokes him until he’s devoid of breath, of life. Just a shell of a man without you.
This is the wretched low he pays for those highs, Tommy knows. And he pays it without complaint because the highs are heavenly. Fucking spiritual.
He goes to sleep every night without regret. This emptiness is oppressive, but his love for you is transcendent.
His phone rings a little after one in the morning.
Your voice is slurred when you speak. “Uncle Tommy?”
Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Can hear it in your voice. “Where are you?”
There’s faint music in the background. “That new bar on Sixth Street. Can you…I’m sorry. Can you come get me?”
He’s out of bed and pulling on his jeans before you finish asking. “I’m on my way, baby. What happened?”
You say, “I’m not…I’m not sure,” and Tommy’s heart sinks.
Because whatever it is is bad. Can feel it in his fucking bones. “Are you alone? Who’s with you, sweetheart? Where are your friends?”
“No, I…I’m just really—I had too much to drink, I think. There’s just so many people and I don’t wanna be here anymore.”
The new bar is halfway across town, but Tommy makes it in six minutes. It’s at capacity, just as he’d anticipated, all the townsfolk trying to see for themselves what all the hype is about. Tommy might recognize a few faces if he gave anyone but you half a second of thought, but he doesn’t.
He makes a beeline for the women's restroom at the back of the bar and ignores the scowls he receives from the two girls touching up their makeup in the mirror. He calls your name and finds you in the very last stall, sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your legs.
Tommy breathes a little easier when he sees you. Knows that with him, you’ll be safe. He kneels at your side and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Hey, sweetheart.”
You let out the softest whimper. “Uncle Tommy,” you say, voice filled with affection. “You came.”
“Course I did. S’alright. C’mon.” He tucks his arms beneath you and pulls you to your feet. Supports your weight almost entirely as he leads you out of the crowded bar and back to his truck.
When he leans over your slumped frame to try and buckle your seatbelt, you start peppering the side of his face with sloppy kisses.
He says, “Okay, alright一would you just一sit still一”
But he doesn’t mean it. Not really. You’re a giggly mess of a girl, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and sliding your cold hands over his too-warm skin. “You’re just.” Kiss. “So.” Kiss. “Fucking cute.” Kiss.
Tommy’s smiling hard, but pushes you away as much as he hates to. “Cute, huh? Don’t know about all that, sweet girl.” He finally latches your seatbelt and quickly rounds the truck to the driver's side.
You're reaching for him the moment you can, arms outstretched and fingers grabbing for him. “Hold my hand,” you say, and of course he does. Kisses your knuckles as the engine roars to life.
Tommy says, “Let’s get you home.”
And you respond sleepily, “You’re my home.”
He tries not to read too much into it. Knows you’re just sappy and drunk. You don’t mean it. Not really. Tommy’s seen you trashed before. Has covered for you countless times and has all those drunken texts you’ve sent him memorized. You’re always like this. Loving and overly affectionate, a happy drunk to your core.
But you’ve never said anything that moved him quite this much.
Home.
What a perfect way to describe it.
But he just shakes his head. “How much have you had, kid?”
You toss your head back and laugh like it’s the silliest question he ever could’ve asked. “Too much! That’s why I called!”
Still holding tight to his hand, you roll down your window all the way. The air is cold but fresh, filling the cab of his truck with the scent of the early morning dew. You lean your head against the leather frame and close your eyes.
Tommy’s not quite sure when you fall asleep because your hand remains in his, squeezing tight even in your unconsciousness. He checks on you every couple of seconds, monitoring your breathing and the soft, slumbering noises you make.
He hates to wake you, but does it anyway when he returns to his apartment. You groan in defiance when he makes you stand, and it takes everything in him not to give in and carry you.
“I know, baby, I know. But I need you awake for a little while longer,” he says. “Gotta get some food and water in you first, okay?”
You fight him each step of the way. Defy Tommy’s every instruction, once bubbly demeanor now replaced with agitation. But once he’s got you inside, he lets out a sigh of relief. He lays you on the couch and disappears into the kitchen for only long enough to make some toast and fill a tall glass with icy water.
He holds your head up with one hand and tilts the cup against your mouth with the other, doing everything for you apart from the actual hydrating. You eat the toast slowly and argue between each bite, but he persists.
While you sleep, Tommy sits on the floor beside you. Half monitoring, half admiring.
He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a single second. Even though exhaustion weighs down his limbs, Tommy is more concerned about you than he is about himself. He spends the night stroking your hair and making you drink a little more water each time you stir in your sleep.
A few times, you wake up completely, turning over to try and find comfort. You whine and sniffle, and Tommy repeats the same tender words until you fall back asleep. “You’re alright. I’m still right here. Uncle Tommy’s got you.”
It’s late by the time you sober up, almost noon. Tommy’s back aches from sitting on the hardwood for so long, and he needs a coffee or a nap or both—but the important thing is you. Always you.
You smile when you see him, and it’s so warm. A kindness that he’s only ever received from you.
It’s a visceral reaction, his mouth pulling up at the corners. Like he just can’t help it. He sees your happiness and feels it, too. “Hey,” he whispers.
“Hi,” you say. And then you grab his big hand and press it against the side of your face. Tommy can feel your joy, can feel the way the muscles strain as you fight off your sleepy giggles.
He runs the pad of his thumb gently over your cheekbone. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like my head’s going to explode,” you say, voice filled with so much faux cheer that it’s comical.
Tommy chuckles and stands to his feet, knees cracking. “Let me get you some aspirin.”
He’s not at all surprised when you follow him to the bathroom, never far for very long. While he sifts through his medicine cabinet, you sit on the edge of the tub. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always,” Tommy promises. He dumps two aspirin into his palm and hands them to you.
It takes a second before you speak. You turn the little pink tablets over and over in your hand, eyes downcast. And then you say, “I was too drunk and overwhelmed last night, but that isn’t what scared me. Noah was there.”
Tommy’s heart sinks to his feet. His jaw clenches, his knuckles turn white.
“He kept…I don’t know. He wanted to take me home, and I was dodging him all night, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Followed me for an hour, trying to change my mind. He didn’t…didn’t do anything, but it freaked me out.”
Tommy thinks he’s never wanted to hurt another man so badly in his life. He takes a deep breath, makes sure his rage isn’t fueled by any rash decision. And then he leaves the bathroom and finds his shoes. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Wait—Tommy, please don’t.” You follow, clawing at the back of his t-shirt. “Please.”
The fear in your voice stops him. He thinks maybe you don’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, so he tries to explain. “Can’t let this one go,” he says, shaking his head. “Not—Christ. Not this. He doesn’t get to make you that uncomfortable and get away with it. Fuck no.”
“I love that job,” you reason. “And I promised Joel—!”
“He’ll be just as pissed when he finds out—”
“I don’t want him to find out. Please, don’t.”
Tommy takes your hands between his. “Do you understand how much worse it could have been?” Tommy feels sick, thinking back on all those times Noah had made jokes about roofies and Tommy had just discounted it as dark humor. “Ruined your fuckin’ birthday,” he grumbles.
You say, “He didn't ruin it. I got to spend it with you, didn’t I? That’s all I wanted.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. Tommy can’t hear such sweet words when he’s like this—hot and angry and murderous. “No.” He shakes his head. “He doesn’t get to—”
“If Joel fires me for this, I will never forgive you,” you suddenly say, voice holding a cutting edge.
Tommy doesn’t understand. “What? Sweetheart, he’s not going to be mad at you, okay? You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. Joel will understand why I have to do this. He’s going to be mad at Noah, baby, not you.”
“Who I swore not to cause issues with!” Tears well in your wide eyes, and Tommy feels something inside his chest crack wide open. He’s never seen you cry before, not like this.
He pulls you into an embrace. Holds you tight against his chest, arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hands shake, unable to get a handle on either his anger or his despair.
Against his shoulder blade, you murmur, “Promise me you won’t tell Joel.”
And Tommy does. Swears to keep this as far away from you as possible. He refuses to make matters worse for you and, Christ, the sight of you crying makes him fucking miserable. He’s never hated anything more.
Once you sniffles subside, you lift your head and say, “I smell fucking awful.”
Tommy laughs, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Go shower. I’ll find you some clothes.”
He picks out an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, sets them on the bathroom sink and decides to make you breakfast. But Tommy notices quickly that his eggs are expired, and the box of cereal on top of the fridge has gone stale. He has nothing to offer you, and he’s not sure why, but the realization leaves him feeling hollow.
Eternal bachelor with nothing to his name. You can never be his, and Tommy knows this, but he thinks maybe if he were…better, somehow, that maybe you could be. But you’re too good for him. Too sweet, too lovely, too you.
And Tommy’s…well. He’s Tommy. And just because you look at him like he puts the stars in the sky doesn’t mean he actually does. He’s not like Joel, never has been. Has always gotten into trouble, doing things he knows he shouldn’t. Fighting or drinking or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tommy’s never had his shit together a day in his life, and you deserve someone who can take care of you. Someone less disappointing.
Someone who can make you breakfast, for fucks sake.
He feels you before he sees you一your warmth at his back. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed when you slip your arms around his waist and lay your head in the space between his broad shoulders.
You say, “Thank you for always keeping me safe,” and Tommy wonders how the fuck you always know exactly what to say. Like you’re in his brain, somehow—a sixth sense finely tuned precisely to him.
Emotion bubbles up in his throat. Thick and smothering. He loves you, Tommy knows. Has never and will never love anyone like this again.
“You make me so happy.” There’s a tenderness in your words, soothing his every ache. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
Tommy turns in your embrace. Cradles your face in both hands and promises, “You’ll never have to find out. M’always gonna be here for you.”
You kiss him, and Tommy lets you, even knowing he shouldn’t. It’s a little different than the one you’d shared at dawn in your bedroom. A little more heated, filled with clear intent.
He can sense it. Feel it in your every movement. Knows just what you want, what you need, and slips his tongue into your mouth when your lips part anyway. Let's you tilt your hips against his, feeling the growing hardness there, and swallows up your moan as he slots his knee between your legs.
His breath comes fast, and he’s aware of just how wrong it is, but you make him feel so important. Like you really, truly want him. Not for the things he does but just for him—flaws and disappointments and all.
An addict who always craves your fix.
You rock your hips against his knee and breathe a sigh of relief into his mouth. Tommy helps you, grabbing at your soft thighs and pulling you back and forth to increase the friction.
It’s too much. Too far.
This isn’t a drunken night. It’s the morning after. Stone cold sober, inexcusable.
“We should stop.”
“I know,” you say. But neither of you takes your own advice. He only kisses you harder, soaking up all of your benevolence for as long as he can. You slide your hand between your bodies and palm his cock through his jeans.
The surety of your touch is dizzying. You want him. It’s clear as day, but he wants to hear you. “Say it.”
You don’t hesitate, reading him like an open book. Tommy suppose, for you, he is. With sugary sweet words, you admit, “I need you, Uncle Tommy.”
He’s never been good at denying you anything. “I know, baby.” In one swift movement, he lifts you off your feet, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. He kneels down and lays you back, right there on the kitchen floor, and tugs your borrowed sweatpants down your thighs.
You kick them out of the way, and he pushes your t-shirt up over your breasts. “Touch me,” you sigh.
Tommy presses his mouth to the center of your chest. Inhales deeply, taking the familiar scent of you into his lungs. He cups your breasts in his big hands, the rough pads of his thumbs grazing over the peaks of your nipples.
He kisses and licks and bites down the center of your belly, leaving shallow indentations in the shape of his teeth on each of your hips. When he presses his mouth to your pubic bone, Tommy leans back just enough to get a full look at you. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
A soft flush crawls up your cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much,” you say.
Tommy understands. Even though he’s been right here, right by your side, he hasn’t been completely honest until this very moment. Not with you, and not with himself, and not since that night in his bed.
It’s like being unclothed. Bare boned. You both know the truth of it, know that he’s your Uncle Tommy and that it’s corrupt and perverted for him to be here, kneeling between your legs. But he’s here anyway, and his mouth is watering, and he fucking loves the sounds you make when his slides his tongue through your slit.
He licks up the wetness that has gathered, groaning at the heady taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair when he circles your clit with a pointed tongue, drooling down his chin.
With one arm wrapped tightly around your thigh, keeping you in place, Tommy uses the other to gently press his two middle fingers into you. The sight of your arched back is extraordinary; the kind of goddess-like beauty the poets write about. Your pussy clenches around his fingers when he twists them inside of you and pushes firmly against that spot that has you writhing.
“That’s so一” You inhale sharply. “Fuck, it’s so good.”
