Warning: sexual content, unprotected sex, sex toys?
Your bunny boyfriend acts all sweet, innocent, and shy around other people, whether they're strangers, friends, or family. Simply the perfect bunny.
But when you're alone, he becomes a completely different person. His libido increases a thousandfold, and all he thinks about is fucking you. In seconds, he'll bend you down on any soft surface so he can fuck you to his heart's content, whether it's the bed, the sofa, or that fur rug he begged you to buy.
Your bunny boyfriend really enjoys pretending you're his dirty bunny. He makes you wear furry bunny ears (which he bought at a costume shop), furry thigh-high stockings, and a white pom-pom-shaped anal plug that looks just like his own.
He has you face down, ass up, drooling on the sheets as he vigorously fucks you from behind. His hands grip your hips tightly, his nails leaving crescent-shaped marks on your smooth skin. He groans and moans, biting his lip as he watches the pom-pom on your ass quiver when your anus contracts and loosens around the metal.
“Y-you... you have to –ugh... k-keep it inside you... n-naughty bunny...”
All you can do is moan as his cock hits your sweet spot again and again. Your hands grip the sheets, his fat balls slapping against your ass repeatedly, leaving a red mark on your fuzzy skin. The wet, dirty sound of slaps fills the room along with the thick smell of sex. His cock throbs inside you, his movements becoming more erratic, feverish like a real bunny in heat. He pinches your clit, making your eyes roll back.
“C-cum on, bunny... c-cum on right now... so your h-husband... can cum inside... y-you...”
His fingers rub and pinch your clit, right where his thick cock goes in and out of you. Your belly clenches and an electric shock travels through your pussy. You come with a sharp moan, your juices soaking his cock, dripping from his balls. The sensation makes his eyes roll back. With one last thrust, he cums, strands of warm, thick semen filling you. His tail twitches and quivers, as do his ears. Looks like you two will have a litter of bunnies very soon ♥︎
Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow Hill and now he’s in your home. He’s dangerous, obsessive, and very, very out of control… but maybe you’ve been just as twisted all along.
Word Count: 5005
Warnings: aged up characters. Mild spoilers for season 2A. (This is a fictional continuation to episode 4) Filthy, feral, possessive smut that includes choking, spit play, biting, bruises, degradation, and obsessive “you’re mine” energy. Mentions of bullying. Read at your own risk (or pleasure).
Author's note: This is unhinged. I’ve been reading way too many feral monster romances lately and it shows.
(( Part 2 - Possessive )) - (( Part 3 - If I Catch You )) - (( Part 4 - Reflections )) - (( Part 5 - Unleashed )) - (( Masterlist ))
Nights were always the same in your house.
Books stacked in uneven towers around the living room. Quiet music humming from a scratched record in the corner. Tea cooling too quickly in your chipped mug, forgotten while you read the same page for the third time. Outside, only the occasional hoot of an owl or the low hum of wind pushing through brittle trees...
But something feels off. You hear the crash before you hear the door. Something hits it, hard. Once.
You stand up, mug half-raised, eyes flicking to the dark hallway. Your fingers tighten around the ceramic.
A second crash, louder, like whatever’s out there isn’t just knocking… It’s coming in.
The third hit splits the air with a brutal crack and the door gives out completely, slamming against the inside wall with a violent snap of wood and metal. A burst of cold air rushes in with it, slapping your skin, carrying the scent of wet earth and something... sharp.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re still holding your tea like a shield, your free hand presses instinctively against your chest, like it might hold your heart in place. And then he’s there.
Tyler Galpin.
Soaked by rain, barefoot and shirtless. Blood streaks his skin in clotted half-moons, dirt smudges his collarbones. His chest rises and falls like he’s outrun hell, and maybe he has. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, jaw tight, lips split and bleeding and those eyes, they are haunted, feral, unmistakable... They find you instantly and they don’t let go.
He doesn’t speak, he just leans against the inside of your shattered doorway and turns the lock like he still believes it works, like he’s claimed this space now.
You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you graduated High School, not since he was dragged away, eyes dead and wrists bound, not since the last time he ruined something that mattered to you.
You take a single, cautious step backward.
His body goes taut, something flashes in his expression… Panic? Instinct? It’s gone too fast to catch.
“Don’t,” he growls, his voice low and cracked from disuse — or screaming — you can’t tell. “Just... don’t.”
You want to run. You want to scream until your lungs rip open but you remember how fast he used to be on the field, in the woods, in the halls of Jericho High, where he used to grab your backpack just to unzip it and let the contents spill.
“Oops,” he’d smirk, stepping over your glasses like trash. Once, he crushed a limited edition of Wuthering Heights beneath his boot like it was a joke.
You didn’t know then that he had a monster inside him. You're still not sure of what he is now.
“What… what do you want?” Your voice doesn’t feel like your own.
He licks blood from his lip and gives you a slow, shaky smile, too wide and too familiar. Something twisted and boyish in it, like he’s trying it on after years in storage.
“What do you think, nerd?” The word is a slap, it lands in the hollow of your ribs like it still belongs there. “Let me guess, you still live alone, still read by candlelight, still got all your little rules and rituals…“ he continues, dragging himself away from the door, limping toward your kitchen like he’s done this before.
You don’t answer. Your eyes are locked on the blood painting his side. His skin glows pale in the low light, broken only by bruises and grit and the faintest shimmer of sweat. He smells like pine needles and violence.
You should run, but you stay rooted to the floor like a frightened animal, spine stiff and limbs too slow to matter.
He flings the fridge open like he owns it, snorts at the contents, then yanks out a Tupperware of leftover pizza. He eats it cold, no hesitation, no questions, no shame. Then he drinks your milk straight from the carton.
You wonder how many people are dead.
You wonder if you’re next.
When he turns back to you, something in his face shifts, softens maybe, though it’s impossible to say where Tyler ends and the Hyde begins. His head tilts, wolf-like. He breathes in.
“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a delight.
“I should be,” you murmur.
He shrugs, his hand leaving a red smear on the fridge door as he leans against it.
“Yeah.” he smiles.
And for a second — just a second — you forget how to breathe. Then his legs falter. He catches himself on the counter with a grunt, knuckles white. His ribs seize visibly under the bruises, and suddenly, the shimmer on his skin isn't rain. It’s blood.
“Tyler,” you whisper, your voice thin, too soft, too caring. “You’re…”
“Bleeding?” He huffs, not quite a laugh. “No shit.”
He turns slowly, lifting his arm to inspect the gash across his side. The skin beneath is torn, deep, slick with half-dried blood and something darker.
Then, with unsettling calm, he looks at you. “You're gonna fix it.”
Your stomach knots. “I’m not a nurse.”
“You took a first aid class in High School.”
You hate that he remembers. Your eyes flick toward the bathroom cabinet and he notices. His gaze sharpens, tracking the subtle shift in your body like a predator clocking a twitch in wounded prey.
“You're not gonna make me ask again, are you?” His tone shifts, dangerous and tired all at once. “Because I'm not in the mood to beg, not tonight.”
You nod once, slowly backing toward the hallway. His blood is still wet on the floor, his side is still torn open. He won’t chase you.
He can’t.
You make it halfway to the bathroom before you pivot and run, not toward the cabinet but toward the back door. The deadbolt slams open under your hand but not fast enough… he’s already moving. You hear the hiss of pain in his breath as he lunges, the drag of his foot against the wood. You’re almost through the door when his hand wraps around your arm and yanks.
You crash backward into his chest with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the doorframe. He shoves it closed with the flat of his palm and you jolt at the sound. The lock clicks. He doesn’t let go of your arm.
You twist. “Let me go…”
“I said don’t,” he snaps, dragging you back into the hallway.
You struggle against him, wild, stupid, panicked.
“You’re hurt…” you gasp. “You’re bleeding…”
“Not enough to stop me from breaking every door in this place,” he growls, slamming your back against the wall. His forearm braces your shoulder, not crushing but strong enough that you feel how easy it would be for him to really hurt you. He doesn’t but his face is inches from yours now. His voice is ragged. “You really think you’re gonna outrun me? After everything?”
“I had to try,” you reply.
His lips curl. “Yeah, you always run when it gets real.”
You open your mouth to spit back something, anything, but the way he’s looking at you makes the words choke in your throat. He’s staring through you like he knows every version of you you’ve tried to build since high school and doesn’t buy a single one.
His hand slides up the door beside your head, not touching you, but blocking any chance you have of slipping past.
“I’m bleeding all over your floor,” he snaps, stepping even closer, his breath grazing your cheek. So you’re gonna patch me up, and you’re gonna do it now.”
You flinch at his tone, but something in your body responds to the command before your mind catches up.
He pulls back a little, just enough to look down at himself and at the red streaks drying over his ribs. You stare at him for a beat too long. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, so you nod. You push past him stiffly, heart still racing, and disappear into the hallway. He doesn’t follow but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way.
You grab the first aid box from beneath the sink with trembling hands and return, half-expecting him to be gone.
He isn’t.
He’s sitting on a chair in the kitchen, slouched but alert, blood still painting his skin in angry smears. Still shirtless, still terrifying… And still waiting for you.
You kneel beside him. He doesn’t speak but watches you unsnap the kit. Your hands still shaking. You reach for the antiseptic, the gauze, the tweezers… the routine familiar and comforting in the worst possible way.
When you press the gauze against the deep slash just under his ribs, he hisses so you pause.
“Keep going,” he demands.
You clean the wound in silence, your breath shallow, his eyes pinned to your face. Not your hands, not the blood, but your face. It makes your skin prickle.
“You always flinched when I touched you,” he says suddenly. You freeze and his voice lowers, almost curious. “Still do.”
You don’t look up. “I was scared of you.”
He leans forward just slightly, voice dark and unreadable. “You still are.”
You tape the bandage down, too rough on purpose. He doesn’t even wince.
“You’re not going to say thank you, are you?”
His smile is slow, crooked and dangerous.
“No,” he replies. “But I’ll let you live.” And that, apparently, is enough.
Your knees are still weak when you rise, your hands stained with blood — his blood — the sticky warmth drying in smudges across your palms. You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.
“I’ll… I’ll get you something to wear,” you say, barely louder than your pulse. “It’s cold.”
You can feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unrelenting, but he says nothing, just lets you walk away.
You move like a sleepwalker down the hall, past the broken front door and the dark smear on the wall where he caught you mid-escape. Up the stairs. Each step is deliberate, slow and quiet, as if noise might remind him to follow.
You shut your bedroom door behind you with a soft click, not quite a lock — you wouldn’t dare — but a boundary... Fragile and pointless. Your back hits the door as you exhale for the first time in what feels like hours. And then you see it. Your phone is right where you left it, on the nightstand. It’s a lifeline, a chance.
You cross the room fast, heartbeat stuttering in your throat as your fingers close around it. The screen lights up instantly, casting your pale face in cold blue. No signal, of course, but maybe a text could send when the bars flicker back. You don’t need much, just one word. You start to type.
HELP.
The bedroom door creaks open behind you. You freeze. Not because of the sound — soft and slow, not violent — but because you didn’t hear him coming up the stairs. He’s just there. You turn, breath caught halfway in your chest.
Tyler stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, not angry, just calm... Too calm. He looks at your hand, at the phone glowing in your grip and then, finally, his eyes meet yours.
Your throat goes dry. He takes one step into the room. You don’t move. He takes another. Your spine finds the dresser behind you. You feel the edge of the wood bite into your back.
“Give it to me,” he says, extending his hand like he’s asking for something harmless like a book or a pen.
You hesitate and that’s all it takes. He’s on you before you can blink, not violent but inevitable. He moves with eerie precision, stepping into your space like it belongs to him, like you belong to him. His body presses close, not touching but looming, a solid wall of heat and blood and sweat-slick skin. His hand slides between you and the dresser, his fingers curl around your phone.
