#rosharan writes

[rosharanfiction]

somebody else

clint flood x sex worker! female reader || one-shot || ao3 link

summary: By day, you’re a waitress, crushing hard on your handsome regular. By night, you’re a call girl. When Clint unwittingly books you for an evening, your two worlds collide.

non-smut tags: grief. romance. eventual sweetness. afab reader. late night heart-to-heart. banter. no y/n. age gap (early 30s reader). girldad Clint. takes place after Freaky Tales. moved to present day so they have phones. money troubles. mentions of infidelity (not Clint or reader). some body insecurity. reader’s physical appearance not described beyond some hair. reader can walk and kneel. smut tags: nervous, tender Clint who gets filthy as hell when his walls come down. mutual masturbation. excessive dirty talk. Clint likes to watch, and he’s kinda obsessed with your thighs. Clint orders you around. brief spanking. praise. pussy pronouns. cock pronouns. big dick Clint, and he’s got some tattoos. pet names (“gorgeous”, “baby”). not not a blowjob. spoiler alert he cums on your pussy.

wc: 16.2K 🫣

author's note: Freaky Tales is my favorite PP movie, so I've been wanting to write Clint for ages. This fic builds up slowly and steadily to the dirtiest smut I've ever written. The diner-core and themes of grief were influenced in part by @mcthsman’s Toska. so was the pussy slap. Check out Toska out first if you haven’t already - it’s fantastic.

MDNI banners by @\cafekitsune, dividers by @\saradika-graphics

You made up stories about all your regulars at the diner.

The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.

And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.

He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.

Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.

“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”

This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.

At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.

“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”

Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.

“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”

Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”

You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.

“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”

“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”

“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”

“Yeah, that’ll end well.”

“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”

You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.

“Funny,” you managed.

You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short. 

You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.

You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.

“Thank you,” he said.

You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.

“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“It’s brewing. And the banana?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

He always said no, but today he hesitated.

“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.

What?

“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”

Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?

He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.

Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?

You tucked your pen behind your ear.

“I should go get your coffee.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”

“Thank me? You said that already.”

The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.

But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.

“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”

“You what?”

“I take it back. No thank you for you.”

You failed to hold back a surprised grin.

“Ungrateful bastard.”

Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”

Was he… flirting with you?

You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.

Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.

It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.

So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.

“Coffee will be right out,” you said.

Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.

“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” you said.

You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.

You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.

A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.

You untied your apron.

“I’m going to take my fifteen.”

Casey’s brow furrowed.

“Really? We just started.”

“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.

As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.

You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.

Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.

The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.

Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.

Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?

Clint: 10:00? For two hours?

You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.

Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.

Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.

Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.

It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.

Clint took a moment to respond.

You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.

You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.

Your phone buzzed again.

Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”

Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.

Clint: Did you get it?

Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.

Clint: I get it.

Clint: Is the tip good?

Angel: You’re good. Thank you.

Clint: You said that already.

Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.

Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.

Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.

Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.

Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.

You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.

It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.

When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.

You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.

It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.

When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.

You reached for the rose shampoo.

It was empty. Damn it.

You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.

You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.

It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.

Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.

Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.

Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.

10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.

You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.

Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.

You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.

In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.

Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?

You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.

God, this had been a long day.

You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.

It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.

Handsome stood on the other side.

What?

What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?

Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.

Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.

He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?

Were you the something?

Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.

“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”

That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?

“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”

Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.

The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.

“You didn’t know?”

Handsome gave you an incredulous look.

“Does it seem like I knew?”

It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”

Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.

You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?

It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.

“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”

Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.

“You know what time I come in?”

“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”

You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.

At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.

“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”

“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” you said.

Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.

But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.

They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.

No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”

“You are?”

“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”

Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.

A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.

Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.

Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.

“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.

It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.

“Okay,” he said again.

He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.

“Want to come inside?”

You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?

He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.

If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.

These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.

The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.

“Let me take your coat.”

You handed it over numbly.

There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.

Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?

You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.

There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.

You rose to your feet.

“Here? Or the bedroom?”

“Not the bedroom.”

“Okay, then.”

You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.

He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.

“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”

He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.

“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”

You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.

“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”

Clint’s attention snapped to you.

“Cheating?”

You gestured to his hand.

“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”

“Oh,” was all Clint said.

He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.

“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”

Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.

“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”

Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.

You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?

You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.

But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.

“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”

Clint gave you a strange look.

“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”

“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”

Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”

“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”

“I know,” Clint said.

You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.

“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”

You turned to sit facing him on the couch.

“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”

“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.

“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”

A suspicion formed inside your mind.

“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”

“Yeah.”

Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?

“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”

“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.

Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why. 

“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”

Clint nodded at his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”

He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.

You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason.  You stayed where you were.

“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”

“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.

He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.

“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”

Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Sure, he didn’t.

“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”

Fuck.

“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”

“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”

You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.

“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”

You shook your head.

“You just told me you don’t like lying!”

A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.

“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”

He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”

“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”

“You thought I made it up?”

“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”

“You’re lying about Titan.”

“I really wish I was.”

Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”

“I don’t want good form,” he said.

“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”

He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”

Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.

“Um. Probably a blowjob?”

Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”

Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.

“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”

Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”

You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”

“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”

“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”

“I will.”

You walked over to his end of the couch.

Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.

You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.

“Can you make some space?” you asked.

Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.

He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.

Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.

“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?

But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.

Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.

Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.

A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.

You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.

“Should I stop?”

Clint hesitated, then shook his head.

You didn’t move.

“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”

Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.

“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”

You brought your hand to his erection.

Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.

You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.

You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. 

He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.

“Clint – ”

He pushed your hand away.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”

He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.

Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.

His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.

You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.

Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You forced your voice to stay level.

“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.

“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”

“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”

His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”

“That isn’t true,” you said.

An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”

You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.

“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”

He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.

“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”

So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.

And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.

“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.

Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.

“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”

Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.

But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.

You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.

“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.

Clint sighed.

“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”

This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.

“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Of course.”

He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”

You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.

And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.

“Take a seat,” Clint said.

You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”

“I noticed. I like it up here.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”

You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.

“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”

“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”

Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.

“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”

“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”

Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”

Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“Um. Either is good.”

He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.

While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.

“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”

“Really?” you asked.

Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.

“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”

“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.

You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.

The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.

Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.

“Clint,” you said.

He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.

“Is that any good?” you asked.

“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”

“Bluey.”

Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”

It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.

“It feels good,” you said.

Clint smiled softly. “Good.”

He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.

You nodded to it.

“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”

Clint grinned.

“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”

“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”

“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”

“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”

“Um. For transportation.”

“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”

“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”

You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.

“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”

He shook his head. “Not right now.”

He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.

“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”

You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.

“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”

Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.

You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.

“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”

You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.

“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”

Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”

His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”

“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.

He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.

Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.

“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.

Clint shrugged.

“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”

“Does she say anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”

He’d thought about you two together?

“What kind of opinions?”

Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”

“She wants you to go away?”

“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”

Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.

For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.

“Where’s your daughter tonight?”

He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”

“Do I spoil your kid?”

“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”

You shook your head no.

“Do you think you will?”

The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?

“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”

“For kids?” Clint asked.

“For each other.”

Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“What?” you asked.

“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”

“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”

Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”

“I will.”

“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”

You nodded. “We were really young.”

“And…uh…”

“What happened?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”

You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clint said quietly.

You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.

You busied yourself finishing your drink.

“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.

“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”

He’d noticed you doing homework?

“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”

It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.

Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”

“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”

He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.

“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”

Your face burned.

“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”

You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”

Clint fell quiet for a moment.

“I get it,” he finally said

He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.

Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.

Clint caught you watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.

“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”

“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”

He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”

“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”

“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”

A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.

“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.

“Twice. A long time ago.”

He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?

“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”

You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.

“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”

Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.

“That’s what you want to know?”

You shrugged.

“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”

“Do I now?”

Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.

“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”

“Where are they?”

“The usual places,” he said.

“Like..?”

Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.

He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.

It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.

“Interesting,” you managed to say.

“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.

“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”

Clint swallowed.

“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”

You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.

Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.

He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.

And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.

He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.

“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”

Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.

You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”

The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.

Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”

“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”

Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.

Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”

“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.

Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”

“Hot?”

How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”

You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”

“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.

Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.

By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.

“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.

You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.

“Could you…?” he asked quietly.

He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.

A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”

Your pussy throbbed with heat.

Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.

The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.  

“Clint,” you said.

He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.

“Do you want to take a break from your break?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”

Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.  

“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.

“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”

“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”

“Yeah?” you breathed.

Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.

“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”

Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.

Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.

“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”

You managed to nod.

“We can do that.”

Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.

“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.

Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.

With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.  

It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.  

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.

You felt a needy flicker in your core.

Clint nodded to your garter belt.

“Take that off.”

You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.

“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.

Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.

“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”

You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?

You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.

Clint took in a heavy breath.

You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”

He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.

A whimper drifted from your mouth.

Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.

“You like him, huh?”   

“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”

“Go on.”

“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.

“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”

Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.

“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”

“Please?”

“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”

“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”

A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.

Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?

You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.

Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.

The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.

Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.

Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.

“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”

Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”

Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.

“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.

Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”

You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.

Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”

As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”

You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.

You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“Do you want me to take these off?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”

He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.

Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.

You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.

“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”

You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.

Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.

“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”

He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.

It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.

Clint grew very still.

And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”

He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.

A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.

You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.

You whined, and Clint met your eyes.

“Was that okay, gorgeous?”

You nodded. “Until you stopped.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah?”

“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”

Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”

“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.

“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”

“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”

You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.

Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.

“You wanna meet him?” he asked.

“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”

Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.

He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”

Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?

Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

You obeyed at once.

He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.

Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.

He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”

He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.

You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.

Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.

“This okay?” Clint asked.

You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.

Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.

You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”

You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.

“Spit on him, baby.”

You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.

Clint inhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”

He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.

“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”  

Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.

You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.

“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”

He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.

His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.

“I want you to spread her open.”

You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.

It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.

“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”

You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.

“Oh yeah, she wants him.  That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”

“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”

“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”

With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.

“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”

Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”

Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.

“Tell me what you want,” you said.

He answered at once.

“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”

“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”

Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.

His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.

You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.

Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.

You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.

Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.

A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.

Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.

“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”

Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”

“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.

“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”

Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.

You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.

“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”

You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.

“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”

Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

“Yeah?”

Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”

“Tell me.”

“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.

Holy fuck. Oh, God.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”

Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.

“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”

He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.

Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.

He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.

Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.

“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”

Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”

He cut himself off.

“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”

He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”

Clint stilled. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”

“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”

You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”

Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.

He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.

“Goddamn is she pretty.”

The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.

Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.

“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”

He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.

Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.

“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”

Oh, fuck. Did he mean –

“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”

White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.

“Please.”

Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.

“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”

He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.

Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.

Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.

Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”

The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.

You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.

Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.

The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.

He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.

He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.

“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”

“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”

“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”

Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.

“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.

Clint grinned. “Hated it.”

You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.

Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?

You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.

“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.

“A little. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”

You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”

“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”

Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.

You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.

“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”

You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.

“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”

You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”

You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.

A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?

The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.

You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.

“My phone,” you said.

“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”

He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.

You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”

Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.

“Everything good?” Clint asked.

You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”

Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.

“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”

“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”

“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”

You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.

But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.

Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.

He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.

You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.

You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.

A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.

You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.

The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.

You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.

This would pass. Your body was just confused.

You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.

Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.

When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.

A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.

What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.

You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.

His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.

Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.

He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.

Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.

“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”

It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.

“Then why did you give me this?”

“12.5%,” Clint said.  “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”

“I took pictures,” Clint said.

“I begged you to take them.”

“I came all over you.”

“I begged for that, too.”

“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”

You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.

“I’m not charging you,” you said.

“Then call it a tip.”

“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”

He paused, and his eyes found yours.  

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I.”

Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”

“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”

“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”

“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”

“Right,” Clint said.

He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.

He’d lost his wife only a year ago.

You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.

“I’m going to leave,” you said.

Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.

His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

Your throat felt tight.

“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”

Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”

You squeezed his hand.

“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”

“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”

You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?

Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.

You swallowed a heavy feeling.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”

Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.

“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”

“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”

Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.

The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.

He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.

You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.

Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.

A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.

Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.

Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.

And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.

But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.

You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.

This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.

Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.

“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”

You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”

Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”

“Shut up,” you muttered.

Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”

You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.

The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.

By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.

You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.

2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.

At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.

You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.

“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.

You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.

It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.

You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.

You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.

“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”

You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.

He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.

You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.

This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.

“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.

“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”

“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”

“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”

“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”

“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”

His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.

“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”

As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.

“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”

She blinked sleepily. “Da.”

“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”

“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”

Clint grinned. “Exactly.”

He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.

You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.

“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”

“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”

“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”

There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”

Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.

“Those tables aren’t in your section.”

“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”

“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”

He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.

“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”

A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”

If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖

end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.

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[rosharanfiction]

THIS NEVER HAPPENED. modern! marcus acacius x female reader | part 1: The General

summary: The Friday before you start your new job, you get drunk and kiss a hot stranger. But it turns out Marcus isn’t just any stranger. He’s your brand-new boss, the guy who seems to get you like no other, and the last guy on earth you should want to kiss again.

non-smut tags: fluffy office romcom AU. ridiculously flirty Marcus. smartass do-gooder reader. banter. sweetness. a healthy dose of plot. reader has hair, but is not otherwise physically described. smut tags: Marcus is lowkey a horny animal. making out. fingering. a little dirty talk. public fooling around. they're drunk so dubcon. word count: 5.4K

andrea says: Written for @tateypots's PPCU Naughty or Nice challenge. Thank you so much for organizing it! I grew up on questionable 2000s romcoms, so I love this premise. My prompt is Marcus Acacius + "dating your boss" + nice. For the Grey’s Anatomy girlies (gn), yes this is deeply Derek and Meredith coded. I planned to release the whole thing at once, but haven't had much time to write lately, so I broke it into two parts and am just submitting the first. I tried not to end on too big a cliffhanger, and part 2 is already drafted. It should be out soon! Edit: Turning this into a series.

ao3 link | part 2 | 18+ only after this point. MDNI.

You liked Manhattan best in the evenings, when all the cafes and bagel shops began to roll up their awnings.  Midtown was never quiet, exactly – the subway always rumbled, steam gusted up from all the sidewalk grates, and neon signs thrummed in every run-down diner window. But there was a lull around twilight, after the commuters went home, when you swore you could feel the city readying itself, like some giant animal crouching before it burst into motion.

After a lifetime of following all the city’s rhythms, it felt wrong to go out this early, to wobble up from the subway in your tiniest skirt when the streets were still pink from the setting sun. But maybe tonight was meant to feel wrong. After all, this weekend marked the end of two eras.

The first was your era of trying to make a difference. The Manhattan you’d grown up in was slowly dying – all the affordable apartments, the run-down theaters and tiny bakeries had been priced out. For the last ten years, you’d devoted your life to saving them. But your legal aid firms were no match for corporate developers, and your pile of student debt was only getting larger. Earlier this year, your fourth employer in a row had gone out of business, and you’d finally given up. On Monday, you would start your new life as a sellout.

This was also the weekend that your favorite bar was closing. O’Henry’s was a sticky little dive, a New York staple, and you’d practically lived there all through your twenties. But the owners just couldn’t make rent anymore.  For their final weekend, they’d slashed all the prices and were throwing an “end of the world” celebration.

Doors opened at seven. You and your best friends Sky and Jana showed up at six. By then the line already wrapped around the block. By eleven, O’Henry’s was packed wall-to-wall.

It had to be eighty degrees inside, and the sticky room roared with a hundred conversations. You, Sky and Jana had claimed a prime booth in the corner, and the three of you were viciously defending it. Well, Sky and Jana were viciously defending it. You were viciously attempting to drown your sorrows in $4 martinis while winning at a game of Jenga.

You prodded one of the center blocks, and the tower wobbled above you.

“This Jenga game,” you declared morosely. “Is a metaphor for my career.”

Sky and Jana exchanged a long look.

“Towering?” Sky asked.

“Classic?” Jana added. “Fun for the whole family?”

You glared at the both of them. A cluster of finance guys with identical haircuts chose that moment to bump against the table, and the tower collapsed in a rain of wooden blocks. All three of you got hit on the head.

“Ow,” Sky muttered. They lifted a sodden Jenga block out of their cosmo and contemplated the remaining liquid. “Do you think this is still safe to drink?”

“Probably equally safe as it was before,” said Jana sagely. “I’m a medical professional. You can trust me.”

Jana was a yoga instructor, but she’d memorized all the bones in the human body for her certification, and in your martini-infused estimation this made her a doctor. You nodded your agreement, and Sky downed their drink.

You got to work fishing Jenga pieces out of the booth. You had a tower to rebuild.

“Hey,” said a voice. One of the finance guys. “Sorry about your game. But uh, you guys have been here a while, and we were wondering…”

“No,” you snapped. “You cannot both terrorize and claim our booth. Begone.”

Sky snickered behind you. The guy hesitated. You stared at him flatly.

“You’re still here,” you pointed out.

“There’s five of us,” he said. “And only three of you.”

“We have head wounds,” you said. “We need to sit down. My friend is a medical professional, and she thinks so, right?”

Jana bobbed her head. “It’s life-or-death.”

The finance guy still wasn’t moving. Your little disagreement had caught the attention of a few other patrons now, including a guy in the next booth over. You met his eyes for a second, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

Well. There was only one thing you hated more than losing, and it was losing with an audience. You leveled the finance guys with your steeliest glare.

“Lane v. McNab,” you said. “In 1991, a drunken Jon McNab crashed his bike into a pile of grocery crates. One fell and injured Susan Lane’s arm, and she won a civil suit for the damages. Fifty thousand dollars.”

The finance guy blinked. “What –”

“That was just an arm,” you continued. “Think of what we could get for head trauma. And there’s three of us.”

When the finance guys continued to stare blankly, you rolled your eyes. “I’m saying we’ll sue you, Brooks Brothers, if you give us a reason. There’s precedent.”

The five of them evaporated. Sky burst into laughter.

“Grocery crates? Seriously? You couldn’t have made up something better?”

“I didn’t make it up,” you said. “That actually happened. The plaintiff was a typist, and the defendant had to cover her backpay when she couldn’t work.” You dropped a handful of Jenga blocks on the table. “Now, do we think it’s sacrilege to try and build a pyramid?”

You felt the pull of someone’s gaze. The guy in the next booth.

He was kind of hot, you realized, with broad, round shoulders and wavy hair that curled around his ears. An expensive-looking watch glinted on his wrist, and he was dressed in a deep blue suit. It fit him well, but something about the set of his shoulders seemed out of place in formalwear – almost as out of place as formalwear seemed in a bar like O’Henry’s.

The man was alone in his booth, but he’d somehow managed to keep the finance guys off his back. It struck you that he wasn’t on his phone. Either his thoughts were so quiet they didn’t bother him, or they were so loud he had to look at them head-on.

He held your gaze, and heat fluttered through your chest.

You snapped your attention back to Sky and Jana. They’d apparently watched the whole exchange. Sky leaned over and stage-whispered in your ear.

“He’s been checking you out for, like, hours.”

“What?” you said. “No, he hasn’t.”

Jana turned to look over her shoulder at the guy, then nodded back at you approvingly. Your face burned.

“Stop that,” you muttered. Tonight was not about guys, no matter how very deep their eyes might look.  

Jana was mouthing something at you now. “You – should – talk – to – him.”

You shook your head at her. Meeting strangers in bars was a recipe for letdown, and you’d been through enough disappointment lately.

“Fine,” Jana said. “Sky and I will just go get another round. Maybe squeeze in a dance or two. You don’t mind watching the booth, right?”

Her tone was breezy, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. Before you could protest, the two of them got up, leaving you alone with the stranger.

You were sure they meant for him to come over, but the finance guys closed in first.

They’d refilled their drinks, and all five of them crowded around the edge of your table. Seriously? Didn’t they have anywhere else to lurk?

“Still occupied,” you told them.

“Come on,” their ringleader said. He had watery eyes, and he swayed slightly as he spoke. “There’s plenty of space. Look.”

He sat down next to you in Jana’s empty seat.  

Damn it. If you couldn’t get him to stand in the next few seconds, you’d lose the table for sure. On a different night, you might not have cared, but this was your bar. You’d come here five hours early to score this booth.

“Get up,” you said. “My friends will be back.”

The ringleader didn’t budge. He gave you a taunting look, as if he knew as well as you did that you couldn’t make him. Frustration crawled beneath your skin.

A smooth, commanding voice sounded from behind the pack of guys.

“Excuse me. You’re in my seat.”

It was the man from the next booth over. He’d come up to stand behind the finance guys. Now that he was on his feet, you realized how tall he was – enough to tower above the pack. There was something about him that emanated power, and it came from more than just his sheer size. You thought it was the way he carried himself, like he was used to bending the world to his will.

He glanced sidelong at you, and his expression softened, as if the two of you were in on some shared joke. Then the weight of his focus fell on the ringleader.

The smaller man appeared to be both deeply intimidated and trying hard not to be. For a tense three seconds, he held his ground, shrinking back against the leather of the booth. Then he dropped his eyes.

With a half-muttered “sorry, man,” he led the pack away. The tall stranger grinned at you.

“I’m surprised they came back after your threat to sue.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “Thanks. You should sit. If you want to.”

The booth he’d vacated was already full. It was the least you could do. And… okay, he was extremely good-looking.

The stranger hesitated, then slid into the booth beside you.

“I’m Marcus,” he said.

He held out a hand, and you scooted close enough to take it. His palm was warm, and it swallowed yours completely.

You told him your name, and he repeated it back to you.

“Pretty,” he commented.

Up close, you saw grey in his beard and at his temples. It suited him, in a hot forty-something way. Faint frown lines were etched into his forehead, but they seemed at-odds with the playful look he was giving you now.

“Where’d your friends go?” he asked.