It pleases him to hear it. Loves knowing that in this, he can never fail you. Tommy sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerves, and thrusts his fingers a little faster. He thinks he’ll never grow tired of this. Of the way you taste, the way you sound, the way you call his name.
“Oh, God. Please don’t stop, please.” He wouldn’t dream of it. Your body shakes beneath him, thighs trembling in the grip of his rough palm. He can feel your walls pulse around his fingers, and Tommy knows you’re close.
When he pulls his mouth away, he slides his thumb easily through your folds to swipe it over your clit. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your soft belly. “Your pretty pussy always get this messy?”
You shake your head and say brokenly, “No, it’s just…just for—hmm—just—oh my God—”
“Shh,” he coos, chuckling lowly. “S’okay. I know it’s just for me. I know how much she likes it when Uncle Tommy kisses her like this.” He angles his hand and pushes it deeper inside of you, cock throbbing at the way you soak his fingers. “Give it to me.”
With a stuttering breath, you let out a salacious moan and your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands tug at the curling strands of his hair, your every muscle tenses, and your spine bends off the linoleum. His name falls so fucking beautifully from your sweet mouth, and Tommy wants to taste it.
So he does. Slides up your body and presses a kiss to your lips. You whimper into his mouth and he swallows down the sounds of your bliss like fine wine. “There you go,” he whispers tenderly. His thumb on your clit doesn’t slow until he’s sure he’s pulled every last drop out of you. “S’that feel better, sweetheart?”
You nod and giggle softly, a wide grin stretched across your face. The moment is filled with such happiness that it warms him from the inside out.
And even though his cock aches, Tommy thinks this alone is enough to satiate him. Enough to curb that craving, just seeing your pupils blown wide and the pretty flush on your face. Knowing you’re fulfilled and content and that he’s the one who’d brought you to that high does wonders for his confidence.
“You’re so good at that,” you say, and it makes him laugh.
“Can’t get enough of you,” he explains, kissing you hard. “Could eat you all fuckin’ day and still feel hungry.”
Tommy laughs when you turn your head to press your face into your shoulder, hiding the way your nervous smile grows.
“Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, pressing his stubbled cheek to the side of your throat. He presses his lips to the curve of your jaw and grins when goosebumps form on the back of your neck. “Uncle tommy just had your pretty pussy in his mouth. Least you can do is look him in the eye when he tells you how fuckin’ good it tastes.”
He can feel the way your spine bends, pressing your body firmly against his. But you’re a giggling mess beneath him, squealing at his filthy words as if worse hasn’t come out of your mouth.
“S’alright if you ain’t got nothin’ more to say,” Tommy tells you. “Gonna have to start from the beginning ‘til you learn to use your words again.” His mouth moves down the column of your throat, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone.
He’s slow in his pursuit, listening to the way your breaths become shallower and shallower as he lowers his head to the valley between your breasts. When he makes it to that sweet spot just below your navel, he stops.
“Wait,” you say, and he does. “I want…more.”
Tommy knows. He knows, and yet still, he urges, “Tell me, baby.”
“I want you.”
He thinks suddenly about the conversation you’d had on Joel’s back porch. The last time you’d admitted that you wanted him, that he’s all you wanted. Tommy doesn’t understand it, in truth. Will never understand what the fuck you see in him or why you not only give him the time of day but why you seek him out.
But what he does understand is this.
Tommy sees your need and matches it. Exceeds it.
You slide your hand down your body, fingers slipping through the wetness between your thighs. “Want you here,” you say. “I need it, Uncle Tommy.”
He knows he shouldn’t.
But you want him. And that’s the best high of all.
“M’comin, sweet girl,” he promises. He leans back on his knees and grabs his shirt by the back of the collar, pulling it over his head. You watch him with half-lidded eyes as he undoes the button of his jeans and pulls down his zipper, and Tommy watches you. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, shoving the denim down around his hips just enough to take his heavy cock out.
You take him in your delicate hand and press his tip to your clit, sliding it slowly through your slick folds. Such a gentle movement, but it has his breath stuttering already, and Tommy has no fucking idea how he’s going to make this last. “Go slow,” you say. “Wanna feel every inch.”
Tommy notches himself at your entrance and does just as you ask. Pushes into you so carefully it’s almost painful. His every instinct urges him to surge forward, to split you open and bury himself inside of you. But the whimpers you make as you adjust to the stretch he creates keep his head on straight.
It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever seen, watching your sweet pussy greedily swallow up his cock. You’re so wet, dripping for him, and it makes these obscene sounds with each pressing inch that has Tommy’s heart beating hard against his sternum.
“Shit,” he hisses. “You feel so good, baby.” Once he’s fully seated inside you, his waist pressed against yours, Tommy rolls his hips, and the movement has you gasping. He can feel your walls clamp down around him, and it only spurs him on more. He does it again, a gentle pressure at the deepest part of you he can reach.
“It’s so—so big,” you whine, fingernails clawing at the back of his shoulders.
Tommy only smiles. Kisses your mouth tenderly and says, “You can take it. Hm? My perfect girl. Made just for me.”
One of his hands slide up the back of your thigh, hooking your leg around his waist, while the other comes to circle your clit. He can feel your body’s reaction, can feel the way you squeeze tight around his cock.
You nod frantically, the beginnings of tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You breathe out the word, “Yours,” and he feels his orgasm threatening already, building at the base of his spine. “I’m all yours.”
Tommy circles your clit and sets a steady pace. Fucks you slow, fucks you deep. Just how you need it, delighting in your moans. He presses his mouth softly to your temple, your cheek, and spends a little extra time with his teeth at that spot just behind your ear. “Look at me, baby,” he says, nudging his nose against yours.
When you do, your eyes are all starry in that way he loves, filled with awe. You’re the only person to ever look at him like that, with not an ounce of disappointment. It’s like you’re just happy he exists, and Tommy feels emotion build in his throat.
“Don’t stop,” you say, and so he quickens his pace, circling your clit faster. “Don’t stop, God, I’ve—I’ve missed you so bad, Uncle Tommy.”
It’s the most dizzying thing he’s ever heard. It nearly tips him over that edge. But he needs to feel you first, needs to make sure you get everything you need. “Yeah, I know it,” he says tenderly, thrusting in deep. “Missed my baby, too.”
He thinks it’s an understatement. Feels wrong, saying he’s only missed you when he’s thought of nothing else.
Tommy knows you’re close, can feel the way you pulse around him, breathe stuttering. “That’s it,” he mutters. “You gonna cum for your Uncle Tommy? Hm?”
“Fuck, fuck, I’m—”
“S’good, baby,” he whispers against your mouth, keeping his rhythm. “So fucking good for me.”
Your moans echo off the walls as you reach that peak, thighs trembling around his hips. He can feel a rush of moisture against his cock and he tears a low sound from somehwere deep in his chest.
He doesn’t stop, chasing his own high, even when you start to squirm beneath him. His fingers stay circling your pretty clit, ratcheting the pleasure higher and higher until—
“My face,” you suddenly say. “Want you to cum on my face.”
Tommy thinks you’re going to be the death of him.
Perfect, filthy girl.
He pulls out of you quickly, orgasm dangerously near. You prop yourself up, palms against the kitchen floor behind you, while Tommy takes his cock in his hand and squeezes. “Goddamn,” he groans. “Ask me nice.”
With the prettiest, most innocent smile, you say, “Cum on my face, Uncle Tommy. Please, please, please.” You stick out your tongue and look up at him, and that’s what does him in. The fucking love in your eyes.
Tommy cums hard, stroking his cock over top of you. Sticky, white ropes of his release coat your face, leaving splotches on your cheeks, your chin, down your chest. It’s disgusting. Easily the worst thing he’s ever done in all his life.
But when he’s finished and his cock begins to soften, you swipe the mess off your chin and push it onto your tongue and moan. Like it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. And any remorse he once had vanishes into thin air because how can he be sorry when you look so happy?
You giggle and say, “Guess I got that pearl necklace after all,” and Tommy has to look away to keep from laughing too hard.
He cleans you up with a hand towel and water from the kitchen sink, shoulders a little lighter. And once you’ve got his borrowed clothes back on, Tommy watches with reverence as you move around his kitchen as if you belong in it.
You open the freezer and go right for the half empty carton of mint chip ice cream. It’s your first choice. Not expired eggs or stale cereal.
Seeing it gives him a flicker of false hope.
Because he knows he can’t be what you need forever. Knows he won’t keep you in the end, knows that whatever this is isn’t sustainable. But maybe he can just…keep you happy to the best of his ability. Just for now.
You only grab one spoon but offer him the first bite. “Mint chip is the best flavor by a fucking mile,” you say. “And anyone who says otherwise is delusional.”
“Keep that up when Sarah finds out it’s your favorite,” Tommy insists. “Cause she’ll fuckin’ tear you apart. Believe me, I know from experience.”
Laughter falls from your lips when he hands you the spoon. “Oh, I know. Was a victim of her chocolate chip cookie dough defense monologue, too.”
Tommy’s phone rings on the kitchen counter, and he swallows hard when he sees Joel’s name flash across the screen. When he answers, there’s a trace of alarm in Joel’s voice as he asks if he’s seen you. “Just a little concerned is all. Figured her phone’s dead or somethin’ but…haven’t heard back since last night. Just wanted to make sure she got somewhere safe.”
He’s never lied to Joel in all his life, and Tommy knows he would sense it the minute he tried. So he tells as much of the truth as he can. “Yeah, she uh…called me early this morning. Picked her up from that bar an’ let her crash on the couch. I’ll be bringin’ her home in a minute.”
You gather your things, and Tommy tries not to let that sliver of emptiness trickle in too fast. You’re still here, still with him, and this moment still belongs to you even at its close.
Like always, you sense his gloom before it’s even fully hit. And when he pulls into Joel’s driveway, you thread your fingers through his and say, “Stay for dinner. I miss you already.”
Tommy knows he shouldn’t. Knows that feeling lightheaded just from your words alone is a real problem for him.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv/a. Age gap. Daddy kink. Sneaky sex. Breeding kink. Anal. Use of various sex toys. Joel Miller eats it from the back like a gentleman should. Slight pain kink, but it’s consensual. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk!
Word count: 15.0k
Joel Miller had the willpower of a sack of flour.
If you beckoned, he came. If you called, he answered.
No matter the hour of day, any time or place, that man would be there, no hesitation and no questions asked.
Hell, he might’ve had a couple qualms about fucking at a gas station off I-10 in the middle of the day, but his devotion to you quickly overpowered any better sense. He just unzipped his jeans in the front seat of his Bronco, let you climb across the center console and into his lap, and, parked directly next to a gas pump somewhere just shy of Webster, Texas, he let you ride him for six minutes.
That was all either one of you needed to get off. With his keys out of the ignition and the thin, frigid air of a winter’s day soaking straight through to your bones and his, you needed to move quick to keep warm. You buried your face into his neck and whimpered repeatedly, ‘Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,’ and Joel had no choice but to oblige, really. He stroked the back of your head with one of his big, warm palms and told you he was right here, ‘m always here, sweet pea. That helped you climax fast.
It also didn’t hurt that you’d nudged the hand cupping your ass to start touching somewhere lower, inside there
Joel’s fingers brushed through the wet, sticky glaze from where your bodies connected and started rubbing someplace new—at your request, of course—and his heart damn near burst out of his chest when you let out a wanton moan at the touch. His cock twitched, and your walls clenched around him when his index first petted that tight ring of muscles. You squirmed in his lap.
“Fuck me there, Joel. Push it in,” you whimpered.
At least half of that sentiment must have been the pre-climax talking, Joel reckoned, but he couldn’t deny that he felt equally enthralled by that spot. It was more just curiosity and mindless need, wondering what you’d feel like wrapped around him in that new place. His fingertip breached the tiny ring, and the two of you groaned into each other. It was mind-numbing. He might’ve plunged his digit in and out all of five times before you were both pushed over the edge. You came with a shuddering cry, and Joel filled the condom inside you in thick, hot spurts.
Joel’s vision blurred for a second with how hard he came
He was still blinking, still breathing like his ribcage might cave at any moment, and you were lifting off him gently.
A little squelch and a sigh from your lips were all that he heard over the rush in his skull. Absently, Joel plucked the rubber off and looked around for a tissue to put it in.
He’d just secured it, and was zipping up his pants to step out of the car and toss it in the trash, when he saw you turned, peering out the back window. He chucked the condom and returned to find you in the same position.
“We should try anal next,” you said simply.
Clinically.