You don’t resist. He lifts it between you both, studying it, then, without a word, without effort, he snaps it clean in half. The sound is sharp, a vicious crack of plastic and glass that echoes off the walls.
You flinch. He lets the pieces fall to the floor in a final, careless gesture. Then he looks at you and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you start to feel lightheaded.
He doesn’t step back, doesn’t ease the pressure. He just watches you, his eyes dragging over your face, down your throat, to the frantic rise and fall of your chest. He’s drinking in your fear, your submission, your fury. It makes something in him relax, not soften, just… settle, like now, finally, things are exactly how they’re supposed to be.
“Where are the clothes ?” he asks, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
He smiles, darkly. “You came up here to dress me, remember?”
You swallow. Your hand brushes the closet door as if by instinct. You open it and pull a folded hoodie from the shelf. You don’t even look at him when you toss it his way.
He catches it one-handed, lifts it to his face, sniffs and smirks.
“Smells like that asshole who took you to prom and that you let kiss you under the bleachers.”
Your cheeks go hot. “He’s not…”
“You’re still seeing him?”
“No.”
He stares at you a long moment, then pulls the hoodie on slowly, wincing as it stretches over his shoulder. He exhales through his nose, then mutters, low, disgusted: “It reeks like cheap cologne and insecurity”
Your chest is tight. You don’t want to hear him anymore, not his voice, not the memories, not how easily he slips back into your life like a nightmare on repeat. Without a word, you walk across the room, past the bookshelf, straight to your desk.
You grab your perfume from the top shelf and spin around, sharp and quick, before he can get another word out. He raises an eyebrow just as you lift the bottle.
Pshht.
You spray him once, directly across his chest. A quick burst, meant to shut him up. The scent blooms instantly in the warm air, floral, amber and something darker underneath. It’s yours and it’s so familiar that it makes your throat catch.
He inhales, startled and then stills. You turn away without meeting his eyes… But you brought his attention to this side of your room. You see it happen in the mirror, the moment he notices what’s pinned to the wall.
You try to move, to step between him and the view but he’s already stepping closer.
“Wait,” you say, too late.
He limps forward, shoulder brushing past you. You grab the bottle tighter, knuckles white. Your shame, your obsession was there, exposed in cheap printer ink and curling edges. Articles, clippings and handwritten notes, circles around words like “Hyde” and “Willow Hill“ and his mugshot, front and center.
He doesn’t move for a long time but his eyes trail over your shoulder, scanning the fragmented headlines like he’s reading his own eulogy.
“Local Sheriff’s Son Declared Unfit.”
“Victim Identified in Woods Near Jericho.”
When he finally turns, his eyes rake over you. You wish he looked angry but he doesn’t. He looks... satisfied.
“It’s not what it looks like, it’s research.” you start, voice thin.
He laughs, not amused, just sharp. “You think this is research? You think cutting out articles about the guy who made your life hell qualifies as some kind of academic project?”
“I needed answers,” you snap.
His voice drops. “No. You needed me. You thought about me every night, didn’t you?” His voice is quiet, but mocking and dangerous. “You looked me up, imagined how I looked locked in that place, wondered if I’d come back for you.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.” He steps toward you. You don’t move. “You probably sat on this floor reading articles about me, while your sweet little boyfriend thought you were reading some harmless books.”
His gaze drops to his mugshot, lingers there before he looks back at you.
“Do you get off looking at that photo?” Your breath catches… not because it’s true, but because it isn’t a no either. He smiles and there’s no warmth in it. “You were always into those dark romance paperbacks in high school… What was it? Brooding vampires? Abusive fae? Criminals who couldn’t be tamed?”
“Tyler…”
“You spent your nights with your thighs squeezed tight, reading about dangerous monsters and wishing they’d pick you?” He moves again, closer, each step pushes the air from your lungs. “And now, you have me.”
You stumble backward — only one step — and hit the edge of your desk. Your hands land behind you, fingers gripping the wood, grounding yourself in anything that’s not him.
He follows, doesn’t touch you but just looms, close enough that your perfume clings to the space between your bodies.
He nods toward the wall of printouts.
“You made a shrine.” You open your mouth — to deny it, to lie, to scream, you don’t know — but no words come. “Why? Why would you care like this? After everything I did to you? All the names I called you? The pranks I pulled? I ruined your books, your grades, your life…”
You make a sound, wounded, half a sob, half a moan. His hand lifts. He presses two fingers under your chin, tilts your face to his. His eyes are fire. Your breath stutters. The words hit low and they burn.
You should push him away, you should scream, you should run… But instead you rise on your toes and surge forward, your mouth colliding with his, not soft, not tentative, but furious. A slap disguised as a kiss. You pour every unsaid thing into it: the years of confusion, the nightmares, the twisted ache he left behind.
You’re the one who closes the space. You’re the one who grips the front of the hoodie and pulls. You’re the one who opens your mouth first.
For a breath, he doesn’t move. Then his hand fists in your hair and he devours you in return, he growls, low and guttural, and the kiss deepens like something snapping inside him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there, while the other finds your waist, fingers digging in, claiming, demanding.
“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth. “You have no idea what you just started.”
You break the kiss, panting. “Then shut up and show me.”
Your breath mingles with his, trembling, not with fear anymore, but with something far more dangerous. His thumb brushes your cheek, rough and reverent all at once. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding something back.
The scent of him hits you again, earthy, wild, tinged with sweat and blood and the ghost of your perfume.
His mouth crashes on yours again, no hesitation this time, all teeth and heat and years of tension snapping like a live wire between you. He lifts you easily, your ass hitting the desk with a dull thud, sending papers fluttering to the floor. You gasp into his mouth, but it’s not from pain. It’s the shock of him — all of him — so real, so solid, after years of being nothing but a nightmare in your mind.
He pulls back just enough to drag his gaze down your body, eyes dark with something primal. He groans low in his throat — a sound like fury and hunger and disbelief all at once — and then his hands are on you again, sliding up beneath the fabric, finding skin, heat, need, his mouth open and ravenous, kissing like it’s not just lust but hunger, like he wants to devour you.
Then his hand slides to your jaw, rough and controlling, and suddenly his fingers are pushing into your mouth, two, maybe three, thick and deep. He watches your eyes blow wide as you gag a little, lashes fluttering, and he groans.You whimper around his fingers, spit already dripping from the corner of your mouth, and he grins, wide and sharp and absolutely unhinged. His thumb drags your jaw open wider, forcing your head back to expose your throat, and he leans in like a predator. His eyes flare dark with something that’s not human.
Then it’s a blur; your clothes being ripped, teeth against skin, your name hissed through clenched teeth as he shoves your legs apart with bruising force.
“You wanted a monster? You fucking got him.”
He fumbles with your pants, desperate and impatient, until you lift your hips to help him, and then they’re gone, kicked away and forgotten, and his hand is right there, sliding between your thighs without hesitation, without apology. His fingers find how ready you are for him and he lets out a vicious little laugh.
“Wet for me already?” he remarks, middle finger sliding through the slick heat. “Didn’t take much, did it?”
His finger thrusts deep, then another, stretching you, and it’s not gentle, it’s frantic, punishing and filthy. You rock against his hand, chasing the friction, and he watches you unravel with something close to awe... Or madness.
He doesn’t finger you gently. He fucks you with his hand, two fingers deep and pumping rough, thumb grinding your clit while his other hand clamps around your throat. He watches you choke on a moan and he smiles before biting your neck hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. Then your shoulder. Your chest. Anywhere he can reach. And every sound you make, every gasped whimper, every shattered plea, feeds him.
“You're shaking already?” he sneers, dragging his slick fingers down to slap your pussy once, twice, the sound obscene. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
He undoes his pants with one hand, the other still gripping your throat like a leash. And when he finally lines himself up, it’s with a dark look that dares you to tell him no but you won’t. You can’t. You want him to ruin you.
He pushes in with a groan so deep it vibrates in your chest, slow just for the stretch, then he slams the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. Your cry echoes off the walls, not of pain but relief.
He doesn’t stop. The desk creaks beneath you, the rhythm brutal and raw and perfect. His mouth is on your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips, biting, bruising, like he needs to mark you everywhere, prove you’re real, that this isn’t just another dream that will vanish when the cell door slams shut. You can feel him everywhere. Thick and unrelenting, every inch of him dragging against your walls, pushing you open, fucking you like he doesn’t care who hears or how much the desk rocks beneath you.
“Fuck, yes…” you gasp, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body starts to shatter around him, your first orgasm building fast and vicious, like it’s being ripped from you.
He feels the way you tighten, the way your moans break and he loses what little control he had. One hand fists in your hair, the other still choking you, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough to remind you who owns you now. His rhythm is brutal, savage, the kind of fucking meant to leave bruises on your hips and teeth marks on your collarbone. He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to burn the past from his skin and bury it in you.
He grunts as he slams into you again, harder than before, so deep you swear he hits something that makes your vision spark. One of your hands flies to the edge of the desk, gripping hard, the other tangling in his hair as if you can anchor yourself there, like you can survive this without falling apart… But he’s not going to let you survive this intact. He wants to see you undone.
“That’s it,” he snarls, watching your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open with a silent cry. “Take it.”
Your legs tighten around him as he starts to pound into you, no rhythm, no finesse, just need. The desk slams into the wall with every thrust, papers long forgotten, and somewhere in the chaos you register the sting of his nails digging into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock every time he drives forward.
Your moan is wrecked, desperate, and it only drives him further off the rails. He loves it. Loves how ruined you sound, how you’re already trembling around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him deeper as if you’re scared he’ll leave before it’s over. Every brutal thrust drags you closer to that cliff’s edge, the pleasure so violent it borders on pain; the best kind. You’re soaked, dripping, a mess beneath him and he’s relentless, fucking you like he wants to leave his mark inside you.
Then his fingers slide between you again, rough and sure, rubbing tight circles against your clit as he slams up into you. Your body jerks, the cry ripped from your throat not even human anymore. You try to hold it, try to stay in control, but when he slaps your clit once, sharp and filthy, you break.
The orgasm crashes into you like a wave hitting stone. Your body arches off the desk, mouth open in a silent scream, muscles clenching so violently you see white. You don’t know what sounds are coming out of you — gasps, sobs, broken little moans — but he doesn’t stop, he fucks you through it, riding every aftershock, chasing his own release now with brutal, desperate thrusts, biting your lip until it bleeds.
He pulls out just in time to fist himself once, twice and groans deep, head thrown back as he comes all over your stomach, your thighs, marking you like it means something, like it’s a claim. He’s panting, shuddering, leaning over you with his arms braced on either side. His eyes are wild, blown wide, and there’s sweat sliding down his temple.
He brings his mouth on your neck again but this time, it doesn’t bite. It lingers, open-mouthed and hot, breathing against the bruises he just made.
“Still breathing?” he asks, voice wrecked, lips dragging along your jaw. You don’t answer. Your voice is a ruined thing, somewhere between a sob and a moan, your body shaking from aftershocks, from the mess, from the sheer violence of how hard he fucked you but your legs shift just slightly, just enough to show you’re still here and he grins with something possessive and feral burning in his eyes. “Good.”
He bends down and licks a drop of sweat from your neck. It’s not sensual, it’s animal, marking you again in the filthiest way he can, like tasting the salt on your skin is another form of possession. He kisses your bruised shoulder, not gently, but deeply, like an oath.
His other hand drags up your stomach still smeared with his cum and he wipes his fingers across your skin, then shoves two of them into your mouth.
“Suck.”
You do, instinctively. Desperately. His eyes roll back for a second. He breathes like he’s holding something dangerous back and pulls your head back with a fist in your hair, forcing you to look up at him. Your lips are red, your eyes glassy, bite marks blooming across your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders.
“Look at you, so pretty like this, ruined for anyone else.” Then — as if that wasn’t enough — he spits into your open mouth and you swallow it without blinking. “Good girl,” he breathes, eyes full of madness and worship.
