*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part four)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
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You spend the two hour drive wondering if anyone would miss you if you swerved into the oncoming lane.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), attempted suicide, small town shenanigans, slut shaming, alcohol & weed consumption, mentions of food/eating, everyone is queer bc i said so, more werewolf lore, technically cannibal!joel, vomiting (i think reader throws up like three different times in this SORRY), girlie is drunk and concussed, kinda frenemies with reader's best friend, they're lowkey shitty friends to each other, drunk driving and its consequences, bathroom make out (not w joel sorry!!), gore & body horror, angst.
word count: 7.3k.
fox says: hello friends! thank you so much for reading! this was nearing the 10k words threshold so i ended up splitting this chapter into two which means we don't get smutty until part five :( but i promise i'll make it worth the wait, and it also means we get an extra chapter since the next one was supposed to be the last. as always pls let me know how we feel!
also available on archiveofourown.
You spend the two hour drive wondering if anyone would miss you if you swerved onto the oncoming lane. People would notice you gone, of course. Céline would be the first one, since she’s the only one expecting you home. Your grandmother would probably notice it by Sunday, when you didn’t make it to church in time. And Joel—
You don’t want to think about Joel. But those two hours you spend behind the wheel of the car you stole from him give you nothing but time to think. Think about how you took everything he said at face value because you wanted it to be true. Think about how, apart from the time he basically hijacked your body, there’s a reasonable and non-supernatural answer to every odd thing that has happened since you met him: He’s been stalking you everywhere, he could’ve easily overheard you speaking to the wolf. You never actually saw him shift from wolf to human. The night he was injured — allegedly — and slept at your place, you went to sleep with a wolf in your living room and woke up to him; he could’ve easily swapped places with the animal while you slept and the real wolf was probably dead somewhere in the woods.
And sure, you don’t have a proper explanation to the calming purring and the way your body forced you to obey his command but… Well, maybe those are on you. Maybe you wanted it so badly to be true that your brain tricked itself into thinking those things were actually happening.
The real, more plausible truth is that Joel is a weird, obsessive killer that murdered his own wife and is now targeting you. His brother is clearly in on it, and you think that maybe Joel told him about it after he stalked you through the woods and saw the second wolf: It’s the perfect excuse to make you believe, really— A witness and an accomplice.
You, more than ever, consider throwing the car straight into a lightpost. You feel like a fucking idiot, like the biggest moron on the planet and you wonder how much the Millers have laughed at your expanse. How far they are willing to go with this charade just because you gave it to them on a silver platter.
You’re not crying by the time you park the truck in front of Céline’s expensive condo, not really, but your cheeks are clammy and your eyes are burning— You don’t think you blinked more than three times since entering city limits, you don’t even remember stopping at a single red light ever since leaving the interstate and you hope you’ve gathered a shitload of traffic violations.
Céline pulls you into a hug that feels more like mourning than welcoming, her twiggy arms encasing around you for a long moment before she finally pulls away.
“New car?” She asks when you hike up your backpack over your shoulder, one of her well manicured brows raising.
“Borrowed from a friend.”
“Right.” Céline nods and you’re not sure if she doesn’t believe the car is borrowed or that you have a friend that isn’t her. But then her demeanor changes, a wide smile blooming on her pretty face. “Let’s get you upstairs, Oli’s making margaritas.”
Céline’s apartment is on the tenth floor of a newly renovated building with floor to ceiling windows and so much space you don’t even know how she managed to furnish it all. Oliver, her fiancé, is in the kitchen, standing behind a deep navy blue island and marble counters with a pitch of margarita and tiny, fancy-looking tacos.
“I just threw something together really quick.” They say, an apologetic smile even though the colorful tray is fancier and more elaborate than anything you ever could’ve done. “I did a pollo and a veggie version too, in case you’re vegan.”
“Pollo is chicken.” Céline adds, shuffling through the cabinets for the glasses. You drop your backpack by your feet, shuffling your dirty converse shoes on the expensive hardwood flooring. Your entire existence feels dirty somehow, like you’re tainting this perfectly tailored reality by simply stepping foot in it.
“I know.” You tell her with a little bit more bite than intended before turning back to Oliver. “This is perfect, thank you.”
Oliver is only around for two glasses of margarita before they excuse themself out of the room, giving Cél a soft kiss— Work calls, they say with a wave before ducking out of the apartment; there’s something funny about a big-time lawyer going to work slightly buzzed, something grounding in seeing a reflection of yourself in them— a tiny detail that makes Oliver a bit more of a real human and less of the rich and fancy soulmate your best friend found.
You and Céline end up in the terrace with the margarita pitcher, the tray of tacos that Céline barely touches and a blunt— Higher quality than any weed you’ve smoked in the past couple of years, tasting fresh and a little citrusy, earthy in a way that makes you instantly relax.
It’s easy to fall back into your dynamic with Céline even if the two of you haven’t seen each other in years— The booze and the weed help break the stiffness in your shoulders and you don’t even find yourself hurting over her outlandish stories, no jealousy tightening your stomach when she goes on and on about her new friends or the hot professor she hooked up with a couple of summers ago, your smile genuine when she speaks excitedly about how the universe ‘conspired’ for her to be accepted into residency at the hospital of her dreams.
Of course things have always been easy for Céline— She’s pretty, she’s charming, she’s rich. She never had to struggle the way you had, never had to be told she’d be kicked out if her grades didn’t improve or berated about the hardships of raising a child. She still has both of her parents, a safety net to fall back to if she needs it and a hefty trust fund that allows her to pick and choose her residency.
You’ve always hated her a little, no matter how much you love her, and you’re fairly certain the feeling is mutual.
“How’s work?” She asks eventually, like you knew she would. You’re almost surprised she hasn’t asked about Joel first but you’re glad for it too— You’re not certain you can talk about him without breaking down.
“It’s fine. Good.” You shrug, taking a final hit from the blunt before you hand it back; Céline puts it out on the ashtray between the two of you, her long legs drawn up to her chest. “Not sure I’ll stay there for long, though. Genevieve’s unbearable.”
“She always was. I remember she’d yell at everyone when she made captain of the soccer team. But we both know she’s gonna rot in a menial job using her power trip to abuse her subordinates.”
You wince, thinking about how you, too, will most likely rot in some menial job until you die. Céline seems to understand the weight of her words as soon as they’re out of her mouth because she reaches between the two of you, her hand grasping yours.
“That job is temporary for you, anyway.” She says, in that calming and warm tone that would’ve sounded condescending from anyone else. “You’ll be able to tell her to suck it as soon as you start to sell your paintings.”
You shove a taco in your mouth. It’s already a little soggy, the lettuce starting to wilt under the warmth of the pollo, but it’s better than to admit to her that, apart from that stupid doodle of the wolf on the back of a receipt, you haven’t drawn or painted for the better part of the year.
It started because you ran out of paint and didn’t have the cash to buy more— You switched to charcoal then, which has never been your favorite but it was better than nothing. But then you started to draw less and less, too busy or too tired or too unmotivated.
You’re not even sure where your supplies are, anymore.
“Ooh, you should make TikToks!” She says, squeezing your hand once before she lets it go, an almost childlike smile on her face. “You could record yourself painting and then sell them once they’re done! I follow a girl that does macramê and she has like a bazillion followers.”
“I’ll think about it.” You say, though you have no intention of following through with it. “Tell me about Oli’s friends, again. They’re meeting us at the thing, right?”
The three of you make it to the bar about half past midnight— You’re three energy drinks and way too many tequila shots in already, needing the alcohol and the caffeine to stay up so late. It’s funny how you’d most likely be wide awake, panicking and crying, if you were still at home. But in the big city, with your best friend and all the twinkling lights, your eyelids droop while she peppers them with so much glitter you think it’ll never wipe off entirely. You’re in a red dress, short and sparkly just like your eyes, the sort of pretty clothing you haven’t worn in way too many years. It smells a little like the back of your closet but Céline sprays her perfume on you and hands you a pair of her heels and, when you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t feel like a falsified copy of yourself like you thought you would.
You look pretty, and that is a word you haven’t used to talk about yourself since you were a teenager.
The Wilde, the bar that Céline has been raving about since she moved to Jackson, is almost forty minutes away from her apartment— The drive is tense after Cél asks way too many questions about the baby car seat in the back that you didn’t even notice was there until her eyes are bugging out of her head. And then it goes very quiet when you finally admit that Joel is the one that lent you the car. Poor Oliver keeps trying to lighten the mood, telling you about their job and singing along to the music on the radio a little bit too loud, like a child trying to take the attention away from two arguing parents. They jump out of the truck even before you can properly park it, clearly wanting to get away from the bad thing brewing between you and Céline as fast as possible.
Cél grabs your wrist just before you can hop out of the car too and you take a deep breath, turning back to her with your shoulders squared and fully prepared to be yelled at but she simply smiles.
“I don’t want to spend the whole weekend fighting.” She says, her voice a little wobbly from the liquor. “I missed us.”
“I miss us too.”
And you do. Things have never been easy or smooth between you and Céline, but they were good. You’d fight and make up almost every week, giggling in the dark of her bedroom at night, trading secrets and life stories until you knew more about her than you know of yourself. But this, the girl with pink eyeshadow and sixty dollar french tip manicure, feels like a stranger. A stranger that knows too much, that has seen too much and doesn’t love you enough to not judge you for it. She brings your hand to her lips, pressing a sticky kiss to the back of your hand, and everything is fine. It’s fine. She’s your best friend and her bright pink gloss is now smeared all over the back of your hand and she knows too much and not enough about you. It’s fine.
The bar is crowded. So crowded that you barely see Oliver waving from a table, both of their hands in the air before either of you notice it. There’s two more people there already, a woman with dark braids so long they hit the swell of her ass, the golden rings weaved into her hair shining against the strobing pink and blue lights that swirl around the room. The other woman is taller, her blond hair gelled and spiked up in a way that makes you think of a pop star from the 90s. The girl with the spiky bun is named Ripley, the one with the braids is Bri, and they both attend the same college as Céline. It’s a mismatched, odd group of people that don’t seem to fit together but clearly do, all of them talking over each other and cackling with jokes that fly right over your head but, unlike when it’d been with just Céline and Oliver, you don’t feel left out— Bri sits next to you and rolls her eyes or explains a joke or two, talking fast and waving her hands a lot, blowing raspberries or booing Céline whenever she says something a little too pretentious.
Sitting between Ripley and Bri, you feel at home. Like these girls could actually be your friends, welcoming you with honesty and a lot more warmth than your own best friend did. There’s no competition, no baggage with them, just laughing and drinking and trying to hold Ripley’s legs when she decides to dance on top of the table.
You’re way past drunk when you go into the bathroom stall with Bri. You don’t even know who started it, who pulled who into it but you think she’s way too drunk too, her hands a little sloppy when they sneak under the hem of your dress, her kisses leaving a wet trail down your neck. You lean into it, your hands roaming her shoulders and her sides, but it doesn’t feel right. Your entire body screams at you to get away, to walk from the bar and get in the car and drive back home.
Home. Not Céline’s apartment, not your house, not your grandmother’s house but that little cabin in the middle of nowhere that has children’s toys scattered everywhere, two pairs of muddy boots by the front door and the strong scent of pine everywhere.
“I uhm, I—” Whatever you’re about to say is cut off by Bri’s kiss, her soft lips pressing lazily against yours, her kiss tasting of Jack and Coke. Her body fits nicely against yours, her perfume is soft and feminine and her slightly taller height is perfect enough that you don’t need to bend too far backwards to slot your mouth against hers, your shoulders pressing against the bathroom stall when she pulls at your hips, her thigh dragging up between yours.
Still, everything feels wrong. Not because she’s a stranger, not because you’re way past a reasonable amount of drunk in a dirty bathroom stall miles and miles away from your hometown, not because you’re out of a job and still spending almost thirty dollars for one cocktail with a stolen truck in the parking lot.
It’s wrong because she’s not Joel. It’s wrong because you’re wearing someone else’s perfume, with someone else between your legs, in a place that you don’t belong with people that you don’t belong to.
You’re out of the bar before you can even notice. You push Bri away, apologies tumbling out of your mouth that you don’t listen to as you scramble out of the stall and out of the bathroom, wobbling your way out of the bar.
Céline is the one that follows you outside and holds your hair while you retch into the gutter.
“What happened?” She asks as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, shaking as you lean against Joel’s truck. She’s just as drunk as you are, face flushed and eyes bloodshot. “You pushed Bri so hard she slipped and hit her head on the toilet.”
You don’t even remember pushing the other woman, all you could think about was getting out.
“I don—” The words are cut out by a rancid hiccup. “I couldn’t do that— Joel— I can’t do that to him.”
“Joel?” She says the name like it’s rotten in her mouth. “The stalker that you think killed a bunch of people? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
And suddenly Céline’s concern for you twists into something else, something with teeth. You laugh, short and watery before it turns into tears.
“Oh, I know he killed people. Every one of ‘em.” You sob, shaking your head. You shouldn’t say it, you know you shouldn’t, but the secret that has been bubbling inside of you spills out before you can consider holding back. “Killed his fucking wife too. I ran.” You wave your hand towards the truck, wobbling to the side before you regain a little stability. “Stole his fucking truck and ran. But I miss him. I fuckin’— Fuck. I love him.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Oliver pokes their head through the door but Céline waves them back inside without taking her eyes off of you.
“You don’t love him.” She shakes her head. The drunken flush is gone from her face, replaced with a sickly paleness. “You’re just desperate.”
“I love him.” You whine, your breath coming in ragged between the tears. “I do, Cél, I fucking love him so—”
“No, you don’t! You think you do because he’s the first person to look at you twice. I mean, c’mon sweetheart, we both know you’d fuck a horse if it gave you enough attention.”
You can tell she regrets the words as soon as they come out, her breath stuttering as she says your name as if she’s shocked with herself for saying it but you’re not listening anymore. You climb into the truck through the passenger seat, sliding to the driver’s side as Céline begs you not to drive. She’s sorry and you’re both drunk and she doesn’t mean it but you don’t listen. You just rev the engine and speed out of the parking lot.
You don’t go back to Céline’s apartment even though all of your things are still there. The truck swerves dangerously on the highway but you don’t even notice it and, by the seventh time she calls, you throw your phone out of the window— You’re going to fucking regret that in the morning but, right now, you don’t really have a plan of making it to the morning. Your foot is lead on the gas, the motor rattling and shaking as you cut other cars; you turn on the windshield wipers before you realize it’s not raining and that the watery distortion of everything is coming from the tears welling up your eyes. You laugh at yourself and then you cry a little more, your headlights coming dangerously close to the car on your left. The driver honks, loud and long, but you don’t even notice it’s aimed at you.
You make almost all of the way home. You’re about forty miles from the welcome sign that designates the border of your town when your heel gets stuck underneath the brake pedal— The truck is close to 90mph, the old thing barely hanging on, but the pointer only climbs up in your panic: You floor the gas pedal as you try to pull your other foot from the brake pedal; you look down, trying to figure out what is happening underneath the dashboard, the car swerving harshly to the left, into the woods.
You barely manage to avoid the first tree, your hands turning the steering wheel this and that way in a blind panic as the car flies off the highway— The front of the truck slams into a large willow tree and the last thing you feel is your face slamming into the dashboard before everything goes dark.
There’s something wet on your face. Soft, wet and warm, running over the side of your face in steady strokes; you try to push it away, even if the feeling isn’t entirely unpleasant, but all your trembling hand finds is soft fur. Something whines and you’re not sure if the noise came from you or not— Your body feels like it’s floating, feverish but cold to the bone at the same time, pain burning everywhere with the sort of intensity that almost makes you numb to it. Your eyes flutter close as you struggle to keep them open, head lolling to the side. You think there’s a grey and brown snout licking at your cheek, but your brain is already giving back into the emptiness.