You gestured toward the bar, where the throng hid Sky and Jana from view, and gave a vague explanation. The DJ had begun a long run of 90s throwbacks, so you’d probably lost them to the dancefloor.

Marcus watched you steadily as you spoke. Between the martinis and the pull of his attention, it was harder than it should have been to form coherent words.

“You know,” you said. “You’re the first person I’ve ever seen in a suit at O’Henry’s.”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Are you asking what a guy like me is doing in a place like this?”

You laughed. “I guess I am. But I actually want to know.”

“I’ve been coming here a long time,” he said. “I like that it’s always stayed the same as it used to be.”

“I get it,” you said. “The city feels like it’s disappearing sometimes.”

For a moment, Marcus’s face shifted, folding in on itself to fill in all his frown lines. Then the sadness fled his face so quickly that you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You grew up here, then?”

“Lower east side,” you confirmed.

“I knew it,” he said. “You act like a textbook New Yorker.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re telling me I’m bitchy right now.”

“I would’ve said direct…”

“Uh-huh. Good save.”

Marcus’s knee bumped yours beneath the table.

“I mean it,” he said. “Direct is a good thing. You’re probably a killer negotiator.”

“I am,” you agreed.

He grinned. “And I’m from the city, too,” he continued. “So if you’re… direct… then I have to be just as bad.”

It turned out Marcus had grown up in Brooklyn. The conversation devolved into reminiscing from there. You traded stories about the huge blackouts in the 2000s, about your shitty first apartments and the roommates who’d lived in them.

Marcus had a careful way of telling stories, always pausing to arrange all the information in the right order. The closer your questions got to his day-to-day life, the more he seemed reluctant to answer. He didn’t bring up his job, and a part of you was relieved. You hardly wanted to talk about your own.

You didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but you suspected he was already a few drinks in. His face was flushed, and he had a way of tilting toward you as you spoke, his long arm braced on the back of the booth.

At some point you’d shifted close to one another, and his thigh kept brushing yours underneath the table. He felt enormous up close, and the rest of the booth, not to mention the bar beyond it, felt somehow like a distant world. Your hand lifted of its own accord and trailed over Marcus’s arm. He was a muscular guy, with a thick chest and bulky arms, but he moved easily in his suit jacket. It had to be bespoke. Whatever job he wasn’t talking about, it paid very well.

A little too late, you realized you had both stopped talking. And you were now blatantly staring at Marcus’s chest. You trailed your eyes back to his face and saw him fight off a smile.

“Hey,” you said.  

Marcus’s eyes flickered with amusement. He brought his thumb up to trace your bottom lip.  

“Hi,” he answered.

He lowered his head, and you tilted up into his gravity. Your heart stuttered. Marcus’s nose brushed yours. He tucked a hand beneath your chin and guided you into a kiss.  

With a soft scrape of stubble, his bottom lip slid into your mouth. A sigh slipped out of you, and you felt Marcus shudder. Holding you in place, he coaxed your mouth open and licked slowly into it. Heat shivered through you, and you melted against him, splaying your hands on his chest.

A heavy sound drifted up from Marcus’s throat. His arms encircled you, and with one sharp tug he pulled you to sit sideways across his lap.

Time moved strangely, minutes dripping into one-another. Marcus’s hands roamed up and down your sides, pressing heat into you through your flimsy top. At some point you’d fumbled his shirt-collar open, and now your hand was inside it, trailing up the side of his neck. Marcus’s palms slid down your ribcage, and this time his fingers dipped beneath the hem of your shirt.

He touched your bare stomach, and your senses flooded. Heedless of your surroundings, you guided his hand upward.

Marcus groaned softly, and you felt him shake his head.

“People will see,” he murmured against your mouth.

You were about to protest that you didn’t care when you felt his hand move lower. He traced the outside of your bare thigh, then brought his fingers up beneath the hem of your skirt.

Some distant part of you - the part that hadn’t been destroyed by martinis or Marcus’s mouth – had the decency to wonder if this was wrong. But Marcus’s hand was sliding higher now, circling over your sensitive inner thigh, and decency seemed very unimportant.

You let your legs drift apart, and Marcus brushed you once through your panties.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re already soaked through.”

He shifted his hips, and a hot feeling bolted through you. He was hard. You could feel him straining against his pants, the thick line of his erection pressing against your upper thigh. It would be so easy to sling your leg around his waist, he could undo his zipper, and…

A glass shattered from the other side of the bar, and you and Marcus both stiffened. The kiss broke, and he rested his forehead to yours.

“What are you doing to me?” he murmured.  

“I’m not doing anything,” you protested. “You’re the one who – fuck.”

Marcus traced a finger over the outline of your slit. Static crackled through your mind. You whined softly, and Marcus tilted his mouth forward to kiss you again. He pulled your underwear aside and slid two thick fingers along your folds.

“Come home with me,” he said.

You didn’t know if he was asking or ordering, didn’t know which you wanted, could hardly even breathe with the way he was touching you, with the pad of his middle finger circling your entrance. You spread your legs wider, and he made a low, desperate sound.

“Please,” he murmured. “I need to have you.”

“Marcus…” you managed.

When you didn’t say more, he pushed his finger inside you. The stretch ached through you, deep and sweet and not enough. You felt something bigger than pleasure now – hot shame, and giddy exhilaration, a whole-body thrill that had you biting back a moan.

You’d never done anything like this before. How much of it was visible to the rest of the room? Marcus’s hand was moving beneath the table, but surely people could see how close you were, could guess where his arm led.   

“Come home with me,” Marcus repeated. “I can feel how bad you want it.” He slid his finger out of you, then pushed it slowly back in. “You’d take it so good.”

Your body throbbed with the need to say yes. But when you thought about it… getting in a cab with Marcus, riding the elevator to his apartment, seeing all the details of his life…

You didn’t know anything about him. Not really. You didn’t want that lonely morning-after feeling that always hit you after one-night stands. Not this weekend. Not when you’d come here to be with your friends.

You caught Marcus’s wrist and guided his hand out from between your legs, ignoring the pang you felt at the loss of him.

“I can’t,” you said.

Marcus loosened his hold on you and shifted back far enough to scan your face. His eyes were glazed over, pupils blown, and you thought you saw confusion knotting behind them.

“I’m not… I don’t like to go home with strangers,” you explained.

Some of the fog lifted from Marcus’s gaze.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. I understand.” He tucked a strand of hair back from your face. His mouth twisted, like he was deciding whether or not to say more.

“I… I don’t really do this either,” he blurted. “I don’t want you to think… I don’t know.” He ran a rueful hand over his swollen mouth, and let out a slow sigh.

“What’s your number?” he asked. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

You bit your lip. The rational thing to do was say yes. Marcus was gorgeous, and he’d stood up for you, and he touched you like he knew what he was doing. But who knew what he was really like outside of this? Even if he was this great all the time, that was almost worse than the alternative. You’d just been crushed professionally. You couldn’t also risk getting your heart broken right now.

“I’m not really doing phone numbers at the moment,” you said.

Marcus’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

“What, then?” he asked. “Instagram?”

You hesitated.

Marcus bent his head and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Email?” He kissed your jaw. “Messenger pigeon?” His lips brushed your cheek. “If you say Snapchat, that might be a dealbreaker.”

He pulled back, and you forced yourself not to return his grin. Understanding crept into his eyes, and a crease appeared in the center of his brow.

“It’s not that I didn’t have a good time tonight,” you began.

“You don’t have to explain,” Marcus said.  He slid you gently off his lap and unwound his arms from your waist. “I’ll leave you to your friends. It’s getting late for me.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

 He stood from the booth and buttoned his jacket in a single fluid motion.

“Have a good night,” he said.

You nodded. “It was… nice to meet you.”

Marcus vanished into the crowd, and you slumped against the booth. You felt a strange cocktail of emotions – an ache in your chest, lingering tendrils of desire, and a low pulse of dread for your coming Monday morning. You were still sorting through it when Sky and Jana returned.

They slid into the booth, both giving you pointed looks.

“What?” you asked.

Sky grinned. “You have lipstick on your face,” they said. “The non-lips part of your face.”

Oh, god, you probably looked a mess. Jana dipped a napkin in her vodka soda and passed it to you. She and Sky went into interrogation mode while you wiped your face. You told them more or less what you knew about Marcus – leaving out the biblical knowing part – and did your best to change the subject. You didn’t need them telling you you’d done the wrong thing.

“It’s not a big deal,” you finally said. “It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.”

In the end, you were glad you hadn’t gone home with Marcus. He was better as a memory, one wildly slutty moment outside of your real life. You… remembered it… that following night before you fell asleep, and again the one after that. It was a good distraction from the first-day-of-work outfit laid out on your dresser, from the pit of guilt twisting in your stomach.

Your new job wasn’t any old corporate law position. You’d been hired by Roman Industries, the biggest real-estate developer in the city. Roman had a way of jumping on every new property before it hit the market, and three of the four non-profits you’d worked at had folded thanks to the competition. It was impossible to build income-restricted housing when Roman bought all the would-be locations and turned them into luxury high-rises. And Roman was simply unbeatable: so massive that it was impossible to outbid them, and so well-connected that legal checks didn’t matter.

You’d come close to outmaneuvering them a few times at your old jobs, and apparently impressed Roman's legal team enough that they wanted you. If they’d approached you five years ago, you would’ve happily told them to go to hell. But nowadays, in property law, there was hardly anywhere else left to work.

You knew that you didn’t have much choice. You told yourself it would be temporary. You really tried not to get excited when the signing bonus landed in your checking account. But you still felt like a traitor when Monday morning rolled around and you showed up to work at the Roman Industries skyscraper.

A marble façade surrounded the building, made of tall, ridged columns that towered up over Park Avenue. More marble lined the lobby inside. It was three stories tall, and so dimly lit that it had to be intentional. A river of commuters poured in through the revolving doors, and the cavernous room echoed with hundreds of clacking footsteps. Maybe you were biased, but the overall impression was a little too much like the gates of a dark lord’s evil empire.

You half expected your orientation to be some sort of occult ritual. Blood oaths, or at least a vow of loyalty. Instead, you spent the morning in run-of-the-mill HR trainings, the same ones you’d gotten at all your old jobs. Even dark lords needed two-factor authentication.

You wouldn’t be working as a part of the legal team at Roman. Not directly, anyway. They’d contacted you last week with your assignment, and you were now head counsel for their biggest department. The Acquisitions Team. The exact people who’d bought all the properties out from your previous companies.

You were determined not to like them, but the woman from Acquisitions who came to get you after your trainings was perfectly pleasant. Her name was Ava, and she had a low, musical voice. She introduced herself as a director, which you thought was the highest rank after the department’s president.

“Next highest,” she corrected. She held open the elevator door, then pressed the button for the second floor from the top. “Technically, legal counsel is the second-in-command.”

You were in charge? Briefly, you wondered if this meant you could make everyone stop buying up the city. But the department president would probably veto that.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped out into a commotion. A huge open space filled the middle of the Acquisitions floor, dotted with clusters of desks where suit-clad associates talked loudly on phones, or talked to each other, or wrote up long proposals on their computers.

Ava led you through the center of it, and you realized there was some sort of underlying structure. Each cluster of desks seemed to be a sub-team. One had models of buildings set upon it, another stacks of financial documents. There seemed to be a head to every cluster, and you were reminded briefly of army platoons.  

Ava walked on into a carpeted hallway, and the conversations faded to a muted roar. You passed a long row of doors with brass nameplates, and stopped in front of the second one from the end of the hall.  

The door was made of smooth wood, inset with a panel of frosted glass. You turned the polished brass doorknob, pushed open the door, and for the first time understood just how different your life would be at Roman.

A thick burgundy carpet spread out over the floor, bridging two walls lined with deep built-in bookshelves. There was space enough between them for a massive desk, and a pair of armchairs arranged around a good-sized coffee table. But all of that paled when you took in the windows.

There was a whole wall of them, floor-to-ceiling panels spilling morning light into the room. The city glittered outside, and – woah – you had a view of the Chrysler Building?

You caught Ava biting back a smile and realized you were probably gaping. You took another look around and noticed a comfy-looking executive chair behind the desk. There was also a second door in your office, inset in the wall opposite your desk. You’d have to find out where it led.

“Are all the offices this nice?” you asked.

Ava shook her head. “Yours is second-best on the floor. Almost as good as the General’s.”

“The General?”

You already hated the Acquisitions President on principle. But if he insisted on being called the General, you might be hurling yourself through your new windows.

Ava laughed. “Don’t tell him I used that name. He hates it when we call him that. But it’s fitting.”

“That’s sinister,” you said.

“No, he’s alright!” Ava insisted. “I’m supposed to take you to him now. Unless you’d like to check out the floor’s kitchen first? It’s stocked with Roman’s own brand of bottled spring water.”

You suspected she was serious, but you’d have to check later. You’d been dreading meeting your new boss all morning, and it was time to get this over with. You were certain that you wouldn’t like him, but you had no choice except to work alongside him, and you’d feel better once you knew what he was like.

“I’m good for now,” you said. “I think I’m General-ready.”

Ava nodded. You expected her to walk back out the door you’d come through, but she went instead to the one inside your office. She knocked smartly on it and didn’t wait for an answer before pulling it open.

The office on the other side was a slightly larger mirror of your own. The built-ins were full of neatly bound files, carefully displayed Diplomas, and a few awards emblazoned with Roman’s glossy burgundy logo. Instead of armchairs, a low leather couch stretched out facing the windows.

You turned your attention to the desk, where a dark-haired man in a perfectly tailored suit was pushing to his feet. He closed the button of his jacket in a single, all-too-familiar motion, then looked up at you and went completely rigid.

You looked back at Marcus in utter shock, your pulse thudding in your ears. A rapid-fire sequence of emotions was flashing across his face. Delight. Confusion. Horror. Disbelief.

He was so terrible at hiding his feelings that it would have been amusing if your mind wasn’t currently on overdrive. Ludicrously, you found yourself racking through all the HR trainings you’d just attended, as though you might have forgotten one entitled, “My New Boss Just Had His Fingers Inside Me.”.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Ava glance between the two of you

“Sorry,” she said carefully. “Were you in the middle of something, Marcus?”

“No,” Marcus said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, and spoke again louder. “No. I… wasn’t.”

“Okay…” Ana said. “Well, the new legal counsel is here.”

“Right,” he said. “Yes.”

He rounded the desk and offered you the same handshake you'd accepted on Friday. You clasped his palm, and the both of you held on a little too long.

In the daylight, you could see his coloring more clearly. His hair was a rich brown, threaded through with silver, and his eyes were warm and dark.

“I’m Marcus Acacius,” he said.

“Yes,” you agreed. “You are.”

A hint of a laugh showed behind Marcus’s eyes. Warmth curled inside you, and for a moment you were back in that dark corner booth. Distantly, you hard Ava saying your name, telling you she’d meet you in the kitchen.

The door closed behind her. Marcus gestured to the couch, and you both sat down on opposite ends.  His stunned expression had worn off, and it was harder now to read the look on his face.

“So,” he finally said. “Did you get home safe on Friday?”

“No,” you quipped. “My cab driver axe-murdered me.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. “That’s a shame. I really need a new legal counsel.”

“Because you’re the president of Roman’s acquisitions team,” you said.

Marcus nodded.

“How long have you worked here?” you asked.

“Going on twenty-five years,” Marcus said. “Most of the people who trained me are retired by now, and the whole board’s turned over since I started, but… I’m still running Acquisitions.”

There was something in his voice that tugged at your chest, but you were having a hard time focusing on it right now. How was Marcus the guy who’d stolen all those properties out from under your old companies? The guy leading Roman Industries in their takeover of New York? How had you hooked up with him?

He’d been at O’Henry’s to mourn its closing… but Roman was the reason prices had skyrocketed so much. What the hell was going on?

Part of you felt vindicated that you hadn’t slept with him. This was just about the worst case scenario, as far as who he could’ve turned out to be. Part of you was furious with him for everything he’d done. Part of you was heating up with humiliation, because you’d touched yourself to the thought of him last night. And the rest of you… the rest of you was watching the seams of his jacket buckle around his shoulders.  

You forced yourself to think of something else.

“So, we have adjoining offices?” you asked.

“We do. It’s been useful in the past, being able to talk to Legal without alerting the whole floor.”

You bobbed your head, privately thinking that Marcus could just message you on Teams if it came down to that.

Marcus hadn’t stopped studying your face.

“I know this is a… specific situation,” he said. “If you want, there’s an HR form we can fill out. For conflicts of interest. There’s a power structure here, so –”

“No thanks,” you said.

Marcus was a department president who’d been around for a lifetime. You were a highly replaceable lawyer. If HR got involved, it wouldn’t be to help you.

“Look,” you said. “I think we should pretend this never happened. It was just a kiss.”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow in obvious disagreement, and your skin burned at the memory of his finger pushing into you. You’d take it so good.

You cleared your throat. Marcus was suddenly intently studying a patch of carpet, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Anyway,” he said. “Whatever you say. Nothing ever happened.”

“Right,” you agreed. “Yes.”

Marcus pushed up from the couch. “In that case,” he said. “We should get to work.”

He crossed over to the bookshelf and reached up to take down a file. You took in the tall line of him, the smooth taper down from his shoulders to his waist, and promised yourself that this would be completely fine.

part 2

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[rosharanfiction]

entangled

reed richards x physicist! wife! reader | one-shot | 18+ only, MDNI

summary: Reed Richards thinks best when he's got his dick inside you, and saving the world takes a whole lot of thinking.

tags: cockwarming but make it romantic? and kinda intellectual? very fluffy smut. dirty talk. they figure out a science problem together, so we got some plot. these two are head over heels in love. reed calls you "sweetheart". you call him "darling". his superpowers apply to his dick god help me.

wordcount: 4.1K

main masterlist

Reed Richards is frustrated.

He always gets this way when his projects go wrong, when the physical world won’t cooperate with the one inside his head. Most of the time you find it adorable. Then again, most of the time, Reed is willing to ask for your help.

Today isn’t one of those times. And you’d normally just go on and help him anyway, but Reed owes you an apology first. Because you’ve been warning him for days about the error in his calculation, and every single time, he’s ignored you.

It isn’t out of disrespect – you know your husband too well to jump to that conclusion. Reed just gets so caught up in that beautiful mind of his that he can’t bear to stomach a single outside thought. You understand. Your brain works the same way. But the two of you have always made exceptions for each other. He’s never treated you like an outsider before.

Reed huffs behind you, and you know he’s being loud on purpose, so you’ll hear him over the whir of the centrifuge. The digital readout blinks down slowly. Another ten minutes until your samples are sedimented. More than enough time to give Reed what he wants, but he’s going to have to ask for it first.

He’s fiddling with the oscilloscope now, toying with the threshold, like that’s going to change the waveform. You almost turn around to correct him, until you realize that he’s baiting you on purpose. That gorgeous, pain-in-the-ass husband of yours knows just how to push your buttons.

It’s impressive, really, how far Reed will go to avoid admitting he was wrong. How hard is it to simply say, “Darling, do you know why my force field won’t stabilize?”.

When Reed’s gambit with the oscilloscope doesn’t get a reaction, he devolves into pacing. His shoes clack with every one of his fast, long steps. You feel a pang of uncertainty. On the Reed crisis scale, pacing indicates at least a seven out of ten. Maybe you should just help him out.

No. You have to let him come to you. You steel yourself and turn your attention to these new asteroid samples.

By all but one of your measurements, the vials each weigh ten micrograms. The microbalance and mass-spectrometer both agree. But the gamma scanner, the one that looks for matter, reported only 1.1 micrograms. It could be an error, but would a mistake really be this consistent? You feel a rush of excitement. Could it be…?

You’re getting ahead of yourself. The centrifuge will show results soon. You can hold out for another nine minutes.

With a start, you realize that the room has gone silent. Reed isn’t pacing, or huffing, or manhandling the electronics. You spin around. For a concerned instant, you don’t see him. And then you spot his long, trouser-clad legs. You circle around the bench, and your husband comes into view.

He’s sitting on the floor with his back to the bench. His hair sticks out where he’s tugged his fingers through it, and his tie dangles loose around his neck.

This is so much worse than you thought.

Reed looks up as you approach, his dark eyes despondent.

“Sweetheart,” he says, extending his arm long to take your hand. “Do you have any insight into what’s limiting the stability of my forcefield?”

Your heart melts.

“I do,” you say. “But I’m not sure how to fix it.”

Reed nonetheless gives you a disheveled smile, the one that you always feel deep in your stomach. He contracts his arm slowly, pulling you toward him. You sink to the floor and settle in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips. He brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your fingers.

“You’ve been trying to tell me something for days,” he says. “Haven’t you?”

You nod, smoothing a spike of hair at his temple.

“I have, darling.”

Reed sighs. His hands settle on your thighs, bunching the thin nylon of your skirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have paid attention earlier, when you told me… um…”

You smile in spite of yourself. “You really weren’t listening at all, were you?”

“I wasn’t,” he admits, his eyes full of remorse. “But not because I doubted you. There’s a comet heading for us, sweetheart, and it will hit Earth on Friday, and if you were right – ”

“If?”

“Okay,” Reed says. “If I acknowledged you were right, it would’ve meant admitting that we can’t get ready in time. Which we can’t, now that I’ve gone and ruined the force field.”

“Hey,” you say, running your hands over his chest. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

“Yes,” he says. “I have. How are we supposed to develop an entire shield system from scratch in less than two days?”

You can feel the tension in Reed’s body. He might be the only man in the world who doesn’t trust Mr. Fantastic to succeed.

You slide your hands down past his stomach, to the place where you know he needs you most. Reed sighs, and his head tilts back. The collar of his shirt is unbuttoned for once, and the starched cotton parts around his throat.

“There isn’t time,” he says, even as his cock swells beneath your touch.