He grabs your discarded shirt and uses it to wipe between your thighs, slow and deliberate. You flinch.
“Sensitive?” he asks, smug.
You whimper. It’s the only sound you can make.
He tosses the shirt aside, doesn’t care where it lands. Then, without warning, he pulls you against him, your body still a trembling mess, and wraps his arms around you like a vice. One hand snakes up to grip your jaw again, tilting your head to the side so he can mouth at your throat, tasting skin, sweat, salt and spit.
It’s not a cuddle, it’s a claim.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth down your neck. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
Your voice finally breaks free, hoarse, barely a whisper. “I wasn’t planning to.”
He hums a low, pleased sound and then his hand slides down to your collarbone to touch one of the bite marks he left there.
“You’ll bruise here, and you’ll feel me every time you walk tomorrow.” he says, almost like a promise. Then he kisses that mark slowly, almost reverent.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against your lips, quieter than before but just as deadly. “No one else is ever gonna touch you again, I’ll fucking kill them if they try.”
You don’t even question it because you don’t want anyone else to. You swallow hard, still dazed and his grin is slow… And dangerous.
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
Last update: Aug. 2025
All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading.
// Find me on Ao3 // Find me on Wattpad // - Ti
Dark fic + - Minors DNI- if you don't like this or the warnings/themes make you uncomfortable. I can't stress this enough, DO NOT READ THIS
Summary: When Max wants something, he'll set out and make it happen. On this occasion he's just not telling the person who should really know.
Themes/warnings: Smut (dub-con due to birth control tampering/sabotage), baby-trapping, pregnancy
Word count: 1.6k
Max couldn't ever say what it was that drew him to y/n, just that he was obsessed. An unhealthy and dangerous obsession.
He'd never hurt her or want bad things for her. He just wants her.
But y/n is a free spirit, she doesn't like being tamed or held in the restraints of a relationship the way he wants.
There's only one solution.
Force her hand to change her mindset through a shared life event that binds her to him permanently for life.
"Max." Y/n cries out, dragging her nails down his back and he knows they'll be visible as evidence of just how good he makes her feel.
Because Max isn't such a selfish monster that he only thinks about himself finishing, he wants to feel y/n pushed to the state of delirium.
The less aware she is of her surroundings the better. It makes his job easier.
Max can't fight off his finish as y/n rides out her orgasm, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks and swallowing thickly as she tries to hold it back. His cum fills her and he shudders in satisfaction.
"That's it, baby. You take me so well." Max praises but y/n is sensitive even to him touching her waist.
Y/n and Max always had great sex but once he set his mind to getting her pregnant, y/n has hardly known peace. Her body is completely surrendered to him.
It took some doing but Max set everything up. He was picking up her actual birth control for a couple months before he swapped it out saying the pharmacy told him they'd changed brand and the pills might look different.
She didn't even question it for a second. Naively trusting every word he said. Because what reason did she have to not trust him.
Y/n hiccups as Max ruts into her a couple more times, like he can push it deeper into her and make it stick.
He holds himself in her as long as he can while y/n mumbles gibberish and passes out cold.
She whimpers when he does finally pull himself from her, the sight of her pussy being nearly raw with how often her's fucking her full of cum.
It's been 2 months since he switched her birth control. He's not surprised her period came the first month. Still getting the artifical hormones out of her system.
She's due on any day down if she is going to come on and the anticipation of it is killing Max. He's pretty sure he's done it and he's hundred precent certain y/n's not had enough time to think for long enough to consider that she's due on.
"You pretty so pretty baby." Max sighs softly as he reaches his hand forward and cups her cheek which she does leans into seemingly desperate for his touch in a softer nature despite not even being full conscious. He leans over and kisses her softly while y/n relaxes down.
-
Y/n was terrified, she was so scared and she went straight to Max. It wasn't even a question of whether she would or not. She was going directly to him.
Max, being the caring boyfriend he is, he took charge. He went out and got a few pregnancy tests (which were waiting in his car for this moment) and came back, sat with her which she drank excessive amounts of water. He reassured her and then he encouraged her everything would be fine when she started to feel the pressure on her bladder forcing her to take the tests.
In truth they didn't even need to wait the positive test result appeared on all the tests immediately. Y/n pales and Max has to catch her to stop her counter smacking her head off the counter.
"W-What are we going to do?" Y/n asks with her voice cracking in a squeak.
"I'm going to take care of my pregnant girlfriend and you are going to let me, baby. It's going to be fine." Max states while y/n blinks up at him.
"You're ok with this?-But-"
"It might not have been exactly as planned-" Max planned for them to be a bit quicker about it but he'd trust the process. "-but we can do this."
They will do this.
Y/n cries for a bit, not giving away her own feelings too much as Max gets them to just lie in bed.
"I don't understand. I took my pill every day. I never missed a day. You even set alarms for me."
"They don't always work baby. You're not the first or the only woman to get pregnant on them." Max states softly as she lies cuddled into him.
"And it really doesn't bother you?"
"No. It doesn't bother me. It could be good. We'll make amazing parents." Max smiles lightly finally making her look up at him to check that he's not faking his words. "I love you, and I wanted this with you one day." One day being code for as soon as humanly possible. "It doesn't make that much of a difference to me."
"I can't believe you don't...don't even care like...in a negative way." Y/n sighs then smiling. "I might actually be able to live with this."
"You can't baby, and if you can't, I'll do the living for you. I'll carry you however you need." Max promises then leaning down to kiss her.
And so it went on.
Y/n didn't even have a conversation wit Max about aborting the pregnancy because he never let her think it was on the cards. So the pregnancy went on and Max found it harder and harder to not feel the triumph of his efforts.
"Hello, baby." Max smiles as he returns home from another race weekend, this one y/n was feeling particularly nauseous and didn't want to fly.
Y/n has hit a point where clothes that fit are few and far between so she usually just sits naked. Which Max obviously loves and encourages as much as possibly. Especially since it means easy access for sex which she seems even more eager for at this point in her pregnancy and without the risk of more pregnancy she seems to be embracing the fact they don't have a need for protection.
She can't get pregnant again.
"Hey, Maxie." Y/n smiles as he sits down next to her and immediately pulls her over to straddle his lap then placing his hand on her bump which has grown substantially even in the few days he's been gone. "Your baby is being a pain."
"My baby?" Max chuckles then rubbing over her stretch skin gently. "How is she giving you pain? I'll have words."
"Keeps kicking me, I almost peed on the sofa."
Max looks over checking to see if she's lying and did in fact pee only for her to tsk and push his chin so he's looking back at her.
"Dick."
"Speaking of..." Max hums watching her get flustered immediately. She was already pretty responsive before the pregnancy but now he just has to insinuate the suggest of sex and she's clearing her throat and shifting uncomfortably since she's always desperate for him. "Doctor said we need to reduce a little."
"No." Y/n whines since Max really does all the communicating with the doctor. Obviously he wants that control to make sure she can't hide anything from him.
"How are you feeling?" Max asks softening his voice while y/n bites her lip a little.
"Naked...and very pregnant." Y/n sighs softly before she leans in and kisses him softly. "I missed you."
"I missed you too." Max smiles continuing to rub over her belly. "You didn't talk to your parents while I was gone did you?"
"No. Not after what they said last time." Y/n sighs shaking her head before she leans over and kisses him quickly. "Doesn't matter, I don't need them."
"No you don't." Max agrees loving the fact she's so willingly fallen into his trap. "You know you're prettiest woman I've ever met...and somehow being pregnant has never looked good to me until now."
"Maxie." Y/n grins then leaning forward and nuzzling into his neck. "You know I was so scared you'd leave."
Max smiles knowing she can't see his expression, she's so deep in it, she suspects nothing. Doesn't sabotage, doesn't suspect he did it on purpose, doesn't suspect anything. In fact she thought he would leave.
"I would never ever leave, baby. You're mine, so I'm not letting you go anywhere." Max states while y/n puffs out a breath. "I do genuinely love you so much, baby. I would never let you go."
"I love you too. I'd never let you go either. Especially not now we're gonna be a family...I do think I might struggle not walking around naked all the time though."
"You can walk around naked as much as you like." Max laughs lightly before kissing her softly. "Just makes getting you pregnant again easier."
Y/n laughs pushing at him, clearly thinking he's joking and that's good because he wants her to think he's joking. He's not. He'll make sure she recovers and they'll navigate parenthood but that's not going to stop at one baby unless something traumatic happens physically from the birth or post-birth.
description — you hitch hike to escape your small town, but the man that picks you up isn't the savior you initially see him as.
word count — 11,886
tags — dead dove do not eat!!! smut, noncon, age gap, drugging, perv joel obviously, body betrayal, throat-fking, creampie, forced breeding, what else is there to miss? oh, he spits in your mouth once. this is actually evil and entirely self-indulgent. read at your own risk. this is not meant to romanticize or promote the behavior written and is purely fantasy. THIS GETS SUPER DARK SUPER FAST, BEWARE !!!!
notes — this has been hiding away in my wips for almost a year, and I finally rushed out the ending. so yeah, kinda sucks near the end, but i was gooning writing it, so sue me.
You sighed sharply, letting your arm fall to your side for what felt like the hundredth time. The weight of the sun pressed heavily on your shoulders, the heat clinging to you like a second skin. A warm breeze teased strands of your damp hair from your face, a mercy against the uv rays. Tilting your head back, you gazed at the expanse of blue sky that had darkened in the hours you stood on the side of the road, your patience steadily unraveling like an old, worn thread.
How hard could it be to hitch a damn ride?
All you wanted was to escape the stifling monotony of this rundown, bumfuck-nowhere town. Where time seemed to crawl and every day bled into the next. There was nothing to do except drink cheap beer in collapsing barns with the people your age you could tolerate—which, frankly, wasn’t many. Your graduating class had barely scraped together two hundred students, and most of them were already neck-deep in their great-grandparents’ conservative, redneck ideologies, content to stay trapped in the same traditional, endless loop you were desperate to escape.
Entertainment options were laughably slim, unless you counted gossiping at the diner or staring at the peeling wallpaper of your living room. The highlight of the week was usually a herd of cattle escaping or a barn dance, where everyone pretended their lives weren’t as dull as dishwater.
It was no wonder that generations before had filled their houses to the brim with children. After all, raising a family gave them something to do, a purpose to cling to in the otherwise monotonous grind of small-town life. And maybe, just maybe, it helped fill the silence that crept in at night, the kind that even wolf songs couldn’t drown out.
It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At night, the air hummed with the songs of frogs and crickets, a sound that felt almost sacred. The stars lit up the sky in a way that was impossible to see from the city, their light twinkling like scattered diamonds. Fireflies blinked alongside them, tiny, fleeting beacons in the dark. Those moments, rare and quiet, made this place almost bearable.
Almost.
But Christ on a cross, when the sun rose, it brought the same crushing realization: there was nothing for you here. Nothing except Sunday mornings at church, where people whispered behind hymnals and dissected the sins of their neighbors, the same people they'd smile brightly at as they prayed for blessings to come to them. At least they handed out free donuts. Small mercies, you thought bitterly, kicking at a loose pebble on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet.
You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against your spine. The highway stretched ahead in an unbroken line, a mirage shimmering in the distance, promising freedom just out of reach. All you needed was someone to pull over, just one car willing to take you somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.
You even went so far as to wear the most revealing clothes you could find, not that your wardrobe had much to offer in that department. A perverted driver was still a driver, and at this point, you were desperate. You’d taken scissors to an old shirt, hacking it into a crop top that bared your midriff. The fabric was frayed and uneven, but it did the job. Your shorts were another matter entirely, uncomfortably tight and clearly too small, leftovers from when you were a kid. The waistband dug into your skin, and you had to keep tugging them down to avoid cutting off circulation.