Joel almost dropped his keys turning the Bronco back on
“Try w—” He choked on the last word and stumbled for the third and fourth, sputtering. “What do you mean?”
Finally, you shifted back to face the front, to face him, and a smile was playing at your lips. Your nose wrinkled.
“You don’t know what that means, Joel? Pretty sure the mechanics are about the same as any other type of fucking, just like…in my butt,” you said teasingly.
Like hell it was.
You were no more than forty-five minutes away from your destination in Galveston. Your dad was already at his timeshare down there and would be expecting you soon. Both of you had been a little off-kilter ever since the man had called out of the blue that morning and offered you, Tommy, and Maria the weekend getaway at his place, but still. This? Where the hell had you gotten an idea like that in your head, when the focus was supposed to be on laying low the next couple days? Keeping sex to its usual bounds, not doing anything risky near your dad.
You and him had a pretty bad track record in that.
All the same, trying anal at your dad’s beach house sounded more than just crazy. It was plainly absurd.
Joel was planning to tell his best friend that he was in love with you not too far in the future. How was that conversation likely to fare if the man happened to catch him with his dick in his daughter’s backdoor beforehand?
“I ain’t fuckin’ your ass,” he mumbled grumpily instead.
He turned on the car and cranked the tunes to drown out any protest from you—and to quiet his own wild musings
What if he could, just once?
Would you even like it?
Damn, it might not—
“You need COOOOOOOOLIN’, baby I’m not FOOOLIN’.”
Thank you, Robert Plant.
The song started playing, and he felt especially grateful.
Actually, Joel might need the entirety of Led Zeppelin’s discography to clear his head of the nonsense currently coursing through it. He gripped the wheel tighter in his fists and started out of the gas station parking lot then.
You drummed a mindless beat with your fingertips on your thigh. Your legs were crossed, and you occasionally flit looks over your shoulder. At what, Joel had no idea.
“Take a left on General Acacius Way,” you said casually.
“What?” Joel turned to you.
Your finger was already pointing in the direction you wanted him to take the car. Your shoulders were relaxed, and that mischievous glint in your eye was unmistakable.
“Left on that road, then there should be another parking lot just behind the auto shop. It’s right beside the…yeah.”
Yeah.
Joel turned the wheel to pull onto the nearest street, and suddenly, he saw it. Right across the intersection, no more than a stone’s throw away from where he sat, there was a storefront that nearly made his eyes pop out.
He never considered himself a prude before.
In fact, he’d always thought he was pretty adventurous when it came to sex and being open-minded about stuff.
But this was fucking nuts.
There, on the corner of General Acacius Way and Clint Avenue, he saw a store with flashing pink-and-white lights and an even bigger, gaudier neon sign hanging above them, blinding half the street and making sure that it was seen on even the brightest, sunniest of days:
‘Mandalorian Sex Emporium: This is the Way…to Pleasure’
You had to be fucking joking.
You weren’t joking.
You’d gotten the idea driving to Galveston—or, rather, seated on your boyfriend’s lap and having him finger you in a place he’d never done it before—and then ran with it.
Sprinted, more like.
Your life and Joel’s were rife with stressors and uncertainty and fucked up paternal concerns galore. You’d been thinking nonstop about your dad’s latest conversation with Joel and about the possibility of him finding out about your secret relationship, and it had nearly sent you spiraling. You needed a distraction.
Was it the wisest idea to have that distraction be Joel’s dick in your ass? Probably not. But there were certainly worse ways to be spending your time, and sitting around wondering why the hell your dad had never bothered to tell you that he might not be your biological father, or that Tommy fucking Miller might have been, was useless. You wouldn’t know a thing until you talked to him yourself—and that conversation would have to take place later. This weekend, probably. Presently, you were perusing an aisle full of water-based lubricants, smiling.
Joel wasn’t quite scowling, but he certainly had that look
Like a father himself, far from approving of this scheme.
“Y’think flavored is the way to go?” you asked casually.
You held bottles of Beskar Berry Blast and Coruscant Cotton Candy in either hand and held them up for the purpose of getting your old man’s opinion on them, but his eyes glazed over both. His gaze penetrated yours, and then it flitted down to what he held in his own hand.
His phone.
Also, he had on his reading glasses.
They sat perched atop the tip of his nose, and from that look alone, you knew whatever came next would be good
Joel cleared his throat.
“Sugary lubricants are much more likely to cause a bacterial imbalance—infection, even—and with the heightened risk of microtears in the anal cavity—”
“Jo-el.”
You groaned.
Joel didn’t blink.
“What? If you’re grown-up enough to want anal sex, you need to be able to say the words. I mean it, sweetheart…”
And with that, he straightened. His back audibly cracked. Though he didn’t wince, you could tell that he’d felt it, as his brows were furrowed returning his focus to his phone
He was even more serious than normal, you could tell. Swiftly, you sidled up next to him. You looked down.
In the search bar on Joel’s phone, you read:
How to do anal first time painless & safe
Peering up, you saw his lips were in a line. He was scrolling through results like this was of the utmost importance, and your heart clenched, realizing just how much he cared for your well-being. On top of that, you sensed there was more to his nerves than just the sex.
“We don’t…have to do it, Joel,” you told him softly. “Seriously, it’s OK if you’re uncomfortable. Or worried.”
That last word carried the weight of the sentence, and at length, Joel met your look. His shoulders sagged a little.
He pocketed his cell. Put his glasses in his breast pocket.
“No. I’m alright. Really. Just thinkin’ of stuff,” he replied.
“Like Dad?”
“Like him shovin’ a shotgun up my ass.”
And both of you smiled some, but it was tense. Strained.
That momentary relief of humor between you two was, by force of circumstance, dampened by some weightier considerations. Like maybe this detour was a bad way to distract, and you shouldn’t be seeking that out right now
Maybe sneaking around your dad was risky enough.
Hell, maybe even the truth about you two had to wait.
It was a thought born of fear, but an honest feeling all the same—and, seeming to sense this, Joel’s expression softened. Suddenly, his hand was reaching for yours.
“I’m not havin’ second thoughts about tellin’ him, if that’s what you’re wonderin’,” he resumed, eyes on you.
“We just need to…go slow,” you finished. Questioning.
The fingers threaded through yours squeezed them.
“If that’s what you need, then I’ll do it, sweetheart.”
Slow.
Steady.
Setting an even pace for everything to come.
You couldn’t help but see some parallels, to, well…this.
You set the flavored lubes aside. You took Joel’s advice—got some simple, no-frills stuff. It wasn’t about being in a rush, or needing this new, fun thing to be a diversion from the reality you were currently facing. You did it because you wanted to. Because Joel was open to it, too, and though he was being extra cautious, you knew it all stemmed from the love that he had for you. It always did.
You picked out toys. You had to bite back a smile seeing your old man take in the sight of some thick, ten-inch plastic shafts and whistle quietly to himself. He picked out vibrating panties he thought might be fun, and you got two different sets of plugs and beads. By the end of your little excursion, both of you were calmer and content. You strolled out of that Mand’alor sex shop feeling more at ease than you’d been for a good bit.
In the Bronco, back on the road and hitting the homestretch of your trip down to the beach, you did feel like a weight had been lifted. If not completely dissolved, your anxiety, at least, had seemed to take the backseat.
With Joel up front and occasionally squeezing your thigh, telling you just how excited he was to spend the weekend together, you wanted to forget your worries.
You wanted it to be you, Joel, and no one else for a while.
Tommy picked the worst goddamn times to show face.
It was either that he had the worst timing known to man, or he secretly relished catching his brother in the most compromising positions—like the one he was in now.
You and Joel had gotten to the house around noon, not long after you were expected to arrive. Your father was already gone when you got there, having shot a text to say he was looking at bike rentals and that he’d made reservations for lunch at a restaurant down the road—head on over in twenty minutes, and I’ll meet y’all there.
Naturally, with the code to unlock the front door and almost a half hour to spare, a quickie had been a must.
You’d gotten busy in the first guest bathroom you could find and washed off the sex toys you’d just bought, too.
It was incredible how fucking arousing the sight of a little silver plug with a jewel at its base could be to see inside you. After a few slow pumps of his fingers while he fucked you up against the sink in doggy, along with a dollop or two of lube, he’d worked it in you. He thumbed at the spot where your hole was stopped up and smiled.
Then his brother had barged into the house downstairs.
“Who’s ready for some fuckin’ gruuuuuub?!” he’d yelled.
That had been over an hour ago. Now you, him, Tommy, Maria, and your dad were all finishing up said grub at a little cafe on the beach. You were dining outdoors, and the sun was shining bright, but not oppressively. A gentle breeze blew. The food was so good Joel could’ve sworn that his eyes had rolled back in ecstasy twice.
You, too, were squirming—but for very different reasons.
Before you’d left, you put on the vibrating panties. Joel had the remote that controlled them, and he’d been turning it on and off, up and down, all at his leisure.
He wasn’t going crazy, though.
The two of you had agreed you needed to be careful this weekend and couldn’t take too many risks near his friend
But, then again, you were you, and Joel was Joel.
Of course, you’d be fucking around a little bit.
Your dad was calling for the check presently.
You’d just reached for your glass of sweet tea, now nearly empty, but the second the rim touched your lips, your grip slipped. For a beat, Joel thought you might drop it.
Shit.
Dial that down to a…four, maybe?
The settings went all the way to ten. Apparently shocking you out of nowhere with a six was enough to make your eyes bug out and a cough to push itself out of your chest
“You alright, kiddo?” Tommy asked beside you.
You coughed again and forced a smile.
You quickly nodded back at him.
“Fine. Just—fine.” And at the last, your gaze shot to Joel.
You fucker.
He deserved that.
Under the table, holding the remote to your panties, he notched the toy back down to two, just to be nice. You visibly relaxed and pried your eyes off of his, but not before narrowing them briefly. I’m watching you, Miller.
Joel hoped you’d do a lot more to him than that by the time he was done. Just when your dad reached for the bill being handed over by the waitress, he intercepted it.
He slid his card out and stuffed it inside the little folder.
“Meal’s on me,” Joel announced without ceremony.
His friend gave him an appreciative, if not slightly objecting look. He looked like he was about to protest the offer, when Joel tucked his wallet—along with your underwear’s remote—into his pocket. He handed the check back to the waitress and told her not to accept a penny from his friend. Your dad barked a laugh at that.
“Joel, you know I’m fine to—”
“Fucking shit.”
The words leapt through your gritted teeth before you could even think to stop them from coming, it looked like
Joel’s eyes were on you the same second you said them, and as soon as he did, he saw you grip the edge of the table. You blinked hard and coughed a third time. Loud.
He hadn’t even…
“Language, young lady,” your dad snapped. “What is it?”
He gave the same look Joel had seen his own father give him and Tommy countless times growing up—the kind that said we’re out in public, don’t be showin’ your ass.
It wasn’t really your fault, though, if Joel had to guess.
Shortly, he was feeling around for your remote.
Next to you, Maria had a hand on your back.
“You need some water? Here.”
And she offered you hers.
You shook your head vehemently, and shifted in your seat again. Cursed again, though bit your tongue with it.
“Motherfuckin’ piece’a—ah, ah.”
You clamped down at the last.
Was that a moan at the end?
Joel fished around his pocket even quicker. At the same time, your dad ditched his fork from trying to shovel in the last couple bites of his mahi-mahi and glared at you.
“Is there something you’d like to share, sweetheart?”
No the absolute fuck there isn’t.
Where is it, where is it, where is it?
Joel had just been holding it a second ago. His pants pockets weren’t that deep. If he could just grab it and—
“No!” you cried. Actually, it was more like a plea. Your expression pinched, and your fingernails dug into the table, and right as Joel got his hand on the little pink remote, you almost jumped sideways out of your chair.
Fortunately, the waitress arrived with the check again. She handed it to him, thanked them for stopping by, and while your father was momentarily distracted, Joel found the remote. He clicked the button and realized that it had been cranked to ten as his ass was crushing it under him.
Whether you were about to climax on the spot or bawl your fucking eyes out was anyone’s guess at that point.
Joel shut your undies off.
You let out a heaving sigh.
Your father eyed you incredulously. Frowning.
“Any other stunts you’d like to pull before we go biking?” he said, though it was clear he wasn’t expecting a reply.
You gave him one anyway.
Answering your dad but looking directly at Joel, you said:
“I don’t think I wanna come, actually. I’m too tired now.”
***
It was a wonder you hadn’t murdered him on the spot.
If looks could kill, yours just might have done him in.