The next time you wake up, you’re moving. You’re being dragged across the forest ground to be precise, dead leaves and pointy sticks getting stuck to your skin; you flail, panicking at the teeth that cradle on the back of your neck— the pressure is very soft, just enough to hold without hurting, but they’re still there, warm and sharp, spit dribbling down to the front of your neck and down your chest as the thing that is holding you by the back of your neck — the wolf, you know without having to look — drags you through the forest as if you were a misbehaving puppy.
The jaw around your neck tightens ever so slightly when you flail, just enough to send you spiraling even more, before it drops you down on the ground. You roll, trying to scamper away, but the movement makes you dizzy. The wolf stares at you with blood — your blood — staining all over its mouth and face, from its jaw up to its forehead. It steps forward when you crawl backwards, your pretty dress now ruined, your stomach twisting.
“Stay the fuck back.” You tell him, scootching backwards until you hit a particularly large tree root. The wolf whines, a pitiful noise that breaks your heart but not your resolve.
You’ve lost Céline’s borrowed heels at some point and, although it’s not funny, you laugh when you think about how pissed she will be. You stand up slowly, fingers digging into the moss that covers the tree trunk next to you, not even considering all of the creepy crawlies that could be walking all over you— It’s so dark you can barely see, the wolf sitting next to you bathed in moonlight and then oppressing darkness from the forest behind it.
You stumble and then fall to your knees just two steps away from the wolf, both from the head injury and the alcohol; the animal is on you in a second, big nose insistent and stubborn as it sniffs your face and neck. “Go away.” You say, trying and failing to push him away. “You can’t— No. Go.”
You barely have time to pull your hair out of the way before you puke. Your head is starting to hurt more than it did before, a consistent throbbing behind your eyelids that only gets worse when the wolf sits on his hind legs and howls.
You’ve seen videos of wolves howling before. You’ve seen it in movies and you’ve read about it and you probably have seen way too many wolf-related TikToks at this point but nothing could prepare you for just how loud the noise is in real life. It’s loud and painful and if you weren’t already crawling on the ground you’d probably would’ve fallen to your knees; the howl reverberates through your core, squeezing your stomach into a tight little ball, goosebumps erupting on your skin. Something feels very, very wrong.
You wipe your hands on the hem of your dress before bringing them to your face, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. The already smeared makeup goes inside your eyes and it only makes everything worse, vision blurry and burning as you try and fail not to cry. The wolf pads close to you, slowly and carefully as if he is approaching a wild animal — which, at this point, you might as well be — before curling its big, warm body around yours.
The wolf smells of Joel and blood, his strong legs pulling you close until you’re enveloped in soft fur and the rumbling underneath his ribcages. You don’t want to, you want to fight and walk away and tell him to fuck off but you lean against his sturdy form anyway, fingers digging into the long fur, your head dropping against his neck.
Céline is right. Céline is wrong. You’re not certain anymore. Maybe both, maybe neither. You can’t figure out what’s real or what isn’t and maybe you’re still somewhere inside that car, trapped in twisted hot metal as the whole thing goes into flames. Or maybe your brain is swelling and bleeding inside of your head and you’re going to die either way, but this time with a magical wolfman wrapped around you like a pelt.
You blink and perhaps your eyes stay closed for longer than you anticipated because, when they finally open, Tommy is staring at you. He’s crouched about three feet away from you, a flashlight in one hand, the other empty and outstretched towards you.
The wolf underneath you growls when Tommy’s hand moves closer.
“Yer the one that fuckin’ called me. I can’t help her if I can’t touch her.” He argues back, clearly unfazed by the long and threatening noise your wolf is still emitting. “What happened, sugar?”
“Crashed the truck.” You say, pushing yourself into a sitting position. The wolf moves along, his side still glued to your back. “I think.”
Tommy pushes the hair away from your face, humming when he brings the flashlight to your forehead.
“Drinkin’?”
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I can smell the tequila from a mile away.”
“Then you shouldn’t have asked.”
Tommy grumbles under his breath but doesn’t say anything else, instead choosing to help you to your feet and then flipping Joel off when the wolf gets in his face about it.
“You can’t carry her like a damn pup. Just gon’ hurt her more.” Tommy says, hands on his hips. The wolf is taller than him but not by much— The height doesn’t matter, though, because the hulking shape of the wolf should be enough to scare anyone away; not Tommy, it seems, because he rolls his eyes and pushes Joel’s face away like a diver does with a shark. “If you didn’t want my help you shouldn’t have called me.”
“I don’t think I called you.” You say, closing your eyes. Your head is fully pounding now, the migraine settling deep behind your teeth. “I threw my phone out the window a few miles back.”
“Not you. Him. Howlin’ like a hurt puppy to drag me here. Why—” Tommy shook his head. “You know what? Don’t tell me. Let’s just get you home… And maybe to a hospital.”
The wolf growls, still flanking the both of you, his teeth shimmering in the moonlight.
“No hospital?” You ask, tongue feeling like lead. Nothing about the interaction feels real— The world around you doesn’t feel real, like everything is immaterial, like you’re just floating inside of your head. Like Joel and Tommy and the wolf and the past forty-eight hours aren’t true and have never been.
You hobble and stumble your way back to the cabin because the wolf refuses to let Tommy carry you and you throw up again while trying to climb onto the animal’s back before giving up and walking on your own. You do the thing Tommy did with the hand to the snout when it tries to grab you by the nape of the neck, pushing his nose away gently. You think you might’ve told him that you’d rather die than get dragged around by the neck but you’re not certain you managed to get the words out.
You’ve never had a concussion before, but there’s a small part of you that thinks this is what it feels like.
In the end, the wolf doesn’t let you inside the cabin. It stalks around you and sits in your way and actually tries to bite Tommy when he begins to maneuver you out of the wolf’s way; Tommy on his part cusses him out and complains the entire time about how Joel’s a fucking maniac and a possessive son of a bitch and a goddamn stubborn bastard, but he heeds with caution when he tells you to wait outside, coming around to the back of the cabin with a cardboard box of blankets, a water bottle and a Tylenol, throwing you a ‘good fuckin’ luck’ before he stomps back inside. The wolf noses at your stomach until you plop down on the stairs, leaning against the staircase railing and downing the water while you watch it work.
You can’t lie to yourself anymore and pretend that this is anything other than a man. He sniffs through the cardboard box before tipping it over and pulling its contents out— It’s not nearly as neat and well made as the nest Joel had made in your living room but you can see it has the same structure, the heavy blankets underneath and the fluffy ones on top. The animal growls, frustrated with himself when his paws and nose don’t seem to work to get it just right and you eventually pad down closer to him, using your opposable thumbs — which you make sure to flex in his face — to fix it into something similar to what you’ve seen before.
He forces you to lie down, big forehead headbutting you until you fall onto the covers, his warm and fluffy body climbing over yours; there’s a brief moment of panic where you think he’s trying to mount you but then he rolls over, big paws wrapping around you, belly up. You go down far too willingly, Céline’s words replaying in your head as you fist the wolf’s fur, burying your face against his neck.
You hate yourself for how fucking right she is.
There’s something heavy on your face. You’re laying somewhere too comfortable, warmth surrounding you everywhere, the thing on your face completely covering your eyes— The wolf’s head, you belatedly realize, his jaw shielding your eyes from the morning sun while leaving just enough space for you to breathe; which you can’t do anyway because of the heavy paw weighing down on your chest. You grumble, pushing him away, the sun immediately burning behind your eyelids.
Tommy is sitting on the staircase, still in his pajamas, a steaming mug in hands and a far too gleeful smile on his face. The wolf is asleep next to you, head rolling to the side when you push him away, dead to the world. You’re not sure how you got here, your memory from the night before fuzzy and painful. You remember the bar, Bri, and Céline— Not much else.
“Did I—” You shake your head, unwilling to let the words come out of your mouth; it’s not like you can ask Joel’s brother if you committed bestiality in his backyard the night before. Instead, you change course. “What the fuck happened?”
“Don’t think so, I woulda heard if you did.” He answers anyway, his voice lacking any judgement. “How much do you remember? Reckon you got a concussion but there’s only so much medicine I know how to practice.”
“I—” You lick your lips, your mouth dry as cotton. “I got into a fight with my friend. Went to her place in Jackson for the weekend.”
“You crashed the truck. I didn’t see it but I think it was bad, car was on fire by the time I got to it.”
Your hand comes up to touch the side of your face— It throbs a little, but no more than a proper hangover; still, you’re certain he’s right. You’re still in last night's clothes, covered in leaves, mud and dried up blood, and you can already see a particularly dark bruise forming on your shin. Your entire body feels sore, particularly your stomach, and his words bring forth the faint memory of tires screeching and the painful sound of metal twisting into a different, wrong shape.
You eye the mug in his hands, which Tommy promptly hands you.
“Coffee. Fresh off the pot. I’d invite you in but I reckon he ain’t lettin’ you out of his sight.”
“Huh.” You say, voice dripping with sarcasm as you stretch towards the coffee. It’s bitter and way too strong for your taste, but it helps settle the nausea. “Wouldn’t it be a nice little party trick if he could just switch back into human form and walk inside his own damn house?”
“That ain’t happening until you’re healed.” Tommy leans on his knees, seriousness thundering over his face. “Your lil’ disappearing act did a number on him. Hasn’t shifted back since he realized you were gone.”
You go silent for a moment, sipping the coffee as you take in Joel’s sleeping form.
“I assume that’s not normal?”
“Nope. We don’t usually spend that much time in wolf form. Dad warned us not to, said it was dangerous stayin’ as a wild animal for that long. But you could never be sure if the old man was tellin’ the truth about anything.”
You instantly feel a migraine coming through.
“That’s just fucking great.” Still, despite the bitterness of your words, you can’t help but bring a hand to rub his stomach. The wolf gives a little woof in his sleep, mouth still closed, the sound reverberating from his chest. It’s fucking cute, which is not a word you think should be used to describe a giant killing machine that is still covered in dried blood. “What am I supposed to do? Stay outside until he decides to shift back?”
Tommy shrugs. “I can bring you some of Sarah’s coloring books.”
You have to bite down on your tongue to resist the urge of barking at him.
As much as it pains you to admit, Sarah’s coloring books do help to distract you. Tommy brings you food and drinks periodically, complaining about having to care for someone that ‘ain’t even his damn mate’, but he also brings you clothes and a coat when it gets a little chilly— The wolf sleeps for most of the day, whining whenever you pull away for too long, and you wonder if he slept at all while you were gone.
You tell yourself that you stick around mainly because you need to see the moment Joel shifts back. You need proof, irrefutable evidence that you can’t explain away with any ounce of logic other than him truly, absolutely, being a werewolf.
You get your evidence in the middle of the afternoon. The wolf whines and stir, his paws wiggling a little in his sleep as if he’s dreaming of running; you turn around absentmindedly to scratch his neck when you realize something is wrong. A clump of fur falls off on your hand, sticking to your hand when you try to shake it off— And he’s warm. You’ve noticed he runs hot but this is too much, so hot it makes him a little uncomfortable to the touch.
You think he’s growling in his sleep at first, lips pulled back as if he’s baring his teeth before you realize that his skin is, in fact, pulling back— Receding into the fur that seems to shed more and more every time you blink, his paws and back twisting and spasming as if he’s about to break. The fur goes away first, some chunks disappearing into his skin, others falling clean off like a young deer shedding its antlers, skin and all; you can see muscles and tendons and veins before the skin grows back, tan and smooth and human.
There’s a moment in which he looks like a mixture of a Xoloitzcuintle dog and a wolf, as tall and big as human Joel is but still dog-shaped, smooth skin covered in a peach fuzz that sheds every time he spasms. And then the muscles twist and bend and suddenly the wolf is entirely gone, replaced with just Joel, laying on a pile of his own gore.
It’s stupid, but the first thing you think about is how he somehow got rid of the werewolf chunks from your living room that night. And you’re grateful for it too, because you’re about to either puke or pass out. Maybe both.
It’s grotesque, and beautiful, and so otherworldly that you can’t do anything other than sit there and stare as Joel’s eyes finally open, hazy at first before consciousness fully sets in. He rolls over, chest heaving, and you pull the corner of the blanket to throw over his very naked waist— You don’t know where Sarah is but you’re fairly certain she’s still inside the house and you think that accidentally seeing her naked bloodied father might not be for the best.
“Morning.” You say even though it’s well past noon, dropping the electric blue pencil you’d been using to doodle on the margins of the coloring book. Joel raises a hand, nails and cuticles caked with deep red blood, and touches the side of your face; it’s still a little tender but it doesn’t pound anymore and you’re desperately curious to know what you look like.
And you’re also in desperate need of a shower and a toothbrush.
“That’s gonna scar.” He says, frowning as he pushes himself onto his elbow. “I’m sorry. There’s only so much I could fix.”
“Do I look badass or do I look hideous?”
“Beautiful.” Joel says, his voice just a little soft. His hand is warm and clammy, falling from your cheek to your clavicle. “Shoulder healin’ okay?”
You roll your shoulders absentmindedly before shrugging. “I wasn’t even aware it was injured, so I’d say yes.”
Joel nods once, reaching for the half empty water bottle next to you. His hands shake. “You should go inside. I’ll clean up and be right there.”
You eye the mess he’s sitting in wearily. “Do you… Uh. Need help or something?”
“No, you can go.” He gives you a wobbly smile, face a little paler than usual and you’re not sure if it’s from shifting back or just exhaustion. Either way, you’re incredibly relieved at not having to mop pieces of werewolf off of the ground.
Whatever you had been expecting, the state of the woman looking back at you in the bathroom mirror is worse than you thought it would be. Your hair is a rat’s nest of loose leaves, knots and dried blood— You pluck a tiny shard of glass when you try to untangle it dry before giving up entirely. The left side of your face is a constellation of tiny scars, light colored freckles that look just a bit irritated, coming from your temple all the way to your chin; it doesn’t look badass or hideous but it surely doesn’t look beautiful. You want to cry over it, but all you can truly do is be grateful that the glass shards that embedded into your skin on impact didn’t hit your eyes.
Your body is a collection of bruises, scraps and cuts that look a lot older than the sixteen hours they truly are, just as you’re expecting them to be. Your head and shoulders seems to have taken the brunt of it, but there are long and angry scraps on your stomach that mix along with old, faded stretchmarks; you decide to ask Joel if he knows what happened later, but you’re fairly certain you flew through the windshield and it’s a fucking miracle you didn’t break your neck or split your skull open.
Your mother didn’t have the same luck twenty-something years ago. You can see her wrecked car behind your eyelids as you step into the too-hot shower as if the accident had just happened, the blood on the broken windshield where her body had been, the hood bent upwards— She’d gone halfway through the windshield before a particularly sharp glass shard embedded deep enough to tear her gut open, the top of her head smashed into the hood that had popped open and then flown backwards. You were six years old, and while you hadn’t understood it back then, you know for sure that your grandmother should’ve spared you from the details.
She never spared you from anything, had shown no mercy when you were kept up from nightmares of your mother with her organs falling from the open wound on her torso, the gruesome picture of her neck bent and her brains pouring out whenever you closed your eyes.