God forbid any girl showed an ounce of skin in this town. The stares you got on your way out were enough to make you want to sprint out, but you were banking on that very same scrutiny to catch the attention of a passing car. Modesty might have been the golden rule here, but you weren’t above breaking it if it got you out of this dead-end stretch of nowhere.
You felt ridiculous, humiliated even, but the thought of staying here was far worse than enduring the leering eyes of some old man. You were used to that already. Men in this town had a way of looking at you like you were an object on a shelf they might pick up, inspect, and set back down when they were done. You’d learned to ignore it, to shrug off the uncomfortable heat of their stares and the muttered comments you pretended not to hear.
This was just more of the same, except now you were using it to your advantage. If showing a little skin meant one of those creeps would stop and offer you a ride out of this godforsaken town, then so be it. Dignity wasn’t exactly high on your list of priorities right now—freedom was.
If only one of these fuckers would actually stop. You’d been standing here long enough to feel the sunburn creeping across your shoulders, sweat pooling at the small of your back. You threw your arm out every time, trying to look as pitiful, or enticing, as possible, but all you got in return were waves of hot air as they sped by.
Was it just your town where men stared at women like predators? Or was that just how men were everywhere? You had no way of knowing. Your entire life had been spent here, in this suffocating bubble of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Sometimes you wondered if the rest of the world was different, or if the same lecherous glances and whispered judgments waited for you on the other side of this horizon.
Still, staying here wasn’t an option. Even if the grass wasn’t greener anywhere else, at least it would be different grass. And different was all you were asking for.
You were snapped out of your thoughts by the thunderous roar of an engine, deep and rumbling, shaking the stillness of the road. A semi. Your heart leapt, both with hope and a twinge of unease. You’d heard the stories, truck drivers were lonely old men who’d fuck anything with a heartbeat, and even that was a stretch. The thought made your stomach twist, but desperation outweighed caution.
Throwing your arm out again, thumb raised high, you focused on the massive vehicle barreling toward you. The sheer size of it was almost intimidating, the largest thing you’d seen on the road. Its grill gleamed in the sunlight like a steel beast, and you could already hear the hiss of brakes as it began to slow down.
This was it. Maybe luck was finally on your side—or maybe you were about to make the worst mistake of your life. Either way, it wasn’t like you had much to lose.
The semi groaned to a stop a few yards ahead of you, its engine idling. The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a man, an old man, just as you’d expected.
His hair was almost completely gray, though uneven splotches of the lighter color dotted his scruffy beard like it couldn’t decide whether to age gracefully or not.
The glare of the sun bounced off the truck, making it hard to get a clear look at him, but you could tell enough. He was much larger than you, his frame broad and solid like he’d spent his life lifting things far heavier than the backpack you hauled. His hair had a slight curl to it, messy and unkempt, like he hadn’t seen a comb in days.
He tilted his head toward the passenger side, gesturing with his chin as he spoke. His voice was deep, slow, and unmistakably southern.
"Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You need a ride or what?"
There wasn’t much kindness in his tone, but there wasn’t any malice, either. Just a bluntness that matched the heat of the day. Your hesitation lingered for a moment before you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.
You all but scaled up the side of the truck, your legs shaky from a mix of exhaustion and the strain of hauling yourself up. The heat of the day clung to you, making every movement feel heavier than it should have. By the time you managed to get one foot inside, your muscles were screaming in protest.
The older man was already back in his seat, one wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, the sound wet and unmannered as he watched you crawl in with a measured gaze. His eyes flickered up and down your figure, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. You swore you saw his hand shift subtly, adjusting himself as a low groan escaped your lips from the effort.
You settled into the passenger seat, the cracked leather sticking to your bare thighs. His stare lingered for a moment too long at the way they expanded before he finally spit into an old plastic bottle by his side.
“Where ya headin’, sweetheart?” he drawled, his lips curling into a half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
Now that the sun was no longer blinding you, you could finally get a good look at him. To your surprise, he wasn’t all that bad-looking. In fact, he was quite handsome in a rugged, weathered sort of way. His deep chocolate-brown eyes had a sad look to them, like they had seen more than they cared to share. His nose was prominent, giving his face a bold, defined structure that worked with the lines etched into his skin. Those wrinkles, instead of detracting from his appearance like you'd expect them too, seemed to enhance his features.
Your eyes flicked to his hands resting on the wheel. They were large, rough-looking, the scarred, calloused kind of hands that did hard labor. An old, scratched watch clung to his wrist, the leather strap worn and glass cracked, but still functional.
Practical, like him, you figured.
Despite the circumstances, you found yourself momentarily distracted by his appearance.
“Well?” he asked again, the smirk on his face still lingering as he spit tobacco into his bottle. “Where ya headed?”
You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here,” you muttered, your voice low but firm.
He chuckled at that, a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cab. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near here for a good long while. Buckle up, sweetheart.”
You slid your backpack off your shoulders, letting it rest on your lap as your fingers found the charms hanging from the zippers. You twisted them absentmindedly, trying to occupy your mind and ignore the creeping weight of his gaze. The truck didn't move. Confused, you glanced at the gear shift, expecting to see his hand on it. Instead, his hand rested on his thigh, his fingers tapping lazily against his jeans.
Looking up, you caught him staring at you again, his dark eyes locked on yours for a moment before shifting downward. He sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was deciding what to do next. Without saying a word, he leaned toward you.
Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, his face so close you could almost feel the faint stubble on his jaw and the silver strands in his hair. His arm brushed your shoulder as he reached for your seatbelt.
"Seatbelt's stuck," he muttered, though you hadn't even tried to buckle it yourself. His large hands gripped the strap and gave it a few tugs, his breath fanning across your cheek as he grunted, the plastic clicked before the webbing slid free and he pulled it across your chest.
The motion seemed smooth at first, but you stiffened when his knuckles grazed the curve of your breast. He didn't pause or acknowledge it. His gaze wasn't on the seatbelt or even his hands, it was fixed lower, right where the strap pressed against your chest. His eyes lingered there shamelessly.
He adjusted the strap, tugging it tighter against your chest, his fingers brushing over the swell more than once. The way he moved was deliberate, too slow to be casual, like he was testing how far he could push before you said something.
It didn't feel accidental, but it wasn't obvious enough for you to call him out on it, either. Your throat tightened, and you froze, unsure whether to flinch or let him finish.
“There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as he clicked the belt into place. For a moment, he didn’t move, his face lingering close enough for you to see the faint lines around his eyes and the uneven streaks of gray in his beard. Then, without a word, he leaned back into his seat with a grunt, as though the small task had been a chore.
His hand moved to the gear shift, and the truck rumbled forward, pulling onto the road with a jolt. “Can’t have you flyin’ out the windshield,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.
You didn’t respond, your heart still racing from the unnecessary closeness. Staring out the window, you gripped the straps of your backpack tightly, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his hands, unease prickling along your skin.
Joel glanced at the cracked dashboard clock, tapping it lightly with his knuckle as if that would somehow make the time change. "We’ll probably hit a truck stop in a few hours," he said, his voice breaking the long silence in the cab.
He finally broke the silence with a grunt and a glance at the dashboard. “’Bout two ‘til we hit the next one,” he said, shifting in his seat and rolling his neck like it ached. “Gonna pull in there, grab some food. Might get a room if the lot ain’t full.”
You didn’t look at him, just nodded a little, eyes fixed on the streak of pavement disappearing beneath the truck. “Okay.”
He glanced at you then, like he was waiting for more. When you didn’t say anything, he added, “They got showers too, y’know. Clean ones. Not five-star or nothin’, but they get the job done.”
“Cool,” you murmured, trying to sound neutral, like you weren’t clocking every word.
Then he smirked a little—just a flicker, barely there, but you caught it. “Don’t worry, you can have your own bed,” he said, voice low, tone meant to be reassuring but sitting wrong in your gut. “Unless, uh... you’d rather save a few bucks.”
You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “I’ve got cash,” you said, flatly.
“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joel said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to your chest again, not even subtle about it this time. “Just jokin’ around.”
You looked away, jaw tightening.
He scratched his beard, shifting in his seat again. “You’re real quiet,” he said after a moment. “Kinda figured a girl like you’d be more talkative.”
“A girl like me?” you asked, without looking at him.
“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone casual as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “C’mon you ain't exactly dressed for church, honey.” He turned to you with a grin.
You rolled your eyes before you forced yourself to focus on the landscape outside, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. But even as you tried to tune him out, you could feel his gaze darting toward you. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge—quick, almost imperceptible glances at your legs, your chest, the curve of your neck.
Every time you caught him, he shifted slightly, like he hadn’t been looking at all. His fingers rubbed idly against his thigh, the movement subtle but deliberate.
“Don’t get too quiet on me now,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. “A guy can only handle so much quiet before he starts gettin’ lonely.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just tired,” you muttered, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.
“Tired, huh?” Joel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his seat, one hand lazily adjusting his belt. “Bet you’ve had a long day, stickin’ that pretty thumb out on the highway. Lucky for you I came along. Not everyone out here’s as friendly as me.”
The way he said “friendly” made your stomach churn. You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your backpack as an excuse to look away. “Yeah,” you said flatly, unsure of what else to say.
He chuckled again, a deep, gravelly sound that filled the cab. “You know,” he started, his tone turning thoughtful, “truck stops ain’t so bad. Some of ’em even got little diners... Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even find a little entertainment.”
You glanced at him sharply, but he kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth, damn religious upbringings, you forced yourself to be polite and dryly humor his conversation. “What kind of entertainment?”
Joel shrugged, his fingers still idly tapping his thigh. “Depends on the stop. Some got TVs, little gift shops... and sometimes, you meet interestin’ people. Y’know, folks passin’ through, lookin’ for a little... company.”
Your pulse quickened, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said quickly.
His grin widened, and he let out another low chuckle. “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.”
You turned back to the window, your heart pounding as the shadows outside grew longer. The truck rumbled on, the uneasy tension between you thickening with every mile.
The truck’s turn signal clicked lazily, a rhythmic tick that cut through the hum of the engine as Joel guided the semi off the highway and into the glow of the truck stop.
The lights hit first, flickering fluorescents mounted on leaning poles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The parking lot was littered with rigs and pickups, a few scattered sedans, and the occasional figure ducking in and out of the convenience store’s heavy glass doors. Beyond that, a rundown diner and a flickering neon sign that buzzed louder than it glowed. It wasn’t much, two diesel pumps, a few bent metal benches out front, and a crooked billboard advertising pie that probably hadn’t been served fresh since the Reagan administration, and behind it, the shape of a small roadside motel slumped under a sagging roofline.
Joel shifted the truck into park with a heavy hand and let out a grunt, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked. His faded shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of his stomach, leathery and scarred. He caught you looking, not at that, exactly, just observing the place, but he smirked like you’d been staring.
“Not bad, huh?” he said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Cozy little stopover.”
You looked out at the rows of trucks and diesel pumps, trying not to fidget. The stillness inside the cab after the engine died was sudden, as if the noise from the it had been cushioning something you didn’t want to feel.
You said nothing, unbuckling your seatbelt with a quick snap and reaching for your backpack, your fingers finding those familiar charms again. You rolled one between your thumb and forefinger, grounding yourself. The tension in your chest hadn’t left since you climbed into the truck. If anything, it’d only settled deeper.
Joel opened his door and climbed out with a grunt. “Food’s better than it looks,” he said over the roar of the diesel engine cooling off. “Diner’s got burgers, eggs, hash. All the heart-attack bullshit you could ever want.”
You followed after a beat, the door heavier than you expected. He waited for you at the base of the steps, one hand resting on the open door like he was holding it open for a date. You stepped down, trying not to flinch as his eyes moved with you, tracking every inch.
You stared past him at the diner, its windows fogged and glowing yellow under too-dim lights. A man smoked on a bench by the door. He looked tired. Everyone here did.