Lunch had ended without event—well, as much as could be said for your father occasionally stealing looks your way and seeming to wonder whether you might not have gotten drunk during the meal—but still, you made it out. Of course, your dad had roped you, Joel, Tommy, and Maria into riding bikes that afternoon, despite your protests, and despite the fact that the man was still recovering from an injured femur. Your dad had agreed to ride an e-bike to minimize strain, and he’d seemed as cheerful as anything to get going. Joel felt your sidelong dirty looks the whole walk to the rental bike place, and though they weren’t the dirty looks he liked, he still managed to maintain a happy demeanor himself.
He’d even gone so far as to squeeze your elbow playfully and say, ‘Bet I’ll beat you in a race down the beach, kid.’
He did make sure it sounded as platonic and innuendo-less as possible, though. If there was any time to ensure you kept things G-rated and non-suspicious, now was it.
Evidently, you weren’t having it.
Still shaking from your almost-orgasm at lunch, and likely dreading having to sit on a bike an excruciating hour or three, it seemed you wanted nothing more than to make Joel’s life misery now—in a sweet, discreet way.
He should’ve known it when you first peeled off your shirt getting onto your bike, leaving you in nothing but a lime green string bikini top and your shorts. Technically, it had been Tommy who started the trend by claiming it was ‘hot as shit’ and proceeding to rip off his own tee, but Joel sensed from the look you gave him as soon as you shed yours too that you meant to torture him. If he’d had his fun with a vibrating pair of panties, you could do the same showing off your rack while you rode this bike.
And you did. You’d pulled up right beside him no more than ten seconds after your dad had started off down the path to lead the way, and you’d arched your back, pretending to stretch in your seat before setting off yourself. You’d made sure Joel saw your tits in all their full, heaving, teasing beauty, and then you’d leaned in.
“What do I get if I beat you down there, daddy?”
You’d said it quietly; Joel didn’t hesitate.
“Whatever the fuck you want, baby.”
He might’ve been in for an afternoon of torment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tempt you right back—he would get a moment alone with you one way or another today.
Still, as expected, the bike ride went on forever.
Joel’s balls ached, and it wasn’t just from the triangular-shaped, hard-as-shit seat underneath him. You rode beside him, in front of him, weaving back and forth with ease and showing him everything he couldn’t touch with his best friend no more than fifteen feet away from him. It was agony. And it didn’t improve when your group hopped off their bikes an hour later to stop for ice cream. If anything, the torture just took on a bittersweet tinge.
You were talking to your dad again. On the bike ride, along the boardwalk, at the ice cream shop—for what had seemed like the first time in ages, you were really speaking to your old man and seeming to enjoy yourself. Joel knew there was a lot more to be ironed out between you two, and that would come eventually, but for now, you got to relax. On top of this absurd, mind-numbing attraction he had for you, he also felt oddly content to watch you bond with your father like this, in front of him.
Joel hoped he wouldn’t be the reason it all went to shit.
You were licking cookies and cream ice cream off the side of your cone, then your wrist, where the milky substance had trickled down a little bit. Joel was fighting like hell not to make that sexual in his mind, but it was difficult when you’d sucked him off dozens and dozens of times before. Your dad laughed at something you said; he practically wheezed, and then he’d pinched your nose affectionately. You wrinkled it in response, still grinning.
Joel loved you.
He was seconds away from sporting a raging erection under his shorts, and he loved you more than anything.
He really didn’t want your relationship with him to be the reason why you lost your own with your father, and for a moment, Joel wondered if it might not be a good idea for the two of you to wait. Until you were a little older, out of college, maybe making some money of your own and able to decide for yourself if he was what you really—
“Sweetheart!”
That was your dad.
But it wasn’t for you.
It wasn’t spoken to you, but rather behind you, where the ice cream shop’s front door had jingled with a new arrival
It all happened faster than Joel could process it—your smile had been so big beaming back at your father, reminiscing on some old memories together, and then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Lost. Dropped off of your face completely the second you turned around.
His friend rose to his feet and went for a warm greeting; at the same time, Tommy’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.
Beside him, Maria’s did the same.
So he’d told her about Helen, then.
Your dad had just pulled the woman in for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Helen had smiled appreciatively at first, then a little sheepishly as her gaze darted over the four other people sitting at the table.
Your look was as deadened as Joel had ever seen it—leagues worse than when you’d been mad about the vibrating panty situation. Your whole demeanor had taken a nosedive, and your back straightened reflexively.
You lowered your ice cream cone and eyed them both.
“Maria, I don’t think you and Helen have been introdu—” your dad started to say, but even he, in all of his affable humor couldn’t ignore the way your chair scraped back.
You stood and tossed your cone in the trash.
Then, without saying another word, you left.
It wasn’t particularly dramatic, loud, or angry. In fact, your movements were as mechanical and unaffected as if you’d just felt a cool draft and wanted to take a step outside. It didn’t look like you were annoyed at anything.
You got the fuck out of there, though.
You discarded your frozen treat like it was nothing, and, without thinking, Joel did the same starting after you.
Dimly, he was aware of the bell over the door jingling a third time with his exit. He felt the sun on his face and a breeze through his hair as he followed in your wake. It seemed you’d considered your bike outside for all of one second before quickly diverting your path; you decided you’d walk. You did walk for several yards in front of him.
Joel called your name.
You were off at a fast clip, so he had to jog to catch up.
When he did—and that didn’t take long—he reached out.
You jerked your arm away: “I’m not doing this shit, Joel.”
“I know.”
Another step closer.
Another pass for your elbow.
You didn’t fight it at first, as you’d gotten better about trusting him in moments like these. You’d improved your general reaction to bad situations and had managed to leave the shop without causing a scene. Still, old habits died hard, and in a second, you were pulling away and starting off even faster—further from him, to the beach.
Speed-walking at this point, like you needed to blow off some steam and couldn’t do that anywhere but near a body of water. Joel watched you scrub at one of your eyes and could sense something brewing inside you.
“He knew,” you spat, words harsh several strides ahead. “Motherfucker knew what he was going to do, so he took me to my favorite ice cream place from when I was a kid, talks to me like we’re—we’re good again, then fuckin’—”
You reached the boardwalk leading to the beach. You curtailed your speech just long enough to take a quick, ragged breath, and then you climbed the wooden steps.
“He’s a fucking asshole,” you muttered.
Joel could only see your profile, but at least you’d slowed down. You were maybe four feet ahead, and you had your mouth in a tight line, like words were getting difficult to say. He knew that look. He knew tears weren’t far away.
“And we’re—FUCK!”
At the last, you’d nearly made it all the way to the sand but had gotten your shoe stuck on a crooked part of a plank walking up, and you stumbled. You fell down, hands instinctively flying out to catch yourself.
Joel’s did the same.
As soon as you went down, it seemed, he was right there with you on the ground. If he’d acted a second faster, he might’ve been able to prevent you from hitting the sand at all. Unfortunately, you’d been a little too far ahead of him to make a catch possible. He dropped to his knees beside you, and his hands were reaching again. Grasping.
Holding, and not being nudged off this time. You cursed.
“Fucking sh—” you started, going in for your knee.
“Baby, hey—hey.”
Fear must’ve flashed in his eyes, because the second you met it, you were blinking hard—expression softening the slightest bit in spite of the pain probably shooting up your leg just then. You pulled your knee to your chest, but you let Joel hold it, too. You let out a labored breath.
“You OK? Lemme—” Joel brushed some sand off your leg. “—lemme see it, sweetheart. Just let me see, OK?”
His words were as soft and placating as he could manage it; it was silly, really, since a couple seconds’ inspection of your knee revealed you’d suffered no more than a minuscule scrape from your fall. Still, he leaned in.
And as soon as he reached down for your ankle, checking to make sure you hadn’t twisted it or anything in the process, he heard another sigh. It was softer.
A little more strangled, too, by the sound of it.
“We’re doing the same thing, aren’t we?”
Your voice was small. On hearing it, Joel’s hands stilled in place, and his gaze flitted up to yours. His brow furrowed
“What?”
“Lying,” you said, somehow even quieter. Frowning, but not on account of any pain. “Hiding. Just…just like him.”
Now it was Joel’s turn to soften his expression looking at you—he couldn’t help it. Your face was mottled with a mix of warring thoughts, from anger to fear to shame, and it made his chest hurt. He hated seeing you hurt.
“No. We ain’t like him.” He shook his head.
Your dad destroyed his marriage and upended your life for a love he should’ve fought to keep or left in the past.
You didn’t know that. Joel had only learned the truth the night before, and the story was fraught with so many other deeply personal things, he didn’t think it was his place to share it with you himself. You’d have to hear it from your father when you talked to him, and he knew that that would be soon. You’d already learned part of it.
“We ain’t them, sweetheart. Nothin’ even close to that.” And as he said it, his hand lifted to your cheek. He cupped the side of your face and thumbed at it gently.
You sniffled. You looked like you might jump into his arms and demand a hug, which Joel was more than happy to give, but then you stopped. You had to, shortly.
More footsteps down the way. They thundered fast and loud down the creaky, sunwashed stretch of boardwalk and came clambering to where you and Joel crouched.
Joel’s hand jerked back.
He didn’t want it like that, but he had no choice. Your father’s voice was booming overhead, concern laced in every word as he approached at a lightning-quick pace.
“Honey! Hon—fuck—are you alright?”
Then he was at your side. Reaching for you in that same, urgent way Joel had, only Joel was helping you up. The two of you shared a final look before you turned to him.
You were already waving your father off, “I’m fine, Dad.”
“Did you trip? What happened? Is your ankle alright?”
At least a half-dozen emotions were all flickering over his face at once, like the man couldn’t pick which feeling to stick to, but each one was born of fear, Joel could see.
As a matter of fact, Joel never saw his friend’s features betray such bone-chilling concern than when he happened to be worrying over you. It showed again.
Your father was fretting and fawning for no reason at all—no matter how insistent you were that you just tripped, that’s it, now lay off, Dad, please. It was clear that your admonitions fell on deaf ears, one right after the next. You were persistent, but you got that from him, and he wouldn’t let it go until he’d held you steady in his hands and checked your legs and feet and told you, sweetie, you could’ve hurt yourself. What were you thinkin’?
Running off like that was what he meant, surely.
Joel had to force his gaze away when he saw how earnest your father was on those last couple words. He was stooped a little, bent to match your height, and his eyes were glistening with a paternal apprehension like he’d never seen. It almost seemed too much. Overdone.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
And he wasn’t talking about you taking a spill on the boardwalk anymore, suddenly. His expression softened.
True to your stubborn self—true to being his daughter—you just shook your head and sniffled once. Then you tried to nudge him away again, your movements wooden
“I don’t ca—”
“Can we talk?”
Another sniff. Another step away.
“I don’t wanna talk.” You sounded resolute.
Your dad was even more adamant: “Well, I wanna talk.”
And that made both you and Joel stiffen involuntarily. It wasn’t necessarily the words that he spoke but the way in which they were said; your father’s voice nearly broke.
“We need to talk, pumpkin.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.
Something tugged at Joel’s chest that felt like a blade. Your father straightened and cast a look around, eyes scanning the sunny, colorful scenery like he was thinking, and then he quickly reverted his focus to you.
Joel wasn’t sure if his friend’s gaze had missed him on purpose, or if there were something more beneath it.
He was paranoid.
Insane.
“Five minutes. Then I’m going home,” you said coldly.
Whether you meant the house on the beach or the one back in Austin was anyone’s guess. Frankly, Joel was only aware of his surroundings in the vaguest, dullest sense, and the rest of his body was buzzing. He couldn’t stop blinking, fearing what was coming next for you both
A breath got lodged in his throat and he almost choked when your father turned his way, at length. He coughed.
“Miller, you—”
Fuck, this was it. The end.
Your father paused to cough, too, though this time, it looked natural. He appeared to be clearing his throat.
“—mind giving us a minute? Shouldn’t be too long.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Sure thing, man.”
Shouldn’t be too long.
This was the last thought ringing through his skull as he turned to leave. He couldn’t bear to meet your look for longer than a second, for fear that your father might change his mind and suddenly out you both for fucking each other’s brains out these last three months. That would be horrific, and Joel wasn’t about to test his luck.
From what he could glean from your expression in the glimpse he got, you were feeling about the same as him.
Your voice was small—and growing more faint as he started to walk off from the way you two first came.
Down the boardwalk, haunting him all the way back:
“So what do we need to talk about, Dad?”
Your head hurt.
The talk ended up taking more than five minutes.
At the start of that conversation, you swore you’d tell your dad to fuck off and then head back to Austin before he could even utter the name ‘Helen,’ but here you were.