Your legs give under you as you wash the blood away, rivulets trailing down your body and into the drain; you sit there, shampoo on your hair and tears and blood washing down your chest, until the water runs cold. You think the werewolves in the house can hear your sobs even through the spray of the shower, know Joel hears better than most even with his busted eardrum, but nobody knocks on the door or tries to hurry you. You’re alone with your misery for forty-something minutes, knees to your chest and nails digging into your thighs, until the cold water becomes too much to bear on your sore muscles.
Joel is inside by the time you’ve showered, gore rinsed off as he scarves down a giant plate of eggs and bacon; Sarah sits next to him, babbling away, stealing bacon bits from his plate that Joel pretends not to notice. She smiles brightly when you walk in, clad in a pair of Joel’s boxer shorts and a sweatshirt, waving you a slice of bacon.
“Hi, kiddo.” You say, avoiding the spit-soaked bacon she’s offering you by kissing the top of her head and then moving to the couch.
“How are you feeling?” Joel asks, eyeing you carefully.
“Hungover.” You lean back on the couch, bringing your legs up. “And like I flew straight through a windshield.”
“Glad you think this is funny.”
You curl in on yourself, turning to stare back at the TV— An episode of Clifford is on, muted.
“I’m sorry about your truck. Is it salvageable?”
“Fuck the truck.” Joel barks, his eyes wild and burning with anger. “You could’ve died. You would have died if I wasn’t there.”
Your eyes whip back to Sarah, who offers you another toothy smile before she pipes up with something that sounds remarkably like ‘fuck the truck!’.
“I don’t think we should be having this conversation in front of her.” Your voice wobbles, breaking a little before you swallow it down. You feel like an exposed nerve, like your entire body is made out of open wires and you’re really, really not in the mood for a scolding from a crazed murderer.
Joel turns back to his meal but his shoulders are tense, hiked up all the way to his ears as he leans forward, elbows on the table and head hanging low. Sarah pats his bicep twice before she shimmies from her chair, padding towards you and climbing onto the couch without a single word. Her lips are greasy when they touch your cheek, and you don’t even notice you’re crying until the action smears your own tears all over your face.
“You’re sad.” She says, big brown eyes staring at you with a severity that is far too old for her chubby little face. You press a kiss to her forehead, arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. You risk a glance at Joel who is now sitting with his back ramrod straight, still turned away, not eating anymore.
“I’m okay, pup.” You tell her with a tiny smile. “Just tired.”
And it’s true— You’re tired of running, tired of fighting back and pretending that this isn’t exactly what you want.
Summary: The construction company your neighbors hire to do work on their house are loud, inconsiderate, and quickly get under your skin. One man in particular seems hellbent on driving you crazy until one day, all that tension comes to a head.
Warnings: language, smut (piv sex), dirty talk, praise kink, light spanking, reader being kind of pissy and Joel fucks it out of her (but he's not mean), Joel gets turned on by bossy women
Masterlist
It's your day off. You had a long month, working extra late to meet deadlines and skipping plans with friends and family to perform at your fullest and get the promotion you so badly deserved, and now that the project was done and you impressed all right people, you rewarded yourself with a singular day off. But your neighbors had other plans.
It started before eight in the morning. Power tools, yelling, laughing, car doors slamming. It ruined the peace and tranquility of the post-school bus and rush hour lull. At first, you turned over and tried to fall back asleep. When that didn't work, you grabbed your extra pillow and pressed it against your ear. But after thirty minutes of chasing sleep with the sounds outside only growing louder, you gave up, blood boiling.
Maybe you should have coffee first, but unfortunately, your rage wins out. It's way too early. They're being far too noisy. And it's your goddamn day off!
You're seeing red when you tighten your robe around your waist, not even bothering to tie it but instead you hold it closed with your fist as you storm towards the front door. Your pajamas are just a tank top and sleep shorts, it's not anything scandalous anyway, especially given how hot Texas gets in the summer, but the last thing you want is a whole construction crew gawking at you while you give them a piece of your mind.
Music had just been turned on somewhere amongst the site. Tom Petty, you think, as you make your way over. Your flip flops snap angrily against the blacktop as you cross your driveway into your neighbor's front yard to survey the scene.
There's at least eight workers getting set up. Their trucks are parked all up and down the street, taking up every open spot. None of them glance your way as they unload tools, coolers, and supplies from their flatbeds. Your arms cross tightly and your brows furrow but the noise only gets louder.
"Excuse me?" you call out to no one in particular, but they don't hear you. Your jaw tightens. "Hey! Excuse me?"
"Can I help you?"
You swivel around, taken off guard by the deep voice behind you.
"Yes! I—"
Your words falter when you lay eyes on the man who snuck up on you. He's setting a ladder down by his feet, giving you time to take in his strong arms and broad shoulders underneath the stretch of his black short sleeved shirt, which still allows you a generous view of his tanned forearms. His jeans look lived in in the best kind of way. He wears them like a man who doesn't care what they look like, so long as they're comfortable. You push down the heat crawling up your neck by the time he straightens up, but when you see his face, you lose your train of thought once again.
Deep brown eyes, sharp nose, a chiseled jawline dusted with a short, somewhat patchy beard. Then he offers a soft, crooked smile that knocks the wind out of you to the point where you nearly forget your earlier anger.
Focus, you scold yourself.
"I live right over there—" You point behind him and he slowly turns, eyes scanning your modest home. "And my bedroom window is right there," you add. His eyes flicker to your open window towards the back of the house before he gives you his full attention again, something that makes your stomach flip. "I'd appreciate it if you guys could keep it down this early in the morning. It's disruptive to the whole neighborhood."
His devastatingly dark eyes glimmer with humor and even though he's not smiling, you can sense he's not taking you seriously. He makes a show of checking his watch—a beat up old thing with a green fabric band—before looking back at you. "It's eight fifteen," he tells you, tone flat.
"Yeah, now," you say, rolling your eyes, "but this noise started earlier. It woke me up."
Now the corner of his mouth lifts and he slowly crosses his arms, which simultaneously irritates and excites the hell out of you.
"Sorry 'bout that, miss," he tells you, "but we're abidin' by city ordinance."
"I'm sure you are, but you have to admit it's disturbing the peace."
He regards you silently for a moment, his heavy gaze drifting up and down your frame. Suddenly, the thin robe you're wearing is too much and doesn't seem like enough all at once. An amused look flits across his face at one point before his eyes drop to the dirt.
"Could start at seven, technically," he finally says, "we're doin' you a favor by startin' at half past."
Your hackles raise at that. "Would you like me to thank you?"
He chuckles and shakes his head before meeting your gaze again. "Never said that. Just sayin' we're followin' the law, is all."
"I know you are," you huff, "all I'm suggesting is maybe keeping your voices a little lower."
He smirks and uncrosses his arms in favor of propping his hands on his hips, giving you a spectacular view of his wide chest.
"We could," he muses, pretending to think about your request while staring off at a fixed point somewhere over your shoulder, "if you ask real nice."
Your jaw drops at the same time your knees go weak. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, still staring somewhere behind you in order to keep his shit eating grin from stretching across his face. "Just sayin', you came over here all hot under the collar. Had you asked nice, I mighta been able to help you out."
Your throat tightens. He's not trying to sound suggestive but your brain doesn't care. It's sending a wave of arousal right through you, causing your heart to slam against your ribs the more it builds.
"What's your name?" you demand with a clipped tone.
"Joel," he says without missing a beat.
"Joel," you repeat, "I'd like to speak with your boss."
"Ah, that'd be me."
He stretches out his hand with a grin. You ignore it and look back at the trucks until you spot a logo on the side and squint.
"Miller?" you guess. He nods. "Great. I'll be filing a complaint with the better business bureau."
You shoulder past him and try not to fixate on how good he smells, a mixture of motor oil, fresh soap, and coffee.
"Yeah? And what's your complaint gonna be for?" Joel calls after you. You ignore him and keep walking. You hear his deep chuckle before he picks up the ladder and it pisses you off even more, but you don't allow your rage to show until you're safely inside your house where you can seethe to yourself while making some coffee.
***
The rest of the week is uneventful. You have meetings downtown all week, a disruption to your usual remote work schedule, but a necessary evil you try your best to organize all at once every month. When you leave in the morning, the workers are just arriving. When you get home, they're already packed up or gone entirely. You nearly forget all about your intriguing run in with the mysterious Joel Miller until the following Monday, when you're back to working remotely.
You're an hour into emails and onto your second cup of coffee when you first hear the familiar ruckus next door. It starts with amused banter. Then truck doors slamming. Then the music kicks on. You shake your head, close your windows, and keep working.
With your television playing in the background, it's easier to block out some of the construction noise, but at around one in the afternoon you hear a repetitive, ear piercing beep, beep, beep during a work call that sets your teeth on edge.
Stones are pouring from the back of a metal flatbed. Shovels are scraping and banging loudly. And you do your best to stay focused, but when the call ends and you can't recall half the topics discussed, you can't hold back any more.
You spot Joel with his back to you, holding a shovel and shouting instructions to his crew while you approach. As if he can sense it, he turns when you're about ten feet away. His eyes sweep up and down your body and he grins before leaning on his shovel, amused by the anger currently forcing your feet forward.
"Don't tell me we woke you up again," he teases before you can even open your mouth. "It's after lunch. What's the matter now?"
You scowl at him, ignoring the way his crew sends you curious looks as they work.
"No," you snap, "I'm working. Or, at least, trying to! I have all my windows closed and I still can hardly hear myself think."
He looks at you like he's sizing you up, like he's trying to figure something out. "Thought you worked in an office somewhere."
You frown, slightly alarmed. "How would you know that?"
"Saw you couple times last week," he says hurriedly, as if he just realized how his comment sounded. "When I was gettin' here in the mornin', sometimes I'd see you gettin' in your car and drive off."
The silence that followed made Joel nervous. He shifted his weight and awkwardly scratched his beard while you tried to sort through what he just said without giving away your feelings. He noticed you? Was he looking for you, or did he just happen to see you?
"Uh, based on your spiffy clothes, just figured you worked somewhere fancy," he finished, rubbing the back of his neck before looking away.
You look down at the clothes you currently have on—denim shorts and an old, oversized shirt... far from spiffy today—before looking back up at him. To your surprise, you notice some red creeping up his neck and staining the apples of his cheeks. You have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling because despite how pleased it makes you to see the big, annoying, sexy construction guy next door all embarrassed because of you, you're here for a reason.
"Sometimes I work in an office, but most of the time I work at home," you explain, waving toward your house, "and right now, it's pretty much impossible to get anything done."
"Well, m'sorry 'bout that, but we gotta work, too."
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know. How much longer is this going to take?"
Joel clicked his tongue, making you lift your chin to look back up at him. The way he looks at you like you're something worth studying makes your heart skip a beat. Traitor.
"I'm offended you wanna get rid of us." His tone is back to teasing, and that glint in his eye confirms it. He likes pushing your buttons.
"I just want my quiet back! My—your customers are elderly! They can't hear for shit, they keep to themselves, they're the perfect neighbors! They aren't bothered by all this noise, but everyone else is!" Your voice is getting louder than you thought. People are beginning to notice, but you don't care.
"Everyone?" Joel repeats, narrowing his eyes now. "Strange, 'cause you're the only one cryin' 'bout it."
"I am not crying about it, I'm attempting to come to some sort of agreement, but you're being too... too..." Your hands flail in the air as you struggle to think of the right word.
"Too what?" Joel presses, stepping closer. You catch a whiff of his sweat mixed with sawdust and it makes your head swim. Focus.
You glare at him, blood on fire in your veins the longer he stands there looking all cocky.
"Misogynistic!" you exclaim triumphantly. Joel just blinks at you.
"What?"
You roll your eyes. "Means if a man were out here asking you to keep it down, you probably would, but instead you're giving a woman a hard time."
That seems to piss him off. His jaw sets into a tight line and he leans forward, voice low and dangerous. "Now you listen here," he says, and the way his demeanor suddenly shifted makes your spine straighten. "I'll allow for alotta shit, but I ain't gonna stand here and let you spin some wild story when you don't even know me or my crew. That's disrespectful and untrue."
You swallow tightly, unable to tear your gaze away from his eyes. They're so dark and stormy when he's legitimately mad that it's hard to look away.
"Sorry," you mumble, "but you're not taking me seriously, what else am I gonna think?"
His gaze softens then. His shoulders loosen. And the clouds clear from his eyes. The playful glimmer returns and you swear you see a ghost of a smile tug at his lips before he casually says, "I'll prove it to you. Bring out your husband or boyfriend or whoever and I'll tell him the same things I've been tellin' you."
"I don't have a husband or boyfriend," you answer before you even realize the trap you stepped in. His face lights up but he plays it off with ease.
"That's a relief." Your eyes widen and he grins. "'Cause if you had some guy hidin' in there all this time, lettin' his woman handle all the dirty work, gripin' to me while wearin' short shorts or a see-through robe? That wouldn't be much of a man."
Then he turned on his heel to join his crew, leaving you to weave through the rollercoaster of emotions he just dumped on you for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Over the next few days, something slightly changed. You found yourself going outside more, lingering around your car or taking a while to get your mail just to catch a glimpse of Joel. Usually, he'd catch your eye and give you a small smile, but that was the extent of it. Nothing overtly friendly and nothing mean, either. He was very good at being polite and cordial, which infuriated you. It made it impossible to figure out exactly what he was thinking. You replayed so many looks and conversations in your head to the point where you were paralyzed trying to pick apart every inflection and glance.
Why do you care anyway? you kept asking yourself. You never provided an answer.
It's the combination of your frustration with yourself as well as Joel's confusing signals that cause you to find more things to complain about, although you never admit it. But every interaction with Joel leaves you more aggravated and pent up than the last.
"That's not the property line. This is the property line," you had argued with him on Tuesday.
"It's just four inches."
"That's nine inches, easy."
Joel had tsked sympathetically under his breath. "Oh, darlin', if someone out there's tellin' you that's nine inches, I'm so sorry."
On Thursday morning, he had parked his truck in your driveway.
"I need to have my driveway clear!"
"I know, I know, it was only for a minute til the concrete truck comes—"
"I don't care! Park on the street!" you had yelled, but the angrier you got, the more pleased Joel looked.
"No parkin' left on the street."
"Then park on the lawn," you said, crossing your arms and jutting out your hip. His eyes had drifted down, noting you chose to wear a shirt that showed a little more cleavage than usual.
"Careful, sweetheart. Keep yellin' at me like this and I'll fall in love with you."
Every time he said something flirty like that, it sent you back to your house to obsess over whether or not he was serious or just trying to get you off his back.
The cherry on the sundae was the incident on Friday when someone accidentally dug in the wrong spot and severed your internet cable, completely derailing the latest project you had been tasked with at work. Joel had anticipated your anger before you stormed out of the house, screen door smacking loudly against the siding as you stomped down the old wood stairs of your porch, making a beeline right for Joel next door.
"Tell me it wasn't your guys who did that."
He sighed before slowly turning around to face you. He looked tired, no doubt drained from the long, hot week, but he still managed to brighten up a little when he laid eyes on you.
"Sorry, darlin'. They're comin' to fix it."
"When?" you snapped. Joel narrowed his eyes as if to silently warn you about your tone. Who the hell does he think he is?
"An hour," he said flatly.
"An hour?" you exclaimed, clearly devastated.
"Yeah. An hour. Ain't you got a lunch break or somethin' you can take til it's fixed?"
You snorted and tossed your hair over your shoulder. "I haven't taken a lunch break that didn't involve a client in more than five years."
"Well, today's the day you break that streak," he told you before turning back to the hole in the ground. "Damn inspector didn't flag the property right. Ain't our fault, it's the town's."
You bury your face in your hands with a groan. "I can't believe this," you mutter to yourself.