Joel jerked his chin toward the motel attached to the back of the lot. “Gonna check if they got any rooms left,” he said, spitting a wad of his chewing tobacco into the dirt. “You hungry, or what?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice flatter than you intended. “Starving.”
He grinned at that, like it pleased him. “Go on then, I'll meet'cha.”
Inside, the diner smelled like grease and bleach, two things that didn’t mix well. The waitress behind the counter didn’t look up when you entered, too focused on a crossword puzzle. Joel slid into a booth a few minutes after you had, patting the cracked vinyl across from him.
The seat felt sticky. He leaned back, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest like he owned the place, the other already reaching for a menu he clearly didn’t need.
“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at you. “Order whatever. I’ll cover it.”
You eyed him, unsure if it was kindness or another invisible string. He caught your look and smirked.
“C’mon. Not tryna poison you. Just don’t like eatin’ alone.”
You nodded slowly, glancing down at the menu as he watched you over the top of his.
Joel leaned back in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. One arm sprawled across the top, the other cradling his plastic cup of water. He let out a long sigh, an exaggerated exhale, like he was trying to be noticed.
“Been on the road five weeks straight,” he muttered, glancing out the window like he might spot someone he used to know. “Start talkin’ to myself if I don’t get some damn conversation.”
You looked up, cautious. He smiled, but it was thin. Forced.
“Life gets quiet when you get to my age. Too damn quiet, sometimes,” he said, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. “Wife gone. Kids don’t call. Truck’s about the only thing still wants me 'round.”
He chuckled softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. More like he expected a certain reaction and didn’t care if it was genuine.
“That’s why I don’t mind pickin’ up company when I can,” he added, taking a sip and eyeing you over the rim. “Makes the road feel less... long.”
You didn’t respond, just nodded faintly. He didn’t seem to care—he’d already settled into his little performance.
“Not askin’ for much,” Joel went on, looking down at his calloused hands. “Just someone to talk to. Hearin’ a pretty voice now and again reminds me I’m still 'round, y’know?”
His eyes flicked to your mouth when he said it.
“Hell, you don’t even gotta talk if you don’t want, face's pretty 'nough on its own,” he added with a little grin, eyes crinkling like he was doing you a favor. “I’ll just ramble on till I lose my voice. You can pretend I ain’t even here.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you want someone to listen to you talk till your mouth hurts.”
That got a chuckle out of him. “Alright, fair,” he said, scratching at his beard. “I like a little attention. Guilty as charged.”
The waitress came over, tired eyes scanning the table. Joel ordered without looking at the menu—“bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, and a Coke,” before nodding at you to go ahead.
As you gave your order, you could feel his gaze on your face, lingering just a tad too long on your lips when you spoke. When the waitress walked off, Joel leaned back again with a grunt.
“Bet you think I’m some sad old bastard,” he said, smirking.
You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t seem all that sad.”
He laughed again, low and knowing. “Don’t gotta be sad to be lonely, darlin’.”
He said it so easily, like it was the kind of thing he’d said a hundred times before. Like it worked on someone, once.
There was something off about the way he spoke—too rehearsed, maybe. Like he’d said this all before. The “poor old man” routine. Alone on the road, no family, no one to talk to. It felt... thin.
Still, something about it tugged at you.
Maybe it was the way he sighed after every sentence, like he didn’t expect you to care. Maybe it was the worn in look behind his eyes.
You glanced down at your lap, your fingers twisting the zipper of your backpack until it bit into your skin.
You knew better. You really did. People didn’t get like this for no reason. Men didn’t hand out kindness for free. But even as your gut whispered caution, another part of you, smaller, quieter, felt bad for him.
He wasn’t pushing anything. Not yet. And you were tired. Not just from standing on the side of the road, but from months of going nowhere, of waiting for someone, anyone, to see you.
Joel caught your eye again, that half-smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to lay it on thick,” he said, almost sheepish now. “Guess I don’t talk to people much these days. Gettin' rusty.”
You tried to smile, but it came out just as performative as his. “It’s fine. I get it.”
He tapped a finger against his glass, his tone softening. “You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.
You hesitated. “Not really. Just… done with where I came from.”
Joel nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ out. Some places don’t give you much reason to stay.”
His voice was quieter now, less performative. For a second, it felt more real. Or maybe you just wanted it to.
You studied him for a beat longer—his hands, his eyes, the worn creases in his skin. You could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers pulling your seatbelt earlier, still see the way his gaze had lingered a second too long.
But right now, he looked tired. Lonely. And something in you, despite everything, softened just a little.
“I appreciate the ride,” you said quietly. “Really.”
Joel looked at you for a second, then nodded once and leaned back again. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Like I said, road gets real damn quiet.”
You both fell into silence after that, the kind that wasn’t entirely comfortable.
He’d tried to make small talk over greasy plates and chipped mugs of diner coffee—asked about your favorite music, your family, whether you had a boyfriend “waitin’ around somewhere.” He framed it as harmless banter, chuckling over his fries, talking with his mouth half full like it wasn’t meant to mean anything.
You mostly nodded, gave short answers. Your appetite had all but vanished the longer his eyes lingered on you.
They didn’t wander constantly, Joel wasn’t that obvious. But every so often, as you cut into your food or brushed hair out of your face, you’d catch him watching you instead of eating. His gaze would always drop quickly, back to his plate or the tabletop, but the silence between those glances felt thicker each time.
You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, overthinking.
But by the time he paid the bill and motioned for you to follow him outside, your stomach had twisted into something tight and uneasy.
The air had cooled a little with the setting sun. Crickets had started their nightly hum, and the truck lot buzzed quietly with the sound of engines cooling and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the diner. But your ears were filled with the sound of your own footsteps following Joel’s.
He led you past the edge of the lot, toward a squat, single-story row of motel rooms behind the diner. Faded numbers were bolted onto each door, and the porch lights above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to bother staying lit.
Joel stopped in front of one, jingling a key in his hand. “Only had one left,” he said, turning the knob. “Told the guy it’s just for a few hours’ shut-eye. Not like I’m settlin’ in.”
Your heart skipped. Just one?
The room door creaked open. Joel stepped inside first, tossing the key on the nightstand and flipping on the light. A yellow glow filled the room, bouncing off stained wallpaper and a twin bed with a faded comforter. The A/C unit in the window rattled weakly.
The moment you stepped into the room, something felt different.
Not in the air itself, the motel room still smelled like bleach and dust, but Joel’s presence had changed.
He didn’t say much after unlocking the door. Just let it swing open, stepped inside like he owned the place, and gave the room a lazy once-over. Gone was the exaggerated sighing, the talk of loneliness, the half-hearted chuckles meant to make you feel bad for him. Now he moved slower, more comfortably, like someone who’d settled into something.
You weren’t sure what.
He let the door close behind you with a click that made your pulse hitch. He didn’t bolt it, he didn’t need to. The message was already clear.
Joel walked over to the table near the bed and dropped the room key with a soft clink. His hand hovered for a second, then he sat in the chair near the window, stretching out with a tired grunt. One arm slung over the backrest like he was getting ready to stay awhile.
“Not bad,” he muttered, adjusting the waistband of his jeans before running a hand through his graying hair. “Could be worse.”
You didn’t answer. You were still standing near the door, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.
Joel’s eyes flicked up to you. Slower now. Less polite. Like he didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.
"You can sit, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t gonna bite.”
He grinned at his own joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were darker now. Not cold, just… sure. Like whatever this was, it was already decided in his head.
You moved slowly, choosing the edge of the bed farthest from him—you wished the separate beds calmed your nerves, they didn't. The springs creaked as you sat, and the sound felt too loud. You kept your backpack in your lap, your hands gripping the strap.
Joel let his gaze linger for a moment longer, then leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Y’know, most folks would be grateful by now,” he said idly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Free ride, free food, place to rest. Ain’t a bad deal.”
Your spine stiffened slightly. There was no edge in his voice, no threat. But there was something underneath it. Something that made your stomach coil.
“I am grateful,” you said carefully.
“Mm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “You’re just real quiet is all. Hard to read.”
You didn’t reply.
Joel scratched at his jaw. “Guess it’s just been a while since I had company.” He looked at you again, head tilted, lips just barely curved. “It’s nice. Real nice. You're nice.”
You felt your shoulders tense. He wasn’t doing anything, not really, but you could feel it building. The shift. The subtle way he took up more space now, like just getting you through that door had changed everything.
Joel stood up, stretching again with a low groan, and walked toward the mini fridge. He bent to open it, empty, but lingered there a second longer than needed. When he straightened, he looked at you again. Still that same expression. Casual. Relaxed. Like this was just the natural next step in whatever he thought was happening here.
“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks,” he said, voice lighter now, maybe even cheerful. “You want soda, water, somethin’ stronger?”
You blinked. “Coke’s fine.”
He nodded, already halfway to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, then turned back.
“You lock that behind me if it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I’ll be back in five. Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”
He winked. Not playful. Not mean. Just… like a joke he thought you were in on, even if you didn’t know the punchline yet.
Then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.
The silence returned.
You sat still, backpack clutched to your chest, heart pounding a little faster than before. You weren’t sure what Joel thought this was. But for the first time, you were sure of one thing:
He thought he was owed something.
You weren’t sure why you stayed.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the weight of your backpack digging into your spine for hours that made you too tired to run again. Maybe it was something worse, something harder to admit. That small, scared voice that told you: This is what you asked for, isn’t it? A ride. A room. A way out.
You told yourself it was fine.
But when Joel came back a few agonizing minutes later, holding a single room-temperature soda like it was some kind of gift, that thin illusion started to crack.
"Vending machine’s shot to hell," he said, tossing it onto the end of the bed like he expected you to jump at it. “Still good, though. S'just warm.”
You nodded, reaching to take a grab the bottle. You tried not to acknowledge the way your heart sped up as you leaned closer to him, your hand shaking.
Joel didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He kicked off his boots, grunted as he lowered himself into the creaking chair near the TV, and grabbed the remote from the armrest.
The television flashed on, its speakers crackling as static fizzled into some old cable rerun. The volume was too loud for the tiny room, but Joel didn’t adjust it. He just leaned back and settled in, letting the laugh track fill the silence like white noise drowning out your thoughts.
You nerves were so shot, you hadn’t noticed the bottle hadn't hissed when you twisted the cap.
When your leg started to shake it was just a tremor at first, barely noticeable. But it spread, up your thigh, into your stomach, into your chest. Your heart fluttered under your ribs, fluttered wrong. Your throat was too dry. The lights were too yellow. The TV too loud. His breathing, even and steady from across the room, was the only rhythm that didn't match your panic.
You stood quickly, too quickly.
“Bathroom,” you muttered, grabbing your bag without really knowing why. Just needing it close.
Joel gave a vague nod, his eyes barely lifting from the screen. “Take your time.”
The bathroom was even smaller than you expected. Dim light. Cracked tile. A fan in the ceiling that buzzed faintly behind the walls. You closed the door and leaned against it, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.
Your reflection stared back at you, paler than before. Eyes wide. Lips dry.
You didn’t even notice you were crying until the first drop hit the sink.
You weren’t scared, not exactly. But something inside you was twisting tight, something old and instinctive that didn’t care about politeness or gratitude or second chances. Something that whispered, Leave. Now.
You splashed water on your face. Once. Twice. The cold shocked your nerves, grounding you just a little, enough to breathe. But your hand trembled as you reached for the towel, and you had to brace yourself before you looked in the mirror again.
You stared at your own eyes for a long time.
You could still leave. You hadn’t unpacked. Your legs worked fine. The door wasn’t locked.
But outside that door, Joel waited. Not a stranger anymore. Not really. And that was somehow worse.
You dried your face, turned off the faucet, and in front the door of the bathroom for a beat, staring at the crack under it, the yellow-lit room shared the space of flickering blue light from the TV.