Staring blankly at a wall recalling every last minute detail of the exchange, hours later, and wondering what the fuck any of it meant. Freshly showered and splayed out over the front of a big, familiar frame and inhaling his scent. Laying with your head on his chest and your cheek growing hotter the longer it stayed in place.
You blinked and wanted to forget everything.
A hand stroked up and down your back, moving slowly.
“Your dad loves you, sweet pea. More’n anything.”
Joel murmured that into your hair, then kissed the crown of your head. Instead of giving you a good, warm feeling or making goosebumps break out across your skin, the gesture hardly registered. You could only stare harder at the wall beside the bed and recognize how numb you felt
“Even though I basically ruined his life,” you replied dully.
“Hey.”
Your head was nudged to turn up to Joel’s. Reluctantly, your chin came to rest on his chest, and at the same time, you felt two broad palms cup the sides of your face.
Joel’s eyes pierced you with a marked, solemn sincerity.
“Don’t say that,” he rasped.
“It’s true. I wrecked everything.”
“You didn’t wreck a single damn—”
“He doesn’t even know if I’m his daughter, Joel!”
Those words were spoken with an even harsher edge. Louder, like they needed to get out. You shifted a little.
“How the fuck am I not supposed to feel guilty when my being born was the only reason he chose to stay with my mom at all, and then it turns out, he might not even b—”
It was too ugly to say aloud. It was too foul, too shameful, too fucking gut-wrenching to think that your very existence was the reason for another’s unhappiness—and that that whole premise might’ve been built on a lie. Stupidly, you scrubbed at your cheek and pushed to sit, like the act and the new posturing might make the chances of you breaking down crying any less likely.
Joel sat up with you.
His arms wrapped around you, and you didn’t have the strength to push him off or tell him you were fine, really.
Shoulders sagging, you simply leaned in and buried your face in the crook of his neck. You let him hold you close.
“‘S’alright, sweet girl,” Joel cooed. Stroking your hair like he’d last done running his hand up and down your back. “He’s still your dad. You’ll always be his, no matter what.”
At that, the first crack in your exterior gave way.
You didn’t mean for it to happen, but a sob racked through you, and your body melted into Joel’s bigger one. Your numbness fled, and it left you feeling raw.
Needy.
Clinging to the old, heather gray shirt your boyfriend had on and hoping that your tears wouldn’t soak the material.
Carefully, Joel slid up the bed with you tucked snugly in his arms, and he leaned back into the headboard. He let you cry, probably because it felt appropriate, and also because he loved you more than words could express.
For some reason, that made you want to cry even harder.
Joel continued to stroke your hair and murmur sweet nothings in your ear, and the pit of unease in your stomach grew more and more painful as he did.
You fisted his shirt fully in one hand and wept. After some seconds or minutes passed, you could hardly decipher what had brought you to tears in the first place, but you knew what kept you there—what made you want to curl up in a ball and sob your eyes dry on the spot.
There were words sticking to your throat, begging to claw out, so in the next second, you ended up blurting:
“I don’t—I don’t wanna be like him, Joel.”
The sound was a little muffled against Joel’s neck, but it must’ve reached his ears all the same, because suddenly he was shifting the slightest bit and drawing back gently.
“Wh—”
“I don’t wanna lie like him. Keep…fucking things up.”
“Sweet pea, I promise you’re not—”
“I don’t wanna lose you.” And your voice was alarmingly steady, despite the tears you’d shed and the uncertainty you felt; you didn’t know how things would go with your dad, and neither did Joel. “I— I just love you so much.”
Hell, you might’ve heard his heart splinter at that.
You might’ve seen his throat work and his eyes glisten and the same feeling you’d expressed in words flood his features in a look—that he didn’t want to keep hiding this—but you also wouldn’t see it for long. Joel kissed you.
His lips crushed yours at first, the force of it so strong that it almost knocked you off balance. Sharp, gray stubble, parted lips, probing tongue, searching hands, and a rich, woodsy smell all overwhelmed you at once.
It wasn’t a question of if you kissed back but whether you could keep up, and you could feel it in every breath.
“I love you, baby,” Joel groaned against your lips, as if pained. “More than you know—I love you. I love you.”
This quiet refrain continued well into the kiss, as he laid you down and crawled over your frame. You melted beneath him. Your legs fastened themselves tightly about his hips, and you brought Joel in—welcoming him.
It wasn’t an altogether uncommon thing to be meeting each other with such urgency and need—in fact, these days, it seemed to be your favorite way to approach sex—but here, in your family beach house, on the brink of sharing something new and terrifying and unable to be walked back with your dad, you grew doubly restless. Your fingers threaded messily through his hair, and you tugged those soft, salt-and-pepper locks like your life depended on it. You opened your mouth wider and whimpered into the kiss; Joel ground himself into you.
“T—Tommy. And Maria?” you managed breathlessly, in between kisses and feeling Joel’s tongue explore every crevice of your mouth. Trying not to lose all your sense. You wanted to make sure the house was totally empty.
“Dinner. Probably—” And Joel had to stop himself just long enough to fight a chuckle, though a smirk remained. “Probably makin’ babies afterward, if I’d had to guess.”
“Yeah? That serious?”
“He plans on marryin’ her.”
“Never pegged him as the marrying kind.”
“Well, when you find the woman you want forever.”
As Joel said it, his gaze flitted from your lips to your eyes. You weren’t in a state to even attempt to decipher that look, so you didn’t. You leaned in and kissed him instead.
He tasted like wanting and something more. He moved his mouth over yours like his oxygen supply had come from your lips and tongue, and the rest of him was captive to your every other touch. You moved, and he followed. When you drew back to try and catch your breath, Joel swallowed and watched you just as closely.
“Dad should be out a few more hours,” you added, soft.
Joel didn’t speak, though his gaze trailed your body as you started peeling off clothes, beginning with your top.
He undressed quicker despite not being able to take his eyes off your body the whole time, and you felt need burrow even deeper inside you. The room got warmer.
The two of you were stripped down in a matter of seconds, and still, the temperatures seemed only to have increased and left you basking in a scorching heat. There was familiarity and ease, having done this so many times before, but nothing could ever really prepare you for when Joel spread your legs and slotted himself between them. There was his bare skin on yours, absurd amounts of warmth, and your head resting gently on a pillow, peering up at the man with wide and excited eyes.
Joel’s hand reached between your thighs, and your expression only brightened with the movement of it.
You canted your hips upward at just the right moment.
Joel sucked in a breath. Blinked hard, as if remembering.
“Honey…” His voice tapered off with just one, lone word.
You were glad he hadn’t completely forgotten, and you didn’t miss the way his length twitched against your hip. He liked what he felt, evidently. His fingertips had grazed the little jewel notched into your back entrance, and he was reminded, in no uncertain terms, that you wanted it.
You wanted him there.
Needed him, you hoped he knew.
Joel already had the pad of his thumb pressed up against it, and he was starting to stroke it. Considering.
“Want me to…keep this in while I fuck her?” He lifted his knuckles to brush the seam of your cunt—the ‘her’ in question, obviously—and when he did that, a shudder coursed through you. Your walls clenched around nothing, and more warmth trickled out of you.
All but blinded with desire, you still managed to get out:
“No. Want you to fuck me in there, Joel. Please.”
It was a borderline obscene request, but you didn’t care. He knew this was what you’d been wanting him to do, and so long as he was on board, you hoped it would happen. You ached to feel his cock someplace new. Claim you in a way he hadn’t gotten to do before.
When it seemed a warning might not be far from Joel’s tongue, you rejoined with equal warmth, even needier.
Lifting your hips again and digging your heels into the soft, white comforter beneath, saying, ‘Daddy, please.’
Joel was as good as sold hearing that, if you’d had to guess, but you went even further to seal the deal for yourself. Reaching down and touching the plug, pulling on it, gently, all while your gaze remained plastered on his. A soft whimper slipped past your lips when you did.
“Help me get it out, Joel. Wanna feel you—”
“Shit,” Joel panted. Shortly gritting his teeth.
At a glance, it seemed the man was primed to drop face-level with where you were currently playing with yourself. Maybe lick a stripe up your wet, aching slit and then tease the toy out with his fingers just like you wanted.
To your shock and dismay, Joel stood up from the bed.
Your body lurched with confusion at first; another whine might’ve escaped. Your mind was a wild and wanton place in that moment, filled to the brim with ideas of your father’s best friend having you any way he wanted. The thought that he might be planning to tease you now, or leave you hanging in this terrible, tireless deprivation altogether, was almost more than you could bear. You pushed to sit, eyes widening and lips about to protest.
Joel nudged you back down.
He turned and opened the top drawer of the nightstand.
Then, before another moment could clue you into what was going on or what Joel might be trying to do with the item he’d pulled out, you felt it: a hum between your legs.
A mechanical buzz and a palm pressing to your hip.
Joel ducked his head just in time to catch your lips in a kiss, soaking up the startled sound that had been quick to claw out. You couldn’t help it, of course—whenever Joel took a vibrator to your clit, you were putty under him
Joel also knew you loved the feeling, so he kept it there.
He kept his mouth pressed to yours through the initial shock of it, swallowing a moan or two, but then, almost as quick as he’d stunned you with the buzzing vibration, he pulled back. He waited until your eyes re-focused and your lips were trembling lightly, dying to whimper or groan or tell him, as best you could, that you needed him to push inside you, now, now, now, before he spoke.
“She’s already drippin’ for me, baby,” Joel said, near- mournful. Rolling the vibrator between forefinger and thumb and causing a shockwave of pleasure to course through you. Teasing up and down the slick, puffy seam. “So wet and needy, wantin’ to get stuffed full’a me. Be a real shame if I neglected my sweet girl now, wouldn’t it?”
It was true, your cunt needed him just as badly, and your walls were fluttering and aching with every twist of the vibrator’s tip on your sensitive little bundle of nerves.
Still, when Joel flipped you, sliding a pillow under your hips, you felt that urge for something more. Your back arched mindlessly, and you clutched the sheets tighter.
“Just—just give her a kiss,” you stuttered into the bed.
“Just a kiss?” Joel repeated, hands gripping your hips and lifting you toward him. If you’d had to guess, his face was hovering somewhere close, wearing a conceited grin
Then you knew that it was; his lips connected with your throbbing, glistening folds from behind, and his hold tightened. Sharp stubble—all mostly silver—tickled your thighs, and after that, a soft wet pop graced your ears.
Then a chuckle.
“How ‘bout a couple more?” he drawled out, teasing.
“Just fuck me, please.” You wriggled helplessly.
And you thought, as needy and visibly aroused as you were, Joel might oblige. He could extract that little jewel without issue, slick himself up with lube and plunge in. Simple as that. You arched your back again, higher now, and you begged him with every movement, every breath you were drawing in and exhaling, that you wanted this.
Joel kissed you again.
He pressed his lips to that shiny, wet place and sank in. Spread your cheeks with his hands, parted your folds with his tongue, and mapped the whole, weeping expanse of your cunt with that one, curious muscle.
Joel had gone down on you plenty of times before and every instance, without fail, had left you a writhing, whimpering mess—sometimes in a puddle of your making—but this was different. The feeling was new.
This sweet, gentle man was eating you from the back, and every muscle in your body was starting to contract.
Chin pressed firmly to the pillow and eyes staring, unblinking, at the headboard, you stuttered again:
“P—Please fuck me, Joel. Fuck me anywhere.”
“Anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“In the ass?”
At the same time, Joel pressed the still-buzzing vibrator to your clit again and started licking into your entrance.
“Yes!” you cried, fingers twisting the covers and squeezing. “Please—please fuck my ass, daddy.”
You sincerely hoped Tommy and Maria wouldn’t be home at all tonight. If your dad came home, well…you might cry
You were about to sob, feeling Joel’s tongue push an inch inside your needy cunt and start stroking gently.
“I—” Joel had to pull back after just a few licks to reply. “Can’t fuck you there til you’re good an’ ready, baby. Gonna hurt you if I don’t. ‘S’alot to fit. Needs prep.”
Fuck prep.
“I don’t care if it hurts,” you huffed defiantly.
Just as you started to curve your spine higher, a wordless invitation for him to go ahead and try it, please, a palm came to rest on the small of your back, gently.
“Sweet pea, I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Those words from Joel sounded serious. You turned your head to the side, eyes catching the soft brown irises awaiting you from behind, and you understood it.
You understood him, now leaning back on his heels.
This was a brand new frontier for you both. Not only being here, doing this, but preparing for something else. For a moment, you were transported back to your old troubles from before, and neither of you needed to articulate in words just what that was going to be, as it hung in the air between you with every breath, presently.