"If it helps, I ain't happy 'bout it either," Joel says, crouching down to inspect the spot closer. "This just set me back a couple days."
"Days?!" you exclaim, letting your hands fall back to your sides in disbelief. Joel nods, still not looking at you.
"Yeah. Gotta redo the plans now. Old plans were built 'round the cables bein' two feet west—"
"So this insanity is going to last even longer?" you ask, cutting him off. Joel sighs and drops his head between his shoulders briefly before standing with a grunt. He's tall—his shadow blocks the sun when he towers over you, a fact that never went unnoticed.
"What's the matter, sweetheart? Thought you'd be happy to know you ain't gettin' rid of me just yet." The smirk he gives you is devastating. Your gaze falls to his throat, where beads of sweat have been trickling down and soaking his collar. It's not fair this man is so fucking handsome yet so irritating.
"I'll survive," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly and looking away to clear your head.
"Yeah? Who you gonna yell at when I'm gone, hm?"
"Believe it or not, I'm actually not a yeller," you shoot back with a glare. "Guess you just bring it out of me."
His gaze darkened for a moment like he was considering how to reply. You could almost see the silent back and forth behind his eyes, the words locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue but a small sliver of logic fought to hold onto them and pull them back down.
He says it anyway.
"That right?" His voice dips lower than you've heard it before, but not out of anger. Something else. Something far more heated and dangerous. "Wonder what else I could bring outta you."
The implication falls between you like an anvil. The weight of it keeps you both still, oblivious to what's going on around you entirely. Somehow, you manage to hold his gaze, but you're swallowing hard and breathing even harder and he can see it. He tracks the movement with those dark eyes, waiting for you to come up with a retort or storm off.
Normally, you'd do the latter, but today, you're fired up. It's always Joel who gets the last flirty word in. It's always Joel who leaves you spinning while he happily carries on with his day. So this time, you close the distance between you and crane your neck up. He doesn't break eye contact but you can tell he didn't expect this. He didn't expect you to get inches away and hold the silence like a knife to his throat. His lip curls into a smile, breathlessly anticipating some flustered, snappy comeback paired with an angry look. Instead, what you say shocks him.
"You couldn't handle it, Miller."
The confidence in your voice is what makes him falter. You clock it and grin, very satisfied with yourself, before turning and heading back to your house. The world begins to wake up around him again. Sounds begin to crescendo slowly in the air: power tools, his crew's voices, cars rumbling down the street. But his eyes are fixed on you. On the way you carry yourself back up your porch and into your house without the courtesy of a single glance back.
When your screen door snaps shut, he blinks. Clears his throat. Then forces his feet to move.
After that, Joel spends the rest of the afternoon praying he doesn't get distracted enough to lose a finger.
***
The weekend is thankfully quiet, but long. You pace around trying to keep busy, but you miss it. You hate it, but you miss peeking out your window to see what Joel is up to. You miss whatever has been brewing between you over the last two weeks. You miss the excitement and electricity that crackles between you when you stomp over there for one reason or another.
By Sunday night, you decide it isn't healthy to be so fixated on this. You're not even sure what's gotten into you. Usually, your life is mundane and quiet, yet this man has burrowed his way in and found a piece of you to bring to life you didn't know existed.
He pisses you off, you remind yourself. It's not good. He's not good. Let this go, the sooner the better.
So on Monday, you force yourself to stay in your house all day. It's hard, but you know it's the right thing to do. You need to focus on work and Joel is just a distraction. A big, annoying, sexy distraction.
On Tuesday, you do the same thing. It's a littler easier this time. You get a decent amount of work done with your earbuds solidly in place. You only look up from your computer to check your window a handful of times. Once or twice you swear you catch Joel glancing expectantly towards your house, but you push down the butterflies in your belly and focus back on the project in front of you.
Wednesday is more difficult because on that day, there's a legitimate reason to be annoyed. Joel's crew is using a portion of your lawn to toss old pieces of wood from the porch next door. When you first notice, you find yourself rising to your feet, propelled by anger. But then you catch yourself and slowly sit back down.
It's fine. They'll clean it up. Don't worry about it.
You finish your workday without stepping foot outside, although you had to close your curtains so you'd stop looking at the mess.
Thursday is loud. Drills pierce the air earlier than usual. You assume it has to do with the rain clouds forming on the horizon, but it still grates your every nerve to hear metal grinding into solid wood first thing in the morning. You pop your earbuds in and turn the volume up. It works, until the rain starts. The water streaking suddenly down your windowpane catches your attention, so you pull your earbuds out and look up.
Across your driveway, Joel's crew is packing up early. They're running, getting absolutely soaked in the rain while trying to get everything valuable back into their trucks as quickly as possible.
Good, you think. Peace and quiet a little earlier today.
Then you see him. Joel. With his dark curls plastered against his forehead and his white shirt sticking to his torso like he had just jumped into a pool. Your brain buffers and your lips part at the sight. You could tell before he's strong, but now his shirt is leaving very little to the imagination.
"Shit," you whisper as you watch, unblinking, while Joel packs up his truck and then turns to help his crew. His muscles flex under his rain soaked skin, water drips furiously down the sides of his head, and you forget how to breathe.
Fuck him for being so irritating and goddamn good looking at the same time.
The image is seared into your brain for the rest of the night. It has you tossing and turning in bed until you can't stand it anymore and you give in, sliding one hand down the front of your shorts in search of relief. It's fleeting and not as good as you hoped, but at least you're able to fall asleep.
Friday is when everything comes to a head.
You're tired from a restless nights sleep and on your third cup of coffee when you notice the end of your driveway is blocked. Your jaw clenches as you push a curtain aside to get a better view and of course, it's Joel's truck.
"Son of a bitch," you mutter, narrowing your eyes like you could destroy the car with your mind if you tried hard enough.
It's fine. He'll move it. He's probably waiting on some delivery, like last time.
But this time, his truck remains parked haphazardly at the end of your driveway all day. When you manage to spot him working next door, he's all smiles, completely unbothered. At last around three you see him walk to his truck, but it's just to get something from the console. The way he strolls back to his crew like he had every right in the world to encroach on your property makes your blood boil.
That's it. You've had enough. You've kept to yourself all week long, it's almost the weekend, you did pretty good. And this isn't unreasonable. He's in your fucking driveway! He's had multiple chances to move and he didn't!
Before you could stop yourself, you reach forward, lift open your window, and lean out.
"Joel Miller!"
He stops dead in his tracks, along with half his crew, to track your voice from your office window. When he spots you, he lifts his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun and he grins.
"Yeah?"
"Move your goddamn truck out of my driveway or else I'm havin' it towed!"
His crew chuckles and goes back to wrapping things up for the day. Joel tilts his head at you like he's amused.
"Thought you moved," he says, "haven't heard that smart mouth all week."
"Unfortunately for me, I'm still here," you snap, "now move that hunk of junk right now!"
"She ain't no hunk of junk," Joel says with mock offense. "She's the only lady in my life that never let me down, don't talk 'bout her like that."
"Stop talking about your car like it's a woman, that's gross."
Joel whistles low and comes closer so he doesn't have to shout. "Jealous?"
"Of a car? Give me a break," you snort.
He tsks and inches closer. By now, he's halfway across your driveway. "Why don't you try askin' me real nice, then maybe I'll move it."
"Why don't you get a little closer and I'll make you do it."
The deep groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench.
"Don't tease a fella now," he warns with a playful look, "'cause if you talk like that I'm gonna make you follow through."
You roll your eyes, grateful you have an entire wall between you to hide the way you're practically squirming in place.
"Will you please shut up and move the truck?"
"Don't love the shut up part, but y'did say please, so I will."
"Thank you," you reply, overly sweet with a fake smile. Still, Joel stifles a laugh, entirely enthralled with how riled up he manages to make you.
"No problem. I'll be done in an hour, then I'll get outta your hair."
The smile falls from your face to be replaced with a scowl. "An hour?"
"Yeah. An hour," he confirms, turning back to his job site. "Don't worry. Won't get in the way of your Friday night plans."
"Joel—"
"It'll be longer if you keep flirtin' with me," he says loudly over his shoulder so his entire crew can hear. Your cheeks instantly heat up but you slam your window shut before you can give him the satisfaction of witnessing your embarrassment.
You sit back down and try to focus on work, but it's impossible. Why does this man get under your skin so easily? And why do you find him so irresistible at the same time? It must be because it's been a while since the last time you've been with someone. You've been so focused on work the last several months, you can't even remember the last time you went on a date, let alone took a man home.
Your gaze drifts up against your will. Most of Joel's crew has cleared out next door. There's two guys left plus Joel, cleaning up the rest of the lawn before the weekend. You can see the relaxed smiles on their faces as they chat, probably discussing weekend plans. It makes you wonder what Joel does on the weekends. You have a feeling he's single based on his earlier comment about his truck. So what does a single man do with their spare time?
Probably pick up girls. The thought makes your stomach twist into a knot. You shake your head and focus back on your computer. That's none of your business. Who cares if he's getting laid? It doesn't matter.
Your lips press together when your eyes lift to find Joel through the window again, but now you realize the yard is empty. The remaining trucks are gone. The supplies are picked up. It's quiet.
For some reason, you're relieved when you stand and hurry to your window to find Joel's truck still idle in your driveway. You stand there staring at it while you weigh your options in your head.
It's a bad idea, you think. Joel isn't good for you. He drives you crazy. Yet you have to admit, you can't remember the last time you've felt such a spark with someone before. He's certainly not boring, you'll give him that. And he's funny, in his own way. Would it really be so bad?
Fuck it. You rush to your bedroom to change your shirt for a simple light dress and freshen up as fast as you can, all the while straining to hear for the telltale sound of his motor turning over, then you slow down.
You decide to leave it up to fate. If he's still there by the time you're ready, then you'll go for it. If he's gone, then he's gone, no big deal.
After tapping on some subtle, fruity flavored lip balm and spritzing just a tiny bit of perfume in your hair, you step out of your bedroom, mustering up as much confidence as possible as you walk to your front door. You decide not to practice what to say, that you'll just let it happen organically if it feels right. But when you swing your door open only to be met face to face with Joel, who has one fist raised in the air as if he were about to knock, all that confidence goes straight out the window.
Shit.
"Hey," he says with a crooked grin. His arm lowers to his side and your heart kicks in your chest when you notice his eyes sweep up and down your body before meeting your gaze.
"What can I do for you?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. His grin widens and you feel like you've stepped into yet another trap.
"That's a loaded question, sweetheart," he says, voice low. You suppress a shudder. "Wanted to tell you I'm headin' out. Looks like I got good timin', too." He gestures to your appearance and you look down.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He quirks up an eyebrow. "You got someone comin' over?"
You shake your head and try to bite back the smile that threatens to stretch across your face.
Joel makes a soft noise and casually lifts his arm to rest against the frame, right above your head. He's towering over you like this and you think it's on purpose.
"Just gettin' all dolled up to sit home alone?" he asks. You shrug and cross your arms, hoping your breasts lift when you do. His gaze flickers down quickly, confirming you're successful.
"You think this is dolled up?"
Slowly, he lets himself take in your appearance again, this time making sure you saw.
"Just used to seein' you in shorts or that little robe of yours."
"You don't like my shorts or robe?"
"Never said that."
You have to stifle a laugh and his eyes practically glitter with amusement.
"Do you have any big plans this weekend?" you ask, hoping to come across casual.
"Nothin' too crazy," he tells you, leaning in a little further. "Watch the game. Mow the lawn. Come up with new ways to get you yellin' at me."
You laugh and shake your head. "You've been doing a great job so far."
"Not so sure 'bout that," he says, swiping his palm over his chin. "Been tryin' all week. Didn't get your attention til I parked in your driveway."
The expression on your face instantly melts into one of annoyance. "You did all of that on purpose?"
His enjoyment couldn't be contained. With a huge grin, he replies, "Yes, ma'am."
"The mess on my lawn? The extra early noise?" You could feel your anger rising, flooding your chest with heat.
"That's right," Joel replies. "Parkin' in your driveway was a last resort."
Your jaw tenses as you stare him down in disbelief. "What is your goddamn problem?" you seethe. Your earlier plans to ask if he wanted to come in for a drink vanish. Screw this guy.
"Thought you were dead or somethin'. Consider it my version of a wellness check."
"I don't need you to do a wellness check on me!" you yell, throwing your hands in the air to stop yourself from pushing him. "I've put in the shittiest work this week because of you! Why are you hellbent on bothering me so much?"
"'Cause it's fun and you're cute when you're all pissed off."
"I'm cu—"
The words die in your throat as your brain formally processes what he just said. You're still angry and red in the face, your chest is still heaving from adrenaline, and yet you're frozen solid, blinking up at him like an idiot. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that dreadfully adorable dimple.
"Probably the only woman on earth who looks prettier when she's readin' me the riot act," he adds just to watch your mouth open and shut like a fish.
"You—"
You're at a loss for words. The emotional whiplash has you reeling. He's into you, but he's showing it like an elementary school boy. It's kind of endearing but mostly immature, so you stand your ground.
"How old are you? Because you act like you're no older than twelve."
"I'm definitely older than twelve," he chuckles without missing a beat. "But listen... I really am sorry if your work suffered 'cause of me. Lemme make it up to you."
"How could you possibly—"
"Lemme take you out to dinner tonight."
The floor practically gives out from under you. What the hell is going on? The last ten minutes has your brain scrambling and your heart racing faster than any workout. How does this man manage to drive you to the brink of insanity only to pull you back at the last second with something sweet?
"You can yell at me the whole time, if you want," he says once too much time has passed without an answer. If you could see through your rage, you'd be able to pick up on his nervousness: his hand flexes at his side and his weight shifts from foot to foot with anxious energy.
"How about I just yell at you right here?" you snap. Joel laughs.
"If that's what you want, darlin', then sure."
Frustration bubbles up with a growl. You push away from the door to pace up and down your small hallway, raking your fingers through your hair while you attempt to calm down. All the while, Joel remains where he is, planted just outside your door, watching you spiral.
"You seem tense."
"I am tense! Because of you!"
"I can help with that."
You freeze and stare at him, long and hard. All those thoughts you've had about him, those images of him working in the rain, his way of turning a phrase to just barely imply he could ruin you... all of those moments crash down over you like a tidal wave and you decide that maybe he could help, after all.
In the blink of an eye, you close the distance keeping you apart. Your hand fists his sweaty, dirty shirt and you yank him forward. He stumbles a few feet into your house with surprised huff. You see the way his eyes widen right before your mouth crashes over his and finally, for a few blissful minutes, you get your coveted silence.
Joel only needs a moment before he catches up. His lips soften against yours as you pull him deeper into your house. He kicks back one foot and it collides with your door, slamming it closed behind him, then his hands are on you, pushing you gently against the wall so he can take control.
His teeth greedily graze your lower lip and your mouth parts for him with a soft moan. Driven by the sound, his tongue eagerly slips past your lips and his hands drop to cup the backs of your thighs. He hauls you up and your legs circle his waist while your tongues tangle together, hot and angry. It's desperate and messy and exactly what you need. The broad heft of his body pressed up against yours, the heady scent of the outdoors and sweat and him invading your senses, the faint taste of coffee on his tongue... it's utterly perfect.
"Where'd this come from, hm?" he asks, voice low and rough as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. Your head tilts back and your eyelids remain closed, offering your throat up to him without a fight.
"You said you could help," you murmur, craning your neck to give him better access. He finds a spot below your ear and sucks, leaving the beginnings of a mark that will take days to disappear.