“You alright in there, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice warm again, sounding gentle despite how he'd had to hollar over the TV.
You took a breath. Then another. You told yourself you were overreacting.
People were weird, sure. Joel was… weird. But maybe that’s all it was. Maybe your nerves were shot from being on the road, from standing in the sun for hours, from not eating enough. You were tired. That made everything feel worse.
One night. Get some rest. Ditch him in the morning.
That was the plan. Simple. Safe.
You pushed open the door and stepped out into the dim light of the room again, trying to slide your expression back into something neutral. Something nice.
You gave him a polite, too-sweet smile in return, it was automatic, from that church-girl buried deep in your gut. You didn't owe him anything, but you still felt like you had to at least perform gratitude. Like that was part of the deal.
It was tight-lipped, polite, instinctual. The same smile you’d been trained to give since you were a kid, the smile that didnt reach your eyes, that said I’m fine, thank you, don’t worry about me.
He smiled back.
Not kindly. Not broadly. Just this thin, smug little thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He tried to play it off like nothing. Reached for the remote. Adjusted his posture. But it didn’t go unnoticed, not by you. Joel looked over at you from the chair, his arms resting behind his head now, relaxed.
You crossed the room, easing yourself onto the top of the bed. The blanket was old and dusty and reeked of stale detergent. Still, it beat the side of the highway. You opened the Coke and took a sip. Flat. Warm. Still, it gave your hands something to do.
On the TV, that same crusty sitcom was still going. Joel had turned the volume up since you'd gone. The laugh track punched through the tiny speakers like a drill to the temple. The jokes came rapid-fire—loud, overacted, dated.
You weren’t really listening until one of the characters—a middle-aged man with a gut and a mustache—joked about slipping a woman something to make her “act with less prudence.” The studio audience howled. His female co-star gave him a fake slap on the shoulder with an annoyed glare. The scene moved on.
You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even smile.
Joel did.
Not loud. Just a low huff of a chuckle, amused. Right in time with the laugh track. Like it had hit a nerve in him. The wrong nerve.
You stiffened. Your spine straightened just a little more. You didn’t look at him.
It was the type of joke that made men laugh in bars when they’d already had too much and weren’t watching their tone anymore.
Joel’s laughter stopped as quickly as it came. But when you risked a glance, you saw it, that same smug curl at the edge of his mouth, his tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say out loud.
You looked away.
It’s the show, you told yourself. It’s the show. He’s just laughing because it’s on.
But the hairs on your arms were standing up anyway.
You shifted around on the stiff mattress for what must’ve been the better part of an hour. The bed creaked with every movement, the scratchy comforter brushing against your skin like old sandpaper. You kept changing positions—legs folded under you, then stretched out, then pulled back in. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt settled.
You kept reaching for the bottle of Coke on the side table, fingers brushing it absentmindedly before pulling back. The ritual repeated over and over until finally, you just brought it into your lap. The half-full bottle had lost what little fizz it had, but you held onto it anyway. The weight of it in your hands was something solid, something to focus on. It gave your fingers something to do besides twist the hem of your shirt or pick at your skin.
Joel hadn’t said much. The flicker of the TV lit up his face in little bursts. Every so often, he’d glance over at you. Not long enough to say anything. Just enough to make your body flare up with heat as your blood rushed.
You tried to focus on the show, but your brain had gone fuzzy. Not foggy, exactly, but distant. Like your thoughts were moving through syrup. Your limbs felt a little heavy, your eyes dry.
The Coke sat in your lap like a small weight. When you went to take another sip, you hesitated, your hand lifting slower than you expected. The bottle felt heavier than before. Not by much. Just enough for you to notice.
You frowned a little, blinked once, then twice. Maybe it was exhaustion. Your nerves had been running hot all day, your body could just be crashing. That had to be it.
Still… something felt off. You gripped the bottle a little tighter.
Your head rolled slightly on your shoulders as you tried to blink the haze away. You gave a small shake, like maybe you could rattle the exhaustion out of your skull, but it clung to you—draped heavy over your limbs like a damp blanket.
You weren’t that tired.
At least, you hadn’t been.
You blinked again. The TV was still flickering, the show’s punchlines rolling out like clockwork. Joel chuckled along with the laugh track, low and content. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way he wanted it.
You didn’t look at him. You just focused on the bottle in your hands.
It wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it could be. Your fingers curled a little tighter around it as if that might tether you to the present. You told yourself again that you hadn’t eaten properly. That this was just your body protesting the long day. That the motel room was warm, and Joel’s TV was loud, and your senses were frayed.
But still… your skin was buzzing. Not panic, just static. An edge.
You reached for your phone without thinking, fingertips fumbling slightly with the zipper of your bag. You didn’t even know who you’d text if you needed help, but the need to do something was rising in your chest, your instincts growing louder, like background noise you could no longer ignore.
“Feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Joel asked suddenly, not looking at you.
You jumped slightly at his voice, your fingers freezing over your backpack. You glanced at him.
His eyes were still on the screen, but his smirk was back. Not wide, not obvious, just there. Subtle, like he was hiding something behind it and didn’t care enough to try hard.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.
Joel made a little humming sound, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back further in his chair, exhaling like a man pleased with how the day turned out.
You turned your eyes to the bathroom door again.
It wasn’t far. You could go in, close the door, lock it. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.
You planted your hands on the edge of the bed and pushed yourself up. Your legs didn’t respond the way you expected.
For a split second, it felt like they weren’t even attached. Your knees nearly gave out as you stood, a sharp, disconnected jolt rushing through your lower body like the numbness you get from sitting too long in one position, but worse. There was no familiar prickle of circulation returning, no tingling promise of sensation coming back. Just absence.
And something about that absence made your chest tighten.
You reached out, grabbing the wall for balance. The Coke bottle in your hand slipped from your fingers.
Behind you, Joel’s chuckle drifted lazily through the static of the television. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel thinner.
“You alright there?” he drawled, voice a little too casual. A little too slow.
You didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just, stiff legs.”
Your voice sounded strange even to your own ears, it was muted, distant. You could feel his eyes on your back now, tracking your movement more attentively than before.
You didn’t turn.
Didn’t say anything else.
You pressed your hands against the rough motel wall, the chipped paint cool against your skin. Your legs felt weak beneath you, shaking softly, and you couldn’t seem to make them move.
Your breath came fast and shallow, chest tightening with each inhale. The vintage chair creaked faintly nearby, a reminder that Joel was still in the room, still watching.
You didn’t look over.
Your eyes darted to the flickering TV, its pale light casting long shadows on the cracked wallpaper. It buzzed softly, filling the silence with pointless noise.
Maybe not so pointless.
You could hear him settle out of his chair, the scrape of fabric on denim. Joel’s footsteps shuffled behind you, slow and deliberate.
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth, and far too casual. Almost mocking. It didn't sound like a question.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Instead, you pressed your palm harder against the wall, willing the tremors in your legs to stop. But the more you willed it, the worse it felt, like your body was betraying you, leaving you trapped between fight or flight, but doing neither.
You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, biting your lip to keep from shaking or crying. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.
You wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.
But you stayed still.
You didn’t realize he was approaching again until the floor creaked just to your left. A soft sound, but close. Too close.
“Hey, c’mon now,” Joel said, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should lie back down.”
His hand reached out, palm warm and rough as it hovered near your arm. Not yet. The faux tenderness in his tone didn’t sit right with the look in his eyes. They were too alert, too interested.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice was hoarse and small. You hated how it sounded.
“You sure? ‘Cause you’re swayin’ a little.” His hand landed on your arm this time, solid and steady. But he didn’t grip.
That should have made it better. It didn’t.
It was the stillness in his hand that made your skin crawl, how his thumb pressed, then circled slowly, like he was mapping out your pulse.
“C’mon,” he said again, guiding you gently, not forcing, but not offering space to resist. “Just for a minute. You’ll feel better when ya do.”
When... not if.
You let yourself be led. Partly because your legs still felt unsteady. Partly because you didn’t know what would happen if you pulled away.
He walked you the few steps to the bed, hand never leaving your arm, and helped you sit. His other hand reached for your shoulder, too familiar now, the way it rested there a beat too long.
You flinched.
Joel paused, then gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Easy now. Ain’t tryin’ to scare you."
But when he leaned in to adjust the pillow behind you, his knuckles dragged against your collarbone. His other hand hovered lower on your side, not quite touching your hip—but close enough that the heat of it made you recoil inside.
“You’re all tense,” he murmured, gaze slipping down your frame like a slow leak. “Just breathe, alright? You’re safe.”
The worst part was how convincing his voice sounded.
But you knew better.
Your body knew better.
You sank down against the bed with a strange sort of heaviness, like your own limbs no longer belonged to you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, a dry, musty scent rising up from the sheets.
You tried to sit upright, to keep your spine straight, but your body leaned without permission, your muscles slackened under the weight of your own breath.
Joel didn’t go back to the chair.
You heard the soft groan of the mattress again, felt the subtle shift beside you before your eyes caught up. He sat on the edge of the bed now. Right next to you.
Not touching, but close.
You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes trying to focus. Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought dragging through molasses.
“Why…” you started, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come.
Your tongue felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.
He smiled, small, faint. You might've miss it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking. Because watching him felt like the only thing tethering you now.
“You okay, sugar?” he asked again, quieter this time. Closer. He didn’t sound worried. Not really.
You tried to speak, but your words came out slurred, barely above a whisper. “M’fine…”
It took all your strength just to swallow the lump in your throat, even that felt like work. You could feel your pulse behind your eyes now, slow and sluggish.
Joel didn’t move away.
His arm rested across his lap, hand curled on his thigh. The same hand that had guided you here. The same hand that lingered too long.
His eyes weren’t on your face anymore.
You saw that.
You felt that.
Still, you couldn’t quite pull your body back. Couldn’t seem to make your limbs respond.
You were here. And so was he.
And something deep in your gut told you the space between you wouldn’t stay empty much longer.
Joel's calloused hands reached toward the strap of your bra that had peaked out from your shirt. He lifted it in his fingers almost carefully, letting it lead up to the top of your bra. Your mumbled incoherently at his touch. He shushed you softly.
He didn't speak anymore, he didnt need too. He brought his fingers back up to your collarbone before laying his palm across it, the strap caught between his fingers as he pushed it down your shoulder. His body leaned forward to press his lips to your collarbone. His beard was scruffy and sharp against your soft skin, like needles.
His lips were dry and cracked, the wetness from his saliva being the only softness. He pecked at the bone a few times before his mouth wrapped around it, sucking.
Your hands weakly moved to his shoulders, but his hands patiently wrapped around your wrists, pushing them to sit by your head. The bed dented down. Your writhed weakly. He continued sucking and nipping at the spot till a dark mark appeared.
The knot in your stomach churned as he licked over where he bit to soothe your skin, his beard felt like a hundred tiny needles digging into you. Red appeared around the purple. His thumbs pressed into your wrists, feeling your pulse as you whimpered. His mouth lifted for a moment, his breath hot on your irritated skin.
"Your hearts finally slowin' down sweetheart, ain't losin' ya am I?" He huffed with a humor only he had. His mouth wrapped around the mark again, his tounge tracing your collarbone as he hummed.
He hadn’t lied, your heart finally slowed, but the panic stayed lodged in your chest. Each beat hammered against your ribs, like it was trying to tear its way out and leave you behind. The thump in your chest spread your blood throughout your body, heat rising on your skin.
His hands weren’t tight on your wrists, his thumbs traced slow circles on your pulsepoints before sliding into your palms. His mouth kept defacing your shoulder. There was no violence in it, if anything, he almost seemed to be comforting you.
You couldn’t decide if that made it better, or worse, or if it changed anything at all.
Your knees dragged upward in another weak attempt to slip free, but your bones felt like wet cement, heavy and useless. You turned your head away with a thin whine, your body mustering what little control it had to spill tears that slid into your ears. Your chest heaved as you writhed.