You lift your hand away. At once, he groans in protest.

“I’m getting some mixed messages here, Richards.”

Reed’s features twist into a shape you know all too well. It’s the face he makes when his thoughts won’t line up, when he can’t organize himself into a perfect solution.

You lean forward and kiss him.

“Let me help, darling.”

Reed closes his eyes. He guides your hand back to his length.

“Please,” he whispers.

He slips his hands beneath the hem of your skirt, and his fingers trace the insides of your thighs. He touches you slowly, like you’re a miracle and he needs to drink you in.

Desire flows over you like rivulets of gold, gathering in a molten pool between your legs.

You bring your hand back to Reed’s lap and unclasp his belt. You lower his zipper, then the waistband of his briefs. His cock springs free, and you wrap your hand around him.

His bare skin is warm, and he throbs beneath your touch. You move your hand in long, slow strokes, teasing his tip with your thumb in the way that always drives him wild.

Reed sighs again, heavy. Tension ripples from his shoulders.

His fingers draw circles on your legs, sweeping higher each time, drawing close to the ache at your core.

Then Reed’s thumbs brush fabric. His eyes snap open, and his hand covers yours, halting its rhythm on his cock.

“You’re wearing underwear?” he asks.

He stares at you in abject betrayal.

Oh, right. You forgot. You raise your shoulders apologetically.

“I was angry at you, Reed.”

“You had a right to be,” he says. “But I didn’t think you’d be this petty.”

“Darling. You tuned me out for two days when I told you that you dropped a constant. And now you’re saying I’m the one who’s petty?”

“That’s different,” Reed says. “It wasn’t malicious. I wasn’t trying to shut you out.”

“Well, you did.”

Reed’s eyes soften. He lifts his hand to your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I really am sorry,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I hated feeling like we were apart.”

“So did I,” you say, and Reed pulls you in for a kiss.

It starts out slow. You orbit one another, Reed’s lips brushing yours. Your hand slips inside the collar of his shirt. Then Reed sighs, and his tongue slides over yours. His fingers tangle in your hair, and he teases your mouth open, kissing you roughly now, like he can sear away the line between you with the white-hot blaze of his desire.

He brings his hand once more to the apex of your legs, tracing the damp gusset of your panties. His thumb finds the outline of your clit. With a single practiced stroke, he coaxes a moan from your lips.

“Sweetheart,” Reed murmurs, his mouth moving against yours. “I can feel you dripping for me. You soaked right through these panties you wanted to wear so badly.”

His forefinger slips under the gusset of your underwear. His knuckle grazes the outside of your slit, and you shiver. And then he pulls the fabric away, denying you his touch, tracing instead the sticky patch you’ve left on the fabric.

“God,” he says. “You should feel the mess you made.”

“Reed…” you whisper. “Please.”

You rock your hips down, chasing his touch, but he slips his hand out from between your legs. He brings his slick fingers to your lips and pushes them inside your mouth. You slide your tongue over them, tasting your own arousal.

“That’s right,” Reed says. “That’s how bad you need me. You’re not any less mine, just because you covered up.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth and brings them to your dress, to the long line of buttons that keeps you decent. One by one, Reed works them open, revealing your braless chest. Your breasts spill free, your nipples aching, and you expect Reed to touch them, but he only looks. His eyes are dark, and his hands settle on your ribs.

Your body is simmering with need, heady as starlight and sure as gravity. You tighten your grip on his cock and begin to stroke him again. He’s leaking now, precum smearing over his tip. You’re desperate to feel him inside you.

“Reed…”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “You broke the rules, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. You position him between your legs, so his tip pushes against your covered center.

Reed twitches in your hand.

“Please,” you say. “Can’t you feel how sorry I am?”

Reed’s chest rises and falls.

“Show me,” he says.

You nudge aside your panties and guide Reed’s cock to the slick between your legs.

“There you are,” he murmurs. He rocks his hips, and his length pushes over your entrance.

“Darling,” you whisper. “Can please we just call it even?”

Reed nods rapidly.

“Yes,” he says. “I would like that.”

He lifts a hand from your waist and extends his arm long, toward the alphabetized toolchest on the other side of the lab. He fumbles in the “S-W” drawer, then retrieves a steel pair of scissors. He makes short work of your soaked-through underwear, rendering the garment useless with two quick cuts. Then he tosses the ruined fabric over his shoulder and brings his hands to your hips.

You line yourself up, your bare entrance leaking on Reed’s cock. He drags his eyes over your rucked-up skirt, your bare thighs, your breasts. Then his gaze meets yours, and he mirrors back to you the clarity of your own desire.

“Please,” he whispers.

You sink down and take him inside you. Reed tightens his arms and pulls you all the way into his lap. He bottoms out, and the both of you groan.

Reed takes a shuddering breath.

“Better?” you ask.

He nods.

“I needed you,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you say. “I’m here.”

His lips press against your temple. God, you missed him.

Reed’s mind always works best like this, when he has you wrapped around him. You stroke the soft hair at the nape of his neck, giving him time for his thoughts to settle.

“The force field,” he says. “I need to know what’s wrong with it.”

You shift back far enough to see his face. The storm behind his eyes has finally cleared, and he looks back at you with his familiar determined curiosity. Your heart blooms inside your chest.

“It’s Planck’s constant” you say. “Your prediction is off by a factor of it.”

“Which prediction?”

You don’t answer right away, and Reed rolls his hips beneath you, rutting against your clit.

“Come on,” he says. “I need to know.”

He repeats the motion, and you gasp at the bright shock of pleasure.

“The force field – God, darling – is made of positronium,” you say. “Right?”

Reed nods. “An equal mix of electrons and anti-electrons. I collimated the beams myself.”

“So the particles are two versions of the same thing,” you say. “With an incredibly strong attraction.”

“Yes,” Reed says. “But I can fight the attraction if I accelerate them to a high enough momentum. They’ll get stuck in an orbit, instead of colliding.”

“So you’re trying to store energy like water in a dam. It wants to fall, but it can’t.”

“Precisely,” Reed says. “Until the comet crashes into the field.”

“It will break the dam,” you say. “Perturbing the orbits. The particles will collide, all at once. And you think this will trigger a shockwave?”

“I do,” Reed says, looking at you earnestly.

“I do too,” you say. “It’s a good idea.”

Reed’s cock twitches, and you grind on him, savoring the rising tide inside you. There’s nothing you love more than this, than being impossibly close to this beautiful man, your body and mind both tangled with his.

“If my idea is so good,” Reed says. “Then why isn’t it working?”

“The physics is sound,” you say. “If you can make the positronium, it will work the way you think. But the values are off in your momentum calculation. I told you –”

“If you’re about to say ‘Planck’s constant’ – ”

“I am, Reed. You forgot to divide by it. The attraction between the particles is too strong to be contained by your field. You’re off by – ”

“I’m off by thirty-four powers of ten?”

“Yes, darling.”

Reed looks at you with wide eyes.

“I’m trying to stop a waterfall,” he says, “and my dam is made of tissue paper.”

“Pretty much. And making the dam strong enough would take – ”

“All of the energy in the solar system,” Reed says. He drops his head back against the wall. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You look at him, incredulous.

“You don’t think I tried? It would have taken the energy of two solar systems to get you to listen.”

Reed groans. “We’re doomed. I’ve doomed us.”

“Don’t be silly.” You smooth your forefinger over the crease in his brow. “Now that you know what’s wrong, you can actually fix it.”

“How?” Reed says. “The field will annihilate the instant I put it up. It won’t stick around long enough to stop the comet.”

“Can you send it out the second before the comet hits? You only really need it right then.”

Reed’s gaze turns inward. God, he’s hot when he’s thinking. You resume the motion of your hips. Reed’s cock swells in response. He makes a noise of approval, and his hands slide up to palm your breasts.

“Finally,” you mutter. “To think the world is about to end, and you weren’t touching me.”

Reed laughs. He’s looking at you with affection, the shock of his miscalculation already fading beneath the thrill of this new challenge.

“We would have to time the field perfectly,” he says. “And if the comet scatters at all when it hits the atmosphere, we would misfire.”

Absently, he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh.

“That’s good, Reed.”

“Misfiring?” he asks, raising a smug eyebrow. “Sweetheart. The planet would be destroyed.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“We could predict the deformations in the atmosphere,” you say. “Narrow down – oh – narrow down the window for the arrival.”

Reed hums, considering.

He begins to roll his hips in time with yours, fucking you in slow, rich thrusts. You brace your hands on his shoulders and grind on him harder.

“That’s it,” Reed murmurs. “Take what you need.”

And then he grows, pushing on your walls, lighting up that sensitive place inside you.

Oh, God. You’re so blindingly full of him.

“Reed,” you gasp. “You know I can’t think when... darling…when…”

“When, what, sweetheart?” Reed asks. “When I stuff you nice and full of my cock?”

A fuse blows somewhere in your brain. It wrecks you, always, Reed’s precise delivery of filthy words. You open your mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a kittenlike whine.

Reed lowers his head to your breast and takes your nipple in his mouth. He thrusts into you with a slow, inevitable rhythm, harder now, his cock stretching more each time he bottoms out.  

Then Reed tenses. Your nipple slips from his mouth with a wet popping sound, and he lifts his head to look at you.

“Do you think we could use particles in the atmosphere to stabilize the field?” he asks, fucking you faster in his excitement. “At the altitude I originally planned, muons should be abundant. We could easily trap them with the positronium.”

“Positronium…” you echo.

Reed is so pretty when he’s lit up with passion. He really is the perfect man. His brilliant mind. His expert fingers – when did they go to your clit? – not to mention his surreally huge cock. He’s going to split you in two if he keeps this up. God, you hope he does. If anyone knows how to use their powers for good, it’s your husband.

He’s raising his eyebrows at you. Oh. Did he ask you something? Did you answer? You must have figured it out, or why else would you feel so perfect right now?

“Poor girl,” Reed says. “Too drunk on my cock to think, are you?”

“Nnngh,” you agree. “Electrons.”

Reed leans down and gives you a soft, deep kiss. His lips pull into a smile.

“All fucked out for me, huh?”

Whatever Reed is doing with his fingers, he must have learned it in superhero school, because it defies the laws of physics that you’re this alive with passion and your skin isn’t physically on fire. Your body starts to quake in tight little shocks, contracting with every one of Reed’s thrusts.

“Muons wouldn’t work,” he mutters. “They’d just decay, and we’d have even more electrons to hold down.”

You assume he’s talking to himself, because he has to know you’re long past the words-forming era of your life.

He frustratedly pistons his hips, so fast you can’t find a moment to breathe.

“Damn it,” he says. “And we couldn’t use plasma, either. We need something massive that won’t interact. Sweetheart?”

You whimper. Reed kisses you again.

“I’m going to make you come, okay? I need you in your right mind.”

You give him a hazy nod and wrap your arms tight around his neck.

Reed’s fingers pick up speed on your clit, and he alters the angle of his thrusts, so each one drags over the bundle of nerves inside you.

You let out a sob in the shape of his name, and he kisses you, hot and open-mouthed. Then his thumb sweeps over you in just the right place, and oh, fuck. He really is the expert on shockwaves.

Your climax sears through you, and you cling to Reed, clenching your legs around him, tangling your fingers in his hair. You feel so blissfully close to him, wrung-out and wrapped around his cock, that it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins.

The tremors die down, and for a heartbeat, you drift in silence. Your mind is a pool of sweet clear water. And then something floats across it.

“Reed,” you say, leaning back to look at him. “Darling. My love.”

He smiles at you. “Are you back?”

His hair looks like a tornado ripped through it. Did you do that?

You blink aside the thought. It doesn’t matter.

“I’m back,” you say. “And I think I have the answer.”

Reed’s cock twitches inside you. He lets out an agonized groan.

“What?” you say, bracing your hand on his chest.

He shakes his head.

“You saying that, sweetheart, when you just came all over my cock…”

He pulls in a breath and gazes at you, wrecked. “It’s just about the hottest thing I could imagine.”

You grin. “I haven’t even told you the best part. But it might not work.”

 “It’s going to work. I know you.” Reed tightens his arms around your waist. “Tell me.”

“Okay,” you say. “Do you remember the asteroid we collected from on our last expedition? The one that had – ”

“Oddly strong gravity,” Reed says. “Yes. Did you figure out what it’s made of?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I refined the samples. All the instruments that measure gravitational mass report ten micrograms. But the gamma scanner, which measures –”

“Matter, sweetheart. I know.” Reed’s eyes are bright. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Maybe.” His energy is too infectious. You’re getting excited in spite of yourself. “The gamma scanner only reported 1.1 micrograms. Which means the rest of the sample might be – ”

Reed kisses you. His heart thuds beneath your palm.

“Darling,” he says, his eyes full of wonder. “Are you telling me you found dark matter? And you sat here without mentioning it to me?”

“It could be an instrumentation error,” you say, but Reed already has that look he gets when his thoughts are flat out sprinting. He hasn’t heard a word you’ve said.

“This would be the perfect stabilizing agent for the force field,” he says. “Totally inert to light-interacting matter, like the positronium, so it wouldn’t budge.”

“Unless it was pushed by something huge,” you say. “Like the comet.”

“We mix our tissue paper dam with cement,” Reed says. “It will work.”

“It will,” you say. “If this actually is dark matter. I centrifuged the samples to check. If it’s an instrumentation error, we should get one single sediment. But if there’s a second type of matter in the mix – ”

“The machine will show two separate populations,” Reed says. “It’s the perfect cross-validation.”

He kisses you again, warm and giddy, his hands roaming your body in restless excitement.

“Darling,” you say, resting your forehead to his. “We shouldn’t get our hopes up.”

“I disagree,” he says quietly. “Even if this isn’t the answer, we’ll figure something out. The atmosphere map you suggested…”

“Is insane.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t pull it off,” he says, and you laugh.

Your mouth finds his, and caution be damned, you let yourself hope. Reed’s hands splay on your back, and he presses you flush against his chest, joining you together in every way he can. He kisses you like there’s never been any other choice, like you’re two galaxies fated to merge into one.

“Don’t ever stop,” he whispers, and you know he’s talking about something more than hope.

“I won’t,” you say.

It’s the only way to love Reed, this lifelong quest you’re on to understand his every idea, to bring the world in his mind to life and mix it with your own. You won’t ever strand him to live all alone in his thoughts. Even if the world really is about to end.

Reed’s length twitches inside you.

And then the room goes quiet. The centrifuge is done.

Reed freezes, and his gaze locks on yours. The lid unlocks with a click. The printer whirs to life. And then in slow, beeping stripes, it spits out the results.

Reed’s arm stretches behind him, and he tears the slip free.

“Here, sweetheart.” He holds it out with ink-stained fingers. “It’s your discovery. You have to be the one to read it.”

You take the paper from his hand. Your heart pounds against your breastbone.

It’s fine. Either way, it’s fine. At the very least, you’ll learn you need to calibrate your instruments.

You scan through the smeared copy ink for the line that says “sedimented populations”. The number beside it is unmistakable.

“Well?” Reed says.

You look up, and it’s hard to see through the blur of tears in your eyes.

“Darling,” you say, blinking your vision clear.

Reed’s brow furrows.

“Sweetheart,” he says. “I told you, we’ll figure – ”

“No,” you say. You spin the paper around. “Two.”

Reed’s face breaks into a brilliant grin. He brings his hands to your face and kisses you, laughing. He looks once more at the receipt.

“Two,” he says. “That’s a two!”

And then the world tilts, and suddenly you’re on your back, Reed’s hands on either side of your head.

“Darling,” you say, breathless and wet-cheeked. “What are you – ”

Reed kisses you again. His dark eyes shine with reckless joy.

“You and I are going to save the world,” he says. “But first, my love, I need to fuck you senseless.”

end notes: phew do i love me a hot smart man. for all i write about joel, reed is hands down the pedro boy i would irl marry. if sue didn't get to him first.

let me know what you think! especially curious about:

if you'd read more oneshots about these guys

if the science was fun or boring or what. i want to learn how to write about this sort of thing better!

tagging folks who liked my post gauging interest, no pressure to read! <3

@pleurspetal @mcthsman @hollyseb @rawr-bitches @patbrdsc @turbulentspiderknight

[rosharanfiction]

THIS NEVER HAPPENED (pt 2) modern! marcus acacius x female reader

Chapter Two: Not Like Other Lawyers

series summary: The Friday before you start your new job, you get drunk and kiss a hot stranger. But it turns out Marcus isn’t just any stranger. He’s your brand-new boss, the guy who seems to get you like no other, and the last guy on earth you should want to kiss again.

chapter summary: Marcus shows you the ropes at Roman Industries. Nobody flirts with anybody, it's all totally professional.

chapter tags: 18+ only MDNI. fluffy office romcom AU. flirty Marcus and smartass reader. banter. sweetness. we learn a little more about the company. no physical descriptions of reader. word count: 4.7K

andrea says: Beta'd by the wonderfully insightful @hanahleah. 🤍 Thanks everyone for waiting, I know it's been a while. Life was very crazy this month, but I've been itching to get back to Marcus and reader. To those who commented and reblogged part 1, I appreciate you all so much! You're what keeps me writing when I only have a tiny window after a long workday, or when self-doubt hits, or when I have to look up things about corporate law.

This was originally going to be a two-parter, but I've fleshed it out into a longer series. If you are on the taglist but don't want to be now that this has changed, please DM me, comment, or let me know through this form and I'll remove you so you don't get spammed.

ao3 link | part 1 | next part

“Wait, Marcus Marcus?” Jana asked.

“As in, Hot Marcus from O’Henry’s?” Sky added.

You nodded glumly. “If you want to use his legal name.”

It was the evening after your first day at Roman, and you were still seriously rattled. Until today, you’d always kept your work and personal life in two separate camps. Two camps with a wall in between them. A big wall, with a moat around it and spikes on top. Maybe Marcus hadn’t planned to Trojan-horse his way past it, and maybe he was just as freaked as you were, but it still felt way too vulnerable, the idea of working for him.

This was the type of crisis that called for an in-person conversation, so you’d sent an SOS text to Sky and Jana on your way home from work, and you’d all rushed to congregate at Jana’s Monday night yoga class. You were nowhere near qualified for her “Advanced Power Flow”, and the last ninety minutes had definitely put your suffering in perspective. By the end of it, you’d been more or less reduced to a noodle, with barely enough energy to drag your mat into a triangle with Sky’s and Jana’s and recap the day’s disaster.

You smudged a bead of sweat out of your eye and took in your best friends’ stunned expressions.

“Holy fucking shit,” Sky said. “Was it awkward?”

“What do you think?” you said.

It hadn’t been, actually. Or, not nearly as awkward as it should have been. Even a completely disarmed Marcus had been easy to talk to. But that was probably just because you’d expected your boss to be the actual incarnate of evil. The bar hadn’t exactly been high.  

Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud that you’d liked talking to one of Roman’s most loyal soldiers. Sky and Jana knew too well what the company had taken from you. 

Jana grimaced. “Can you switch departments?”

“Not for at least six months.”

You’d asked already, back when legal had placed you in Acquisitions. They’d been cagey at first, but finally admitted that a big deadline was coming up – Roman’s 75th anniversary – and Acquisitions needed your position filled to meet whatever milestones came with it.

“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” Jana said.

“Like what?” you asked.

“It’s inconclusive so far. But probably something about how even the worst people have redeeming qualities. Like being good at tongue kissing.”

You groaned. “Don’t remind me how good of a kisser he is.”

Sky patted you on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. This is only a big deal if you plan to make out with him again.”

“No one is making out with anyone. Marcus and I just agreed to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Sky and Jana exchanged a look.

“What?” you said.

“Nothing,” Sky said. “You’re just not, like, known for letting things go.”

“Which is usually a good thing!” Jana interjected. “You need a long attention span to try and save the world.”

“Agreed,” Sky said. “But it could possibly make this one thing, uh…”

“It’s a growth opportunity,” Jana said. “I believe in you. It was only a kiss, after all.”

You traced a finger over the mandala pattern on your borrowed yoga mat, feeling both Sky and Jana studying you.

“It was just a kiss,” Jana asked. “Wasn’t it?”

“Uh… I may have left out the part where we… kind of got to third base?”

Sky let out a high-pitched squeal. Jana chucked a foam block in their direction.

“Shh!” she giggled. “There’s guided meditation going on next door!”

Jana owned the studio, and she was insanely paranoid about her Yelp reviews. She lamented to you and Sky weekly about getting the rating higher, and you both would have been sympathetic if it wasn’t already at 4.9 stars.

Sky lowered their voice by at most two percent. “Excuse me? You got to third, or he did?”

“I… he kind of just… had really nice hands?”

Sky and Jana both shrieked in unison. Jana immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, flapping the other in a shushing motion. From the other side of the wall, a gong rang out passive-aggressively.

“I’m just…. You let him… in the bar?” Sky sputtered. “You? Who are you, 2015 me?”

Your face burned. “I’d had a million martinis! And he was really hot, okay? It was a moment of weakness.”

Sky whipped out their phone, earning an eye roll from Jana. Her studio had a strict policy about leaving phones in cubbies before class, but Sky had a strict policy about ignoring strict policies. All of their leggings had phone-sized pockets, probably for this exact purpose.

“I need better visuals,” they said. “I was too drunk to remember what he looked like in O’Henry’s. If I Google ‘Marcus… Roman Industries… really hot’, do you think I’ll – oh... Oh, wow.”

They trailed off, and you and Jana scooted onto their yoga mat to see the screen. It was an article on the Roman website, a feature about Marcus winning some lifetime achievement award. As if you needed more proof that he was Roman’s number one company man.

But it wasn’t the text that had stopped Sky in their tracks. The article came with a photo reel. Marcus leaning against his desk, curls gelled back and his chest filling out the jacket of his suit. He looked annoyingly gorgeous, but he also looked… unfamiliar.