"I did," he mumbles against your skin. "Meant a drink or somethin', but I ain't complainin'."
Your chin drops, hunting for his mouth, but then his hand is there tipping your head back, cupping your cheek with his thumb pressed on the underside of your jaw.
"Ain't done," he grumbles before continuing his assault on your throat. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and let him move your head this way and that, enjoying the way he's taken control. You get the sense he's wanted this as badly as you because he seems determined to taste every inch of your skin. When his mouth travels lower to ghost over your shoulder, you shrug, allowing the strap of your dress to fall and expose more skin. Joel makes a pleased grunt before his lips explore the newly revealed territory.
"Christ, you're soft." It almost sounds like he's talking to himself, the way his voice is full of quiet wonder. A shiver rolls down your spine and you tug impatiently at his hair.
"Joel," you whine, but your thought is cut off with a gasp when he presses himself firmly against the cradle of your hips. You can feel him there, hot and hard behind his zipper. One of your hands drops to his belt and you slip your fingers past his waistband, but just as you're about to reach your target, his body jolts and he swats your hand away with a chuckle.
"Eager thing," he grins before sealing his lips over yours again.
"Bedroom," you manage to mumble when he takes half a second to breathe. "Behind you."
"Bossy," he scolds. His mouth covers yours with a deep groan before he tightens his grip around your legs. He pulls you from the wall and swings around to carry you in the general direction of your bedroom, all while never breaking the kiss.
It's kind of comical the way you stumble into your room. The door swings open too fast and knocks back against Joel's shoulder but it doesn't slow him down. He refuses to pull away to look where he's going, but when his boot collides with a half empty laundry basket on the floor, he curses under his breath and finally tears himself away.
You take the opportunity to squirm out of his grip. When your feet hit the floor, you instantly rise to your tiptoes, lips seeking out the warm skin of his throat. You moan a little when your tongue drags over his pebbled skin, tasting salt and sun that remains there. It's addicting to taste the product of his day's hard work, so you do it again and relish in the way he shudders from your attention.
"Shoulda just told me from the start what you wanted." His fingers fumble with his belt buckle after he hears the quiet sound of your zipper coming undone. "Would've saved us both alotta time, darlin'."
"Shut up," you grumble before your teeth pinch a spot next to his Adam's apple. Your dress falls into a pool at your feet, hands free to help him lift his shirt over his head.
"I need a shower," Joel says after his shirt is discarded. You just shake your head and press your mouth over his collarbone, then his sternum, mapping his body while he works on kicking off his boots and jeans.
"I like you like this," you whisper. He smirks, stepping out of his clothes as best he can with your mostly naked body pressed against his own. "You smell good," you add after a minute, and he seems pleased with that.
"Get on the bed, sweetheart. Lemme see you."
You pull away from the faint red marks you left littering his chest and look up at him through your lashes. "You first."
Joel frowns. "Wha—"
With a grin, you give him a gentle push. His back hits the bedding and he barely has a chance to register it until you're climbing on top of him, legs bracketing his hips with a giggle. He smiles so big that his eyes squint, revealing those damn dimples again beneath his beard. Then his gaze drops to your bare breasts and his eyes darken.
"Fuck, you're pretty," he mumbles, palming them greedily. When his rough thumb grazes your nipple, you lunge down and capture his mouth with a searing kiss.
"You want me like this?" he asks, words tumbling against your swollen lips. "Wanna ride me, baby?"
"Yes," you whine while tugging down his boxers with one hand. His palms glide over your thighs, squeezing and pulling you back and forth so your hips begin to grind down on his lap.
"Take these off 'fore I ruin 'em," he warns you, fingers hooking into the band of your panties. You suppress the shiver of arousal at his tone before you do exactly as he says.
When your bare cunt comes in contact with the underside of his cock, you suck in a deep breath. He's so hot and throbbing against your soaked folds, making every slide of your hips steal your breath away.
Joel watches you move with heavy lidded eyes, seemingly just as lost in the feeling as you. His chest rises and falls a little faster when the tip of his cock presses against your clit and your whole body shudders with a moan he will end up dreaming about for weeks.
Reality hits when a streak of his arousal leaks and smears across your skin, bringing him back down to earth for one second.
"Wait, my wallet—"
He extends one hand towards the floor and your eyes follow, connecting the dots and sliding off him to grab his pants. You find it tucked into his back pocket and toss it his way. He catches it and fishes out a little foil packet from its depths while you resume your spot in his lap, lips parted and heart racing with anticipation as he rolls the condom on with care.
"Alright honey, I'm all yours," he announces, smirking as he folds his arms behind his head. You roll your eyes but still shimmy forward and raise your hips, using one hand against his chest to prop yourself up and the other to guide him to your entrance. The moment you sink down, however, his lips melt into a soft circle and his eyelids flutter shut, filling your chest with pride before caving into the pleasure yourself.
You sigh and tilt your head back when you finally take all of him. The stretch is exquisite, or maybe it's just been a while, but it doesn't matter. All the static that's been electrifying your brain lately, all that stress from work, from pushing yourself too far every single day dissolves away.
"Oh, shit," he whispers, voice cracking. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips. "Feel so goddamn good."
You drop your head forward to look at him, chest and neck all flushed underneath you. Your eyes trace his body as you begin to move, just slow rolls of your hips while you take in every detail: strong arms built from work, not weights. Skin slightly sweaty and a shade lighter where his shirts protect him from the sun. Broad shoulders and a firm stomach, but not too lean. One of your hands drifts over the planes of his chest and the curves of his muscles, humming with admiration as you continue to slowly ride him. His eyes light up and you swear you can see the pleasure in his expression when he clocks your appreciation for him.
"Make yourself feel good, honey," he says, voice low. Your gaze flickers up to his and you share a smile. "Wanna see what you like. Wanna watch you fall apart on it."
Your hips lift and drop a little faster, skin slapping against skin. "Should've known you never stop talking, even when you're getting laid," you tease, and Joel chuckles.
"Bark and bite, I like that."
"Yeah, I figured that out." You gasp when he thrusts upwards, hitting a spot deep inside you can't reach on your own. He notices and files it away for later.
"Takin' notes on me?" he asks, ghosting his palms over your ribs before landing on your breasts, watching in a daze while they bounce in his hands.
"You wish," you pant. He tsks, eyes still fixed on your chest.
"I got a few things figured out 'bout you, too."
You stop moving to glare down at him and catch your breath. His dark eyes dance with amusement at your annoyed look.
"Like what?"
He shrugs but the smile still tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You work hard but don't ever blow off any steam. Don't know yet if it's cause you're too tired or you feel like you don't deserve it."
That stuns you. Even though you're naked and he's currently buried inside you, you suddenly feel very exposed. He sees he might have overstepped, so he backtracks with a joke.
"You can call me anytime and I'll be happy to help you unwind."
You snort and begin moving again, shaking off the unexpected flash of vulnerability. "Why don't you focus on making this memorable enough for me to call you again?"
Joel laughed then, loud. And despite yourself, you giggle.
"Baby, when you're done playin' cowgirl, I'm gonna flip you over and fuck you so hard, you'll feel it on Monday when you're watchin' me through that office window of yours."
Your pussy clenches involuntarily and you begin working faster, fucking yourself on his lap now like you mean it.
"That's a-a lot of big talk, Miller," you reply, breathless from the exertion. You circle your hips and moan loudly when you find an angle you like.
"Ain't just talk," he says, big hands back on your hips, helping you move. His gaze is fixed on where you're connected, on the slick smearing between your bodies, and his stomach tightens. "Been thinkin' 'bout fuckin' you every which way to Sunday, got a head full'a ideas."
"You've been thinking about fucking me?" you repeat almost shyly.
"Don't be coy, now," he tells you, grunting softly when you plant both hands on his chest for leverage. "You know you came over there that first day with these perfect fucking tits pokin' through that little robe on purpose."
"Did not," you breathe, but all the fight has left your body. You're getting close and it's all you can focus on now.
"Uh-huh," Joel says, clearly not believing you. He swallows hard and his cock twitches impatiently inside you. He could come like this, with you riding him, getting yourself off, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to be over just yet, especially if you expect this to be a one time thing.
Shit, he hopes it's not just a one time thing.
"C'mon, baby, let go," he says before mouthing at your breasts. His tongue glides over one nipple then grazes it with his teeth before moving to the other one. You jolt and whine and push your chest even closer to his face.
"Joel..." you whisper. Your muscles are tired, you're slowing down. Sweat dots your forehead, collects behind your knees, and you're gasping for air.
He sits up suddenly, understanding right away what you need, and wraps one arm around your waist while the other braces himself against the mattress. He's able to fuck up into you like this and instantly your legs relax and your body slumps forward, causing him to relinquish the attention to your chest.
"That's it," he coos, "lemme help you."
You rarely accept help. The thought flickers across your mind for a moment before you push it away. This is different. This is just sex.
"M'close," you mumble shakily, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, forehead pressed intimately against his.
"I know," he breathes, "give it to me, darlin'."
A few more harsh snaps of his hips has you falling, whimpering his name as white hot heat rolls through your limbs and soaking your brain with a drunken haze. He's murmuring to you the whole time: how tight you feel, how beautiful you look, what a good job you did, how perfectly you fit on his cock. The praise goes straight to your head and fills a much needed void somewhere inside you. Some piece of you that is always pushing you to do more, try harder, work faster... efforts that rarely give you desired results. Or, at least, the results you're after. But this—this man—he's giving you something you desperately crave without even realizing it.
Your breath stutters like you've been knocked off kilter, and maybe you have. Joel thinks it's an aftershock of your orgasm and doesn't think anything of it.
He lifts you off his lap and you gasp, eyes flying open in shock. You have about half a second before you're tossed face down onto the bed next to him, then he's climbing behind you, rough hands gentle on your hips as they pull you back up to your hands and knees.
"That's it," he grunts when you obediently spread your legs and arch your back. He smirks to himself before pushing back inside you with a heavy sigh. "Goddamn, you're warm," he says after sliding slowly all the way in, giving you a chance to adjust to the new position. You bite your lip and breathe through it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how deep he feels like this. How good he feels.
"Fuck me, Joel," you moan, pushing your ass back, encouraging him to move. He rolls his hips forward, slow and deep.
"I know," he pants, "I know what you need."
He moves a little faster. Your ass bounces with every push. He grabs it with one big hand and squeezes before giving you a playful smack and doing it again.
"No, you don't. You barely—barely know me," you remind him. Your words stumble over each other as you feel yourself losing focus again. He feels so good, it's impossible not to.
"Know you better than you think," he shoots back. He smoothes over the spot on your ass he had spanked, soothing the area before sliding his palm up and over your spine. He can feel every knot and twist, every stress point you keep locked away deep inside. His fingers seek them out with ease, like maybe he really can see more than you think.
Still, you're stubborn.
"You only know what I want you to know." Your jaw is clenched, the words escape through your teeth but your point is made. You swallow down a moan and close your eyes, giving in to the way he expertly takes you apart.
"I knew you needed this from the first time we met," he tells you, "could've fucked this out of you back then and saved us both the trouble."
"You like it," you hiss over your shoulder. His pace is relentless now, hips swinging roughly against your ass, burying his thick cock as deep as it'll go. He wants to split you open and make you scream his name. He wants your mind blank and your body satiated. "You like—ohh... f-fuck—"
"What's that?" he goads. Joel drops forward so both his arms bracket yours. His chest presses against your spine and his breath is hot in your ear. You shiver and your jaw falls open.
"You..." Your throat is dry. Heat is building behind your navel and your legs are starting to shake. You swallow and keep talking. "You like trouble. You like it... when I yell at you. Whe—when I—"
"Yeah, I know," he admits, "somethin' real sexy 'bout you when you get all pissed off."
"—Like when I tell you... tell you what to do."
He's silent for a moment but his pace never falters. The wet sound of skin on skin is deafening, addicting. Your face warms as he punches the air from your lungs with every devastating thrust.
"Yeah. Maybe I do."
You hum and breathe deep through your nose. Fuck, he's right. You're going to be sore. You can already feel it.
"So tell me what to do now," he adds. It takes you a second to process it, but when you do, you force your eyes open.
What does he want to hear?
Don't overthink it.
"Touch me," you demand, firm and clear despite how your heart is racing.
Joel doesn't hesitate.
He leans back, leaving your sweaty back exposed to the cool air, and he reaches around to play with your clit. Instantly, you gasp and buck under him.
"Like that?"
If you had any clarity at all you would have shot him back some sarcastic remark because of course the answer is yes. Your entire body is shaking, you can barely speak and he knows it.
"Mhm," you manage, "ye—yeah, just like that. Fuck, keep going—"
"Jesus Christ," he mutters when your body begins to work in tandem with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Shit honey, you're gonna make me come like this."
You whine and throw your head back. His fingers don't stop circling your clit. Sweat coats your skin now. Gasping breaths and the sound of his hips meeting your ass over and over are filling the room, punctuated by Joel's deep grunts and your breathy moans.
"Joel—" you whisper as your body locks up. Your muscles ache, your cunt aches even more, but you continue to take it all. Your hand feverishly finds his between your legs and you leave it there, loving the way his fingers feel while they play you like a guitar.
"Sweetheart, I'm gonna—"
But you cut him off before he could finish his thought with a sharp cry. Your orgasm washes over you, harsh and unforgiving. A moment later Joel follows you over the edge with a loud curse, then a rough, deep grunt you can feel in your bones as he empties himself into the condom.
"Oh, holy fuck," he gasps, removing his hand from between your legs. He still thrusts weakly into you as the last of his orgasm streaks through his veins. It's cut short when he feels your body shaking violently under him and just like that, his focus is back on you.
"You okay?"
"I'm—" You're out of breath. Your vision is spotty and your muscles are weak. You swallow hard and try again. "I'm good, just need to—"
You fall onto your elbows and Joel takes the hint. He eases out of you, ignoring the way his chest pangs at the loss of your body, before he collapses into bed and hauls you down next to him.
Now you can rest. You close your eyes and breathe, deep and heavy. He does the same while the sweat cools on both your bodies and slowly, your brain begins to come back online. When it does, you realize his body is loosely curled around yours, keeping you warm and grounding you. It's strangely intimate but you don't pull away. Not yet.
"How 'bout I take you for that dinner now?" he mumbles before carefully pressing a soft kiss against your neck. His sweaty chest is pressed against your back, sealing you together.
"Let's just order something instead," you sigh with your eyes closed.
"Did I tire you out, darlin'?"
"Didn't sleep well," you say, unwilling to give him any credit just yet, "the damn construction crew next door woke me up way too early."
"Uh-huh," he teases before tightening his arm around your middle. It feels nice, so you lean into him just a bit. And for a while it's quiet and peaceful. Your breath steadies, your head clears, but your muscles stay soft and relaxed. Joel doesn't say anything. His thumb rubs idly over your stomach, lips occasionally graze over your back or shoulder, and it feels good until that defensive part of your brain wakes up, right on schedule.
This isn't serious. This didn't mean anything. It was just stress relief. Don't get attached.
"So," you say, voice a little hoarse when you gently slip out of his grip. He rolls onto his back with a soft, reluctant noise and he watches you stand to pick up your clothes. "This is what it takes to finally shut you up, huh?"
You grin at your joke as you press your clothes to your front, hiding your bare body from him like he hadn't just touched every inch of it minutes ago. When he doesn't answer right away with some smart remark, you pause and meet his eye.
He's stretched out on your bed, looking at you like he's seeing something not meant for him. You swallow nervously and try not to let yourself enjoy how good he looks in your space, amongst your things, in your life.
"Yeah," he finally says, "guess that'll do it."