Joel shushed you without cruelty, his hum low and pitying, the vibration running from his throat into your collarbone. His mouth scattered pecks over the marks fresh on your neck and shoulders before he propped himself on an elbow, still looming above you. One calloused hand smeared the tears across your right cheek while his lips caught the ones on the left—and you swore his tongue slipped out to taste the salt straight from your skin.
“Don’t cry, sugarpie… I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise. Didn’t mean to upset you none. I just get real lonely out on the road, is all.”
He looked and sounded so genuine, like he truly believed every word he spoke. His lips brushed your ear when he talked, his voice almost swallowed by the blare of the TV—and now you understood why it was so loud. Not that it mattered. The only sounds you could make were thin, mousey whines, easy to mistake for the creaks of the old bedframe or an actual mouse.
Your lips trembled as you turned your face from his hands, eyelids pressed tight. The only refuge you had was to pretend, if only for a moment, that none of this was real.
“Hey now… look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby.” His voice stayed soft, but there was an edge of annoyance beneath it.
When you didn’t obey, his hand closed around your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered. He tilted your head toward him, but your eyes stayed shut. He clicked his tongue, then used his other hand to peel one eyelid open. Your iris was barely a ring around your blown pupil, whatever he’d given you was already winding through your blood, sinking heavy into your bones.
He smiled softly. “There she is…” he whispered, letting your eyelid flutter shut as his hand slipped into your hair, fingers combing slow like he meant to soothe. “Pretty, pretty girl.”
His lips met your forced pout in a mockery of a kiss, his tongue brushing gently against them, coaxing for a response you never gave. When you didn't reciprocate, he nipped at your lips gently.
He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your eyes still screwed shut, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of his touch. His hand hovered at your shoulder, and he grinned at the weak tremors rippling through your body. Slowly, he let his fingertips trail down to your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts to trace the waistband, his blunt nail dragging a cruel line across your pelvis.
"It's okay, hun." He whispered as he slipped another finger into the waistband.
You felt his hand turn in your shorts, the pads of his fingers now touching you. You tensed but made no move to resist, not that you could. His hand slowly, painstakingly, moved deeper into your shorts. You quietly cried as his middle and pointer finger dragged across your clothed clit before it was quickly replaced by his palm, fingers down to your slit. Your heard a gravelly groan reach out of his throat.
"Fuck sweetie, you're soaking through your panties." He chuckled near the end of his words before exhaling heavily.
Your eyes wanted to shoot open, but only managed to lift with a furrowed brow. His eyes met yours, his bottom lip between his stained teeth. Confusion was painted on your features.
"Yeah baby, you're panties are fucking ruined." He huffed, his palm pressing onto your swollen clit.
A humiliating gasp was ripped from you as more tears fell from your eyes. No, no no no...
"Mhm, shit baby, see? Your body knows I'm not hurting ya, what was all that fuss about?"
The pads of his fingers brushed over your clothes slit, the wetness became more obvious as you heard a sickening squelch when he pressed them into your sopping hole over your panties.
"Ah... Joel.." you cried, your voice never felt smaller.
His hot breath fanned your face with a pant, "Yeah, baby, say my name."
You shook your head weakly, your eyes traveling down to where his hand disappeared into your shorts. You remembered you had hands as you tried to push his hand away. In your haze, you accidently pushed him closer, letting his palm rub harder into your clit.
You wanted to puke when your felt a shot of pleasure crack through you, you wanted to die when you felt your hips roll into his hand. Your voice cracked with a wordless 'No'.
Joel beamed, "You got such a needy pussy, baby... look at her, she wants so bad. She knows whats best for you... she just wanna feel good."
You grit your teeth as your hips rolled again, his hand meeting it with a circle of his own. Your nails dug into his forearm, but they barely made an indent. You felt his leg cross over yours as he hummed your thigh. His cock was hard in his jeans, the bulge large and visable despite your brain fog and the dark room.
His hand left your shorts for a moment, and you felt a wave of relief before you felt them fall straight to the button on them.
He unbuttoned them with one hand as he groaned, lifting himself to his knees. He grabbed at the waistband at both your hip bones and tore them down. You tried to cross your legs but one of his hands met your thigh and shoved it to the side, just long enough to get your shorts off.
He brought both hands to the back of your knees, dragging you down for his thighs to meet the back of yours. He spread you open and stared down like he was holding his fridge open, deciding what he wanted to feast on. He barely felt the tug of you trying to close them. In a last ditch effort you moved your hands to cover your crotch, and that's when you felt it.
You were completely soaked through, the wet spot making your white panties transparent. It was like something inside you broke at that moment. Your body had decided to completely betray you.
As if he noticed you resolve falter, he brought his hands to the side of your panties and ripped. One side, then the other. Throwing them across the room to land somewhere on the carpet. You bit into your hands as you stopped pulling away. Eyes distant but open, he would take it.
His hands lifted your shirt over your bra before he shoved that up too. It squeezed over the top of your breasts almost painfully.
"God bless you, baby... perfect fucking pussy," his hand slapped it as he leaned forward, "and perfect fucking tits."
His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tounge circling it wildly as he sucked the nub between his teeth. Your body reacted how it wanted, and you could only whimper and whine pathetically. He rested above you on one forearm while his other hand met your leaking slit again. His thick middle finger dragged up and down it, your wetness coating the pad. He brought it to you clit, circling slowly before he flicked it.
He moaned around you nipple when you jumped with a cry. The more your body reacted the more he seemed to lose it. He switched to the other nipple, "Gotta give her some lovin' too." He chuckled.
The actions repeated for a few minutes you think, your perception of time got foggy with each circle, flick, and switch.
The vibration from his groans tickled your breast, making your back arch further into his mouth. He was almost fucking drooling, copious amounts of spit shined your chest like you'd been rubbed down in oil.
He abruptly moved down, his hand leaving to grip your hips, holding them down as he settled between your legs. He licked a long stripe across your slit, shaking his head side to side as the muscle circled your clit before he sunk it into your organ. His hands moved to your chest as he tounge fucked you, fast and unrelenting. He only lifted from you to spit on you pussy before he flattened his tounge across your entire slit and diving back in.
Every groan and moan from his vibrated against your clit and the inside of you. You felt breathless and violated. And when a knot formed in your stomach that you couldn't decipher at first due to the sinking dread that had settled there, it was too late.
With a broken cry, you threw your head back as your legs shook around his head. His voice raised over the tv for a moment with how loud he growled against your pussy.
He detached from you before appearing in front of your eyes and shoving his hot tounge down your throat. You grimaced as you tasted yourself, your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.
"Sweet as cherry pie, baby." He mumbled against your mouth. His tounge dragged along the inside of your mouth, just another hole to him. Along the ridges of the roof of your mouth to the back of your teeth.
He sucked on your tounge harshly before unlatching, raising back on his knees again with a hushed 'Fuck...' undoing his belt. The clink of metal echoed, as he stood. He didn't bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to release his raging cock.
He walked to the side of the bed, grabbing your arm and dragging you closer. His dick hung heavy as it twitched, face level with you. You closed your mouth tightly and turned your head, only to met with a gentle but forceful tap from the back of his hand. The same hand grabbed your jaw as he leaned down to meet your eyes.
"I'm only gonna say this once, you don't fucking bite. I don't wanna hurt you, sugar, but you bite my fucking dick and I'll knock your teeth out." He said it sternly with raised brows.
You only looked at him fearfully before he spoke again, "Do you understand?" You nodded.
He loosened his grip and brought his thumbs to the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. "Relax your throat, sweetheart. Be good for me, m'kay?"
What else could you do other then what you were told?
The tip leaked as he dragged it across your lips before he got an idea, backing up and manhandling you to lay with your head upside down on the edge. He returned to your lips, a couple heavy slaps of his cock landed on your cheek before he told you to stick your tounge out, and he slid into your warm waiting mouth.
He groaned as he moved till his balls touched your nose, stilling there for a moment as you suffocated. You whimpered around him as you brought your hands up, "Breath through your nose, sweetheart." He instructed.
He pulled out leaving just the tip in your mouth before he slowly bottomed out again. He didnt waste time changing the pace, his hips thrusted steadily. Drool dripped from your mouth as he fucked it, his heavy, twitching balls smacking your nose each time. He brought his hands to take your wrists, settling them on your stomach as he leaned forward so he could thrust harder. He panted and groaned, cursing occasionally inbetween.
One of his hands left your wrist to smack your pussy once before he lifted himself. Bringing one knee to the mattress, he stood as he thrusted downward into your throat. His hand enveloped it with a growl when he saw the shift inside of it. His eyes were locked on the bulge that appeared in your throat when he shoved it down.
His thrusts became sloppy as he got louder. He lean forward again, fully pounding your throat before hot seed filled it. You felt it hit your uvula in bursts, forcing you to cough and gag, your body desperately trying to suck in air through your filled neck. He stilled at the deepest point, his tip twitching to hit the back of your throat as you felt his balls tighten against your nose. He exhaled roughly before giving you one more slowly thrust, pulling out.
You gasped desperately, veins bulging in your face and neck. Your eyes were pink and your head was swimming due to it hanging upside down for so long. Spit and snot leaked down from your face along with his cum.
Kneeling next to you, he nuzzled your head with his own with soft shushing. "That's it, breath, honey... You did so good, took it so good. Made me feel so good, baby..." he muttered, kisses moving across your temple.
When your coughing subsided you breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, mumbling incoherently as your brain struggled to process. The fog lifted when you felt his hands around your ankles from the other side of the bed, dragging you to lay on it again. He crawled to join you before twisting you back around so your head was at the pillows.
Cries came more freely now as you saw his still hard cock scoot closer to your pussy. You head turned before narrowing in on a sheet of tablets sitting on the side table he'd been sitting at. Two blue pills missing.
Your throat burned as a weak cry tried to crawl out, but he'd abused it to the point of you loosing your voice. Pathetic squeaks falling from your mouth instead. You felt his cock slap against your pussy, it instinctively pulsed at the pressure. He pressed the tip to your clit, thrusting against it. Your back arched as your hips rolled with his, your brain was so fuzzy you didnt even register the noises spilling from your lips.
The stretch was sudden as he pushed into you. Your lips trembled around him as he slid inside easily. Your spit and already soaked his cock immeasurably, but the lube that leaked from you without permission added to it ease of which he came inside you without friction. You felt impossibly full when his hand came down to push on your lower stomach as he began working.
There was no build up, the speed was set from the jump as he hauled himself over you. His hips met yours with heavy thrusts, pounding into you without thought. The only time he let you breath was when he kneeled again, only to grab the back of your knees and shove them next to you head as he somehow fucked you harder. He felt no need to speak anymore, only occasion growls of how wet you were, which you hadn't needed verbal acknowledgement of. It was clear from the wet slaps that echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears as you laid limp and took it.
Your mouth hung open as noises continued to force themselves from your throat, you had been so gone that you didnt flinch when you spit into your mouth, your throat instantly tensing as you swallowed it. You had lost almost all feeling, your hearing muffled, you took no notice of the impending release.
"Fucking shit baby... pussys so fucking tight 'round me... you gonna cum again? Hmm? You love this fucking cock, you know you do. You're body knows you do."
It went in one ear and out the other, you were reduced to a whimpering hole.
You didnt react when he pulled out to flip you onto your stomach, shoving one knee hip while the other stayed straight. He laid atop your seemingly lifeless body as he shoved himself back in and quickly resumed his previous pace. The cupped smacking sound reverberated with his pounding, your voice now muffled by the pillows you faced.
You felt his weight as his chest met your back and he rutted into you. Your fingers twitched with a mix of exhaustion, pleasure, and anxiety. He swiped your hair from your shoulder as he sucked another mark onto you from behind. Your voice raised a pitch as he thrusts began sloppy again.