Marcus’s face was sculpted into a stern mask, and he held his legs deliberately wide, like he’d gone to some corporate training on how to take up space and claim power. There was something characteristically Roman about the pose, and you realized with a twinge in your stomach that this was probably the real Marcus.

Sky swiped to the next photo. It was a close-up, taken at one of Roman’s construction sites. Instead of one of his usual suits, Marcus wore a dark-colored polo with the top button open. He looked into the camera with an easy confidence; the same jelly-leg-inducing glance he’d given you on Friday night.

The second time around, it was just as effective. Jana made a noise of appreciation. 

“Okay, I get how it happened,” she said. “I don’t exactly get the part where you didn’t go home with him. Uh, not that I’m saying you should. Although if you did…”

“Boss.” you reminded her. “Also, literally the guy who made me unemployed.”

“Well,” Jana mused. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“This is not a real person level of hotness,” Sky agreed. “The polo is kind of giving… sexy golf instructor.”

“Sexy golf instructor?” you asked. “Name one time that was a thing.”

“Okay,” Sky amended. “Sexy casual Friday. Sexy company barbecue.”

Jana was still gazing at the photo of Marcus. “Everyone in your office must be in love with him.”

You felt a spike of irritation and reached over to swipe to the next picture. Marcus in another stiff pose, this time at the head of a conference table.

“I feel like maybe you can fix him?” Sky said.

“I don’t need you to tell me I can fix him,” you said. “I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

“Of course it’ll be okay,” Jana said. “Just take it one day at a time and focus on lawyering. In a month, you’ll have forgotten all about this.”

“That or you guys’ll be doing it on this conference table,” Sky said. “Either way, win-win.”

You knew your friends were trying their best to reassure you, but it didn’t quite sink in. Maybe they would be okay in your shoes, but Jana could make peace with anything, and Sky was so flippant about boundaries that they’d once worked at a startup where all six employees were in a polycule.

You pushed to your feet and began to clean your yoga mat, leaving Sky and Jana to swipe through the rest of the photos while you fished your phone out of its cubby. Two unread messages waited for you. 

Mom: Hi honey! Working on a new piece that made me think of you.

Mom: Oh! By the way, how’s the job search? Any new leads?

A knot of guilt squeezed in your stomach. You hadn’t lied to Mom about Roman per se. You’d just managed never to mention it. But she had to know something was up by now. Mom had highly tuned journalist senses, and she could search out a secret on instinct alone. It was probably taking all her self-control not to dig for this one. She wouldn’t want to find out that way, but it was only a matter of time before her curiosity got the better of her.

You really needed to suck it up and tell her the truth. But it wasn’t a conversation you could have over the phone. You could wait a little longer, at least until after her deadline.

You: Hey. What’s this new piece?

You: When’s it due? I can come by for brunch after?

Three dots appeared, probably the start of a paragraphs-long voice-to-text response about her article.

She’d understand, when you told her. Eventually, she’d have to come around, to see that you were only doing this for a paycheck. You were still the same person you’d always been.

You decided that Jana was right. The best way to move forward was to stay busy, so you needed to keep your head down and focus on work. It wasn’t hard to do. The learning curve at Roman was kind of like taking a running leap onto a high-speed train.

Thanks to your past jobs, you had a good understanding of what went into a commercial real estate deal. Every acquisition could be broken into three steps: research, fundraising, and negotiations. You’d always worked on all three, jumping in wherever needed. So had everyone else at your old companies.

But Roman’s acquisitions department was huge, and they approached real estate with the ferocity of war. Marcus had the floor broken into three separate teams, one for each step of the process, and each one was run by a specialized director. They closed more deals in a month than you had in your entire career combined.

On your second day at Roman, Marcus walked you through the whole floor, explaining all the details of the Acquisitions hierarchy. You’d seen everything already on your tour with Ava, but the office turned out to be a different place when Marcus was around.

The associates all rustled every time he walked through the bullpen, straightening ties, squaring their shoulders and slipping phones into their pockets. If he noticed the attention, he didn’t let it show.

“The directors all handle their teams’ day-to-day operations,” he explained to you. “But it’s up to you and me to keep them working together and get any roadblocks out of the way.”

At your old jobs, the main obstacle had always been money. You’d spent most of your time looking over applications for city grants, most of which hadn’t been approved. But Roman had the kind of investors whose names were engraved on the walls of Penn Station. There was no way funding was the bottleneck here, and you had a bad feeling that Marcus’s idea of a “roadblock” was in fact competition from people like you.

Marcus led the way out of the bullpen. Conversations rose back to their normal volume behind you, and you might have been imagining it, but you thought Marcus’s shoulders relaxed very slightly.

“All three teams need legal support, but you’ll mainly be working with negotiations to start,” he said. He shot you a sidelong glance. “Something tells me you’ll be pretty good at that.”

“Yeah?” you asked. You kept your voice low. “Something from the one day since we met for the first time?”

Marcus grinned. “Call it a premonition.”

A door cracked open at the end of the hall, and a man in a brown suit stepped out. Marcus’s face smoothed over, and he nodded as the man passed by.

Marcus’s premonition was correct. The negotiations work was familiar to you, mostly redlining contracts that the previous counsel hadn’t gotten around to before they left. Ava delivered a huge stack of them to your office later that afternoon, an apologetic smile on her face.

“I know it’s a lot,” she said. Her voice still had that polished, musical quality.

Thanks to Marcus’s introduction, you knew she was the director of the negotiations team. If that was the case, she had to have a ruthless side – one you’d probably been on the receiving end of – but you had yet to see it here. There was a determined professionalism to her that made her hard to read. All she’d done so far was introduce you to her deputies and reassure you that the snacks in the kitchen were complimentary.

“We’ve been without counsel for almost three weeks, so there’s unfortunately quite a bit of backlog,” she continued.

“Three weeks? Why didn’t the Legal send in a temp?”

“It’s a long story,” Ava said. “The previous counsel left sooner than expected, and Marcus doesn’t like to onboard people who won’t be here long.” She began to sort the folders into two different piles. “What do you think of him, by the way?”

Her tone was light, but your guard shot up. Marcus had hardly been subtle when she’d introduced the two of you, and she was almost definitely probing for an explanation.

You shrugged. “We just talked about the department.”

Ava’s eyes were dove gray, and they didn’t betray a hint of curiosity.

“He’s always so serious,” she said. “But it really pays off. We’re going on eighteen months without a deal falling through.”

You weren’t sure if Marcus really deserved credit for that when Roman was so much better funded than all its competition. But it was a datapoint about the real Marcus, so you filed it away. The more you knew about who he actually was, the easier it would be to forget about the person you’d imagined that night at O’Henry’s.   

When you didn’t give Ava any more information, she turned the conversation back to the paperwork. The two stacks of files were sorted by urgency; a small pile for the department’s current project, and a towering one of loose ends from deals that had already closed.

“There’s no rush to finish these up,” Ava said. “Although sooner is of course better.”

In other words, there was a rush. Depending on the complexity of the paperwork, this would take you around two weeks to get through, but it would be a good way to get up to speed on how Roman worked.

You flipped open a folder about the “urgent” deal and were greeted with a familiar name. Numidia Corp.

While Roman had long dominated Manhattan’s real estate ecosystem, there were a few other developers who still had footholds in the market. Numidia was technically on the list, but they were something of a special case. The company owned a block of apartment buildings on the west side, but they hadn’t bought or sold anything for more than twenty years. Their status came mostly from longevity: they were the oldest developer in the city, and even if their holdings weren’t huge, you’d always figured they were here to stay. If Roman was hammering out a deal with Numidia, then nobody else was safe.

But the documents in the folder didn’t look great for Roman. They were all correspondences between Ava’s team and a Numidia rep, volleys of terms for a possible buyout. On the surface, the emails were all in good faith. But nobody went back and forth this many times if they actually wanted to make a deal. Numidia was stalling.

Acquisitions had a leadership strategy meeting the following day to talk about it, and you finally got the chance to meet the other two directors. The research team was run by a short man named Landon, and the fundraising team by a tall woman named Natasha. By some coincidence, the two of them both wore pinstriped blazers, but they didn’t seem to have much else in common.

Landon’s suit was paired with elegant gold accessories. Natasha wore no makeup and a pair of actual sneakers. You were pretty sure they were designer, but it was still a blatant violation of Roman’s dress code. She also steered the whole conversation, while Landon spoke only when it was absolutely necessary.

For someone allegedly called the General, Marcus said surprisingly little. He let the directors argue amongst themselves and more than once got out of his seat to pace the length of the conference room, his face locked in concentration. Ava and the others seemed used to this.

Apparently Numidia was in financial trouble. Property taxes were rising, and most of their buildings were rent controlled, so they weren’t bringing in enough to make up the difference. The best thing they could do was sell off a portion of their holdings to the highest bidder. It was a golden opportunity for Roman. At least it should have been.

“I can’t convince them to negotiate in person,” Ava complained. “And none of their properties are officially on the market, so we can’t even put in a real offer.”

According to Landon and the research team, Numidia had all but finalized a deal with a different buyer. A friend of the family, a developer from upstate owned by the CEO’s daughter-in-law.

“Then we find out how much they’re offering, and we tell Numidia that Roman can top it,” Natasha said.

“We’ve already put up more than what the holdings are worth,” Landon said. “We’ll lose money on the deal if we offer more.”

“Yeah, but that’s not really the point, is it?” Natasha said. “The Board wants Numidia acquired.”

You’d kept quiet in the meeting so far, wanting to get a feel for how the team worked, but you felt a twinge of surprise at this.

“How is return on investment not the point?” you asked.

Natasha swiveled in her seat and stared at you as if you’d lost your mind.

You stared right back. You were definitely missing something here. If Roman was in the habit of throwing away money on bad deals just because its board members said so, the company would have gone under decades ago.

“We’re getting off-topic,” Marcus said. “A higher bid won’t work anyway. Numidia would already have come to the table if that were the case.”

He didn’t speak loudly, but his voice was certain. He’d stopped his pacing, and the focus that had burned behind his eyes had calmed.

You were oddly reminded of something an ex-boyfriend had shown you, a physics teacher you’d dated a few years after law school. To demonstrate gravity, he’d placed a bowling ball on a trampoline and let everything else on the surface flow downward. Some objects, he’d explained, fundamentally changed the path of everything around them.

Sure enough, all three directors instantly fell silent and turned to hear Marcus’s decision. You wondered if all of their strategy meetings went this way; Marcus collecting information until he was ready to make a call.

“Our top priority needs to be meeting Adkins in person,” he said.

From Ava’s files, you knew Adkins was Numidia’s CEO. Marcus’s tone suggested that the two of them knew one another. You figured it was from galas or house hunting in the Hamptons, or whatever people rich enough to own buildings did to become friends. Marcus probably was high-up enough at Roman to be a part of the club. Although if that were true, it made no sense that he spent Fridays at O’Henry’s.

“We need to learn what it is he cares about, if it’s not only money,” he continued. “Landon and Natasha, find out everything you can about this other offer, including where the money might be coming from. Ava, do whatever it takes to get us in a room with Adkins.” Marcus turned to look at you. “In the meantime, you and I will find a way to stall this deal.”

Three days into your life at Roman, and you were already tasked with corporate sabotage. You caught up with Marcus after the meeting to see what exactly he meant.

The rest of the directors had offices near the entrance to the hallway, so the two of you were alone by the time you reached your door. You hovered outside it, trying to find the right way to voice your concerns.

“Here’s the thing,” you said. “I know about a hundred different ways that a deal can fall through. I once had a building proposal vetoed because it would interfere with pigeon migration paths.”

“Really?” Marcus asked. “Do pigeons even migrate?”

“I have no idea.”

“Me either, but that’s a brilliant move. Although it won’t work here. Numidia isn’t trying to build anything new, so we need a non-pigeon-based strategy.”

“Ah, yes,” you said. “One of those.”

Marcus grinned. “Hate to make you resort to it. Any other ideas from your list of a hundred?”

His voice was laced with amusement, and he smelled familiar, cedary, like cologne or maybe fancy shampoo.  It triggered some sort of hotness-induced glitch in your brain, and you were finding it hard not to play along with him.

But the more you thought about it, the more sabotaging this deal felt unbelievably petty. The rent control laws that applied to Numidia would also apply to Roman if they bought the buildings. The way the law was worded, Roman couldn’t even tear down Numidia’s buildings and put up new ones. Privately, you were grateful for this fact. Housing was already scarce enough on the west side.  

Professionally, the law made this investment a waste of time for Roman. Even if the Board got exactly what they wanted, they’d never turn a profit. This deal seemed like an ego trip, one you didn’t completely understand.

Maybe there was no point in pushing back on it. Marcus was a man with an eighteen-month winning streak, and he definitely hadn’t gotten there by listening to misgivings. But you still had to say something.

“I have a few ideas,” you said. “But if I’m being honest, it feels like we’re playing dirty. And we’re doing it for a really small prize.”

A serious look crept into Marcus’s eyes.

“Let’s talk about this inside,” he said.

You followed him into his office and perched on the couch, trying to figure out if he wanted privacy because he agreed with you or because he was about to say you were out of line. Marcus sat down across from you.

“Listen,” he said. “I asked Legal for a copy of your resume. You have a very different background from lawyers we’ve hired in the past.”

“Wait. You didn’t read my resume before hiring me?”

“I trust Roman’s recruiting team. It would be impossible to run Acquisitions if I didn’t delegate some tasks.”

“Oh, I see. The General has no time to read lowly resumes.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. He looked completely mortified. “I told Natasha to stop with that joke.”

“If it helps, I didn’t hear it from Natasha.”

This did not appear to help. Marcus swore under his breath, then turned to face you on the couch, slinging one muscled arm over the back of it.

“It feels important to establish that I at no point asked to be called the General.”

“I know,” you said. You watched Marcus’s expression soften, and couldn’t entirely resist teasing him. “I never thought you did, Sir.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. His face was still tinged pink.

“Good,” he said. “Great. Where were we?”

“You don’t read resumes. Except for mine, apparently. And I’m not like other lawyers.”

“No,” Marcus agreed. “You’re definitely not.”

He held your eyes, and you discovered that your lizard brain had yet to receive the “I never kissed Marcus” message. You tried to steer the conversation into safer territory.

“I promise you I’m qualified to do this job, if that’s where you’re headed.”

“It’s not,” Marcus said. “You’re obviously qualified. You’ve worked in some form of acquisitions almost as long as I have.”

You only had eight years of experience after law school. Unless Marcus was terrible at math, his twenty-five years at Roman hadn’t all been in Acquisitions. But this was confirmation that he’d indeed been the one to outbid all your old companies. More than that, there was a good chance he’d closed the deal when Roman had bought Dad’s building.

A balloon deflated in your chest, and the fun of teasing Marcus evaporated. He really wasn’t who you thought he was.

Marcus’s features shifted. You wondered if he was following the direction of your train of thought.  

“As far as I see it, Roman is lucky to have you,” he continued. He paused, and then spoke very carefully. “But there are parts of this job that need more compromises than what I imagine you’ve done in the past. If you know right now that this won’t be a fit for you, then I understand.”

It took you a second to parse out Marcus’s meaning. He wanted you to quit. Or at least he was pointing out the option. You felt weirdly hurt, and you didn’t know if he meant what he said – that you should leave if you wouldn’t be happy here – or if this was actually some kind of threat. Your brain glitch wanted to believe it was the first, but even if it was, quitting wasn’t really an option for you, not unless you wanted to move in with your mom and hide in her closet when debt collectors came by.

“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said. “Roman is a good fit for me right now.”

“Okay,” Marcus said. He was studying your face, and he sounded oddly sad. “Then I’m happy to have you on the team.”

“And you still think we should go through with breaking up this deal?” you asked.

“It’s the Board’s orders,” Marcus said. “This isn’t up to us. But if it helps, we can reconfigure things so you don’t have to plan the strategy. I can talk with the directors and put something together. But I will need your help to check if the plan is above board. Playing dirty is one thing, but we don’t want a lawsuit on our hands.”

He was basically offering to sideline you. It was more acknowledgement of your complaint than you’d expected, and if the Board was as powerful as it seemed, Marcus really might not have any other choice, but it went against your instincts to take a backseat on a project you should be driving. Then again, the project itself went against your instincts. 

“Can I think about it?” you asked.

“Of course,” Marcus said. “If you want to stick with our original plan, just let me know. Otherwise I’ll loop you in as needed.”

He pushed to his feet and walked you to the door that separated your offices. You were about to step through it when something occurred to you.

“Marcus,” you said. “My phone number is on my resume.”

He paused, still holding the door, and gave you a questioning look. “Are you asking if that’s the reason I requested it from Legal?”

“Is it?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I know how to respect a rejection. I was just curious. For reasons that officially never happened.”

He seemed more amused than offended by your question. You felt a flicker of recognition and realized you liked this about him; his direct, un-self-conscious way of speaking. You’d never met someone before with his exact sort of confidence, and it was the one constant point across both versions of Marcus. You knew it was innately his, and not some artifact of liquor or status.

“I mean, officially, I never rejected you,” you said.

A smile spread across Marcus’s face.

“No,” he said. “I guess, officially, you didn’t.”

chapter 3 - coming April 19th

If you enjoyed the fic, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖

my masterlist | join the taglist

mdni banner by @\xurengu0 and dividers by @\saradika-graphics

taglist + some people who showed interest (no pressure to read): @burningnerdchild @shadowqueen2024 @copperhalfcent @angiewatson @musingsfromthecorner @maried01 @theislandprincessss @suestormnotcheatingversion @brittmb115 @dotyoureyez @sincerelywithheartt @pedritosgfreal @madpanda75 @sunnytuliptime @bratty-spicee @longlivekingminnn @winterfellonme @okiegal68 @missadangel @joelmillerspnk @nrschuster30 @picketniffler @myownwholewildworld @kokoluwie @baronessvonglitter @mcthsman @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @\hanahleah @milla-frenchy @txmel @johnssherlock221 @iamladyp @dendulinka6 @canonisoptional @loveday1219 @morriggannlostinfandoms @anoverwhelmingdin @littlepedrito @nothinglefttogive @fuckthatbazinga @cozymochaa @crazysouthernlady @annewithaneofgreengable @snow30285 @sunshineflowersandkisses

[rosharanfiction]

what you can’t have

joel miller x celebrity! female reader || masterlist

summary: After your album tanks, you'll do anything it takes to stay relevant - even sign up to get engaged on reality TV. You're not doing this for love, and you harbor no delusions about finding it. But then you meet Joel Miller. He's a guarded single dad with a love of your music, and he sees straight through your act. You want him desperately, and you think he wants you too. The problem is, Joel isn't a contestant. He's your cameraman - the only guy on set that you can't have.

tags: afab reader, forbidden romance, gratuitous smut, the hooking up burns fast but the romance burns slow, pining, angst, fluff, no outbreak AU, sarah is alive, jealousy, healthy mix of plot and porn, no y/n, siri play "i can do it with a broken heart"

rating: Explicit - 18+ ONLY. A lot of development of the characters and their relationship happens through sex, and cameraman!Joel loves to dirty talk.

status: Complete. 92k words

read on ao3

chapter one: Twenty Perfect Guys

chapter two: Best Seat in the House

chapter three: I Know Your Type

chapter four: Nice Outfit

chapter five: Secret Talent

chapter six: Hågernås

chapter seven: Mock the iPod, Lose the iPod

chapter eight: Filthy Celebrity Riches

chapter nine: Mr. Right-Now

chapter ten: Crush

chapter eleven: Take Me Home

chapter twelve: Dealbreaker

chapter thirteen: Anything You Want

epilogue: Dirty Mind

Playlists*

joel and cinderella: I'D TELL THEM PUT ME BACK IN IT. for scenes that lean heavy into forbidden love vibes

cameraman! joel: I can't believe I captured your heart. for free-writes from Joel's POV, scenes in his truck and with his family

cinderella: I’ve been up on a pedestal, but tonight I just wanna fall. for the sad princess in all of us that loves joel miller.

glass slipper : I would trade it all for your sweet kiss. For scenes where Cinderella plays or writes her own music. Made with the help of a guitarist friend because I know nothing about guitar.

*(tw that i only know like 4 artists)

Influences

If you enjoyed What You Can’t Have, you may also enjoy the books and fics that inspired it.

Reality TV romances

The Charm Offensive by Allison Cochrun: one of my favorite books. this series is an homage to it.

One to Watch by Kate Stayman-London: for anyone else tired of the reality TV beauty standards

Character growth through sex

Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston: just read it. Casey's writing is so alive that it oozes off the page.

So Much to Lose by auterdelabre: the GOAT Joel Miller fic

blue as cut sapphires and shining like gold by suchgreatheights: Different fandom, but I have read this 4 times and it’s 312k words, somebody hospitalize me. Truly a pinnacle of what fanfic as a format enables unlike any other.

Emotionally stunted creatives falling in love

Beach Read by Emily Henry: grouchy banter and then more grouchy banter

Comments, questions and reblogs give me so much life! This is my first fic and I love talking to people about it.