It felt like losing your virginity. Taking a new step. Although you knew that nothing would fundamentally change in what you and Joel had, it was still frightening. You turned around to find Joel still on his knees, thinking
Worrying what your father might say to him, probably.
“Come here,” you said, legs spreading wider.
You had ample support in the wall of pillows and cushions behind you, so when Joel crawled eagerly, and draped his body completely over you, you could hold him without struggling too much. You pulled him even closer.
And, with his head on your chest and your fingers combing affectionately through the black and gray strands, you did what felt most normal in the moment.
You told him you loved him, just like he’d told you before.
Joel’s body responded in kind, the way it always did.
It wasn’t lost on you that neither you nor Joel had ever been in a relationship serious enough to use those words, so whenever you said them now, they felt weightier. Particularly after spending so long trying to suppress those feelings, it seemed like you couldn’t get enough. Joel couldn’t control how much it affected him.
For one thing, he was hard as steel against your leg.
For another, his grip tightened protectively over your hip.
Instead of saying ‘I love you’ back immediately, he sat up and tilted his head to meet your gaze. Propped himself up on an elbow and adjusted his body between your legs.
Joel was warm. Broad. Muscular and thick through every inch of his frame, and his length was pulsing gently against your lower belly. His tip was probably leaking.
“Say that again.” It was an order, but nothing harsh.
You knew he was desperate to hear you, not merely asking you to obey, and, shortly, his hand lowered to his cock. He fisted it in a suffocating grip and squeezed it.
“Go on, sweet pea.”
“I love you, Joel.”
Then a tug on your shiny blue jewel. With his free hand, Joel gave it a pull, and he watched you squirm a little.
Still fisting his cock and starting to stroke, he said:
“Again.”
A beat. Another soft tug.
“Push when I pull on it, OK, baby?”
You nodded, not wanting to waste a second.
“OK. Joel…I-I love you so mu—oh.”
You were breathing in through your nose, bearing down like Joel had told you, and then, all at once, you felt a pop
“Don’t move, sweetheart. It’s OK.”
‘S’alright, darlin’, it’s just gonna feel a little different now, rang clear as anything through your ears, and you had to suck in a breath. Damn clueless and stupid as you felt, you hadn’t realized it would be so…weird coming out
Maybe it was best if you took this slow, like Joel said.
Before any real sting could settle in, though, something sticky and cool was being smeared between your legs.
You looked down and saw Joel using his thumb to stroke the raw, slightly stretched spot and soothe the muscle. His touch was tender and easy. Your heels dug a little deeper in the bed, there on either side of Joel’s body, and for a moment, you felt strangely, sorely exposed.
You were, after all, but that was what you wanted, right?
Another sharp breath rattled your chest—Joel’s thumb had notched inside, no deeper than a quarter-inch—and your feet slid reflexively again. Your legs tried to clamp.
Joel kept you open to him, thumb working in circles. Then, likely sensing your discomfort, he scooted closer.
His gaze flickered to find yours, and his look was soft.
“One word and we stop,” he said. “You got it?”
That voice was a little stern, trying to evoke some sense of austerity, but it was an altogether kind tone anyway—you knew Joel just wanted you to be completely safe.
You nodded.
Joel smiled.
“Now tell me again,” he murmured, eyes shining.
You’d nearly forgotten what the two of you had been doing just a few moments ago, but then it hit you. At the same time, while you opened your mouth to speak, one thick, lubricated finger replaced the thumb pressing in.
Joel’s index teased a little, then sank in an inch.
He withdrew, before plunging it back in gently.
Your muscles instinctively contracted around him, and while you did, as if from another reflex, you rushed out:
“I love you, Joel.”
And you did.
The man was eyeing you hungrily, but still with a reverence and a respect all the same. It pained him not to speak those three words back, but he was refraining from saying it so he could focus on working you open. He knew that as long as the anticipation was building, while you were aching to have more of him and growing more needy each second, he’d have an easier time at it.
Instead of talking immediately, he slid a pillow under your hips like he did before and drew close enough to where he could lay down beside you. He got more lube. He plumbed his finger in delicately, watching your face for any sign of discomfort or pain, and when you gradually relaxed into it, he grabbed the bottle of lubricant again.
Wet and slippery as everything was, you still couldn’t help but wince when Joel added a finger—his were thick.
No sooner had your features screwed up than Joel was kissing the top of your head, halting the motion of his digits momentarily, and then grabbing more lube. Again.
“This OK?” he murmured, coating his two fingers.
“I—I think. It’s just…tight,” you answered quietly.
Joel kissed you again, this time on your temple, and his index and middle fingers moved as slow as anything to work your entrance a little more. He was drenching it.
Lathering it with as much slick, artificial help as he could
“I know it’s hard, but try to relax. It’ll feel better that way.”
Joel had a perfect voice for coaching. He wasn’t pushy or gruff, agitated or in a hurry to get you someplace you weren’t quite ready to go. He let your body guide his touch, and he didn’t push for a third finger until you’d visibly gotten your bearings. When you were leaning in.
It started to feel good.
The push, the strain, the stretch. Joel’s never-ending words of encouragement as you fit him inside this narrow and unfamiliar channel. He kissed you more. Groaned into your skin. Said you were doing so fuckin’ good for him, and he couldn’t wait to make you feel better with his cock. You believed him. You wanted it.
And when, after several minutes, a third finger did make its way inside you and you really felt a stretch, you nearly bit clean through your bottom lip trying to stifle the moan that pushed out of your throat. Your head fell to Joel’s shoulder, and your breaths picked up a little more.
You weren’t even really aware when you said it, but then it came out of you all at once, face buried in Joel’s neck:
“Y-Y-You love me, too, right?”
It sounded uncharacteristically meek and almost pitiful to your ears—of course you knew he loved you, why ask?
But before you could chastise yourself, or even think twice about having said it, a warmth enveloped you.
Joel enveloped you, his free arm snaking down your side.
The big, muscular, protective and tender-hearted man with your pleasure in his hands nudged your cheek softly.
He wanted you to look up at him.
And when you did, your worries trickled away.
Or, at the very least, they took a backseat for the time being; Joel was meeting your gaze with the single most kind and loving look he might’ve ever imparted. Mixed in that expression was a tincture of guilt, you could see, like he was sorry not to have made this clearer to you sooner.
He blinked once, then resumed:
“As long as I live, sweet pea.”
And if that wasn’t enough, or else because he wanted to communicate it on your terms, with your needs in mind:
“As long as you’ll have me, and then some. I’m all yours.”
If three of Joel Miller’s fingers weren’t currently buried to the hilt inside you and stretching you wide open for him, you might’ve jumped the man. Hugged him. Squeezed him to your body as tight as you possibly could and assured him that you were his as much as he was yours and you’d never get tired of this, ever, you would have done that. Your eyes likely said as much, growing glossy.
Feeling a lump in your throat, you had only to turn into Joel’s body and try to get the words out, soft and hoarse.
“I love you, Joel. So much.”
Moving closer, though your bodies were practically flush with each other—but Joel didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, a grin just graced his features as he peered down at you. He pushed his nose to yours, and you grinned back.
“I love you more,” he said, not peeling his eyes away.
Before you could even try to reply, ‘Well, I love you most’ like some silly, lovesick puppy, Joel had you beat. He slipped his fingers out carefully from you and shifted in bed, to then overtake your frame and hover above it.
He dropped a kiss on your head, still smiling like an idiot.
“And I’ll love you most, ‘til my lungs give out, alright?”
“You better not be lyin’ to me.” You said it teasingly.
And Joel was just about to answer for himself when the sound of the front door swinging open downstairs interrupted you both. Noisy footsteps followed after, and in a second, you recognized the clamor as belonging to Joel’s brother and his girlfriend. Both were laughing.
The weight of Joel’s body pressed even heavier to yours.
He wasn’t stiff, for once, likely because you didn’t have to hide from those two anymore. And he’d locked the door.
“I ain’t lyin’, baby, swear on my life…” he went on softly.
Now his lips were at your ear, grazing your cheek, lowering toward the hinge of your jaw at a maddening pace. He didn’t seem to pay it any mind when Tommy and Maria went bounding up the stairs and retired directly into the bedroom next to his; he was busy.
You’d almost forgotten you were about to fuck.
With any luck, the couple next door wouldn’t be doing anything like it—or at least keeping their activities quiet.
“Get ready to hear some bullshit,” Joel supplied shortly. His face was buried in your neck, as if annoyed, but you could feel his smirk. “Probably makin’ babies right n—”
“So are we,” you hissed indignantly.
“Last I checked that can’t happen in your ass, sweeth—”
“Joel Miller.”
Technically, he was right.
“Less talking, more fucking, OK?” you added swiftly.
“Yes ma’am.”
Then he did.
It took more than a couple seconds for the levity and amusement of the moment to die down between you, but eventually, you both settled down. You got calmer.
You were reminded that the insides of your thighs and cheeks were completely smeared with lubrication, your walls were fairly well-stretched, and you were ready for it.
You were ready for Joel, and Joel was ready for you—or as close as he could possibly get while checking in to make sure that you really wanted to do this. He angled his cock and brushed the tip through your slick-drenched folds. Above you, his stomach muscles clenched, and you couldn’t help but admire the way his thick, soft middle looked in the glow of the lamplight. How the smooth and veiny member jutting out from a shock of dark curls looked absolutely delectable. Your bodies were almost connected, but not quite. He was hovering.
Gently, your legs beckoned Joel in. They spread wider.
Not even really knowing what you were doing or how you planned to fit all of this man from root to tip inside you, your gaze focused on the place Joel was lowering to.
The head of his cock nudged that tiny ring of muscles, and you sucked in a startled breath. You hadn’t meant to.
Next door, you could hear the Star Wars theme song—Tommy and Maria must’ve been watching the new Mandalorian movie, curled up snug in bed together.
Seeing your face, Joel hesitated. “Baby, we don’t hav—”
“I want to,” you said, breathlessly. Then you looked up. “Want you to have every part of me, even if…if it hurts.”
Joel didn’t seem too crazy about that last part, and he blinked back slowly. He braced a hand beside you on the pillow and used the other to grasp the base of his cock.
He leaned down to kiss your forehead again.
“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said softly.
You knew it wouldn’t be the easiest to keep that promise—at a minimum, discomfort seemed almost a given—but of course, Joel managed it remarkably. It was like he understood your body better than you ever had yourself.
The first push of his hips got him no more than half an inch, but the feeling was fine. He’d applied more lube, moved as slow as he possibly could, and grabbed your toy, which had been tossed to the side on the bed. He turned it back on, and, while notching in the head of his bare, slippery cock, he pressed it to your clit. You jolted more than a little at the buzzing—and you focused on it.
You weren’t even thinking of the stretch, as the sensation blended with the pleasurable vibrations between your legs, and you visibly relaxed. Your muscles softened.
Thanks to that, Joel was able to glide in another half inch, and his tip fit snugly inside you. It didn’t hurt.
In fact, it actually felt pretty…nice.
Tight.
Strange.
But also very, very right. Like you’d unlocked some secret bliss, and Joel was guiding you through it.
The buzzing struck you in just the right spot, and that only amplified the feeling as Joel pushed even further.
“See?” he murmured, voice the slightest bit strained. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya, sweet pea. Lean into that feeling.”
Another minuscule slide, another tight smile from Joel.
He was really trying not to go too fast, or cause pain.
“Just…relax f’me. Let me in,” he coaxed you gently.
You tried. And it almost felt like you were losing your virginity all over again, so odd and unfamiliar and new was this pushing, pulling, contracting, and tightening, the last of which couldn’t seem to have been helped.
You were giving him something in a way, though an uncharted physical boundary wasn’t all that it was.
Joel met your gaze, and he clearly felt it, too.
“I love you,” he said, nose brushing yours.
I love you, I love you, I love you, he seemed to say with every strange, painstaking inch. You accepted him, and you drew in a labored breath, lips parting to say it back.
“I lo—oh fuck.” Your words tapered off in a moan.
Joel was down to the hilt, completely sheathed.
Your muscles clenched one more time, and—
“Damn. Oh, shit. Fuck. Fuck, I-I love you.”
Your arms snaked around Joel’s neck, and you held on tight. You gripped him even tighter below, and your eyes trailed down, momentarily, to see how he’d made this fit.
Joel chuckled.
“Like how we look?”
“I love it,” you panted back. “I love having you here.”