His voice sounds flat and you begin to feel bad, so you clear your throat and inch towards your bathroom. "Let's order something to eat before you go."
Before you go. Joel heard it and got the message. He didn't know what to expect but for some reason, it stings.
"Yeah, what are you thinkin'?" He sits up and reaches for his jeans, where his phone is still tucked into his pocket.
"I don't care. Whatever you like." Then the door to the bathroom quietly snaps shut. Joel sighs once's he's alone and rubs his face before looking around your room. It's neat and organized, nothing like his own. He chews the inside of his cheek while he thinks, but before he lets himself get too lost, he snaps out of it and looks at his phone.
Chinese is a safe bet, so he orders that before standing to rid himself of the condom and get dressed. Suddenly he feels out of place. He's rough and dirty and you're... not. And that's fine. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. Yet when he wanders into your kitchen for water, he can't help but feel an empty pull in his chest at the thought of leaving.
Unknown to him, hidden inside your bathroom, you're struggling with the very same thing.
mdni. mooties who've already seen this, feel free 2 ignore pope being a basement-dwelling nerd that smurf keeps under lock and key because he's a pervert pyromaniac. he's chubby, and he wears square glasses, and he's so, so, so horny. 'mom, why can't I ever go outside?' then when he does sneak out, he sees you at the beach in your itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini and sits in the sand twenty feet away, rubbing his achy cock through his pants, humming, rocking, and vibrating, so excited that he cums.
your friend tells you there's some guy staring, being creepy, but you think he looks nice, kinda cute, with his flushed face and gnarly little teeth, so you invite him to hangout. he follows you around the pier, and he's awkward, but he's funny, and sweet, and he buys you all snacks and drinks at the snack-bar, carries all your purses and shopping bags, all while smelling your hair when you're not looking and peeking through the changing curtain at the boutique for a glimpse at the wild bush suffocating in your bottoms.
you invite him back to your house for a pool party and you realize the depth of his shyness when he won't get in the water, won't take off his shirt. you sit in his lap and stroke his cheeks, tell him kind things he's never heard while you wiggle his top and jeans off, rub on his pudgy, freckled little belly. you see his thick imprint, now in his boxers, his monstrous thighs and it's the cherry on top, you know that you have to have him.
an hour later he's in your bedroom, glasses knocked half-way off while you push back into his big fat dick, and he's whining, scared, he can’t believe it’s happening, that you’re soo sloppy, your pussy is so creamy, it’s all over his thighs and his balls, and he’s cum three times already, and he can’t hold himself up. he puts all his weight on you, biting you, smelling you, savoring you, humping, humping, humping until he can’t anymore.
also him setting your car on fire when you try to kick him out afterwards, he wants to be your bf now, why can’t be have more pussy?
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 8.1k
summary: your mom falls in love, elopes and suddenly you're uprooted from your shitty apartment and moved into a house with her new husband and his two sons, joel & tommy. your mom thinks you're the brady bunch, but you wholeheartedly disagree. eventually you get the hell out of dodge for a summer camp gig where you find a version of yourself you didn't know existed. and the step-brothers who never looked twice are about to notice.
warnings: 18+ MDNI: coming of age story involving minors, emotional bullying, toxic step-sibling dynamics, neglectful parenting, crying, emotional hurt, self-esteem & body image issues NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER. YOU CAN SEE A SPOILER LIST OF WARNINGS BY CLICKING ON THE SERIES MASTERLIST BELOW THE AUTHORS NOTES.
authors note: hey party people! i hope you enjoy! this first chapter is a very difficult time for the reader, joel and tommy aren't very nice to her -especially tommy- but stick with me it gets much better between the 3 of them in the chapters to come *wink*
series masterlist / ao3 / my masterlist
“I’m serious about him,” your mom says, standing at the stove in her wrinkled office blouse, the smell of cheap spaghetti sauce bubbling behind her. “We’re moving to his house at the end of the month.”
“Moving in?!” you repeat, realizing it’s not a joke.
“Mmhm, it just makes sense.”
Like hell it does.
Come to find out during the rest of this conversation with her they eloped at the courthouse last Saturday while you were left alone to fend for yourself. Eating an expired box of lasagna hamburger helper and watching re-runs of Home Improvement. And she tells you this like you’re supposed to be grateful because you'll finally be escaping this shitty apartment and you’ll have a yard, a garage, and won’t have to listen to the neighbor above you practice their Irish step dancing at all hours any more.
Your mothers always been one to make hasty decisions but never ones this quick or this life altering. Eloping after only 3 months together, 3 months isn’t enough time to know somebody, no matter how many times she repeats, when you know, you know.
Though at least it’s with Ricardo Miller –or Ric as he insists– and not one of the other deadbeat exes she’s dragged through the apartment – i.e. the one dude who talked like he was selling extended warranties and lived off her paycheck after your dad bailed. But Ric comes as a package deal. Not just the house with the yard and the garage, but with 2 sons. Joel, 15, same as you, and Tommy a year younger. Who are now effectively as of last Saturday at around 2:30pm, your new step-brothers.
Oddly enough the men your mom dated in the past either had no kids or they had sons, not once did they ever have a daughter. So you were always stuck with the prospect of possible step-brothers. Which, when you were younger was fine, always leaning more rough-n-tumble tomboy-ish anyway. Playing sports, never afraid to get dirty, part of you genuinely liked doing the things that were more boyish, but looking back now, you know a piece of you just wanted to be apart, and not be the odd one out.
The secondhand smoke from the Marlboro Ultra Light your mom just lit up assaults your nose before she cracks the drivers side window, reminding you what day it is. Move-in day. Your mother had squealed with excitement at you this morning after you emerged from your room. In response you had given her a tight smile and jazz hands. Now heading towards your new house, you really start to ponder what your relationship with your new step-brothers will look like now that you're older and quite different from the person you used to be. More reserved and quiet now. You really hope you’ll get along with these 2 boys and can end up being friends, you don’t see why not, you’ve always been able to make friends with anyone. But seeing as your mom decided to jump into a whole new life so quickly, you’ve heard little about them, only seen a photo or two, and have yet to actually meet.
You arrive at the house, and you’ll give your mom credit where credit is due. This house is definitely a couple steps up from the apartment. It’s a 2 story house, white exterior and navy blue door with a clunky brass knocker on it, windows adorned with shutters you’re sure don’t work as intended – these purely for aesthetics only. Straight away you can tell Ric is probably like one of those old farts who tells people to get off my lawn, because here in Texas where the summers are brutally hot and the grass should be a dry and crunchy light beige color, his is a lush green.
The ’92 Toyota Camry, your mother’s beloved champagne-colored chariot, pulls into the driveway, Ric’s truck is already backed in with the tailgate down and your whole life stacked in uneven cardboard boxes that he, you and your mom loaded up this morning. The last bits of your life, all here to be placed under his roof.
Your mom kills the engine and just sits there, both hands on the wheel, smiling at the house like it’s the answer to her white picket prayers. Through the windshield, you watch Ric directing his sons on what to do, he points somewhere and one of his sons follows through. Even though you can tell the teenage boys aren’t super happy about having to do manual labor on a Saturday.
You notice Joel first, on the ground beside the truck, taking whatever gets handed to him. He’s in faded jeans and a loose old T-shirt you can tell used to belong to somebody else before it belonged to him. Then there’s Tommy. He is taller than he looked in the picture your mom showed you, wearing a Nirvana shirt with the sleeves cut off and a rip across one knee of his jeans. You can very much tell the brothers have a similar style and probably share most of their clothes, since they’re only a year apart in age.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.
You wanna laugh in her face. That question has become one of her favorites these past couple of months, mostly because it can be answered with two words to let her off the hook.
“I’m fine,” you say.
She nods, choosing to believe you.
Outside, Tommy jumps down from the truck bed, his Converse landing with a smack. Joel says something to him and gives a playful wack upside the head. Tommy answers with a face and his tongue poking out from between his lips.
Oh, Lord. Brothers.
Your mom checks herself in the rearview mirror. “Ready?” she asks, floofing her bangs.
Not even close.
But she’s already opening her door. You get out after her, feeling the Texas heat radiate up off the driveway. Ric looks over first and lifts a hand in greeting, smiling wide and welcoming. The boys turn with him and you know how sometimes people look at you and you can feel them deciding what kind of person you are before you’ve even said a word? Yeah… Tommy does that, his eyes move shamelessly up and down you. He grins a little, like he’s been handed something new and entertaining. Joel’s look is shorter. He doesn’t rake over you the same way, he just looks at you with a blank expression.
“Well helloooo there pretty lady, fancy runnin’ into you here.” Ric says with a chuckle, coming forward to kiss your mom on the cheek.
Hardy har har. Looks like he got dad jokes.
Ric turns to you then. “And there’s our girl.”
Our girl.
You fight a look of disgust that wants to take shape on your face. You do not care for that wording one bit, though maybe that’s unfair. You know he means well, he’s a nice guy, you’ve met him a handful of times, never getting a weird pedo vibe from him, unlike that one dude your mom dated, the one who asked you if you wanted to play Twister with him when you were 12. So you let his wording slide. Small mercies.
“Hey Ric,” you say, fitting a small pleasant smile on your face.
“These here are my boys.” He gestures back toward them. “Tommy and Joel.”
You say hi. Joel says hi back and gives you a little salute with two fingers.
Tommy says, “Hey,” with a face that suggests the word has several hidden meanings, none of which are nice.
Your mom is beaming, seemingly already convinced y’all are the Brady Bunch.
“Why don’t you boys show her where her room is?” Ric suggests, looking at his boys. Tommy glances toward the house, then at Joel, like maybe one of them can dodge it but Ric points at the stack still in the truck. “Take one of these boxes with you, they go to her room.”
Joel grabs a box, then Tommy and he jerks his head toward the house. “C’mon.”
You follow Tommy as he cuts through the living room –not giving you any time to take in the space around you that you’ll be calling home– and heads for the steps that lead to the basement –okay… 3 story house, you stand corrected– and you follow him down with Joel on your heels. The staircase is narrow, boxed in by solid walls on both sides, so you're single file the whole way down. At the bottom, Tommy turns right and the space opens up to the living room. He informs you that he and Joel occupy the main living area of the basement and their rooms are on the other side of it at the far end. It's a cozy cave of guitars and game controllers, with dark wood paneling, a big stereo, and a worn-in plaid couch, along with a TV on a stand against one wall.
You’re led back to the bottom of the stairs, there going the other way is a small hallway with 2 doors. Tommy walks through one of those doors. “And here we are.” He drops the box at the foot of your bed –that Ric has so graciously already put together for you, huh, maybe this guy will be good for your mom afterall– as your eyes move around the space.
Your room is small, square, same plain wood paneling along the walls. There’s one little window high up near the ceiling where a strip of daylight comes in level with the lawn outside. If you stood on the mattress, you figure you could hoist yourself up and shimmy out of it, if you ever needed a possible escape route.
“Cute,” your mother says from behind you, arriving breathless with two smaller boxes in her arms. “Isn’t it cute?”
She’s clearly trying to get you to love it.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” you lie, enthusiastically.
Joel sets his box down by the dresser, his eyes moving once around the room, then to the hallway, then back to you. That’s when you realize that the other door you passed was a bathroom and you’ll be sharing it with them. You look up to the ceiling and let out a breath through your nose, hoping this won’t be a point of contention between you and the brothers.
Tommy notices and says, “Just don’t take forever in there and we’ll get along fine.”
Your head turns to look at him. “I don’t take forever,” you say nicely with a smile.
Tommy widens his eyes trying to act innocent. “Didn’t say you did.”
Then under his breath he mutters –but yeah, it doesn’t look like it– quiet enough that your mom and her old ass ears miss his insult. But you hear it, and Joel’s close enough to hear it too. The words hurt and make you feel like shit. You don't glob makeup on or anything, but you brush your hair, put in little efforts here and there. You're far from a bridge troll and at least always thought of yourself as pleasant looking, but you guess you are pretty plain.
Joel finally speaks for the first time. “Tommy,” he says with a slight reprimand to his voice.
Tommy lifts both hands. “What? I’m just saying.”
You look down at the floor, now feeling ugly –u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi ugly– and smaller than ever. Your mother, oblivious to the interaction that just happened and to your current feelings, claps once and says, “This is going to be SO good, I can feel it.”
~~
After that day, one of the first things you learn about Joel and Tommy is that they take long showers. What in the hell are they doing in there?? This noticeably starts affecting your new life, 2 weeks into living here. Standing in the hallway at 7:15 am with your towel and shampoo tucked under your arm – you already know better than to leave your shampoo in the bathroom, found that out week 1 when you suspect over half of it was squirted down the drain – waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the water has already been running for 20 minutes. You let out a frustrated sigh and politely knock again.
"Occupied." Tommy says cheerfully and unbothered, while the water keeps flowing.
"I have school," you say through the door.
"So do I."
"Then why are you still—"
"Relax, Goody. I'll be out in a minute."
You continue to stand there in the hallway with your shampoo and your towel, doubting he’ll be out in the next minute. What’s hard is knowing somewhere upstairs your mom and Ric are having breakfast together, all happy, and you're down here losing a war of attrition against one of your new step brothers.
The door finally opens six minutes later. Tommy comes out in a cloud of steam with a towel around his waist and his hair dripping, looking pleased with himself. He glances at you, sees the worry and upset look on your face, and grins.
"See? A minute," he says, and disappears around the corner.
Now you stand in the steam he left behind, the mirror completely fogged, and you just know there's probably not a single drop of hot water left.
The brothers don’t really ever take you into consideration and Tommy most of all finds it amusing if he inconveniences you. They have their own world downstairs, their own hours, and are always with each other. Your bedroom, carved out of their territory, just a door they walk near on the way to the bathroom. You keep your room tidy. You do your dishes. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You are, in every outward way, the model of a person who is not causing problems. Yet they don’t become your friends, like you’d hoped for, instead all there is is turbulence.
It's Tommy who coins it, during the first week of living here. You're at the kitchen table with your school books fanned out — even though classes only just started, you're trying to get ahead, knocking out a reading assignment before dinner — when Tommy spots the highlighters lined up by color and pulls a face. "Geesh," he says, nudging Joel as he trails in behind him from outside. "See? Told you she was a goody."
Goody. As in two-shoes. As in no fun.
Apparently they've already decided what kind of girl you are before they really know a single thing about you, and you can’t figure out how to prove them wrong without sounding pathetic. So you don't try. You don't let it show on your face how much the new nickname hurts you. But that night, back in your room, a few tears slip down your face, there is only so much you can take. And everyday you see just how happy your mom is with Ric and how well he treats her, and you don’t want to be the person who ruins it, but this house you live in now, definitely doesn’t feel like home to you.
~~
Weeks go by. Then a few months. The weather changes and you keep learning more about your new step-brothers. In the cooler months the boys wear old ratty flannels over their T-shirts and Tommy digs out a few colorful sweaters and cardigans, trying to look like his idol Kurt Cobain.
Ric and your mom stay in their own little world upstairs, They make dinner together. They fall asleep on the couch watching old movies. They go to estate sales on Saturdays and come back with things to make his house their house. Eye roll.
Which means you, Joel and Tommy are basically unsupervised, all the time. The boys take full advantage of this. Friends over on school nights, music until whenever, the basement running on its own hours entirely. You can hear it through the wall when you're trying to sleep — laughter, guitars strumming, noise of teenage boys who have never once been told to keep it the fuck down. Clearly, never having to fight for their right to party. You’ve gathered that Ric trusts his sons fully, because the brothers have a lot of people over, more than your mom seems to be aware of. All coming in through the basement door. You like to think if your mom knew her 15 year old daughter was down here constantly surrounded by 14 and 15 year old boys, she might say something to Ric. But she never seems none the wiser. And you never let on about it.