[rosharanfiction]

CROSSHAIRS jackson! joel miller x javier peña

Part 3: Misfire

summary: In the aftermath of a violent patrol, Jackson goes on high alert. Javi and Joel both struggle to recover, and the pull between them strengthens. But exploring it would be a mistake… right?

non-smut tags: 18+ only MDNI. dual pov. more angst than the last chapter, but less murder. bi panic. jealousy. a whole lot of flirting. Dad Joel. canon-typical heteronormativity. internalized/externalized biphobia. mentions of canon-typical violence and cannibalism (not our boys!!). PTSD. Bullseye gets his carrots. smut tags: an indulgent amount of frantic jacking off (write the fic you want to read, they said). blowjob. straight sex/unprotected piv. exhibitionism/voyeurism. Javi’s got a big dick and a dirty inner monologue. words: 7.5k

andrea says: thank you @hanahleah for beta reading, you're completely wonderful ❤️. we are so back friends, and we've got our first Javi pov. thank you for your patience with the long wait for this update - these boys and their emotional problems gave me quite the headache. this is also doing double duty as my (late) submission for @time-for-my-weekly-spanking’s 2026 kinky challenge. My prompt is “javier peña + exhibitionism”. (I had a different fic in mind but crosshairs Javi just really wanted to do this.) congrats on your milestone my love, and thank you for brainstorming with me for this chapter! your insights are what broke me out of my writer's block, and I appreciate you so much. I'm so happy you organized this challenge and that fandom brought us together.

dividers by @/pixopix

masterlist | pt 2 | pt 4 | ao3 link

Javi woke up with a bolt of panic. 

Another nightmare. The kind that always came for him. 

Sweat clung to his skin, and the bedsheets knotted around him. His pulse still thundered with adrenaline. 

In his dream, he’d had to kill the raiders all over again. He’d been back on the clifftop by Elk Mountain, sneaking up behind that woman. She’d turned once again at the very last second, right as he’d lined up his gun. She hadn’t been fast enough to do anything about it – hadn’t even screamed like she should’ve – but she’d had enough time to know what was coming. 

Javi would never be able to forget her face, no matter how many others he’d seen just like it: her wide, terrified eyes, and the awful, upside-down U shape her mouth had made in the very last moment before he’d killed her.

The nightmares were always like this. He’d first started getting them back in Colombia, and they’d chased him for all the years since. Sometimes Javi felt like he was always in one, watching a long trail of bodies stretch out behind him; the only real impact he’d ever made on the world.

He shoved up to sit. The sheets fell away, and the winter cold found him. He tried to focus on the sting of it, on anything real. On Molly’s quiet breathing beside him. It wasn’t any good. His body still felt like it was screaming.

Fuck it. He needed a cigarette. It was stupid of him, since he was down to his last pack, and he wasn’t getting a top-up until next week. But he’d deal with the rationing later. He had to do something that felt good.

The pack on his nightstand was already half empty. He’d thought he had more, but he lit up anyway. Relief swept through him, and he took a long drag. It helped. But he could still see that woman’s panicked face. This night was shaping up to be a bad one.

This bedroom he was stuck in was doing nothing to help. Javi had been assigned to a knick-knack-filled cottage; exactly the kind of domestic place he’d spent his twenties and thirties avoiding. There was even a wedding photo on the wall across from his bed, and the groom wore a rancher-style cowboy hat, like half the guys back in Kingston had done.

Javi had been meaning to take the picture down, but redecorating this place would have felt like claiming it, and he knew better than to believe this was permanent. Then again, it was kind of fucked up, leaving the photo on the wall while he brought home stranger after stranger. The couple, whoever they were, would probably die all over again if they knew who was squatting in their house.

Javi took another drag. The frilly curtains didn’t reach all the way across his window, and a stripe of moonlight fell through the gap. It landed on the curve of Molly’s hip and reflected on the spill of red hair around her face.  

Molly was a very pretty girl, but with the way she fucked, she didn’t have to be. Javi liked her a lot. He’d hunted her down as soon as he’d gotten back to Jackson, after he and Joel had debriefed Maria about Elk Mountain.  

Javi’s cock twitched. Oh, come on. One thought of Joel, and he was sporting a semi. He’d been like this all evening, turned on in a ridiculous, whole-body way, and all thanks to Joel’s too-late-in-life gay awakening, or whatever the fuck had snapped and made him finally put his hands on Javi. Maybe Joel Miller was into edging. Maybe he got off on working his patrol partners up, grinding his monster cock against them, being two seconds away from jacking them off, and then going suddenly catatonic.

The ride back to Jackson had taken all day, and Joel had said all of five words the whole time. Most of those words had been grunts, and not the bedroom type of grunt. Dazed, Cro-Magnon-sounding ones. When they’d stopped to get back Glimmer, Joel had managed to dismount, line up his rifle, and take out the raider, all without so much as a muttered “got it”. He’d doggedly avoided looking at Javi. Bullseye too, for that matter. Apparently Joel was the kind of guy who could get too embarrassed to make eye contact with a horse. Bullseye was a particularly judgy horse, but Joel was still ridiculous, especially for being the guy half of Jackson was in love with.

Even Molly had a thing for Joel. She’d mentioned it to Javi a week or two ago, that she’d tried more than once to ask Joel out, but she thought he didn’t even know her name. Molly was probably right about that, but – and this was the part that Javi had told her – Joel really didn’t know what he was missing. The funny thing was, she and Joel would get along. Molly was a sweet girl. She was training to be a vet, and she knew all sorts of crap about handling stubborn personalities. Plus Javi knew she could take a big cock.

It was Joel’s hard-to-get status that had first made Javi want to fuck him. That, and the miserable scowl he always wore. Javi had better uses in mind for that mouth. But it was probably a bad idea to go after him, even now that Joel had been the one to start it.

People in Jackson treasured Joel. He was Tommy and Maria’s family, and Ellie’s entire world. He’d backed up the town’s whole electrical grid, and he was the one who went on runs to get whiskey for the Bison. Joel was the kind of guy who always delivered, even on things he hadn’t promised. He actually had something to do in the evenings besides get wasted at the Bison. He had roots here, and he mattered, and Javi was just… existing.

Javi didn’t know what it would be like, hooking up with a guy like Joel, and that was usually a sign he was getting himself into trouble. If he was smart, he’d let things cool off.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. And it didn’t mean he’d stopped thinking about Joel’s body wrapped around his; about Joel’s sturdy chest, and the smell of gun smoke that clung to him. His mouth had felt so warm brushing behind Javi’s ear.

Javi’s cock pulsed in invitation. He wrapped a hand around his shaft and breathed in the last of his cigarette. Good thing he’d come just a few hours ago. He’d be able to draw this out.

Just as he was getting close, the sheets beside him rustled. The mattress shifted, and he heard Molly’s bleary voice. 

“Javi?” 

She propped herself up on an elbow to face him. Her breasts hung heavy, and her nipples pebbled in the cold.

Javi slowed his fist, but didn’t stop completely. He was too far gone for that now. Molly’s mouth twitched. She lowered the sheet, exposing his cock, and brushed her hand up the inside of his thigh.

“You could’ve just woken me up,” she said.

Heat spread out beneath Javi’s skin. Joel’s massive hand had touched him in this very same way. What Javi wouldn’t give to have felt Joel grab his cock. His stomach muscles spasmed, and he held back a whine. It was all he could do to pant out an answer.

“Roll over.”

Two words. At this rate, he was just as bad as Joel.  Thank fuck that it was Molly here tonight, and not somebody who would’ve taken the chance to tease him. She obeyed at once, even reached for a pillow to prop beneath her hips.

“Good girl,” Javi muttered.

He positioned himself behind her, nudging her legs a little wider apart. Her pussy glistened for him. Javi spread her open with his thumb and forefinger, and his cock throbbed sharply. His cum was still leaking out of her. The way he’d stretched her out earlier, she was probably still ready to go, and Javi couldn’t stand to wait another moment.

He notched his cock at her entrance, grabbed ahold of her hips, and tugged her back as he snapped his hips forward. Her soft heat surrounded him, and a knot in his stomach loosened.

Molly moaned into the mattress. Javi splayed a hand on the small of her back and fucked into her, hard as he needed. This wouldn’t be enough to make the dreams go away, but for a while, he could chase a good feeling. 

Joel felt like shit. He’d slept like a dead man all last night, but he could’ve used another eight hours. He’d tweaked something in his back climbing up that cliff, and his broken finger hurt more than he cared to admit. Even getting dressed felt like an ordeal, since his saddle-sore thighs complained whenever he bent over. And on top of all that, his sex drive was back. It made him ache all over with dissatisfaction. What godawful timing. 

He hadn’t been with anybody since he’d lost Tess, and on some level he’d decided he was done after that. It wasn’t a deliberate thing. The thought of sleeping with somebody new had just made him sad, and he’d been caught up in trying to survive for a while. By the time he’d settled in Jackson, he’d sort of forgotten what it was like to be turned on. 

Not that he was blind. He stole the occasional glance at the bossy woman on the construction crew, especially when she was bending over. He’d found a stack of playboys in the upstairs closet, and he got off to them on nights he couldn’t sleep. But it all felt mechanical. It was nothing like the rush of having someone in his arms. Joel hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed it until he’d been pressed up against Javi.

He’d spun out at first about that moment on the ridgeline, but now that he’d slept, he had a pretty good handle on what had happened. The whole thing hadn’t even been about Javi. Joel had just gotten so touch-starved that he’d reacted as soon as somebody got close to him, regardless of who that somebody was. He didn’t even like men like that. His system had misfired. It was humiliating as hell, but he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. 

Hopefully Javi wouldn’t either. Joel just wished this would’ve happened with anyone else. He already felt strange about Javi, and he’d actually been starting to like the guy. 

At least he had a few days to let himself cool off. He and Javi were benched from patrols while they recovered. Today all Joel had to do was oversee construction. He’d be all the way down by the south end of the wall, and with any luck he wouldn’t even see Javi. 

Joel wrestled on a shirt and forced himself to hobble downstairs. His muscles would only get stiffer if he didn’t start moving. 

It was a sign of how run-down he was that Ellie had gotten up before him. She was already dressed, laying across the couch with her headphones in while she scribbled at her notepad. She raised her eyebrows at Joel as he shuffled toward the kitchen. 

“Holy shit, man.”

Joel didn’t dignify that with a response, but he was glad that she was talking. She’d been a little quiet when he’d gotten back last night, and he thought he might’ve worried her, being gone for so long. 

Maybe they could do something fun together today. Ellie had been busy with her friends, and Joel hadn’t seen much of her lately. He’d get something in his stomach, and then they could make a plan. After a day of eating only stolen ration bars, he needed something solid. 

Joel wasn’t a great cook, but he tried to keep the kitchen stocked with basics - oatmeal, bread, milk, and instant coffee. Not enough coffee that he could have some every day, but it got him out of bed on the bad ones, even if it was the kind that tasted like battery acid. He spooned some into his thermos and put on a pot to boil, heating up enough water for oatmeal, too. 

Maybe he’d treat himself this morning. He had a tiny packet of cinnamon, and there was a bag of brown sugar in the topmost cabinet. He’d traded for it a while back and made sure to hide it someplace Ellie wouldn’t see it. It would be a nice surprise for her, if she hadn’t eaten already. 

“You hungry?” he called. 

Ellie didn’t respond. Goddamn headphones. Joel had told her a hundred times to watch the volume on them. At this rate, she was going to make herself just as deaf as he was. 

He had to go back out into the living room to get her attention, and even then she only unplugged reluctantly. 

“What?” she asked. She kept looking down at whatever she was sketching. 

“You hungry?” Joel repeated. “I’m gonna make oatmeal.”

“Oh,” Ellie said. “We’re out.”

“Already?”

The canister had been full two days ago. 

Ellie shrugged. “I found some sugar in the cupboard, so I used the oatmeal to make cookies. Traded them for a few of Kat’s mixed tapes.”

Fucking hell. Joel would have to go all the way to the mess hall for breakfast now.

“I told you to top something up if you use the last of it,” he said.

“Okay,” Ellie muttered.

Joel felt a spike of frustration, but he tried not to let it get the best of him. It wouldn’t be fair to take his bad mood out on Ellie. 

He got to work putting on his boots, ignoring a complaint from his thighs when he leaned down.

“Well,” he said. “If we’ve gotta go to the mess hall anyway, what do you say we pick up some kitchen scraps and bring them to the stables? Bullseye had a rough day yesterday. I figure we can go and spoil him. You can bring all those raisins you always pick out of your trail mix.”

He expected Ellie to jump at this, but she only stared at her notepad. 

“Um,” she said. “No thanks. I have a KP shift after breakfast.”

“We can wait to go later,” Joel offered.

Ellie just shrugged. 

“Is something up?” Joel asked. “You’ve been kinda quiet since I got back last night. If you’re worried about the raiders, they’re still a few days out from Jackson.”

Ellie looked at him sideways. 

“I’m not scared.”

“Yeah,” Joel backpedaled. “No. ‘Course not. I just figured – ”

Ellie sat up and put her notebook aside. “Why’d you lie to me about Elk Mountain?”

Joel’s stomach lurched at the accusation in her voice. Had he lied? He didn’t think so. But if he was being honest, it felt like he’d left for the scouting mission a lifetime ago.

“I told you I was going on a nighttime patrol, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “But you left out the part about going after raiders.”

“It was complicated,” Joel said. “I didn’t expect to be gone for so long.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He felt like he screwed up with Ellie more and more lately. Her chin jutted out, and anger crept into her voice.

“So if you’d come back earlier, you never would have told me about the raiders?”

“No,” Joel said. She was getting him all spun around. “I would’ve told you. ‘Course I would’ve.”

“When?” Ellie asked.

Joel hadn’t really thought that far ahead. If yesterday had gone a little better, there would’ve been nothing left to tell.

Ellie’s face darkened. “Got it. Never. Fuck you, Joel.”

Joel’s patience snapped. “Hey now. Maybe I didn’t tell you every detail about the raiders, but it was only because I didn’t see the point in worrying you. There was nothing you could’ve done about Elk Mountain.”

“Yes there was!” Ellie said. “Tommy put Kat and Jesse to work organizing the wall guard. I could’ve been up there with them, actually preparing to fight, if you weren’t so obsessed with babying me.”

Joel groaned internally. So that’s what this was really about. Ellie was pissed that she’d missed a chance to look cool in front of the guy she liked. Joel liked Jesse well enough, and it was nice to see Ellie making friends, but Jesse and Kat were older than she was, and she had to remember that.

“I don’t know what they told you,” he said. “But Kat and Jesse ain’t fighting.”

“They’re patrolling, though. And you’re training them. Like you should be training me.”

“You ain’t ready for that.”

“Yes I am!”

“You’re not,” Joel snapped. “You can’t even handle replacing the oatmeal, Ellie, and you think you should be making life-or-death decisions?”

Ellie’s face went flat, and Joel felt a pang of regret. He knew he shouldn’t stoop to her level, but it drove him crazy sometimes, the way she couldn’t just appreciate the life he was giving her.   

“Look,” Joel said. “I’m sorry you didn’t hear about Elk Mountain from me, alright?  But you shouldn’t have to deal with all this. You’re still just a kid.”

“I’m not,” Ellie insisted. “I’m almost seventeen, Joel. If I’d stayed in FEDRA school, I’d already have graduated by now.”

Joel thought instantly of the deserters. All four of them had been Ellie’s age or younger. This world would chew her up if he gave it the chance.

“Well I’m sorry I can’t live up to FEDRA’s high standards,” Joel said. “But you’re too young for all this, and that’s that.”

“I was old enough to fight when we were on the road.”

“I hated putting you in danger then,” Joel said. “I’m not doing that again, now that I have a choice about it.”

“It’s my choice,” Ellie said. “Not yours.”

“No it ain’t,” Joel said. “You’re my responsibility.”

“Well, I’m sick of being your responsibility.”

Joel flinched.

She doesn’t mean it. She’s just afraid.

Silence stretched between them. When Joel didn’t respond, Ellie’s brows pulled together.

Everything Joel could think to say right now would just make things worse. The truth was, Ellie could yell all she wanted. Joel wasn’t ever going to apologize for keeping her safe. But he knew that was what she wanted right now. 

Maybe the both of them just needed to cool off.

“We’re done talking about this,” Joel said. He pulled on his coat. His heart thudded uncomfortably fast, but he tried to keep his voice steady. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Ellie muttered.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve gotta eat something.”

“I think I know better than you if I’m hungry or not.”

“Fine,” Joel snapped.

Ellie was impossible when she got like this. If she really didn’t want to eat, he wasn’t going to make her.

He tried to say goodbye when he got to the door, but Ellie had already shoved her headphones back in. She didn’t even look up from her notebook.

Joel left without a word. He was halfway down the walk when he realized he’d forgotten to make his coffee.

Joel stewed over the fight the whole way to breakfast. Ellie just didn’t realize how good she had it. If she really knew what being an adult was like in this world, she wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get there. 

The mess hall was all the way across town, and Joel’s legs had limbered up by the time he pushed open the door. The room blazed with heat, and it smelled like bacon. He’d shown up right in the middle of breakfast. Conversations layered on top of each other, and a pack of kids ran underfoot. 

Joel worked enough shifts that he could get three meals a day here if he wanted, but he traded a lot of them away. He knew he wasn’t really a part of Jackson’s community. Most people just put up with him because he was Tommy’s brother. 

But he had to admit that the food was good. The buffet was loaded up with rashers of bacon, and there was a tray of golden french toast, with a tub of fresh butter beside it. There was even real maple syrup, and a big bowl of dried apple slices. 

Joel loaded up a tray with a bit of everything. They didn’t have coffee in the mess, so he made do with a cup of black tea. It wasn’t his favorite, but it was better than nothing. 

Most of the tables were full by now, but he caught sight of Tommy waving from the corner. He was sitting with Maria and somebody else at a half-empty table. 

Joel claimed an open patch of bench. 

“Morning,” Tommy said. He reached out to snag one of Joel’s dried apples. 

Joel swatted his hand away. “Morning,” he grunted. 

He nodded to Maria and turned to greet the other guy at the table. 

Fucking hell. It was that councilman. Nathan. The one who’d given Javi the hickey. This morning was getting to be almost as bad as the one before. 

Nathan grinned at Joel, revealing perfectly straight teeth. “You’re up early.”

Joel wasn’t up any earlier than usual, but he wasn’t about to explain to this dumbass that he had better things to do than trek across town for breakfast every day. He took a sip of his tea so he wouldn’t have to answer, and immediately burned his tongue. 

When it became clear that Joel had no plans to make small talk, the conversation moved on without him. The three of them were bickering about city business, mostly about rationing Jackson’s electric grid. The council’s temporary plan to handle the raiders was pretty much “wait and see”, and it included keeping the security lights on their highest setting. All the extra power had to come from somewhere. 

The obvious choice was the town’s water heaters, and it seemed like Maria had already figured out as much. The heaters were the biggest drain on the grid, and people could still keep them on during the day. Joel didn’t see what the big deal was. So long as everyone had been properly maintaining their insulation, their water would stay hot overnight.

But Nathan was putting up a fuss about it, saying hot water was important for morale. Like morale mattered for shit if the security lights failed. Joel couldn’t believe how out of touch this guy was. He probably hadn’t done a lick of maintenance on his heater, but he’d found the time to streak highlights into his mop of blonde hair. 

He was a lot like Joel’s worst clients from before the outbreak: the ones who could never accept that construction took the time it took, who always found a reason to blame Joel for the realities of the world. Joel couldn’t imagine what Javi and this guy had in common.

At least Maria was winning the argument. Nathan was well into the process of tucking his tail between his legs. Joel took a bite of french toast, feeling a wash of satisfaction that he couldn’t entirely attribute to the food. 

That was right about when Javi landed on the bench beside him. 

Joel’s stomach flipped over. Javi’s hair was damp, and he smelled strongly of soap, like the grainy handmade bar that all of Jackson used. Everyone got it from the ponytail-wearing guy who ran the herb garden. Joel usually didn’t love how hippieish it smelled, but he recognized it now as the scent of Javi’s skin, laced in with sweat and Marlboro smoke, and the memory of it made his pulse race.

There was a chorus of “good mornings” from Tommy and Maria. Nathan’s posture went fluid, and he shot Javi a grin that turned Joel’s french toast bitter. 

Joel didn’t need to watch this. He focused on his plate. He still didn’t really know how to act around Javi, and he was painfully aware of how charged he felt after yesterday. With the way Javi was sitting, he and Joel were shoulder-to-shoulder, and heat radiated in the pocket of air between their bodies. Beneath the table, one of them moved, and their thighs brushed together.

With a jolt, Joel realized it had been him. He twitched his leg back where it belonged. He was definitely acting strange. At this point he’d been staring at a crust of french toast for a good thirty seconds. He’d take one more breath, then return to the conversation.

It’s just a misfire. You’ve got bigger problems than this.

Javi was already looking at Joel. Up close, he seemed as tired as Joel felt. He’d replaced Joel’s makeshift bandage with a smaller, stick-on one, and a sickly-looking bruise crept down from his hairline. His eyes were puffy, and fine lines stood out in the corners of them. They made him look distractingly human. 

“Hey,” Joel managed.

Javi grinned. “Morning, Joel.”

Their legs found each other again. Joel was almost certain he hadn’t been the one to instigate it this time.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“Intact,” Javi said. “A friend of mine confirmed I don’t have a concussion, but that’s based on a book for veterinarians.”

“You’re up early today,” Nathan said. “I thought you might sleep in after yesterday.”

This guy was officially the most boring person Joel had ever met. 

Javi shrugged. “After yesterday, I need breakfast more than sleep. Joel only packed food for the horses.”

Tommy barked out a laugh. Joel snorted. Javi was technically right, but in truth they’d left so quickly that they’d both forgotten to bring rations. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Joel muttered.

“How would you put it, then?” Javi asked. 

“You’ve got a head wound,” Joel said. “Your memory can’t be trusted.”

Javi lifted an eyebrow. “Any of it?”

His boot nudged Joel’s beneath the table, and he looked like he was trying very hard not to grin. Joel’s chest felt hot. He had nothing even resembling a response to this, but Tommy and Maria were watching, not to mention Nathan, and the longer he paused, the more it would seem like Javi was getting at something. 

Joel turned away and took a swallow of his awful tea. 