And really, you’d never seen a sight more mind-numbing—whenever Joel was inside, balls deep and filling you up to the brim, you got lightheaded just watching him—and knowing how close you were, physically and emotionally, made it even better. Joel looked down with you and stroked the back of your neck. He helped tilt your head.
“Where?” he said. Teasing. “Where’s daddy, baby?”
And shit was he smug. Handsome as anything.
You knew just as well as him what kind of effect your words would have when next you told him, tone soft:
“In my ass. Feels—feels so good, daddy.”
Acknowledging the fact alone was enough to make your breath hitch, and Joel’s cock to twitch inside you as he let out a groan. He drew back, just an inch, and both of you grunted with the friction. You clung tighter to Joel.
“Fuck me now,” you begged him. “Please, daddy.”
Maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you were still getting accustomed to the stretch and the sting and the weight of Joel Miller’s broad, warm body pressing into you then, but at that moment, you didn’t care for perfect timing. You didn’t need it to be ‘right’—you just wanted Joel a panting, groaning mess above you while he worked himself in and out of you, repeatedly. You wanted more.
“Gonna cum if I move too fast,” Joel confessed, sheepish
“That’s alright. I’m close, too.” And it was the truth.
“Yeah? Y’like gettin’ this ass fucked that much?”
Of course you did. Clearly, you liked it a lot.
You nodded your head, and you held onto Joel’s gaze. He didn’t waste another second drawing out, almost to the tip, then plunging back in. And again, again, and again.
You couldn’t lie—it burned a little. It felt like Joel’s girth was searing a hole inside you, stretching you tight and leaving you sore, over and over and over with his thrusts.
Still, you liked it.
You loved the pain in a way that wasn’t really hurtful—you just enjoyed how Joel’s cock was invading you, breaking you in and making you his like nobody had.
And Joel liked it, too. His movements seemed to have taken on a more possessive edge as he fucked you into the mattress, bed shaking with every punch of his hips.
“This all mine?” he mumbled against your lips, panting.
Another stroke. Another crash of wood to the wall.
“All yours,” you repeated back. Voice cracking.
Your legs were wound tight around Joel’s lower half, and true to how you two normally had sex, the eye contact was constant. Your faces were inches apart, and Joel’s expression was strained. He swallowed, watching you.
“Ain’t—ain’t nobody else for me but you, baby,” he said, while his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and a fine dusting of gray stubble shifted with it. Muscles tensed.
You knew he wanted to say more. Then a door opened.
Thank fuck it wasn’t yours.
Still, you jumped.
You and Joel froze in place as the sound of footsteps echoed in the room directly beside yours—not Tommy and Maria’s, but your father’s bedroom on the other side. Time seemed to speed up and slow at once, and then the door that had opened in the other room slammed closed.
Through the wall, you could hear your dad groan.
Joel’s eyes met yours, and he blinked once.
‘Well…fuck’ that look seemed to say.
You hadn’t been expecting your father back for another hour at least. This, paired with the fact that the man was probably buzzed from whatever outing he’d taken with Helen and keen to stay up, made you nervous. Of course, you and Joel had been banging in secret for ages, but…
“Keep goin’.” It tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop it. Your heels dug deeper where they were planted, and the once-sharp stinging between your legs had ebbed to something more like a dull, tender throb.
Joel’s eyes shone above you.
Then, like he always loved saying: “Yes ma’am.”
He fucked you softer this time—most likely to keep the headboard from screaming—but with as much purpose. His thrusts succeeded at a steady rhythm, and his chest pressed closer to yours; his body weight draped over you
Your ankles locked behind his back, and you drew him even nearer, not wanting to miss one moment of this.
At the same time, a bed frame squeaked with someone’s weight dropping onto it. Again, it wasn’t your bed at all.
It was your dad’s.
He was in the room next door, and of course, his king-sized bed was pressed directly against the wall where Joel’s was positioned on the other side. Your father budged an inch, and you could hear it clear as day.
The walls were paper thin. What if that meant—
“Gotta be quiet,” Joel said through his teeth.
You were both so close to the edge that you were a mess of trembling limbs on the bed; Joel was panting, sweating, telling you over and over again how good you felt, how perfect you fit him, how nice it was going to be to feel you squeezing around him soon, and would you be able to control those pretty moans when you came?
“Gonna scream and let him hear? Have dear old dad come bargin’ in, see what I’m doin’ to his precious girl?”
Oh, fuck.
It was one of the worst things to imagine, you both knew. The thought of your dad catching you in the act, after everything you and Joel had done to keep this under wraps, well…it was nothing short of nightmare fuel.
As a matter of fact, it was horrifying.
It also pushed you both to the brink of climax, trying harder than anything to keep your sounds confined to strangled breaths, your movements to the quickest, quietest bursts, and your words no louder than whispers.
“What? Like finishing in my ass?” you taunted him, low.
Joel groaned. He probably shouldn’t have.
“Gonna let me, sweet pea?”
“Yes, daddy.”
Those two little words were all it took, for either of you.
It seemed like the sound of it was all you needed to hit your peak, and before you knew it, a coil was coming undone; a dam was breaking, and suddenly, shortly, a series of pulses and a rush of hot blood in your head was all you could feel. And then a wetness, spreading deep.
Shooting into the furthest recesses of your body while you fell apart beneath him, Joel’s heat was scorching and soft. It flooded your insides in thick, white ropes.
You wanted to scream with how good it felt. Joel’s expression above you was suffused with just as much pleasure—and pain, trying to contain it—and at the same time tiny dots started to flood your vision, the man’s words were a quiet, constant refrain for almost all of it.
“I love you, darlin’. Always, always gonna—”
“—love you,” you finished for him. “I love you, Joel.”
You might’ve said it fifteen times that night, and it still didn’t feel like it was enough. Your bodies were damp with sweat pressed together, and Joel’s eyes were flitting between yours, searching. In between breaths and lightly peppered kisses, you could tell that he was thinking hard.
You could hear your father cough in the next room over.
There was no better time to say it. As sore and satisfied as you were, as soft as Joel’s lips were grazing yours to soothe them, and as terrified as you both were for what was to come soon enough, the words just tumbled out.
“I’m ready to tell him, Joel,” you whispered.
A beat passed, and Joel blinked.
Then, slowly, a smile crept in.
“Y’mean it, sweetheart?”
“I mean it. Tomorrow.”
Mark never claimed to be a good father.
In fact, from the first moment he held you in his arms, on the day that you were born, he was almost certain he’d be the shittiest dad there ever was—holding a baby so perfect and sweet, how could he possibly deserve you?
He didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t, and still, he’d decided just as fast that that didn’t matter, because he would be trying his damn hardest to act like the kind of father you needed to have. You were his entire world, and he’d told you as much all throughout your childhood and beyond.
He should’ve seen Joel coming a mile away.
He hadn’t wanted to believe it the first time.
It might’ve been in a glance he’d caught this fall when Joel thought he wasn’t looking—watching you, and smiling so big that his cheeks probably hurt him a little after—and then the sound of his laughter around you.
It had been easy to chalk it up to superficial attraction, seeing as you were a beautiful young woman. Mark told himself that those kinds of feelings always faded in time.
Then they didn’t.
Mark could say your name aloud once, and you’d think someone had just told Joel he’d won the lottery; that was how his eyes would always light up. Of course, the man would quickly try and snuff it out the second his expression was set ablaze, but Mark caught it.
It might last an instant or five, but he always caught it.
Joel hadn’t batted an eye at the bachelorettes practically throwing themselves at him at the bar the other night. Hadn’t cast a look their way or even attempted to entertain their antics, all while nursing a drink and looking mad as shit. Mark had teased him. Told him he oughta get laid, chase a little tail—put himself out there.
Probably without meaning to, his best friend had given him a look like he was out of his fucking mind to say it.
It was in that moment that Mark realized he had a much bigger problem on his hands than the one he’d expected.
Joel didn’t just have a crush.
He was almost certainly infatuated.
What was worse, it wasn’t just attraction that had him.
What caused Joel’s face to flush each time your name was mentioned, his expression to flare with indignation at the mere idea of being with someone else, and his eyes to nearly pop out of his skull when Mark told him that Tommy might be his daughter’s biological father—complete bullshit, by the way—was what assured him beyond a shadow of a doubt that Joel Miller was guilty.
Mark had invited him down to the beach to confront him.
Then you’d taken a spill yesterday, and plans changed.
What was originally meant to be a showdown with Joel ended up being a heart-to-heart with you, telling the whole ugly truth about his relationship with your mother, Helen, and the very slight possibility that he wasn’t your father. Before that, though, Joel had rushed to your aid.
Out on the boardwalk, in the middle of a bright and sunny day, as if Mark needed another flashing neon sign telling him, ‘Your best friend is head over heels for your daughter,’ he found the two of you together: Joel crouched beside you, his eyes scanning you in a panic.
That look wasn’t far off from the one Mark had been wearing himself. It made him wonder even worse things.
Was he—
No, he couldn’t.
He didn’t even know you like that.
It couldn’t be that his daughter had reciprocated anyway.
You were a good girl, and there wasn’t a chance in a million years you had the faintest inkling about any of this nonsense—of that much, your father was certain.
Now, strolling down to the same beach in the same clothes he’d had on yesterday because he hadn’t been able to sleep, Mark was deep in thought. It was 7 A.M.
The sun had just begun its ascent in a sky painted tangerine and pink, and the breeze on his skin was soft.
Calming.
Mark knew he’d have to have one of the most soul-draining conversations that day, telling his best friend that his daughter was completely, unequivocally off-limits, and that he never stood a chance with her, ever, and still, he tried to stay optimistic. Tried telling himself that nothing too bad could happen in a place this pretty.
Idly, he scanned the horizon. His eyes roamed everyplace they could, watching the waves make their way to the shore and lap at the sand every other second, gently.
Nothing too bad.
Nothing too terrible.
Nothing a simple, straightforward conversation couldn’t be able to fix, and then things would go back to normal.
Mark’s gaze drifted to the shore. A couple stood at the water’s edge, huddled together, and presently, he took a sip from his travel mug. The coffee’s heat soothed him.
One day, his daughter would find someone her own age.
Someday, Mark hoped, Joel would find his person, too.
His attention shifted from directly in front of him to the tumbler in his hand, and only vaguely was he aware of some far-distant splashing. He read what his mug said.
Emblazoned on the side, in letters a bright yellow shade:
WORLD’S
BEST
DADDY
You’d gotten him that in first or second grade for Father’s Day, if he was remembering correctly. Mark smiled at the memory, recalling how pleased you’d looked handing it over to him. Two gaping holes between your front teeth, grinning like he was the single most important person in the world and your hero, for life.
He’d keep trying to be that guy for you.
No matter what happened, he always would.
Just as old memories began to fade, his gaze lifted.
Still smiling, still reminiscing and trying his best not to worry too much about what was in store for him that day, Mark fixed his focus on the beach out front, and to the happy, laughing couple now chasing each other down it.
The girl stumbled; the guy snapped her up in his arms.
“Daddy, stop!” the former shrieked, giggling.
Then Mark’s face drained of all its blood.
“Daddy, pleeeeease!” you begged for mercy.
There wasn’t a chance you were getting out of this.
You’d defaulted to using your most cloying, affectionate voice with Joel in the hopes of making it out of his grip and not ending up in the ocean, but that seemed unlikely
Impossible, really, as Joel squeezed you tighter to his chest and started stalking toward the water’s edge where waves were hitting the sand and your worst fears were being realized. You squirmed harder in his arms and kicked your feet like you were being dragged to the chair.
“You asked for this, sweet pea,” Joel chuckled softly.
In point of fact, you had. You’d asked him to take you swimming at 7 A.M., just after the sun had started to rise, but on the journey over, you’d changed your mind.
It was chilly as shit, and the water looked uninviting.
You’d thought a quick dip—possibly naked—could’ve been a fun little sidebar in an otherwise nerve-wracking day for you and Joel, but now you just wanted to be back in bed. Under the covers, kissing each other, grinning like two lovesick fools as you planned for the future, maybe…
“Let me go!” you wheezed. “I’ll—I’ll do anything.”
Joel had just made it into the water up to his knees. He was cradling you in his arms, smiling as he peered down.
“Anything?” he repeated.
“Anything!”
In a moment when some dirtier thoughts might’ve been starting to take shape in Joel’s mind, you decided to capitalize on the opportunity: you jumped up. Out.
While Joel was momentarily distracted, you got away from his hold and went stumbling toward the water. Narrowly, you kept your body upright and grinned.
Then, like a crazy person, you dropped to your knees.