You discover more about the brothers listening though the walls at night, like how Tommy is always trying to be the center of attention. Surprise, surprise. He laughs first and loudest. Joel hangs back more, but not in a shy way. You’ve gathered he’s a pretty confident person around his friends. And the 2 of them together are impossible. They move around each other without thinking. One drops something, the other picks it up. It’s like they share the same instincts, forged from years of roughhousing, shared space, and a silent alliance against the rest of the world. One forgets his wallet on the counter; the other is already tossing it to him before he even pats his pockets. They finish each other’s sentences, usually with some smartass remark that only makes sense to them. And they share everything; clothes, inside jokes, friends, food. You find it obnoxious and also, against your better judgement, a little fascinating.
You slowly develop a new life of your own there, though. You aren't sitting downstairs pining for their approval like some loser. You have school. A few friends. You spend as much time out of the house and away from them as you can.
Most days you hang around with Jenna and Riley, 2 friends you made since moving here. You steal Tommy’s beat up bmx bike outta the garage, to go to the Sonic in town. You all pool your money together, split a large order of tots and share a Route 44 Cherry Coke. On cooler evenings you ride the back roads, kicking up gravel, racing each other to the old water tower on the edge of town just to sit and watch the world move below.
Some weekends you help out at the county animal shelter because the dogs don’t care that you’re the new kid or what’s going on at your house. You play with the big mutts in the dusty yard out back and sneak them extra treats when no one’s looking. You've always preferred the big ones — the ones other people pass right by because they look like their too much to handle. Those are the ones that make you feel the most safe cause they just wanna be close to you, wanna prove their loyalty to you. They just wanna love you and be loved back. You like that.
So no, you're not completely miserable. It more so feels like death by a thousand stings. Because your step-bothers can be so infuriating. They take your laundry out of the dryer before it’s done. They both talk over you at dinner. Always leaving the toilet seat up, you learned to check after falling in once in the middle of the night. They use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll.
But there is the one thing Tommy does that just chaps your ass like nothing else, and it happens at least once a month and you know he does this shit on purpose. You caught him doing it before and he just smirked like it was funny.
You wake up, get ready for school, and drag yourself into the kitchen hoping for something easy before the bus comes. Your eyes land on the Frosted Flakes box sitting there on the shelf. For a second your mood lifts.
Hell yeah.
You’re already tasting the sweet crunch, imagining pouring a big bowl and drowning it in milk. You reach up excited now and pull the box down with actual energy for the first time that morning, but the box feels way too light. That rush of excitement collapses instantly into pure annoyance, then disappointment. You stand there staring at the stupid colorful box in your hands, the bright tiger on the front still smiling like everything’s fine. They're Grrrreat!
You open the top anyway, hoping maybe there’s a handful left at the bottom. There never is. Just an empty bag shoved back in the box like trash. It makes you want to slam the empty box on the counter. Instead you just crush it hard between your hands. It’s such a small thing, but it fucks up your whole morning every single time. That brief spark of this is gonna be good followed by the letdown. It feels exactly like living here.
Yet you still don’t hate them, just wish they’d be nicer to you. What you do hate is how they can make you feel like a stupid little girl with one look and how they can be so inconsiderate of you, but so instinctively considerate with each other. Mostly, you hate that after a while, being called Goody starts to feel less like an insult and more like a role you’ve been shoved in. So you play it. You keep your grades up. Keep your room neat. Keep your mouth shut more than either of them deserves. You become very, very good at not being seen or heard.
Time still carries on, winter comes and goes, and to your dismay, the bathroom situation never improves. The noise doesn’t either. You finally invest in a cheap pair of ear plugs with your allowance but they only help so much.
~~
By the time school is 3 weeks away from letting out for summer, your eyes feel like they're gonna bleed and you are starting to feel a deep-seated anger that you truly have never felt before. Every slammed door, every late-night jam sesh from the boys’ side of the basement is like a hand shaking your mattress, pushing you past the point of delirium.
It’s been 8 months of Tommy and Joel’s friends coming and going in packs, always loud, shouting over each other, playing music or video games. Now on the rare occasion Ric will holler down the stairs to keep the volume down before he goes to bed, but you know once he gets into the bedroom with your mom and their big box fan, they won’t hear a thing. It won’t be 10 minutes later somebody’s laughing again, the TV or music is up, the bathroom door is slamming, somebody’s banging something against the staircase wall, and there goes another decent night of sleep.
So when the flyer goes up on the school bulletin board for a 10 week counselor program at a lakeside camp a bones throw from Austin, you tear off one of the tabs before you even finish reading it.
It’s not for the fresh air. It is not about some grand destiny and finding yourself in nature or any of that hippie dippy bullshit they put on the flyer. It’s solely about leaving. You sign up because your brain feels like stew and the thought of being trapped downstairs all summer listening to the boys and their friends shred the same three Nirvana riffs just might cause you to be committed.
You're filling out the application at the kitchen table, your mom brings over dinner and the rest of the family arrives. "Camp counselor, huh?" she asks as she sets down the main course and peers over your shoulder. “Will they let 15 year olds do that?”
“Mmhm, plus I’ll turn 16 while I’m there,” you say, continuing to write.
Your mom sits down with a sad look on her face. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I suppose we can celebrate it when you get back. Where’s the camp?”
“Somewhere on Lake Travis,” you inform her.
Ric, to his credit, thinks it sounds practical. “Looks good on applications,” he says around a forkful of food “Responsibility. Leadership and all that.”
Tommy, lounging in his chair with one knee up and laughing says, “You all gonna gather ‘round the campfire and sing kumbaya?”
You roll your eyes to yourself and keep writing.
“And braid friendship bracelets?,” Joel adds smirking.
~~
You get an acceptance letter 2 weeks later that feels like a pardon from the president and the whole house knows by dinner that night – thanks to your mom of course.
She’s thrilled, probably more so because she will have something new to talk about with her friends. “10 whole weeks!” she says. “We’re all sure gonna miss you!”
Sureeeeeee you will.
Then Tommy buts in. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “We’re gonna be inconsolable.”
Joel chuckles. Tommy lifts his brows, cutting a look to Joel. “Think they got a merit badge for bein’ a goody? Maybe they’ll teach her how to loosen the hell up out there.”
“Watch your mouth boy,” Ric says sharply, pointing his fork at him.
Tommy’s shit-eating grin immediately slips from his face.
“Both of y’all knock it off,” Ric adds, looking from Tommy to Joel. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with her wanting to do something worthwhile with her summer, and you two knuckleheads ain’t gonna sit here and make a joke out of it.”
Joel drops his eyes to his plate as Tommy mutters, “Was just kiddin’ around.”
“Well, I’m not,” Ric says. “She’s a sweetheart and good girl. Better sense than most kids her age, definitely more than the pair of you put together. I’d be real pleased if more young people acted the way she does.”
While Ric’s words are nice and all, you have never wished more than right now that teleportation was a real thing and something you had the ability to do. Your mom just smiles, pleased, at the lovely things her beau just said about you. And here you are the good girl at the dinner table, held up like an example. Such a little sweetheart.
~~
Later that night, Tommy comes up to you, stands with his shoulder leaning against the bathroom door frame, while you're brushing your teeth.
“Better be a good girl and run along to bed now, wouldn’t want you up past your bedtime,” he says.
You look up at him in the mirror, spit into the sink and reach for the towel, not answering him. You can feel your eyes start to build tears, and it only gets worse the harder you try to hold them back. It's been months of this - of him treating you like shit. It's becoming too much.
“Aww,” Tommy smiles and leans in towards you. “You gonna cry?”
“No! Shut up,” you say, looking down at the hand towel you’re holding.
His grin widens as he pushes off the frame satisfied with himself and heads down the hallway, straight past Joel, whose back is resting against the wall, arms folded. He wandered over to use the bathroom, but ended up hearing the whole exchange between you and his brother.
You make eye contact with Joel and look down fast, but not fast enough, tears finally slipping loose. Humiliating in their timing, happening in front of Joel. But something in his face changes, his arms drop, he pushes off the wall and reaches toward you, the movement surprising him as much as it does you.
“Hey—”
You back up away from his reach and flee before he can say anything else, before your body can betray you any further. You make it to your room, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with shaking fingers.
You back away from the door, wiping furiously at your face with the back of your hands, angry now on top of everything else. Angry at Tommy and angry at Joel for always just standing there, laughing along. But now he wants to act like he gives a shit about your feelings cause he witnessed the effects of Tommy’s berating.
The floor creaks outside your door. Then Joel’s voice comes through the wood. He says your name, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Go away!” you shout, a sob breaking out of you. “I can’t wait to get away from both of you!”
A moment passes and Joel speaks again. “I’m sorry, I’ll—”
You cut him off. “I said go away!”
The floor makes another little sound as Joel stands there, and then you hear the sound of his retreating footsteps make their way down the hall. You stand in the middle of your room listening until he’s gone. Only then do you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head. Now upset and angry with yourself too, because for the first time since moving into this house, one of them saw you break.
~~
You get the feeling that Joel must have said something to Tommy about what happened after he teased you the other night, because for the next week -the week before you leave for camp- Joel and Tommy steer clear of you. You’re grateful.
A few days before you leave, your mom takes you to K-Mart and lets you pick out two pairs of shorts and a new one-piece bathing suit that doesn’t feel matronly but is still modest, and lives up to your Goody name.
The morning you leave, the basement is quiet, assuming both the boys are still dead to the world this early, and part of you would love to be loud and interrupt their sleep, but you don't wanna have to interact with the pair and most importantly you don’t want to be like them.
Tip-toeing down the hall, you sit your duffel at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, you see Joel, sitting on the couch, faintly lit by the bathroom night light coming from the hallway.
He looks over. “You need any help?” he whispers.
The offer catches you off guard, part of you wants to ask if he has a fever.
“I’ve got it,” you coldly reply.
Now you can’t be sure due to how dark it is but dare you say Joel looks a little hurt.
~~
The camp bus is set to leave from the H-E-B parking lot in town. Your mother hugs you twice. Ric says, “Have fun, kiddo,” and squeezes your shoulder. Tommy was still asleep when you left and Joel despite being awake doesn’t come, though you didn’t expect him to.
Boarding the bus, your nose notes the smell of sunscreen and someone's body spray fighting a losing battle. You carry your backpack down the aisle and take a window seat by yourself. After the bus pulls off and you wave goodbye, you spend the first 15 minutes doing a threat assessment. Which girls look friendly. Which ones came already locked in with their own people and have no interest in expansion. At the next stop sign, a brunette with a high ponytail drops into the seat beside you in cutoff shorts.
“Hi! You look normal enough. Mind if I risk it?”
“That’s a bold assumption,” you say chuckling.
“Anna,” she smiles, sticking out her hand.
You tell her your name, and that is that. By the time the bus gets to the lake, you've swapped stories. Anna has told you about the time she accidentally set her aunt’s patio umbrella on fire with a magnifying glass. You’ve told her about your step-family, presenting it like a joke you don’t care much about. She seems to read between the lines anyway and just nudges your shoulder with hers and says, “Well, their loss. You’re funny.”
It surprises you how much you need to hear something like that right now. And it gets you more excited for what else is to come at camp.
~~
Your cabin is a narrow row of bunks with screened windows and one small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. It should feel cramped. Somehow it doesn't. Here it just feels communal instead of invasive, the way things at home feel invasive. Nobody stays in there forever. Nobody leaves the floor wet on purpose.
That first night, you wake up on instinct around 1:30am, certain there must be shouting, or music, or the sound of roughhousing on the other side of the basement. There is only the fan. A throat being cleared in sleep. Somebody turning over in a bunk hard enough to make the frame creak. You lie there in the dark and feel your whole body slowly realize it can finally relax.
By the end of the first week, the dark circles under your eyes start fading. And by the second, you stop waking up at every small noise. The lake itself is prettier than it had looked in the brochure. There are dragonflies that skim low over the surface and disappear before you can track them. Then there are mornings when mist hangs over the water making everything feel calm and serene. You come to love the routine of camp. Waking up early. The way breakfast smells from across the field. The chaos of girls getting ready in the cabin. The scheduled activities.
At first, you wear the new one-piece your mother bought you and sit with your knees together and laugh with your mouth mostly closed and say sorry too often. Sorry for reaching across someone. Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for being sorry.
Anna notices. Saying things like you apologize too much, you know you don’t have to do that here with us. And other things such as why do you always do that, when you tug your shorts down after standing, you have good legs, stop hiding them.
By the third week, little things begin to shift.
Anna lends you a different swimsuit, then a different top, then a pair of shorts that show more thigh than you would’ve dared on your own. She doesn’t push you to wear them, though she does have the subtlety of a fire alarm, but it seems some of her confidence rubs off on you.
At first, wearing one of her bikinis makes you feel overly exposed. You keep tugging at the fabric that covers your tits, crossing your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is staring.
“Everybody has seen what you’ve got to offer before babe,” Anna says, sunning beside you on the dock. “But with jugs like those attached to the rest of that bangin’ body, be prepared for some stares.”
You sheepishly look down and try to hold back a smile. The confidence in her words embolden you, you stop folding in on yourself and just let yourself be.
After that, things change faster. You get a little color. Then a little more. Your shoulders deepen from pale to golden honey. The bridge of your nose freckles. Your hair goes lighter in places where you spray the lemon scented Sun-In spray on it. One day you catch your reflection in a small bathroom mirror, looking miles different from the girl who showed up in sensible shorts with her whole personality tucked in.
One of the senior counselors, a girl named Liza with bleached bangs, pierces your ears in the craft cabin after curfew with a needle sterilized over a lighter. And not just the lobes, but small silver hoops up along the cartilage, 3 on one side and 2 on the other. You adore how they look on you. Then Anna tries to talk you into a nipple piercing while you're at it.
"Absolutely not," you say.
"Oh come on, you'd love it."
"Anna."
"Fine. Eventually you'd love it."
By week four you're laughing louder. By week five you’re rolling the legs of your shorts up twice instead of once and not tugging them back down every time you stand. By week six you catch boys looking. You start to love the male attention you're getting. Becoming bolder, holding eye contact with them just long enough that the boys grin back at you.
Then flirtation with Grant starts. He’s one of the senior counselors that oversees water sports, which means you see him every afternoon at the dock while helping the small kids. He’s really sweet and easygoing. The first time he really notices you, you’re dragging a canoe up onto shore, he steps in and lifts the other end like it’s nothing.
“Dang girl, let me help you,” he says. “You trying to impress somebody?”
“Is it working?” you say, eyeing him.
“…Maybe,” he says, with a grin and a look where you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say that.
After that, he starts finding reasons to talk to you. What you like most is that he doesn’t call you a Goody.
~~
Before you know it, the middle of July is here, along with your 16th birthday. You told Anna not to make a big deal of it, and wouldn’t you know it, she doesn’t listen. Shocker.
So of course, on the night of your birthday, after lights out, Anna leads you down to the dock where a loose half-circle of junior and senior counselors have gathered. Somebody has smuggled in a bottle of rum. Somebody else has brought a cake in a smashed plastic container. The lake is like black glass and the near full moon lays a silver path across it, so bright, it looks like you could walk across it. They light the candles and sing to you, badly. You make a face, laugh and tell them to shut up, embarrassed by being the center of attention. A paper plate with cake gets pressed into your hand and the rum burns all the way down.