“Dunno,” he said. “Head injuries are tricky. You should make sure to get a lot of rest.”

There was a stretch of silence. 

“Right, then,” Nathan said. 

He brought the conversation back to the problems with the grid. Joel polished off the last of his breakfast, unable to shake the feeling that there was a spotlight on him, even once Javi stopped looking his way. 

The argument about the water heaters started up again. Joel was just about ready to leave when Nathan called Javi into the conversation. 

“You get it, right?” he said. “We work so hard to make Jackson feel civilized. Taking ice-cold showers in the middle of January is the opposite of civilized.”

Javi went still. He looked around the table. For a confusing second, Joel thought he was going to take Nathan’s side. 

“You guys have hot showers?” Javi asked. 

“You don’t?” Tommy asked. 

Javi shook his head. “I was impressed enough that the water runs.”

Maria frowned. “You’re set up in Dovetail Cottage, right?”

“I am. But if somewhere with a heater is open, I can move.”

“No need for that,” Maria said. “All the houses we’ve opened have water heaters. Yours is probably just broken. We can add it to the maintenance crew’s task list.”

Javi nodded in thanks, but Joel knew what he was thinking. The maintenance crew was only three people. It would probably be weeks before they got to Javi’s heater. 

Nathan put a sympathetic hand on Javi’s arm. “If you want, you can shower at my place in the meantime.”

Joel’s stomach jolted.

“I reckon I can fix it,” he blurted.

Javi’s eyes met his. “Could you?”

Joel swallowed. “Depending on what’s wrong with it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Nathan said. “You were a laborer before the outbreak, right?”

“Contractor,” Tommy corrected.

Joel nodded on principle, but water heater repair hadn’t been a part of his job. He’d only learned to do it because the one he’d had back in Texas was always breaking. The repairman had never been able to come before Sarah had to leave for school, and she’d been a monster when she had to take cold showers. The memory settled heavy in his chest.

“I can come by after breakfast,” he offered. “Uh. If you want. Got an hour or so before I have to be at my shift.”

Javi frowned. “I have KP after breakfast. Tomorrow?”

Joel couldn’t believe Javi was still doing KP shifts. The kid he’d subbed in for had to be better by now.

“Tomorrow’s good,” he said.

Javi grinned. “Good. I’ll have to find something to trade you for this.”

It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, but with Javi’s thigh sliding against Joel’s beneath the table, it didn’t feel that way. Fucking hell. If this was what Javi was like on cold showers, maybe Joel was better off not fixing his heater.  

“We’ll figure something out,” he muttered.

Javi’s grin widened. “How about I give you one of my drink tickets at the Tipsy Bison tonight? As a down payment.”

No way in hell Joel was doing that.  He was spared having to answer when Tommy and Maria stood up to clear their plates.

“Gotta head to patrol,” Tommy explained. He leaned over to clap Joel on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at the Bison tonight, alright?”

Joel had no intention of going to the Tipsy Bison. He had plenty of drink tickets already. By the time he got through with his construction shift, it was already nighttime. He’d only been on foreman duty today, but he was still bone-tired, and he wanted to make things right with Ellie before he went to sleep.

He swung by the vegetable garden on his way home and traded for a handful of carrots. Maybe Ellie would want to spoil Bullseye after all. Eventually her soft spot for the horses had to win out.

But when Joel got home, the house was quiet. Ellie’s shoes and coat were gone. She’d probably run off with Kat and Jesse and them.

For all Joel wanted to rest, the house felt too empty. He lit a fire to fill the room and leaned back on the couch. It should have been relaxing, but he just felt like he was waiting to pounce on Ellie when she got home.

And it was more than that, too. It was the feeling that had stirred back to life inside him, that animal need to be close to somebody. Joel had already decided not to worry about the fact that Javi had triggered it, but maybe there was some truth to the feeling itself. Maybe he’d be better off getting out of the house. He could go see Bullseye at least. If Ellie changed her mind, they’d just go again tomorrow.

And maybe he’d wash up before going to the stables. He was covered in grit from the worksite. Bullseye wouldn’t care, but Joel rinsed off anyway. He toweled off, pulled on a t-shirt and jeans, then laid out his clean shirts on the bed.

Green flannel button-up. Gray flannel button-up. Denim shirt, also a button-up. Joel considered the options, feeling strangely hot with embarrassment. He didn’t know why he cared. He’d be just as much of an old man whichever one he wore. This whole thing was foolish. He shrugged on the green shirt. It was the warmest, and it could get chilly at night in the stables. He considered trimming his beard, but felt immediately stupid. 

He tugged on his boots, bundled himself up, pocketed the carrots, and set out across town. With the bright security lights on, Jackson felt more awake than usual. People passed Joel in twos and threes, spiraling home from the center of town.

The stable door was unlocked, and a few nickers sounded when Joel swung it open. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the relative darkness. Glimmer was asleep, but Bullseye stood in his oversized stall. His ears leapt forward when he caught sight of Joel, and he leaned over the stall door to nuzzle the side of Joel’s face.

“Hey, boy,” Joel murmured. “Easy.”

Bullseye ignored him and began to snuffle down toward his pocket. Joel felt a twinge in his chest. After what he and Javi had asked of Bullseye yesterday, Joel wasn’t sure he deserved the loyalty. Then again, Bullseye was probably just loyal to carrots. 

They disappeared out of Joel’s hand in thirty seconds flat, and Bullseye went back to nosing at Joel’s pocket. .

“Another time,” Joel promised.

He stroked Bullseye’s muzzle. Maybe he’d take a second and brush him down. 

When Joel left the stables, he’d have to either take a right to go home, or a left to head to the Bison. He dawdled as long as he could, but he had to face the fact that he wanted to turn left. It wasn’t that he wanted to accept Javi’s drink offer exactly. He just wanted to know what would happen if he did. 

It was around the time of night when the Tipsy Bison began to empty, but the bar was still crowded when Joel stepped inside. A few people sent drunken glances in his direction, and a flushed-looking Tommy waved from the corner booth. Joel felt like the whole pub was staring at him. He snuck a look at Javi’s usual barstool. It was empty.

But Javi wasn’t in Tommy’s booth either. It was only Tommy and Maria. Joel wanted to know if it had just been them all night, but he didn’t want to ask the question. He asked about their patrol instead.

“It was quiet,” Maria said. “But there’s still smoke rising from the truck stop. So the raiders you fought weren’t the last.”

Joel had expected as much. He doubted the remaining deserters would come to town now, with the floodlights on like they were, but they’d probably attack at some point. And even if they didn’t, they’d have to be dealt with before the snow melted, now that they knew Jackson was here.

“Nathan was sayin’ he thought they might starve,” Tommy said. “But…”

“But they don’t have to anymore,” Joel finished.

It was an ugly thought, but if the deserters found the bodies of the scouts – and they probably already had – they’d be able to eat until spring.

Maria tipped her head in agreement. Joel needed a drink.

“Nathan was here?” he asked. He felt unbearably conspicuous, but Tommy only bobbed his head.

“Javi, too. But they disappeared a while ago.” A grin spread over his face. “You see that hickey on Javi’s neck?”

“Uh, yeah,” Joel said.

“I kinda think he and Nathan might be a thing,” Tommy said. “I guess that’s what happens when you’ve slept with every woman in town.”

A pit was opening up in Joel’s stomach. It wasn’t until now that he realized he’d been assuming the feeling he’d had since the ridgeline was symmetrical; that Javi was just as affected as he was. That he’d actually cared about getting Joel that drink. Joel had been worried about Javi reading too much into things, but it was painfully obvious now that it was the other way around. Only somebody as touch starved as Joel would care about what basically amounted to a hug. Yesterday hadn’t even been a blip on Javi’s radar.

Which was good. Joel was off the hook.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” he mumbled.

But he didn’t want to fight his way to the bar just now. He wound around the edge of the room instead and ducked into the musty hallway that led to the stockroom. He came here whenever he returned from a liquor run, and it felt almost as familiar as the bar itself. It was cramped with crates of overflow, and most of those had collected dust, but at least Joel knew nobody was watching him back here. He just needed a second to get his head on straight.

Somebody had left the stockroom light on. It shone through the half-open door. It probably wasn’t terrible for the grid, but Jackson only had so many lightbulbs. Joel might as well flip it off while he was back here.

Just as he was reaching the door, he heard a low moan. His heart froze. On some level, he knew what he was about to see. But the realization dawned too slowly, and by the time it hit him that he ought to walk away, he’d already laid eyes on Javi.

He leaned against the far wall of the stockroom, his dark hair rumpled and his face gone slack. His eyes were closed, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned, exposing a long triangle of his bare chest. The sight of it made Joel feverishly dissatisfied, as though he’d worked all day in the hot sun and could now only drink a mouthful of water.

Sweat glittered on Javi’s neck. He’d unbuckled his belt and undone his pants, and Joel could see a vee of skin that wasn’t his to look at, and a trail of soft brown hair that disappeared behind Nathan’s head. Nathan knelt on the ground before Javi, and the moans were coming from him. He moaned again as Joel watched, and this time the sound came out muffled. Javi had one loose hand tangled in Nathan’s hair, and it trailed along lazily as Nathan bobbed his head.

Joel felt as if a large animal was trying to crawl out of his chest. He didn’t need to see this. He didn’t need to know that Javi was a mouthful, and he didn’t want to watch for the base of Javi’s shaft to come into view, slick with spit and thicker than he’d expected, before Nathan lowered his mouth once again.

Nathan’s hand crept up the front of Javi’s thigh, and his fingers hooked in Javi’s waistband. Joel felt like he was going to be sick. He wanted Nathan to stop. But he also wanted Nathan to keep going, to push up the hem of Javi’s shirt and show the taut, heaving muscle that Joel had felt only yesterday. Nathan wasn’t even touching Javi with both hands – he had one braced on a crate – and it made Joel’s pulse throb. He couldn’t understand why Nathan was choosing not to run his palm over the swell of Javi’s thigh, or better yet, Javi’s ass, where he could pull Javi deeper into his mouth.

Joel wanted to leave. That was what he wanted. He knew he did, that he had no stake here, and it wasn’t any of his business if Javi’s mouth parted, or Javi’s head tipped back, or if his eyes opened.

Oh, fuck. A drumbeat of panic rose up in Joel’s chest. His eyes locked with Javi’s.

Javi’s eyes widened. His chest rose and fell, and his hips spasmed forward. His features pulled into something like desperation.  

Heat rolled through Joel’s body. He held Javi’s eyes, seized by a sudden certainty that Javi wanted him here, and braced himself on the doorframe. And then, acting from some honest urge that welled up in his chest, he gave Javi a nod.

Go on.

Javi shuddered, and his chest rippled. Joel stared at the place where it disappeared beneath Javi’s shirt, and Javi brought a hand up to work the remaining buttons loose. Joel felt dizzy with power, or maybe from his blood all rushing south, surging into his already-stiff erection.

Javi’s shirt fell open, and Joel’s mouth went dry. He shouldn’t be seeing this. He shouldn’t know about Javi’s golden skin, and his tight, dark nipples, and definitely not about that waist of his, so unbearably narrow that Joel wanted to grab ahold of it. Javi’s stomach was lithe with strength, in a way Joel knew came from life on the road, and a thick scar puckered on his ribs. Joel had an urge to run his hand over it, or maybe his mouth. He’d be able to make it better. His erection throbbed in agreement, straining painfully against his zipper. He reached down to adjust it, and Javi groaned.

“Fuck,” Javi breathed.

His hand tightened in Nathan’s hair, and he rolled his hips, fucking himself deeper into Nathan’s mouth. Nathan moaned, and Joel remembered he was there.

Javi’s stomach began to shake. Nathan’s head bobbed frantically.

It occurred to Joel for the hundredth time that this wasn’t his business, but now the thought came tinged with panic – Nathan would be free to turn around at any moment.  Whatever instinct had been tethering Joel in place snapped all at once.

He bolted.  He left through the back door of the Bison, not bothering to say goodbye to Tommy and Maria – he was probably incapable of it right now – and Jackson fell away behind him in a crunch of rapid footfalls. Maybe Joel had lost his mind, but he didn’t want to find it just yet.

His house was still empty. He hauled himself up the stairs and locked the door to his room. He didn’t take off his coat, or even his boots, before he freed himself from his pants. His dick sprang free, throbbing and hot, already sticky at the head. 

Joel braced one hand on the door, wrapped the other around his shaft, and began to work himself with fast, tight strokes.

Oh, fuck, that was good. He was so goddamn close already. 

And he was really fucked, wasn’t he, because there was no explaining this away. He’d gotten this way because of goddamn Javier Peña, and he hated it, because Javi already had everyone in Jackson, and Joel refused to be the next person falling in line for him.

For fuck’s sake, Joel didn’t even like men. Not like that, anyway.

He got a feeling sometimes, sure. The feeling all guys had. A sort of appreciation for one another. But a feeling meant nothing. 

And okay, there was that one time, almost forty years ago now. One night in the parking lot of a bar that didn’t exist anymore, with a college guy who'd put his hands on Joel before they'd even made it to the truck. 

His eyes had been bright blue. Kool-Aid blue, Joel remembered thinking, in the moment before their mouths had collided. 

To stay out of sight of the windows, they’d tilted the passenger seat all the way back. The guy had turned the stereo up to blasting, some guitar-heavy album by Mötley Crüe. The whole cab had thrummed with it, and Joel had felt like he was spinning, licking at the other boy’s tongue and tasting sweet cherry Jell-O shots, while the both of them fumbled to open Joel’s zipper. 

Joel’s dick throbbed. He grunted softly and squeezed his fist, working himself faster. Heat surged low in his stomach. 

The guy’s mouth had been so warm. Joel had hardly lasted a minute inside it.

But it was only one blowjob, a lifetime ago. Joel barely even remembered it anymore. And it hadn’t felt the same as it did with women. That was how Joel knew that he was straight, that he always had been. 

But even if he wasn’t, then that guy was his type. Clean-shaven, football player, square jaw. The kind of guy who would only have eyes for Joel.

Joel’s type definitely wasn’t Javi. Joel could never be into someone like that, someone who only saw him as entertainment.  

Joel’s body shook with frustration, and it occurred to him that this whole thing was all Javi’s fault. Javi was the one who’d moved first on Elk Mountain. He’d practically rubbed up on Joel at breakfast, and now it was twice he’d acted in that stupid, needy way, like he’d lose it if he didn’t have more of Joel.

But Joel would be a dumbass if he read something into it. He couldn’t let himself fixate on the silvery way Javi’s voice spread out in his chest, and he wasn’t going to think about what it would feel like to kiss his way down the groove of Javi’s stomach. It would be better to forget Javi’s frantic groan, even if Joel wished he’d torn Nathan away from Javi and wrapped his own fist around Javi’s slick cock, and then he would’ve made Javi beg –

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Joel had just enough time to yank a t-shirt from his bed. Need bolted through him, and he came in a long, dizzying wave.  

He staggered to the bed and gasped back his breath. An emotion swelled inside him, and it wasn’t a good one.

Joel couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be attracted to Javi, and he sure as hell couldn’t act on it.

And not only because the thought of someone finding out made him want to crawl out of his skin. Because Javi wasn’t the kind of person you went all-in with, and Joel had never in his life done something halfway.

He had to draw the line, and he had to do it soon. Under no circumstances could he hook up with Javier Peña.

part four - coming soon

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[rosharanfiction]

what you can't have

cameraman! joel x celebrity! reader || Chapter 9: Mr. Right-Now

summary: After a night of drunk confessions while you hide from paparazzi, you struggle to keep your feelings for Joel a secret. And when you sneak into his room after filming, you only start to fall for him harder.

tags: 18+ MDNI this is porn. dom! joel, self-indulgent amounts of dirty talk, begging joel to cum inside you while he dicks you down, light choking, light degradation (slut/whore), oral sex (f! recieving)

word count: 8.5K

masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter | next chapter

In your first ever meeting with your marketing team, you learned the most important tenet of publicity – that reputations are easy to destroy, and impossible to repair.

It turns out that slip dresses, when shredded by a drunk Joel Miller, obey a similar principle.

“It’s not just the straps,” you say in despair. “You ripped open one of the seams. My entire chest is hanging out.”

“That was kind of the point,” Joel says. His fingers glide along your bare ribcage.

You glare at him, but his hands find your breasts, and the breathy sound you let out dismantles your authority.

Well, that and the fact that you’re straddling him.

Even with Joel’s long legs folded, he hardly fits on the floor of the supply closet. You’re bracketed between his knees and the sturdy plane of his chest, melting from the combination of cheap liquor and his mouth on your neck.

“We still need to find my underwear,” you say.

“Mhm.” He presses a kiss to your collarbone. “I’m lookin’.”

“Joel... we don’t have time for this.”

“No?” He lowers his mouth to your breast.

His tongue glides over your nipple.

“People are – oh – probably wondering where we are.”

“They ain’t,” Joel says. “Tess would call if they were.”

“That’s assuming no one comes – Miller.”

He’s rolled his hips, revealing that he’s hard for you again.

“Got plenty of time, pretty girl,” he murmurs.

You nod breathlessly. “Hours, I bet. Could be years.”

Joel lifts his head, and even the dim light doesn’t hide the grin spreading over his face. You bring your mouth to his.

The kiss is slow, luxurious, like waves washing over the shore. Your hips undulate, and Joel’s length drags along the wetness between your legs. He moans into your mouth. The sound is dizzying.

You’re sinking down, angling yourself over him, when the phone starts to ring. 

Joel breaks out of the kiss and mutters a swear so foul you’re surprised it doesn’t crack the floor.

It’s Tess. She’s talking at breakneck speed.

“Yeah,” Joel says, “I got her. Was next to her when she got spotted.”

There’s a pause, and you hear Tess’s voice again, slower. Joel nods.

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Behind the bar. A storage room.”

He fills her in on the situation, explaining that you can’t get to the back elevator without crossing the dance floor. Joel’s tone is matter of fact, like there’s nothing the least bit suspicious about the two of you huddled in this closet. Like his cock isn’t currently lined up against you.

The man has way too much self-control. You rock your hips, teasing him with your entrance. His breath catches.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Hang on.”

He presses the mute button.

“You tryin’ to ruin me, Cinderella?”

“The other way around would be nice.”

“Stop bein’ a menace,” he says. With a frustrated sigh, he straightens up, breaking the contact between your legs.  “Tess is gonna find a distraction so we can run to the elevator. Says the whole club is hunting for a pink-haired woman.”

“Oh!” you say. “The bartender. Her hair matches my wig. Maybe Tess can pay her to be a decoy?”

Joel grunts, then un-mutes his phone and relays your suggestion to Tess.

“Right, then,” he says a few moments later, and hangs up.

“She’s gonna try it,” he says. “Says to be ready to run in five.”

You look down at the ruins of your dress. It is decidedly not ready to run.

It takes three hair ties and almost all of your precious five minutes to knot the fabric together.

“I look like I’m going to a toga party,” you say.

“’s gonna have to do,” Joel says. He shrugs off his jacket and helps you into it. You breathe in the scent of leather, and something else, something distinctly Joel.

The jacket covers the worst of the problems with the dress, but you won’t hold up to close inspection. You take off the wig – it will only draw more attention now – and shove it in your pocket. There’s no time to hunt for your missing underwear. You’ll have to do without.

You wait for Tess to call. Joel has got one hand on the doorknob, and the other wrapped around your waist. This is the last chance you’ll have to be close to him, and the both of you know it.

The phone rings, and Joel pulls your face to his for one final, hurried kiss. And then you sprint, holding your failing dress together with an arm pinned to your side, ducking behind the bar to get to the elevator.

The crew meets you outside, drunk and harried, piling into a pair of SUVs. You climb inside one, and Courtney glances sidelong at the hem of your dress. Your heart pounds, and you snap your attention anywhere else, to Tess in the front seat, debriefing you and Joel. Her hair is a mass of flyaways, and her cheeks are flushed. She wants to know how many photos you think were taken.

You ride back to the hotel in tense silence, praying that tomorrow’s press doesn’t surprise you.

In the morning, you learn that three pictures leaked from your night out.

There’s the close-up of you at the bar – teary, flash-stunned, and squinting.

Then a blurry shot of you dancing, surrounded by the crew, that someone must have taken without your knowledge.

The third contains only silhouettes – yours, unmistakable, running with your head turned back toward the camera. And Joel, broad and angry, his face impossible to distinguish, and his arm slung possessively around your waist.

You couldn’t have baited the internet better if you’d tried.  

The tryptic makes the front page of The Sun. You squint at it despairingly, violently hungover and trying to read through a clump of glitter that’s sticking your eyelashes together. The headline has helpfully been printed in a gigantic font.

“MR. RIGHT-NOW?,” it screams, “Is ‘Gimme It!’ Singer ‘Getting It’ Off-Camera?”.

There’s a wave of nausea hitting you, and the many rounds of mismatched shots are only partially to blame.

“Bad,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” Tess says. “Bad.”

Eliza hovers beside her in the hallway, tight-lipped. It’s barely six in the morning, and the two of them are still puffy eyed from the night before.

You skim through the rest of the article and feel a thrum of relief when you realize the tabloid hasn’t managed to identify Joel. They’ve named the producers you were photographed with, though, along with Ryan and Courtney.

“They know who everyone is,” you say.

Eliza nods. “They took our photos off the production website.”

“But not Joel’s?”

“He wouldn’t let us post his picture,” Tess says. “Never signed the release.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Some typical Joel bullshit about privacy. I never thought I’d be grateful for it.”

For the second time in as many minutes, she bangs the flat of her fist on the door behind her. Joel’s voice answers with a string of swearwords. Tess snaps back at him in kind. There’s a long, resentful silence, and then he steps blearily out into the hall. 