It was meant to be a joke, obviously—waves rushing almost to your hips at this depth and a surge of murky, ice-cold ocean water all but chilling you down to the bone—and Joel laughed. He tried not to trip when you yanked him by the swim trunks and tugged his groin closer to your face, and then you were going to stand.
You were freezing your ass off, but you couldn’t resist giving Joel one, teasing wink as you looked up at him.
“I’ll suck your dick right here, real quick, if you—”
“MILLER!”
One word pierced the cool, windy climate like a blade.
What was once quiet and easy all at once became a cacophony in a single sound—your head jerked to it.
Your hands and feet flailed to get you standing back up.
Joel almost fell backward trying to make some space from where you’d just been kneeling in front of him, pretending to blow him at the worst possible moment.
You hadn’t seen it at the time, but now you did.
Your dad was standing on the shoreline, aghast.
No more than ten feet away on the hard-packed sand and staring on in horror, he remained there, motionless. While you regained your bearings and Joel shifted on his feet, probably trying to hide the boner poking up through his swim trunks, it seemed as if your father would never speak. He was so still, eyes wide and jaw hanging slack.
Then the scene changed faster than you could blink.
Your father was a blur of blue and gray, still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he had on the day before, and Joel was stationary. Shirtless. Entirely unprepared for when the former sped forward and, like something out of a nightmare, went for his neck with one, hard hit.
A stainless steel tumbler in the other hand made for an easy weapon; you recognized the shape of it immediately
Just as that travel mug struck the side of Joel’s skull and gave an audible crack, you saw the words fly by in a haze
WORLD’S
BEST
DADDY
DADDY
DADDY
“DADDY!” you screeched as the old, weathered steel came down on Joel’s head a fourth time, unforgiving.
Joel was cowered in the water on his hands and knees, having been knocked off balance with the third full hit, but he wasn’t moving away. Wasn’t fighting his assailant.
As a wave rolled over his frame and soaked his back and shoulders, you saw him lift a hand, and it was trembling.
Not venturing to fend off the blows to his face but rather making a plea of a kind, Joel tilted his head to his friend.
The shock that had had you paralyzed up until that point snapped then. Before you knew what you were doing, you were trudging over in the water, motions graceless.
Your father raised the mug again, and your vision blurred.
You didn’t sound like yourself, screaming: “Stop! Stop!”
The words hardly felt like yours at all, or seemed to have been heard. Your dad did drop the tumbler, but only to yank Joel up by the back of his head and stand over him, threading fingers through wet locks of salt-and-pepper and pulling hard. You saw Joel wince, and at the same time, you realized you were seeing his face on full display
Still crouched down in that frigid ocean, face no higher than a half-foot over the water’s surface, Joel was forced to turn his head to your dad, and the whole left side of it was streaked with blood. Saltwater splashed over his face and seemingly blinded him. The mug must’ve struck Joel right near the temple and torn the skin, because the whole length of his cheek was bleeding.
His head was hardly up for a moment before it was shoved back down, under the water, with brutal force.
This time, you grabbed your dad. Sank nails into his arm.
“Daddy, please. Please don’t hurt him, pl—” you started.
“My fucking daughter?!” your father roared over you.
Joel’s head might’ve been under for a second before it was jerked back up, and you saw him spitting up water.
Your dad was asking a question. It came again.
“My fucking daughter, you fucking—”
And the last part cut out, swiftly.
Joel’s head went under again, and simultaneously, you shoved as hard as you could to get your father off of him.
For a second, you did.
Joel’s head was released, and he resurfaced.
Your father took a hard breath and gritted his teeth.
And, just when you thought he might be reconsidering, or else slowing his attack, he went right back. He lunged for Joel and forced him under the water again, and every nerve-ending in your body seized with fear. Instincts kicked in, and you were about to reach over toward your father in a more demanding push. Maybe yank his shirt, shove him hard, tell him this isn’t Joel’s fault, let him—
“Go,” your dad snarled, pulling Joel back again. “Tell me.”
You expected another hit; maybe a kick to the head.
Instead, your father stunned you then, shouting:
“Are—are you fuckin’ in love with her, Joel?!”
It should’ve been low. Harsh. Threatening. And it was all those things, but underneath it, for the first time, you heard hurt commingled with it. Your dad’s grip tightened in the hair at the nape of Joel’s neck, and he bent down closer. He brought his face within a foot of his friend’s.
Joel, for the first time since he’d been hit, didn’t hesitate.
“I love her.”
As fast as he’d asked, your father kneed him in the face.
Joel’s head jerked back with the force, and at the same time, blood spurted from both nostrils. He blinked hard.
You wanted to strike the man standing over him even harder, and presently, you tried. You stepped up to your dad, about to take hold of his arm and yank it back, when suddenly, sharply, he turned to you. His eyes were ablaze
“And you?” he hissed.
He grabbed Joel again.
You didn’t have to think.
“I love him, daddy, I love him.”
Your father shoved Joel under a fourth time, as if punishing him for your response. Your stomach lurched.
And, in much the same way sheer impulse had guided your last answer, your body moved without considering itself. Your limbs moved of their own volition, and not thinking, it moved closer—this time, not to your father.
You dropped beside Joel.
He resurfaced a second later, sputtering for air.
His face was mottled with blood. Even with a near constant surge of water and being submerged every other instant, the bleeding was profuse. He kept blinking.
And, thanks to all the hits he’d taken, he hardly seemed to see the world in front of him at all. He coughed again.
More blood.
More blinking.
Scarcely conscious at all, he inched closer to you.
Over the lapping of waves, your pulse thudding in your ears, and sobs racking through your chest, you couldn’t hear much at all. Still, you saw his lips move limply then.
“‘M’sorry—”
The sound stopped and started with a strangled breath. One from him to exhale at first, and another to suck in some air while he was able. In the next second, before either one of you could think, his head was forced under.
It was held underwater, hard, by your father.
Tears nearly had you blinded, but you saw it.
Time might’ve slowed a little more, and your sense of seconds and minutes could’ve skewed, but it was still clear as anything to you that your dad was keeping Joel there, unable to breathe, and he refused to move an inch
You blinked, and the body in front of you had gone limp.
summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.
pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV
note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!
wc: 12.1k
[masterlist] [AO3]
You’ve always been close.
Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.
It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards.
Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.
You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel.
He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel.
It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones.
And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.
He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…
“Hey.”
It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”
You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.
It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.
He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”
“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.
With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”
Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up.
And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.
He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler.
You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”
Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”
“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”
He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower.
It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of.
His heart races a little faster at the thought.
“Well?”
“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”
You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough.
He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”
It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”
“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”
He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”
Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name.
He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”
You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.
Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.
“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”
“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”
He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.
He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.
Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.
“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”
Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.
Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”
Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.
It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.
You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table.
Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow.
Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.
Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth.
He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.
It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.
You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”
And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee.
Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious.
Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.
It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.
In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.
He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.
Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.
Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.
He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.
Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom.
And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”
“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.
Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements.
But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”
Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.
“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”
He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”
“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.
You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.
He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.
You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely.
Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.
You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty.
Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are.
And then—
“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”
Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.
You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does.
He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.
You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”
Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.
He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name.
Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out.
But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”
You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.
Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.
The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.
You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.
Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.
But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.
All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.
The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day.
Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.
But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.
Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong.
Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth.
It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”
You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”
Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.
There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.
It’s not right.
It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is.
And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it.
Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.
He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.
The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon.
Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”
Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.
Tommy’s brows furrow. “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”
You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”
“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”
“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.
Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”
You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”
Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.
There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.
Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”
Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”
Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.
You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.
Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.
But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”
He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.
Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans.
Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”
When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.
You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”
He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.
Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.
But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.
Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.
You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs.
It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time.
It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”
You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”
It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.
He loves being your Uncle Tommy.
You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed.
Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”
There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.
“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”
Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle.
But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.
He drives home in silence.
No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.
And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.
He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother.
Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.
If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.
Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.
Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”
Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s.
Which means no time with you.
No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.
Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”
He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”
“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.
Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.
He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.
And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side.
Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.
He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’).
On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever.
Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely.
There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.
Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.
All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke.
They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies.
Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone.
He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’
Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.
He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—
“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.
“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”
Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.
But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks.
So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”
He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.
But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.
“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.
“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”
Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”
His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”
“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”
His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same.
He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.
Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.
“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”
“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”
That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”
Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.
But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”
“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.
“So don’t make me do it alone.”
Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.
You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.
In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.
You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”
He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”
“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.
Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.
You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”
“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.
“Do you wanna dance?”
Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”
He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”
You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.
You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.
Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche.
When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.
He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.
The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.
Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.
The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.
He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”
You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you.
The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes.
You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”
Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.
Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.
You’re everything.
“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”
You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”
Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.
The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.
“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”
He hesitates.
And then decides not to let this moment pass him.
He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.
It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.
When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored.
“That’s what I would do,” he says.
A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.
And then, finally—
“Uncle Tommy?”
No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.
“Now?”
“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”
He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”
Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.
You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.
He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”
You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.
It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.
His pretty, desperate girl.
You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.
“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”
There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?”
“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”
His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest.
He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.
Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.
“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.
Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”
“You dream about me?”
He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom.
Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.
You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely.
Cataclysmic. Divine sacriliege.
He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”
Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.”
And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.
Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.
He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”
“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”
He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.
Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”
He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone.
He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top.
Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.
His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.
He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”
Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”
“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”
He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.
“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”
Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”
Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.
“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”
In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”
He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.
Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.
“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”
He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.
You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”
It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”
You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.
He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”
Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.
He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.
But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”
He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?
“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”
Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”
Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips.
The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.
But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.
When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”
You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin.
“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”
Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”
“Always,” he promises, and means it.
You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”
He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.
“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”
He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.
Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.
He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.
With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”
And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.
He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”
You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”
Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”
“Yes, yes, please—”
“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth.
He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.
“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”
You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.
But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”
“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully.
He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”
Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”
“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”
“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”
This will damn him, he knows.
“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”
He’d do anything for you.
“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”
Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.
His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”
He gives you ever last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.
When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.
There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.
And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.
Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?
It can’t happen again. He knows that.
But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.
And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.
When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.
Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”
“Well, at least we’re together.”
He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”
Two peas in a fucking pod.
(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)
You're the wife everyone envies. Perfect hair, quiet smile, the kind of softness that turns into silence over time. You live in Rafe Cameron’s high-rise glass mansion, designed by the best, filled with expensive emptiness.
But you're dying. Slowly, quietly. And he doesn’t even see it.
Core Themes:
Unseen suffering. You ache and wither in private, never wanting to "burden" him.
Emotional starvation. He doesn’t cheat on you—he just isn’t there. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. You’re a ghost in your own home.
Growing dread. You feel time slipping. You mark it by how cold he’s gotten. How your body is failing. How nothing tastes right anymore.
His ignorance is the real heartbreak. He isn’t cruel. He just doesn’t notice you’re disappearing.
Key Scenes:
1. The Quiet Illness Begins:
You start forgetting things. Coughing blood in the sink and rinsing it down before he comes in. You hide the pills in your makeup drawer. The irony is: you’re dying, but still trying to be pretty for him.
2. The Dinner Scene:
You make his favorite meal. He’s two hours late. Takes one bite. Says he’s not hungry. You eat alone, your body weak, but forcing every bite down because you want to pretend this is normal.
3. The Anniversary Gift:
You write him a letter for each anniversary you won’t live to see. You keep them in a locked drawer. On your final one, you leave a photo from your wedding—he isn’t even looking at you in it.
4. The Missed Call:
He finds out from your doctor’s voicemail. The one you forgot to delete. His face when he hears “stage four” is not panic—it’s confusion. As if he never noticed you were sick.
5. The Confrontation:
He begs to know why you never told him. You just look at him and say,
"You haven’t looked at me in months, Rafe. What would’ve been the point?"
6. The Last Month:
He finally starts trying. Cancels trips. Tries to cook for you. Reads to you in bed. But you’re too tired to care. You’ve already let go. And now he’s clinging to a version of you he never noticed when you were alive.
7. The Final Day:
You die in the home you designed to feel like his. Wearing the silk robe he bought you two years ago—the one you never wore because he never noticed when you did. He finds you in the garden, asleep forever, surrounded by the flowers you planted alone.
8. The Aftermath:
Rafe doesn’t cry. He just stops. Stops speaking. Stops hosting. Stops going out. The house is quiet now. Too quiet. He reads one letter a year. He can't handle more than that.
And every night, he sleeps on your side of the bed.
Extra Elements:
He finds your journals—realizes you knew from the start and still loved him through every cold, distant morning.
He sees the baby shoes you bought but never told him about. You miscarried alone.
Your voicemail is still saved on his phone. And he plays it to hear your voice.