"You're gonna make me cum again, honey... fuck yeah that's it, you can take it, knew you could." You whimpered as he lifted your hips, shoving you onto him just as harshly as he was fucking you. But you tightend around him all the same.
"Come on, cum with me, baby! Want your pussy to clamp down and suck my cum right out of my cock... milk me fucking dry, baby... lemme fill up that sexy fucking pussy!"
A scream was at the back of your throat as your body jumped like you were electrocuted. It came out as a broken cry as you shook violently. He didn't stop even after your orgasm run its course, only fucked you faster. Your hips pulled away as you mindlessly scrambled away from his unrelenting ones, but you were still under the influence of his roofie, and he was still so much stronger.
And so for another agonizing few minutes you shook and writhed and cried till he bottomed out. Cumming deep inside your abused cunt. You felt the warmth fill you as his tip hit your cervix, it spread quickly down to your opening where it leaked down onto the bed. He let himself to thrust a handful more times as he drained his balls inside of you.
And then he stayed there, his hand lifting your hips to keep it from leaking out. But there was so much, it filled your entire cunt. You felt his hands reached and pinch your slit closed around his cock. His mouth came to your ear as he whispered.
"Gotta make it stick... make sure you get nice and full."
You have nothing left in you to protest, only tears slipping by. You're so fucking dirty, cum and spit and snot and tears and sweat. The blanket your sprawled on feels like got left out in the rain.
You feel his cock soften inside you of before he pulls out. Two fingers immediately replace it, stuffing the little that leaks out back into your brushed pussy. You begin to lose your senses, your body unable to force itself to fight awake anymore.
You only feel the repeated drag of his fingers, a clicking sound like a camrea accompanied by a flash of light, and his breathless heaving. The bed shakes as he falls next to you before you feel his arm loosely wrap around you waist, pulling you into him. You eyes droop as you gave in. A lump forms in your throat when you feel a twitch against your ass as you slowly loose consciousness.
tw. obsessive / stalker dean x reader. somnophilia. pussy eating. breaking in. p in v. creampie. alcohol mention. panty kink. panty stealing. CNC. title from alligator blood- nicole dollanganger.
the key turns with practiced silence in the deadbolt. Dean knows exactly which floorboards creak. the third from the door, the one in the hall by the bathroom, the spot just beside your bed. He's memorised the layout of your apartment the way he memorised the feel of your skin from that one time you bumped into him at the grocery store, your hand brushing his as you both reached for the same bottle of whiskey.
Six months ago. You don't remember but he does.
His boots are off left at the door in the hallway. He's wearing only socks, a pair of dark jeans and a leather jacket that's seen better days. He moves through your living room like smoke, past the collection of succulents on your windowsill, past the half-empty coffee mug you left on the coffee table—black with two sugars. you take it just like he does. moving into the rectangle of pale moonlight spilling from your bedroom doorway.
There you are.
You're on your side with one arm tucked under your pillow, mouth slightly open, your lashes dark crescents against your cheeks. The sheet has twisted around your legs leaving one thigh exposed, the curve of your hip visible where your oversized t-shirt has ridden up.
You're wearing that shirt—the worn one with the faded band logo that he's seen you in at least a dozen times from his parked car across the street.
Dean's breath catches in his throat the way it always does when he sees you like this. Vulnerable. oblivious. his.
He pads closer to the bed, his shadow falling over you. The mattress dips as he settles his weight on the edge, the springs complaining softly. You don't stir. You never do. You sleep like the dead and Dean thanks whatever twisted god is listening for that mercy.
His hand hovers over your hip, not quite touching. He can feel the warmth radiating from your skin, smell the faint scent of your shampoo—something coconut and vanilla that drives him insane. His cock is already half-hard in his jeans, pressing against the zipper demanding attention.
"God.. look at you.” he whispers, his voice rough and low. "So fucking beautiful I can't think straight."
He finally lets his palm rest on your bare thigh. Your skin is impossibly soft, warm from sleep. He strokes up, fingers trailing over the swell of your hip and dipping under the hem of your shirt. You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft sound escaping your lips and Dean freezes, his heart hammering against his chest.
When you settle back into your breathing rhythm—slow, even and deep he exhales shakily.
"Sweetheart.” he murmurs like a prayer. "You have no idea what you do to me."
He slides his hand higher tracing the line of your ribs through the thin cotton of your shirt. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast and his mouth waters. He's dreamed of this, of touching you, of taking what he wants while you lie there oblivious.
Selfish. So selfish.
Slowly he pulls the sheet down further baring your legs completely. The moonlight catches the curve of your ass where your shirt has bunched up and Dean has to bite back a groan. His free hand goes to his jeans fumbling with the button, unzipping with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet room.
He frees his cock—hard and thick, the head already slick with a bead of precum. He strokes himself once then twice, watching your sleeping face. your parted lips. the way your chest rises and falls.
"I need to taste you..” he breathes out.
He shifts positioning himself between your legs. With gentle reverent hands he pushes your thighs apart. You make a sleepy sound of protest but don't wake, your body relaxing into his touch. The cotton of your panties is thin, worn, and he can see the shadow of your cunt through the fabric.
Dean leans down and presses his mouth to you through the cloth, inhaling your scent. He's dizzy with it. His tongue darts out wetting the fabric, tracing the seam of your folds. You twitch, your hips rolling slightly and he groans against you.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, your knees, off completely. He pockets them for later. he'll stroke himself to this memory.
Now he spreads you open with his thumbs and you're glistening pink, already wet in that unconscious way your body responds to sleep. Dean swears under his breath, his voice cracking.
"God look at this pussy. Made for me. Made just for me."
He lowers his head and his tongue is flat against your clit in one smooth possessive stroke. He tastes salt and the faint sweetness of you and it's better than any whiskey, better than anything he's ever had. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue slow and firm and your body responds immediately—your hips twitch, a soft moan escaping your throat.
"That's it..” he murmurs against you. "Let me have it, baby."
He works you open with his mouth, licking into your folds, fucking you with his tongue. He's patient. He knows what he's doing and he takes his time. He brings you to the edge and backs off just to watch your breath hitch, just to see the way your brow furrows in your sleep, caught in the edge of a dream you don't remember.
When he surfaces his chin is slick with you and his cock throbs with a brutal need. He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He looks at your face one last time—your relaxed features, your soft mouth, the way you've turned your head to the side completely unaware.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart.” he whispers though there's no apology in his voice. "I can't help myself. You're mine."
He pushes in and your cunt yields to him wet and hot and tight, the friction of that first slick slide making his eyes roll back. You gasp sharply, your body jolting and he stills, buried halfway inside you. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches.
"Shh shh, I've got you.” he whispers smoothing his hand over your hip, your belly. "Just relax. You feel so good, Christ. so good."
Your body adjusts, your muscles loosening as you sink back into sleep and he takes that as permission. He pushes deeper seating himself fully inside you and the feeling of your tight cunt gripping his cock is almost too much. He has to breathe through it, his forehead nearly pressed to yours, his breath fanning over your face.
He starts to move—slow deep strokes that drag the full length of him through your slick heat. The bed creaks in a steady rhythm, the headboard knocking soft against the wall. Your nails scrape weakly at the sheets, and your lips part, your breathing speeding up, catching on little whimpers.
"Fuck, you take it so well.” he grits out, his hips picking up speed. "You take my cock so fucking good, baby. Dreaming about this, I know you are. Dreaming about me filling this tight little cunt."
He wraps one arm under your knee, hitching your leg higher changing the angle. He drives deeper, hitting a spot that makes your whole body clench, your back arching off the mattress. A low broken moan escapes you, the first sound you've made that's truly awake, but your eyes stay closed.
"Right there-“ he gasps. "Right fucking there come on, give it to me. wet my cock."
He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. He fucks you harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your walls fluttering around him and he watches your face contort in that perfect mask of pleasure.
"Now.” he commands, his voice breaking. "please- cum for me now."
Your orgasm crashes through you, your back bowing with a sharp cry tearing from your throat. Your cunt milks him, clenching and pulsing and Dean buries his face in your neck as he follows you over the edge, spilling deep inside you in hot heavy pulses. He grinds his hips against you riding it out, groaning your name like a curse.
For a long moment, the only sound is his ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic. He stays inside you softening, his face pressed to the curve of your shoulder. When he finally pulls out, he watches a pearl of his cum leak from your cunt, and he uses two fingers to push it back inside.
"Can't waste any of it…” he murmurs.
He pulls your shirt down, rearranges the sheet over you and presses a long, soft kiss to your forehead. You mumble something in your sleep, turning onto your other side and curling into a ball.
Dean dresses in the dark, takes your panties from his pocket and stows them safely, lets himself out of your apartment the same way he came in.
As he walks to his car under the streetlights, he pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the app he's been using to track your phone's location.
"Tomorrow night…” he says to himself. "Same time, sweetheart."
(A/N: I had a dream last night so yeah... Enjoy this dirty drabble~ 🖤)
ℕ𝔼𝔼𝔻
Rating: 18+
Pairing: Multiple Yautja Males x Female Reader
Synopsis/Excerpt: You stopped resisting. Body a canvas of bites and scratches, so close to becoming fully claimed.
⚠️WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark themes, non-con, dubious consent, claiming bites, groping, sexual overstimulation, pain kink, size difference, dacryphilia, interspecies sex, reader is a sex slave.
Yautja males are initially curious about how soft and pudgy a human female can be, prodding and squeezing the pliant flesh of your curves, eyes zeroed in on how it spills through the gaps of their fingers.
Curiosity quickly spirals into lustful anticipation.
Attempting to divert their hands away from your person was near impossible, your strength like that of a butterfly's and holding no real power against theirs. They then held your arms apart, a yautja holding a wrist on either side of you to limit your struggles. You held your breath when the others closed in on you.
The sight of their scarred and battle-hardened hands mapping out every inch of your naked body had you squeezing your thighs together, biting your lower lip hard to suppress your moans and ignore the steady throbbing of your clit as arousal quickly set in.
A whimper escapes your lips when they squeezed at your closed thighs, sharp nails scraping the surface of your skin and creating red welts on your body. The slight pain adds more fuel to the fire, your body jolting forward when one of them boldly squeezes at your heaving chest from behind. The harder he groped, the more beautifully you mewled, unsuccessful in resisting the delicious sensations of his firm hands milking your chest. A stunned croak left you when another squeezed at the pudge layering your tummy, face heating with embarrassment at their audacity for grabbing something you viewed as an imperfection on yourself.
Kicking in retaliation, you tried your hardest to fight them off and shy away from their daring touches. You feared that if you let them continue further, it would only get worse. Already you could feel your body betraying you, the wetness sloshing between your thighs a mutiny against your panicking thoughts and warring mind. You shook your head in denial, refusing to acknowledge the rivulets of cum running down your inner thighs, refusing to feel your nipples hardening into tight buds when tongues slithered to tease them, refusing to hear the gasping moans when hands squeezed hungrily at your ass before striking it again and again to observe it ripple.
It was soon becoming too much. A pathetic sob warbled out of your drooling mouth when several tusked faces clamped down on the fat of your breasts, hips and ass and licked away the blood budding from the wounds. They lapped languidly at the sweat coating your body, purring with pleasure at your taste before finding more areas to mark with their fanged teeth. Tears sprinkled the corners of your eyes the longer the sweet torture continued.
You stopped resisting. Body a canvas of bites and scratches, so close to becoming fully claimed.
The unmistakable scent of your arousal permeated the air around them, your pheromones causing several yautjas eyes to roll to the back of their head while others were quick to disrobe and release their hardened lengths from the confines of their armor.
Hungry growls responded to your body's needs.
Strong hands found your knees and applied pressure, spreading them fully to continue their exploration...
(A/N (again): worst part of the dream was waking up before the real fun could begin *SCREAMING AND TEARING MY HAIR OUT*)