He’s got his “North Hollywood” shirt on inside out. There’s a sheet print embedded in his cheek. His eyes are bloodshot, and his expression thunderous. But when he sees you, for the merest second, his features flicker with delight, like he’s remembering all over again that you’re crazy about him.

Your heart does a summersault inside your chest.

Tess passes Joel a copy of the paper, and his face clouds over.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mumbles.

Tess looks between the two of you, her expression unreadable. Does she think the headline is sensationalized? Or does a part of her suspect the truth?

“Babe,” Eliza says to you. “We need to know exactly what happened last night.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing your voice to stay neutral. “Of course.”

You describe paying your tab at the bar and running into Joel. The ruddy-faced man finding you. The bartender leading you out, and your run from the crowd, when the photo with Joel was likely taken.

Everything you say is true, but you tell your story to Eliza’s shoulder, hoping she won’t see the words you’re leaving out. You’re pretty sure both you and Joel have clauses in your contracts that delineate drunken closet sex to be off-limits. 

Tess studies your face as you talk. When you’re finished, she turns to Joel.

“Anything she forgot to include?”

There’s a knowing current beneath her words, hinting at the lost footage from your helicopter date, at the iPod, the protective way Joel holds you in the photo. Your stomach clenches. You’ve left a trail of breadcrumbs that leads right to the ripped-up dress on the floor of your room.

Joel’s face is impassive.

“Just that the bartender overcharged us like hell,” he says.

Tess holds his gaze. Some unspoken message passes between them.

Joel’s thumb taps against the edge of the tabloid. What must it be costing him to lie right now?

Tess lets out a slow breath.

“The best thing to do here,” she says. “Is reassign Ryan to the Dream Girl. Joel finishes out the season on the Suitors.”

Your stomach drops.

“You ain’t serious,” Joel says, bristling. “Reckon you’d be dealin’ with twice as many photos if I hadn’t helped her hide last night, and you’re gonna punish me for it?”

“This isn’t a punishment,” Tess says. “It’s simply the strategic thing to do. We need to avoid any further gossip about you two.”

“Bullshit,” Joel snaps. “Ain’t nothin’ strategic about this. You’re gonna fuck up the whole season. And based on what? A rumor?”

“This had better just be a rumor,” Tess says, and her voice is suddenly taut. “Because if you’re lying to me, Joel, if you really crossed the line, then it’s not only your job that’s fucked.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Joel says.

His chest rises and falls.

“I think if you were anyone else,” Tess says, “I would have reassigned you weeks ago.”

Joel’s shoulders settle in resignation.

Your heart squeezes tight. Tess’s plan will mean you never see Joel on set. And it shouldn’t matter, because you don’t even get to talk to him during filming. But a part of you has already tallied up the three weeks you have left to spend with Joel. And you can’t stand the thought of losing more than half that time, of finishing the season with anyone else.

“No,” you blurt out.

Tess, Joel and Eliza turn to face you.

You swallow. “Joel always films the Dream Girl, right?”

Eliza nods. “For the last four seasons.”

“I thought so,” you say. “So if we change his role mid-season, for only my season, doesn’t that give credibility to the rumors?”

Tess doesn’t respond. You press your advantage.

“Isn’t it better to stay the course?” you ask. “It’s just one article, right? And the publicity will bring more viewers to the show.”

“Yeah,” Eliza says. “But not viewers that we want.”

Tess sighs. “The season will read as fake if the public thinks you were dating someone else the whole time. No one will give a shit about the romance plots, and ratings will tank after the novelty wears off."

“What if the public doesn’t think I was dating someone else?” you ask, an idea knitting together. You gesture to the photo of Joel. “For all they know, the guy in this photo is one of the Suitors. Maybe I liked him so much, we had to get in extra time together.”

Eliza and Tess exchange glances.

“It could work,” Eliza says. “Ashley S. actually did something similar on her season.”

You look to Tess, not daring to hope.

She doesn’t say anything, just walks down the hall and raps on an unfamiliar door.  A messy-haired Jacob answers. Tess hands him the tabloid, and his brows skyrocket.

“Oh, shit,” he says. He looks between you and Joel. “You guys didn’t, like, actually bang right?”

You sputter. Joel glares at him.

“Right,” Jacob says. “No. I forgot that you, like, barely get along.”

Tess points at the photo in question. “Which of the Suitors could this pass for? Brooks?”

Jacob’s forehead crinkles.

“The hair is right,” he says. “But Brooks is too much of a Timothée Chalomet. Body-wise, Nick S. would be better. He has NFL shoulders.”

Eliza shakes her head. “Nick S. is going home this week, Jake. It needs to be someone the audience will think she likes.”

The producers launch into a discussion about which Suitor most optimally recreates Joel’s shoulder-to-waist ratio. They settle, after enough in-depth arguing to turn Joel’s neck a dark red, on Mike.

“We can leak some stills from yesterday’s date,” Tess decides. “And film an extra scene with Mike tonight, on the roof. Dream Girl, you should wear the same dress you went out in yesterday.”

Joel’s alarmed eyes lock on yours.

“Uh,” you say, desperate suddenly for a coffee, or an aspirin, or a timeline where you drank one less pink shot. “The dress got kind of… um… wrinkled. I don’t know how camera-ready it is.”

Tess waves away your concern. “I’m sure Courtney can handle it.”

“Right,” you say, your heart sinking. “Perfect.”

The conversation shifts to the logistics of the new evening date, and whether Mike will feel up to it. You assume this means Tess is on board with your plan, that she won’t reassign you to Ryan. It’s tempting to ask, to make sure, but you don’t want to spotlight your feelings any more than you already have.

You steal a glance at Joel across the hall. He’s staring at the tabloid, at the photo of his silhouette. There’s a knot of tension flickering in his jaw. Maybe he feels your gaze, because he looks up, and his expression softens when your eyes connect, mirroring your own relief back to you. Somehow, impossibly, you might be getting away with this.

As dates to film with a raging hangover go, today’s is especially bad. You’re shooting the much-anticipated showdown date between Lucas and Solomon; the one Tess has been building up for weeks. For some reason, this is taking place at the Globe Theater. According to the blurb Eliza makes you recite, it’s the stage where Shakespeare’s troupe used to perform.

And you like Leonardo di Caprio’s Romeo and Juliet as much as the next girl, so it’s not like you have it out for Shakespeare. But at a certain point you start to wonder if Shakespeare has it out for you. Because if, hypothetically, a person’s brain had been recently destroyed by bottom-shelf liquor, then that person might not enjoy memorizing passages from Twelfth Night. Or reciting those passages to Lucas and Solomon in turn. Or, worst of all, bearing witness to a stage fight between Suitors armed with clanging metal weapons.

You get through the shoot with the help of electrolytes and reminders from Eliza about Lucas’s imminent departure. It’s miserable, except for a buzz in the pit of your stomach that’s entirely due to Joel Miller.

He looks a mess today, with bags under his eyes and sparks of stubborn glitter on his neck. He’s wearing the same wrinkled “North Hollywood” shirt, now turned right-side-in, and an expression that threatens murder to anyone who speaks in his general vicinity.

He’s so damn handsome that you think you might die of it.    

After this morning, the two of you ought to be playing it cool. So you don’t press your luck. When Joel films a slow pan of your low-cut costume, you fight off the urge to arch your back for him. When you spot him alone by the coffee dispenser, you don’t get behind him in line. Instead you cross the room to check in with Eliza, so she can coach you on your “empowered Dream Girl” rejection speech.

You hardly let yourself look at Joel, and even so, you’re bolstered by last night, by the electricity of his body impossibly close to yours. He reaches up to tune a reflector, revealing a stripe of bare skin at his hips, and you nearly come undone.

Joel catches you staring and gives you a tiny, exasperated, shake of his head. A smile pulls at your mouth.

You’re meant to be acting conflicted today, but your heart isn’t in it. Even in your final rejection of Lucas, the most negative emotion you can muster is vague disapproval. Eliza makes you film it again, but the second take is even worse, now that Lucas knows what’s coming. In a frustrated voice, Tess calls for the date to wrap.

You feel a flicker of guilt. This is meant to be the mid-season climax, and good Dream Girls properly tell off the villains. But the shoot finishes before you can try again.

Courtney lets you change into sweats while the producers film Lucas’s exit interview. You’re closing the door to your dressing room, your costume slung over one shoulder, when Joel brushes past you.

“Hey, Cinderella,” he says, his voice low.

His hand grazes over your hip, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, and he drops something into your pocket. Your stomach flutters.

Joel keeps walking past you, toward the stage where Ryan is breaking down tripods. He glances back at you over his shoulder, and his eyes are alight.

You don’t get a moment alone until after the date, when you’re back in your room. You reach inside your pocket and your fingers touch cool metal. You pull out a key.

Does this unlock what you think it unlocks? You trace your thumb over the ridges. Tonight can’t come soon enough.

You’re still grinning like an idiot when Courtney knocks on your door. She’s toting an iron and a plastic organizer full of sewing supplies, and she’s here to help with your dress.

You let her in, dread rising even as you tell yourself not to act suspicious. It’s not that incriminating. It’s just a dress.

“What happened to it, anyway?” Courtney asks, following you to your closet. 

“It, uh, snagged in the door of the supply room.”

“Tess said it was ‘wrinkled’,” Courtney says.

“I mean, it definitely is wrinkled.”

You pull the dress from the closet, and your heart sinks. It’s even worse than you remember – the hem uneven, torn-off straps dangling. Courtney raises an eyebrow and takes the hanger from you, then rotates it to reveal the split-open seam, held together by a single, sequined scrunchie.

“A door did this,” she says flatly.

“Yeah,” you say. “I was too drunk realize it was caught, and then I, uh, turned really fast, and next thing I knew…”

Courtney studies you while you trail off. You fight the urge to look away. The lie is ridiculous, but you’re hoping it’s less ridiculous than Joel tearing off your dress like a drunk caveman who’s forgotten about the existence of zippers.

“Okay…” Courtney says. She lays the dress out on the bed.

“The fabric itself isn’t ripped,” she says, fingering the seam, “so I should be able to sew this back together. It won’t be perfect, but I think Tess is planning a short shoot tonight. Just don’t let Mike get too handsy.”

“Thanks, Court.”

She nods, taking a pincushion out of her sewing kit.

“Just doing my job,” she says. “Do me a favor and move the dress to the desk, would you?”

Your desk is covered with half-written lyrics and tubes of makeup. You move everything to your suitcase and lay out the dress inside-out. Courtney puts you to work holding the seam taut while she slides pins into place.

“So, this door incident,” she says.

“Uh-huh.”

You stare at the seam, resolutely ignoring the sideways look Courtney is giving you.   

“I’m curious,” she says. “Did it happen before or after you had sex with Joel?”

An icy rush fills your veins. It’s probably your soul, fleeing your body. The satin beneath your fingers puckers as you fail to keep your hands steady.

“Nothing happened with Joel,” you say.  

Courtney opens a color-coded drawer of thread and holds a spool of pink up to the dress.

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly. “I guess ‘nothing’ smeared glitter all over Joel’s face last night. And ‘nothing’ has been crumpling up your dresses all season.”

Shit.

“I, um, am really forgetful about using hangers?” you say.

Courtney levels you with a pitying stare.

“Honey,” she says. “The entire crew has been walking around all day like we want to die. But somehow Joel Miller, the guy who barely raised an eyebrow when last season broke ratings records, had the energy to give me a ‘good morning’ today. I even saw him smile when he thought no one was looking. That man is overjoyed. Don’t try and tell me that he didn’t get laid.”

Against your better judgement, a giddy feeling rises inside you, tugging at the corners of your mouth. You try hide your face, but Courtney misses nothing.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolute slut. I knew it!”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. Courtney squeals with delight.

“I fucking knew it,” she says again. “Joel has been, like, exceptionally emo this season. Ever since we learned you’d be the Dream Girl. Jacob thinks that Joel hates you, but I knew there was tea.”

“Oh, god,” you say in horror, lowering your hands. “You and Jacob talk about this?”

Courtney’s expression softens. “Not since I realized what was going on.”

“Which was…?”

“The pool party,” Courtney says. “When I redid your makeup, and your bikini was tied totally wrong. Like, the bows didn’t even match. Then later, when you kissed the Suitors goodnight, Joel looked like he was going to strangle somebody, and I started to wonder…”

“Fuck,” you say. “Has it really been that obvious?”

“To me, yeah,” Courtney says. “But it’s not like you talk to Joel that much on set, and you never flirt with him the way you do with the Suitors. I only figured out you were hooking up with someone because it’s my job to analyze your outfits. And I haven’t said anything to anyone about it.”

You sit on the bed, relief settling in your stomach. Courtney threads a needle and gets to work stitching your seam back together.

“Thank you,” you say. “For not telling anyone.”

“I am going to need details,” Courtney says, “in exchange for my silence. I have been capital-d Dying to talk to someone about you and Joel for weeks.”

You realize all of a sudden that you feel the same way. As dangerous as it might be that someone knows, at least you’re not alone with your feelings anymore. And you might not have a choice, but you decide to trust Courtney.

“I’m kind of relieved you found out,” you tell her.

She beams at you over the dress.   

“Enough stalling,” she says. “Tell me what Joel is like.”

You trace the outline of his room key in your pocket.

“Passionate,” you say. “Even when he’s trying not to be. Especially then.”

The words steady you, and you feel their truth as you speak them.

“And he’s annoyingly selfless sometimes,” you say. “Except it’s not annoying, because I know that he means it. I’ve spent a lot of time around people who will act kind when they want me to feel a certain way about them. But I feel like Joel shows me kindness because I need it, and that’s reason enough for him.”

When Courtney doesn’t respond, you look up. She’s studying your face.

“I meant, like, in bed,” she says.

Your face heats up.

“Oh,” you say. “Um. He makes me want to write songs so horny that they would make Sabrina Carpenter blush.”

“God,” Courtney says, shaking her head. “It’s beyond unfair that you’re not only having sex that good, but you also have, like, eight perfect Suitors who all want to marry you. I can hardly even get Aaron from Hinge to text me back.”

“He’s not texting?” you say.

Courtney shrugs. “He is, but it’s all stiff and polite. I want him to be fun. Or I want eight more of him, and a slutty mid-season fling.”

“At least you don’t have to live in fear of Tess,” you say.

“Oh, I still very much fear Tess,” Courtney says.

You laugh.

“Was she pissed about the article?” Courtney asks.

“Oh yeah,” you say.

While Courtney places the last few stitches in the seam, you tell the story of your wakeup visit from Tess and Eliza. You feel a prickle of unease as you relive the morning. Somehow, you feel like you got off too easy. Eliza and Tess are producers by trade – it’s their job to tell when people have feelings for each other. And Tess and Joel are friends. Surely she can read him better even than Courtney can.

“If Tess and Eliza knew,” you say, “if they believed the article, they would have separated us, right?”

Courtney turns the dress right-side in to check if the fabric lays flat.

“Probably?” she says. “Honestly, producers play a kind of 4D chess that I can’t understand. Like, on Ashley S.’s season, they found out she was planning to hook up with one of the Suitors, when it was only Week 2. And instead of stopping it, Tess let them sleep together, then leaked it to the men. She made sure that all the fighting happened on camera. Ashley S. got a ton of hate when it aired, but the drama made for killer ratings.”

You know by now, after the helicopter incident, that production’s goal is to make Mr. Right popular – not necessarily to find you a husband, or to make you look good. But is there any way the show gets better if Tess and Eliza know you’re sleeping with Joel, and let it continue? Joel isn’t a Suitor – he wouldn’t get into fights on camera. And Tess said herself that the show would ring false if word got out about you having an off-camera fling.

No, you decide. Maybe Tess suspects your feelings, but she must believe that you won’t act on them. Joel is her friend, and she trusts him. And Eliza either trusts Tess, or she trusts you to tell her the truth.

So if you’re taking advantage of that trust… is that awful?

Courtney decides she’s done an acceptable job on the seam of your dress and turns her attention to the straps. They haven’t been broken, just ripped apart from the neckline. She makes quick work of sewing them back into place, changing the subject from Joel so she can speculate about whether Eliza and Ryan slept together last night. Apparently they’ve been hooking up on and off for the last few seasons, and this would usually intrigue you, but you’re preoccupied by uneasy thoughts.

It's not like Tess has exactly been kind to you, but Eliza has consistently treated you like a friend. If you’re not going to stop lying, at the very least you owe her – both of them – an excellent season. It’s what you want for yourself, too, isn’t it? You shouldn’t half-ass any more dates the way you did today.

The resolution fuels you through your evening shoot with Mike. He meets you, bright eyed, on the roof, dressed in a bulky leather jacket. His stylist has gelled his hair into waves, and it feels beyond wrong, kissing this man who’s dressed to look like Joel, reciting an Eliza-written confession that you can “see yourself falling for him”. Joel – the real Joel – is stiff behind the camera. Surely, after last night, he knows where your heart lies, that you’re doing this damage control for his good as much as your own.

Mike tells you that he’s falling for you, and you kiss him again, selling it well enough that Tess doesn’t make you redo the shot. When you pull back, Mike is beaming, and maybe he’s just an excellent actor, but you wonder if he thinks you sought out this extra time because you missed him.

Your stomach twists, and you remind yourself that Mike signed up for this. He knows you might have feelings for another guy. Is it really so different if that guy isn’t a Suitor? You bury the pang of guilt.

You ought to be asleep by now. The rest of the crew is – or at least, their doors are closed, and the hall is quiet. They’re all catching up from last night’s bender, and you should be doing the same. Instead, you’re wrapped in your thin satin robe, crossing the hall to Joel’s room.

You slide the key he gave you into the lock. It’s stiff, and you have a moment of déjà vu before it turns. You turn the doorknob and let yourself inside.

Joel is the first thing you see. He’s sitting with his back to you at the hotel desk, engrossed by something on his laptop. He doesn’t turn around when you come in, and you realize he has earbuds in. His head sways ever-so-slightly to the music. You feel a swell of affection. It’s so intimate, seeing him like this, entirely himself, lost in his work.

The room is uncluttered. A single bedside lamp glows in the corner. Joel’s clothes are folded neatly in his suitcase, and you wonder if he tidied up for you, or if he’s always like this, the kind of guy who keeps everything in its proper place. You think of how meticulously he puts away his camera gear, and something tells you this isn’t a performance. It never is, with Joel.

You say his name, loud as you dare without drawing attention from outside. He doesn’t turn. You walk to the desk, saying his name again, trying to make as much noise as possible. It doesn’t work. You rest your hand on his shoulder.

Joel starts. He spins around in the chair, and something tender takes root in your chest.

He’s wearing glasses. Little rectangular ones, with black frames and no name brand.

He looks so human with them on, with his wet curls dripping onto his white t-shirt, and you almost can’t believe you get to see him like this.

“Hey, Cinderella,” he says, pulling out his earbuds.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” you say.

Joel’s neck reddens.

“Only if I’m workin’ up close,” he says. “Used to get headaches when I read Sarah bedtime stories. She made me get them.”

You can imagine Joel and Sarah picking out the frames from one of those revolving racks in the drugstore, the kind with the plastic mirrors that always show wobbly reflections.

Joel gets to his feet and moves to take the glasses off. You catch his hand in yours.

“Don’t,” you say. “You look hot with them on.”

Joel’s face breaks into a tiny smile. He cups the back of your head and pulls your lips to his. You sigh, and Joel slips his tongue inside your mouth. The kiss is deep, unhurried. Its heat flows through you like just-fired glass, gathering in a pool below your abdomen.

Your fingers slide beneath the hem of Joel’s t-shirt and splay out on his bare stomach. You trail your palm up, through a coat of fine hair, until his shirtfront stretches around your arm.

Joel breaks out of the kiss and reaches again for his glasses. You moan in protest, but he just rolls his eyes and sets them on the desk beside his laptop. On the screen, you glimpse your own face.

“Wow, Miller,” you say, turning to look at the footage. “Obsessed with me much?”

“Tess wants a cut of your date,” he says, coming up behind you, “from tonight, with Mike.”

It’s the smallest of changes that you hear, a thin flicker in his voice, but your stomach twists all the same. You haven’t forgotten your solo date last week, when Joel called himself your practice round. He deserves so much more than this, than being the silhouette that Mike fills. Gently, you close the laptop.

Joel’s arms encircle your waist. You lean back against him. His hands find the knot that fastens your robe.

“I had no choice but to do that shoot tonight,” you say.

“I know,” he says.  

“Are you okay?”

Joel unties your sash, and the front of your robe falls open.

“That depends,” he says.

His coarse palms skim over your bare skin, cupping your breasts, sweeping down over your belly, under the waistband of your panties.

You’re already slick with desire. Joel parts your folds and traces his middle finger over your entrance. His voice is a dark rasp in your ear.

“This for him?”

You shake your head.

“No?” Joel touches you just beneath your clit, and your hips twitch with anticipation. “He ain’t what’s got this pussy cryin’?”

Joel drags his finger down to tease your entrance, denying you the stretch you so badly need. You whimper in frustration. His other hand fondles your breast. 

“Asked you a question, pretty girl.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers. “Wanna know what’s got you so worked up, leakin’ all over my fingers like a little slut.”

A hot spike of arousal rushes through you.

“Fuck,” you whisper. You close your eyes and rock your hips, desperate for some sort of friction.

Joel pinches your nipple.

“Answer me, slut.”

“It’s for you, Joel.”

“Yeah?” Joel’s finger prods your entrance, dipping into the mess of your arousal. “This all for me?”

“Y-yes,” you say.

“That’s right,” he murmurs.

He releases your breast and wraps his thick fingers around your throat. His hold is firm, not choking, but claiming you. Between your legs, his finger finally grazes your clit. You shiver in bliss.  

Joel presses a wet kiss to the skin behind your ear.