That’s when Anna starts a game of truth or dare. She doesn't start with you, which you are so thankful for. She works her way around the circle, you watch and laugh, thinking maybe you're going to get through this without becoming the subject.
Then it gets to Grant.
"Truth or dare," Anna says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking at her.
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”
A few people oooh like idiots. Anna tips her head, pretending to think, though you bet she’s had this cocked and loaded since the game began.
“I dare you,” she says, drawing it out, “to kiss the birthday girl.”
The dock erupts. People clapping. Somebody pounds a heel against the wood. Anna looks at you so pleased with herself, part of you wants to throttle her.
Grant glances at you first. That is what you remember later. That he looks at you first. Not at Anna. Not at the crowd. At you. Suddenly the sweatshirt you wore to help keep the chill of the night off of you, is now holding in the flames that burst over your skin. You know everybody is watching. You know that 6 weeks ago this would have sent you straight into yourself, a turtle retreating under its shell.
Instead, you lift one shoulder, licking your lips and say, “C’mere handsome, make my birthday wish come true.”
The whole circle loses its mind.
Grant laughs a little under his breath, and moves closer. One hand comes up, holding your face then his soft lips press against yours, lips now moving together slowly in unison as all sound fades. When he draws back, the cheering rushes in all at once. You give a coy laugh. Grant is grinning at you now.
“Worth the wish?” he asks, a little flushed.
You can still feel the shape of the lips on your mouth. “Definitely.”
Anna is shrieking like she has personally orchestrated the moon landing, and you can’t find it in you to be too upset at her after that kiss.
Lying in your bunk after the night comes to a close, you press your fingers to your lips and stare up into the dark. It isn’t really about Grant, well not only about him. It’s about the fact that somewhere between the H-E-B parking lot and that kiss, between the one-piece swimsuit and Anna’s relentless campaign against your old self, you realize how much more at ease you are in your own skin.
~~
Your duffel is fuller leaving than it was arriving. A borrowed paperback one of the girls gave to you. A camp T-shirt you cut up because Liza told you to stop dressing like the assistant manager of a Christian bookstore. A Polaroid from the dock, all of you squinting sun-drunk into the camera, Anna half climbing onto your back. A bottle of vanilla body spray that Dee brought and didn’t like, so she gave it to you. Anna tosses you one of her tank tops, which you put on to head home in. White and tight, hugging your tits and accentuating your waist perfectly, paired with the same shorts you arrived in, only now you’ve taken shears to them, making them super short. Your legs are darker and your hair is lighter. The messy bun atop your head allows the silver on your ears to flash when you turn your head.
Grant meets you at your cabin door, the morning it’s time to leave and takes your duffel, carrying it for you. The bus lot is last-minute chaos. Girls calling to each other and crying. The adult counselors checking names off clipboards.
Grant bends to slide your duffel under the bus, then turns back to you.
"So," he says. "You were fun to have around, I’m gonna miss you." He opens his arms and you step in, he pulls you flush up against him, his chin brushing your temple.
When he leans back, one hand stays at your waist, the other reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Just in case.”
You take it, already smiling before even opening it. Inside is his number, and beneath it, in his handwriting, In case you need someone to talk to. Or advice about guys.
You glance up at him. “Advice about guys?”
“I know at least one.”
You laugh, folding the paper back up. “And he’s an expert?”
“Debatable,” he says. Then, a little softer, “The first part was the important one.”
There is that feeling again, that bright little lift low in your stomach – the same one you got when you kissed him. You know it's not because you think Grant is the love of your life. But because how he actually gives a fuck about you, and about all the things you told him about your home life between makeout sessions behind the mess hall.
Behind you, Anna shouts, “We’re boarding babe! C’mon!”
You turn halfway and yell, “Get on the bus, I’ll be there in a sec.”
Grant laughs, looking over your shoulder at her, then looks back at you. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m always here if you need someone in your corner”
“I know, thank you, really.”
His gaze dips to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. His lips meet yours in a simple goodbye kiss. His thumbs brush once at your sides through the cotton of the tank top, then he lets you go.
“Go on, pretty girl.” he says, nodding toward the bus.
Your hand closes around the folded paper, stepping back. You stand there for a moment looking at him and it occurs to you that you are going to miss him or maybe more the feeling he gives you and not so much him. You’re not naive, you figure the odds of ever seeing him again are slim, you’re okay with that, you can make peace with that. You know how to handle a person no longer being in your life.
“Bye, Grant.”
You turn and head toward the bus, your duffel already swallowed beneath it, your flip-flops slapping warm pavement. You climb onto the bus with his number tucked in your palm. You drop into the seat beside Anna and shove at her shoulder. “Move over.”
She eyes the paper in your hand. “Did he give you his number?”
Your hips raise up and you shove it into the pocket of your shorts. “Maybe.”
She clutches her chest. “My work here is done.”
As the bus pulls away, you glance out the window. Grant lifts a hand. You lift yours back. Then the camp begins to recede. The dock. The cabins. The trail to the lake. The place where you became more yourself.
But with every mile home, the old life starts coming back into view.
~~
The ride home feels shorter, you wish it was longer, not eager in the slightest to come back to what awaits you. Before you know it, the bus hisses to a stop in the same H-E-B lot you shoved off from. Your mother is already there, standing beside the champagne chariot in sunglasses, one hand lifted against the glare. You de-board, grab your duffle, say bye to Anna –excited to have learned at camp she lives one town over, so you’ll be able to hangout– and head toward your mom as she calls out, “There’s my girl! Lord, look at you!” Pulling you into a hug. She leans back to get a better look, both hands on your shoulders.
“You got tan,” she says, then squints at one ear then the other. “And pierced.”
“Mhm.” You say, hoping she doesn’t disapprove.
“You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much, the house just isn’t the same without you, honey.”
The old duffel gets chucked in the back seat. Your mother talks all through the drive. She asks a little about the camp but says you can talk more about it at dinner.
“I’m sure Ric and the boys would love to hear all about it too!”
You’re kidding… right?
It’s nice to see your Mom’s still delusional.
Then she asks if you met any boys, which makes you turn and look at her because she hasn't asked you that sort of question in a while.
"What?" she says, smiling at the road ahead. “I’m your mother, not a nun.”
You let out a short laugh but don’t answer her question and she doesn’t ask again. You watch the road along with her. The familiar turnoff's coming back one by one. The gas station with the busted Coke sign. The feed store with the faded mural on the side.
Your mother keeps talking, filling the car with what she and Ric have been up to while you were gone, but you’re not really listening. The closer you get to your neighborhood, the more you start to feel the outline of the basement again. You look down at your hands instead, trying to distract yourself. Silver rings circle your fingers now, two on your left hand, one thin one on your right thumb. Nails painted a dark blue with that Wet ‘n Wild shimmer Dee let you borrow. You twist one of the rings absently, then lift one bare foot into the seat without thinking, your knee bent toward your chest. Your mother glances over and catches sight of it.
“Is that a toe ring?”
You wiggle your little piggies, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Who are you?” She laughs. “And what have you done with my daughter?”
You rest your temple against the seat and look at her, returning the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, listen to this girl,” she says, delighted, and reaches over to tap your knee. “Camp put some mouth on you.”
Maybe it did. Or maybe the mouth was always there, tucked away with a dozen other things you got used to hiding. The radio fills the rest of the drive. That Collective Soul song, December, the one that's been everywhere all summer.
When the Camry finally turns onto your street, you sit up a little straighter without thinking. Body bracing for impact, the old you bracing for impact. But you aren’t that person anymore, you left that little timid bitch at camp. You pop your gum once, cross your arms and settle back against the seat. If those two boys want to make your life difficult, they can fucking try. They haven't met the real you yet.
I'd love to hear what you think so far!
Please consider reblogging it really helps us writers keep writing for you babes and it gets more eyes on the story so others can enjoy it too! <3
The next chapter is the one that contains the snippet of the wip I posted several weeks ago. If you haven't read that yet, you can find it here.
If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in the last couple posts I’ve made about this series or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3
warning: this recommendation has tags that should not be ignored including dubcon/noncon elements and infidelity.
INSANELY GOOD READ (and also one of my craziest fuckin' reads): "The Hunt" by PasDuTout.
(game) dark!joel and dark!tommy miller compete after you. other than cordyceps, there are additional supernatural forces in the story.
PasDuTout's description:
You and Joel and Tommy Miller share a dirty little secret. The three of you are trapped in an endless game of hide and seek. Once a year, you must come out to play. The rules are always the same: you hide, they seek. And if they catch you, they get to do whatever the fuck they want to you.
it's only 33.7k words, but i feel like i was taken on a wild journey. similar to the wendigo!joel story, the plot was magnificent and perfectly detailed-- not too much, not too little. allows for the reader to fill in the blanks.
reminded me of ready or not-- specifically what i would want the danforth's to do me ;)
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On on particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagine it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow slip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he'd never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
You're stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what does it hurt if he just opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush that's spilled magenta pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your sheets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberated through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket of your jeans, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An…understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him the following weekend.
do u wanna like…go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is one single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
craig comes across andrew and his gf's homemade videos (18+)
(not proofread)
-
as per usual, craig could totally justify himself in his actions.
it wasn't like he'd walked into pope's room in search for the tiny little digital camera that now resided in his hands. he had an iphone at his disposal, what the hell would he use a digital camera for?
but it was the content of the tiny screen that had caught his attention.
pushing aside his search for the baggies nicki had misplaced somewhere around the house, he was now onto an entirely different mission.
pope's was usually the last room he liked to go into. it was eerily clean, with every single one of his possessions perfectly laid in its assigned spot. which was why the camera had stuck out like a sore thumb. it was an odd thing for pope to leave lying around, specially on his bedside table.
and so he picked it up.
and then he fell into a trance.
displayed on the small screen was a paused video.
you were sat back on the side of the bed, elbows digging into the plush of the mattress as you supported your weight on them, looking up at the camera with wide eyes and a tiny, pleased smile. your body was barely covered by a pink negligee falling off your shoulder and your tit peaking out. your hair had a little more volume than usual and your makeup was slightly different. you'd done yourself up for this.
with the click of a button, the enticing thumbnail began playing.
the quality was somewhat shitty, which annoyed craig a bit.
it was shot from pope's perspective, he noticed immediately. he towered over you as you sat on the bed looking up at him.
"hey, handsome," you spoke at the camera, cheeky smile on your lips.
your hands went up to pope's body, disappearing from frame but clearly beginning to paw at pope's chest off-camera.
similarly, pope's hand entered frame, cupping your cheek as you leaned into the touch. your face turned slightly to the side, mouthing at pope's palm until you caught his thumb in your mouth.
the angle of the camera raised a little, giving craig the perfect angle as you looked up at the camera, eyes wide and mouth suctioning at pope's thumb. he could pretend it wasn't his brother's.
"fuck, baby. so fuckin' perfect for me," pope interrupted.
after some moments, you finally slipped the thumb out of your mouth, licking at its length once before kissing the back of pope's hand.
with some coaxing, you laid back on the bed as pope drew himself closer, straddling your body on the bed.
"let me get a good look at you, angel."
this was followed by pope somewhat shakily panning into every inch of your body. he started with your face, planting a kiss on your lips before you showed the camera a toothy smile. his hand came out once more to caress at your cheek, trailing down to your neck, to your half-uncovered tits. there, his thumb circled your nipple through the thin fabric, drawing a sigh out of you.
below him, you squirmed and moaned for pope as his hand traced down every inch, feeling every supple inch of barely-covered skin. occasionally he'd lean down and kiss at whatever part of your body laid in front of him at that moment, making it so the camera drew too close for craig to see anything, but he could still hear that tiny intake of breath you did every time he kissed you.
"andy... want you."
"i know, baby."
again, he panned out, hovering over you and showing your needy self under him. there was some silence, only filled up by some low grunts of pope's.
"do i look pretty, andy?" you giggled up at him after some moments of silence, eyes drawing below the lens every so often.
"so pretty, baby," he grunted.
craig could guess what was going on off-screen as pope watched you.
"you gonna fuck me, or what?"
a breathless chuckle could be heard off-screen, and then some unbuckling and ruffling of clothes.
a hand appeared, digging into your hip as pope drew himself closer. while one hand shakily held onto the camera, the other aided in turning you over and onto your hands and knees.
from behind you, pope adjusted you, pressing deep into the small of your back to get your ass further up and your arch a little deeper.
teasingly, you swayed your hips at him, smiling at him as you twisted your head to look back into the camera.
the tiny thong you had on hid absolutely nothing, much less did the negligee pope had pushed up to fully uncover your ass.
the next few scenes were a little unfortunate for craig.
they consisted of pope pulling out his dick, stroking it as he pressed it into you, circling at your clit as you mewled out his name and pushed your ass up against him.
craig was conflicted. on one hand, he didn't want to see his brother's dick, but on the other, he really wanted to see you getting fucked from behind.
with a mental coin toss, he decided to do some mental gymnastics to remove pope from the equation and solely focus on how breathless your wails sounded as soon as pope made his way inside you.
he had a perfect view of the recoil of your ass, groaning inwardly when you'd push back, when the sound of skin slapping joined in with your tiny, high-pitched moans.
sometimes pope would grip at your hair, making you sit up on your knees and pressing your back to his chest. craig couldn't really see much from this angle, but he'd hear the kissing and your muffled cries.
he wasn't sure when this was recorded, whether he'd been at home when it happened, but you'd been careless in the volume of your noises. an endless stream of sounds of pleasure left your lips as pope pounded into you.
"m-more, ffuuck, please."
"right there- fuck, don't stop—"
"andy- oh, fuck, andy!"
these were all sounds he'd grown familiar with through your relationship with pope. you were never shy in expressing yourself in the bedroom, but seeing it? and from this angle, where he could pretend it wasn't his brother who was dragging these noises out of you?
fuck, he could just-
"what are you doing in my room?"
craig felt his body go completely still. every hair in his body stood up and his muscles tensed.
he couldn't dare look behind him, to look at the source of the voice as the video continued to play in his hands.
"and what the fuck are you doing with my camera?"
slowly, craig twisted his body, camera still in his hands as he looked to find pope's erect figure standing by the door of his room.
"hey, man, i was just-"
"fuck are you doing looking at my videos of my girl?"
with a single move, pope's hand landed on a tight grip around craig's wrist, making him groan out as his fingers relaxed around the camera, letting it fall onto pope's other hand.
mutely, the sex noises could still be heard emanating from the digital camera. pope turned the volume down, not once taking his threatening eyes away from craig's guilty ones.
"i just- i was looking for my baggies and-"
"they're not in my room."
craig sighed at the interruption, "yeah, man, i noticed. i just saw the camera and i got curious, that's all."
"you got curious for," he took a moment to check the screen, "twelve minutes and fifty-five seconds?" he read off the time lapsed of the video.
craig winced.
"it's not like that, okay?"
it was pure denial, but if craig knew anything, it was that the best remedy was always to lie your way out of trouble.
pope nodded to himself, unconvinced. with one step forward, he was in craig's face, looking up to him with that same threatening expression pope reserved for anyone but you.
"i catch you looking at my girl again, i'm going to break your legs. this is your last warning, craig."
even as he towered over him, craig gulped with a nod, eyes wandering away from his. it was kind of embarrassing how easily he folded under his gaze. he knew pope would be good on his words, specially with this being his second warning.
"understand?"
"yeah- yep, got it, pope."
taking his chance, he rounded pope and practically sprinted out of the room. outside, he let out the breath he'd been holding, relieved it didn't escalate this time around.
but even then, he found himself making a mental note.
he'd have to come back when pope was out of the house.
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