“This cunt is mine,” he says. “Understand?”

You nod once more.

“Good girl,” Joel says.

He brushes your clit again, and your body sings with pleasure. Then his hand slips out of your panties.

“Tease,” you mutter.

Joel’s fingers clench around your neck.

“Careful,” he says, and his voice is iron.

With the palm of his free hand, he smacks the sensitive mess between your legs.

Keeping ahold of your throat, Joel nudges your robe off of one shoulder, then the other. It falls to a puddle at your feet, leaving you naked but for your soaked panties.

“You wanna come tonight?” he asks. The stiff outline of his cock grinds against your ass.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Yes. Please.”

“Then you better be good for me,” he says. “No talkin’ back.”

He brings his fingers to your mouth, and you taste your own arousal.

“You do exactly as I say,” he says. “Understand?”

You moan in agreement.

He pulls his fingers free and strokes the side of your face.

“Good girl,” he says softly.

He releases your throat. With two fingers, he turns your chin. Then he lowers his mouth to yours. The kiss is deliberate, hungry. Joel’s hands rove down the sides of your body. By the time he pulls away, he’s rendered you trembling, pliable.

“Bend over,” he orders.

You obey at once, bracing your forearms on the desk.

Joel grunts in approval. With both hands, he drags your underwear off your hips. The fabric sticks to your center before it pulls free. Cold air settles on your exposed folds. 

Joel’s hands skim the outsides of your thighs as he sinks to his knees, lowering your panties to the ground. You step out of them automatically, and Joel nudges your legs apart.

“Wider,” he says.

You spread your feet.

“Good,” Joel murmurs. He smooths his palm over your spine until you arch your back. Then his hands find the backs of your thighs, your ass. Slowly, with both hands, he spreads you open.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Your skin prickles with heat.

Joel’s thumb sweeps down your core, and you’re so slick that you can hear it, the lewd, wet sound of your desire.

“This cunt of yours is creamin’ for me,” Joel says. “I reckon it could already take my cock.”

His hot breath brushes your skin as he leans forward. You rock your hips, seeking him out. And then he spits on you.

A glob of saliva drips down your folds. He leans back and watches himself smear it over you.

It’s filthy, the way he’s fondling you, like you’re a toy to be played with. Or maybe you’re the filthy one, because you’re undone by it. His thumb drags through the mess, and you let out a moan.

Joel hums in approval. He brings a finger to your entrance and catches the arousal leaking from your core.

“You love this,” he says. “Don’t you, pretty girl? Moanin’ like a perfect little whore.”

Joel pushes his finger inside you. Your vision fuzzes.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he says. “Just slide right in, don’t I?”

You gasp out Joel’s name as he fucks you with his finger, devastatingly slow, sheathing it each time down to the knuckle..

You steal a glance at him over your shoulder. He’s watching his finger slide into you, his eyes dark with need. His free hand palms the front of his pants, where his erection strains against the fabric.

The sight of him breaks you, and you rock your hips back, desperate for more. Joel’s eyes snap to yours, and his hand stills at once.

“I tell you to fuck yourself?” he asks.

You look at him, pleading.

“Joel,” you whisper.

He pulls his finger out of you and draws a circle around your clit. You close your eyes at the sweet sting of pleasure.

“This what you want?” he asks.

It’s not. You’re desperate to press your body to his, to feel the swell of him inside you. The steady laps he’s tracing around your clit are enough to sharpen the need inside you, to coil you tighter and tighter, but his fingers are just barely too slow to give you a release.

Desire pools in your abdomen, your breasts, the trembling muscles of your legs. It fills your throat, presses down from the roof of your mouth. Your toes curl off the ground, and your fingers squeeze into fists

Joel has to know what he’s doing to you, that he’s brought you to the knife’s edge of pleasure. That he’s keeping you there, pulled taut and aching. You open your eyes.

He’s watching your face, his gaze tender and disbelieving, looking almost as wrecked as you feel.

“Joel,” you say, and your voice breaks over his name. “I’m – fuck – I’m yours. Please. Let me show you.”

“Baby,” he says. His expression softens.

His fingers still, and he shifts his hand so he’s holding your slit open. Then he presses his mouth to you.

His tongue surrounds your aching clit, soft as daybreak. You moan. A rich chorus of pleasure joins the shrill need between your legs, and you grind against Joel’s face before you can think better of it. You expect him to rebuke you, but he only groans in approval.

He reaches beneath the waistband of his pants and frees his erection. It bobs up against his stomach, swollen and leaking.

“Fuck,” you whisper, shuddering as Joel’s tongue laps over you.

He takes ahold of his cock, sweeping his thumb over the tip, smearing a bead of precum. And then his fingers wrap around the shaft.

You watch, ruined, as Joel pleasures himself, fucking his hand with long, rough strokes. He moans, and the vibration runs through your sensitive clit. You rut against him, setting loose a spark of friction.

Oh, God. Oh fuck. You’re so turned on that you can hardly even stand to draw breath. Your every nerve ending stings with pleasure.

You’re going to come like this, with Joel’s face buried between your legs, harder than you ever have before.

An incoherent sound falls from your lips. Maybe it’s supposed to be Joel’s name, because he seems to understand.

A cushion of cool air replaces Joel’s mouth between your legs. In the instant it takes you to whimper, he’s risen to his feet. He pulls off his shirt, and your gaze stutters on the powerful lines of his body, framed in gold by the lamplight.

“I have you,” he says softly. His palm traces over your hip.

You feel a shock of electricity between your legs. Joel’s cock, tapping against your clit. He does it again, and the both of you moan.

Then he lines himself up at your dripping entrance. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he sheaths himself inside you.

Your walls stretch, and it’s blinding, the blissful pressure of his cock filling you up. Joel bottoms out, pulling your hips back against him, and you arch your back. He rolls his hips, and his length presses against that perfect place inside you. A high-pitched, animal whine rips from your mouth.

Joel leans over the desk, covering your body with his own. He braces one hand by your shoulder. With the other, he reaches around to your front, down to the place your bodies meet. He parts your folds and seeks your clit, circling you quickly now, urgent.

“Come for me,” he says, his voice rough.

He rolls his hips again. He’s everywhere, everything that you need, demanding that you lose yourself to him. Your legs are trembling now, uncontrollable.

“That’s my good girl,” he growls. “Go on and make a mess of my cock.”

A sunburst goes off inside you. Your vision fills with white, and the world fades into a blaze of pleasure, into Joel’s cock, steady inside you as you pulse around him, breaking apart in the space between rapid, uneven breaths.

Joel lets out a heavy groan. Both his elbows are braced on the desk now, his bare skin grazing yours. He scrabbles across the wood until he finds your fingers and interlaces them with his own. You cling to him, gasping, as you ride the last aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Fuck,” Joel says, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “You feel perfect.”

You turn your head. He’s blurry. When did your eyes fill with tears? You blink, and he comes into focus. His pupils are blown wide, surrounded by flares of rich brown pigment. He looks at you with wonder.  Gently, he presses his lips to your wet cheek.

Your heart blooms inside your chest. Joel feels different to you, like a storm after lighting has touched the ground. You wonder if he needed this as badly as you did. 

You press your mouth to his, and he kisses you back, warm as firelight. Your tongues meet, and his cock twitches inside you. Experimentally, you tilt your hips. The base of him presses on your oversensitive clit, and a quake of pleasure rolls through you. The both of you gasp.

“Joel,” you say.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips.

“Uh-huh?” he says.

“Am I allowed to talk now?”

You feel Joel’s mouth pull into a smile. 

“Maybe.” He tilts his hips, sliding his cock halfway out of you. “Ain’t finished with you yet, pretty girl.”

He thrusts steadily back into you, and you arch your pelvis to meet him, taking every inch of him inside you. You moan, and he begins fucking you again, slow, like he’s savoring the feel of your blissed-out body.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “That’s good.”

Joel makes a cocky, knowing sound.

“That all you wanted to say?” he asks.

He brings a hand to your hips, holding you in place while he fucks you deep.

“N-no,” you say. “But it’s – fuck, Joel – it’s important.”

Joel lays a wet kiss on the side of your neck, picking up the pace of his thrusts.

“Go on, then.”

“I have an IUD,” you tell him.

Joel stills.

“And I’m clean,” you continue. “I had to get tested before the show. So if you are too, and if you want…”

Joel’s cock twitches again. You turn your head to look at him, and he catches your mouth with a kiss.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his lips moving against yours. “’s that what you want?”

He thrusts into you again, faster than before.

“Want me to fill this pussy up with my cum?”

“Yes,” you gasp out. “Please, Joel.”

He makes a sound that’s more growl than sigh, and his fingers tighten on your hip.

“Good girl,” he says.

He fucks you harder, sloppy. The pace is bruising, and a fresh jolt of pleasure surges through you, buckling your knees.

Joel catches you, wrapping his thick arm around your waist.

“Baby girl,” he says softly, palming your breast. “You fucked out already?”

You whine.

He slides his cock out of you for the time it takes to help you to your feet and walk you to his bed. With gentle hands, he guides you to lay face down on the mattress.

He shucks off his boxers and sweatpants, and you turn your head to watch. You’ve never seen Joel naked before.

There’s a lived-in strength to him, borne of discipline and the physical demands of his job. His chest is thick with muscle, coated with dark hair, but there’s a human touch of softness in his stomach. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and leaking, coated with your arousal.

He has the body of a man, broad and unrefined. He climbs onto the bed and covers you with it.

He pins both your hands to the mattress above your head and thrusts himself back inside you, groaning as you stretch around him. He’s greedy now, pistoning his hips into you, his cock pushing over and over that sensitive place inside you.

You come for him again, your second orgasm cresting all at once. Joel fucks you through it, praising you as you tighten around him.

You’re drifting now, incoherent with pleasure, barely able to arch your hips to meet him. Joel’s body surrounds you, caging you into the mattress, and his voice is filthy in your ear.

“Gonna use this pretty cunt of yours,” he says. He’s slamming into you now, relentless, bottoming out with every thrust.

“Please,” you say.

“’s my good girl,” he growls. “Beggin’ for me to use you.”

You moan and tighten your still-trembling walls around him. His thrusts become heavy, uneven.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps. “God, baby. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ good.”

“Joel,” you moan. “I need it.”

A groan rips from Joel’s mouth, and he tenses around you. His cock shudders, and you feel the warm, wet spill of his release, his body twining inextricably with yours.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that – Joel’s body wrapped around yours, his cock slowly softening inside you. Time drifts in and out of focus, punctuated by sloppy kisses and the slow, contented beating of your heart.

“I missed you today,” you mumble.

Joel laughs, a low rumble that you feel more than hear, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Spent the whole day with you, Cinderella.”

“Come on. You know that doesn’t count.”

“No?”

“Of course not,” you say. “You were clothed.”

Joel laughs again.

“Mighty fucked up thing for me to do,” he says, “gettin’ dressed to go to work.”

“Glad you agree, Miller.”

He shakes his head. You trail your hand over his forearm.

“I just hate that we have to pretend,” you say quietly.

Joel shifts his weight so he’s lying on his side, and his face comes into focus. He looks at you steadily, eyes filled with some heavy, familiar emotion.

“Me too,” he says. “But we got no other choice. At least, I don’t. Ain’t trying to be out of a job.”

“Do you really think Tess would fire you?”

“Reckon she wouldn’t have a choice,” Joel says, trailing an absent hand through your hair.

Something twinges in your chest. You’ve spent weeks worrying selfishly about what your attraction to Joel could do to your career. You never realized that he’s putting just as much on the line. Maybe more – he’s got a daughter at home.

“It’s silly,” you say. “But I think, until today, a part of me figured that you’re too good to be fired. Like, you’re crafting the entire show. They need you.”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “You ain’t been in Hollywood long enough, Cinderella. Tess could step outside and find ten cinematographers who could do my job.”

“If that was true, she wouldn’t have hunted you down on OKCupid. And after today’s article, I bet she would’ve switched you for Ryan in a heartbeat if she thought he could do your job. You’re not as replaceable as you think you are.”

Joel’s expression turns inward.

“Could be,” he says eventually. “Never thought of it like that before. But I reckon there ain’t anybody so important they can get away with fallin’ for the Dream Girl.”

You grin.

“What?” Joel says.

“You’re falling for me?”

He scowls.

“Makes me sound like one of the Suitors when you say it like that.”

“How would you say it, then?”

Joel leans down and kisses you, gentle, like the first wash of dawn.

“Already said it, pretty girl.”

Oh.

Your heart fills your throat.

How does Joel always manage to do this? To cut past the jokes, the fancy words, right down to the truth of things. He’s so certain, so honest, and already he feels like safety. How are you supposed to say goodbye to him in just three weeks?

You seek out Joel’s hand and clasp it with yours. His eyes flicker with understanding.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You rinse yourself off in Joel’s shower, buying time before you have to go back to your room. Staying over will just make things harder. And what if someone knocks on your door again tomorrow morning? By the time you’re toweled off, you’ve come to terms with your decision.

You open the bathroom door and find Joel already asleep, his bare chest half-covered by the sheets. He’s left one side of the bed empty, with the bedside lamp on low. A fresh glass of water waits for you on the nightstand.

Your resolve melts. It’s one night. What’s the worst that could happen?

You switch off the light and slip beneath the covers. Joel stirs, not quite waking up, and rolls over onto his side. His arm wraps around your waist, and he tugs on you sleepily, pulling you back against his chest. He’s warm, almost feverish, and he smells like sex. The slow drumbeat of his heart fills your ear.  You close your eyes and sink into his terrifying safety.

Next Chapter

author's note: Thanks to those who've been supporting the story so far! I love getting to talk with you all about it. ❤️❤️❤️ Let me know what you think of this update!

tagging my lovelies: @fancyyoouu @pleurspetal @manuymesut @tpwk9740

[rosharanfiction]

crosshairs

jackson! joel miller x javier peña || part 1 || 18+ MDNI

summary: When Javier Peña rides into Jackson, Joel feels something shift in the pit of his stomach.

tags: slutty bi javi. grouchy bi joel (he's sorta comphet coded?). joel pov. jealous-but-in-denial joel. extreme competence. flirting via extreme competence. pedro pascal's voice kink. joel is down baaaad. tension. javi's tight pants. gun use. if smoking bad why hot? joel-typical angst. takes place after tlou s1 and long after narcos s3, with some timeline fudging to make them the same age.

wc: 3K

dividers by anitalerina

masterlist | ao3 | next part

The newcomer’s voice was the first thing Joel noticed.

The man spoke with care, and his words rippled like leaves in the wind.

“Thanks for taking us in,” he said. “We had a hell of a time finding this place.”

Joel grunted. He was only the guard for these strangers. He had no say about whether Maria let them in, and a part of him hoped that she wouldn’t. The survivors seemed desperate, and something about their guide – the soft-voiced man – set off an alarm in Joel’s stomach.

The man carried himself like a soldier. His hands never strayed from the butt of his rifle, and as he trailed Joel through Jackson, he marked every turn with a backward glance. Even his footfalls seemed learned. He tested his weight before shifting it, each step a two-part crunch in the evening snowpack. This wasn’t a man who’d survived by accident.

The rest of the stragglers lowered their hoods to gape up at the electric lights, but the guide stayed covered. His head swiveled only after windows and alleyways. He was studying the people. He was studying Joel’s people.

No way in hell Maria would let this guy stay.

The snow was coming down fast tonight, and it already coated the old farmhouse Maria used as an office. Joel led the travelers inside, wondering if she’d take pity and give them a night of shelter. Maria pushed up from her desk, and the stranger lowered his hood.

The man’s eyes shone with intelligence. He was younger than Joel, but not by much, and he bore all the signs of hard travel – his dark hair slicked to his forehead, his face chapped raw by the wind.

He turned to Joel first.

“Javier Peña,” he said.

He tugged off a glove and held out his hand. His palm was warm and calloused.

This man was a threat. Joel felt it in his gut, and his gut was always right. Soon enough Maria would feel it too.

She shook Peña’s hand, and Joel watched her study his rifle. Peña’s dark eyes darted over her face, and Joel could practically hear the whir of his mind.

Maria opened her mouth, but Peña spoke first. 

That liquid voice filled the room, and Joel’s heart sank. Maria Miller was not a woman to be interrupted, but she was also a woman who knew how to listen, and Peña was all too easy to listen to.

The sob story was dime-a-dozen. Boise QZ was down; every man scattered for himself. Infected were scarce in the winter, but so was food. Peña and the folks who huddled behind him were on a ticking clock.

That wasn’t Joel’s problem, but the look on Maria’s face told him it was about to be. Peña was here to stay.

---

On nights like these, Joel loved and hated the Tipsy Bison. The bar was packed; all of Jackson was here, chasing firelight and company to get through the storm. Some kid with a guitar was even doing a decent George Strait imitation. Between the music and his family beside him, Joel could almost forget about the world outside the walls. That kind of thinking was dangerous.

“It’s a bad idea,” Joel said. “If we take in every straggler in Wyoming, we won’t be able to feed them, let alone defend them.”

“It’s four people,” said Tommy. “Not all of Wyoming.”

Tommy’s cheeks were flushed from his third beer, and he leaned back in the leather booth, an arm draped around Maria’s shoulders. She only shook her head at Joel. They’d had this conversation before, and they would have it again.

“Growing our numbers grows our strength, Joel.”

“Not if we take in the wrong sort of people.”

A peal of laughter sounded from the corner. Joel didn’t bother to look up. The Bison was always full of the same gaggle of women. Most were in their twenties and thirties, all of them single. 

“They’re lookin’ at you again,” Tommy said. “Why don’t you just take one on a date?”

Joel’s chest knotted at the idea. What would he even talk to these women about? Half of them couldn’t remember outbreak day. And if the date went well, wouldn’t that be worse?

Maria latched on to the change of subject. “Annabelle grew up in Texas, you know. You might have a lot in common.”

Joel didn’t know which one Annabelle was, and he didn’t plan to find out. He didn’t want to think about Texas tonight. Tommy and Maria meant well, but didn’t they understand that it was bad enough, worrying day in and out about keeping them and Ellie safe? He had his family back, and that was enough. He wouldn’t risk more. Not for anyone.

The door to the Bison cracked open, and a gust of snowy air swept through the room. Javier Peña stepped inside.

Joel’s stomach prickled. Peña caught sight of their booth and nodded in greeting, then slipped out of his coat. The seams of his button-up were threadbare, and they buckled around his shoulders as he cut through the crowd.

Maria followed Joel’s gaze.

“If you’re worried about finding the right people, you should be glad we took in Peña,” she said. “I talked to him again this morning. I think he might have more experience than you do.”

“Yeah,” Joel muttered. “We’ll see.”

Peña had made it to the bar. He accepted a whiskey from Seth and lifted a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt.

With a flicker of glowing orange, he lit up. He inhaled, and tension slipped from his body. A curl of smoke rose from his mouth.

Joel shook his head. “Ain’t decent to do that inside.”

“What’s he supposed to do?” Maria asked. “Go out into the storm?”

Tommy perked up in his seat, lifting his chin at something behind Joel.

“Hey. Three o’clock, brother.”

A redhead in the booth full of women was wobbling to her feet. She fluffed her hair, smoothed the front of her shirt, and took a deep breath.

“Got your rejection ready?” Tommy asked. “What’s tonight’s excuse gonna be?”

Joel steeled himself. This one couldn’t be older than twenty-five. Couldn’t she find someone else to hit on?

The woman took a few cautious steps from her table. Then a few more. But she wasn’t walking toward Joel.

Red hair drifted through the crowd as the woman wove her way to the bar. She was heading straight for Peña.

“Damn,” Tommy said.

The redhead laid a hand on Peña’s shoulder. He turned, and his eyes trailed the length of her body. A cocky smirk spread over his face, and he gestured to Seth for more drinks.

Joel’s stomach clenched.

“She’s gotta be half his age,” he muttered.

Maria and Tommy exchanged a look.

“Don’t be jealous,” Tommy said. “You had your chance.”

Joel wasn’t jealous. But it also wasn’t right, and the redhead was just the beginning.

Peña went to the Bison every night. Every night, he started with a drink. A drink of Joel’s whiskey, by the way. Joel was the one risking his life to get that whiskey on patrols, not that Peña ever thanked him.

After the drink, Peña would light up at the bar. By the time his cigarette burned down, he’d have found some woman to leave with. It was a month before he circled back to the redhead.

Didn’t the women mind? Joel’s skin felt tight just thinking about it.

But Peña was popular. Maria put him on patrols the second she could, and he was all Joel’s partners would talk about. If Jesse told the truth of it, Peña knew about every settlement in the Rockies, rode Glimmer like he was trying out for Curtis and Viper 3, and could shoot a runner from a thousand yards away. Yeah, right.

Then one of the newcomers got too sick to work, and Peña volunteered to take on her kitchen duties. Now Joel was hearing it from Maria, too, how generous Peña was, how he never complained about his doubled-up shifts.

The man was everywhere: he mended fences, hunted down shipments of medicine, even claimed to have ranch experience, so he could help in the stables. Joel couldn’t so much as brush down Bullseye without running into Peña, red-cheeked from the cold, frost glittering on his shoulders as he buttered up the horses with scraps from the kitchen.

Peña always greeted Joel the same way – with a nod, and that glint in his eye, the one that never failed to twist Joel’s stomach.

On the night Peña took home the redhead again, he added a wave, a two finger salute to Joel as he led the girl out the door. His other hand skimmed her low back, and a knowing laugh danced behind his eyes.

When Joel awoke the next morning, his blood felt hot. Ellie narrowed her eyes at him over her oatmeal.

“Why do you look constipated these days?”

“I ain’t constipated. Just thinking.”

“Oh,” Ellie said. “It’s cool to see you trying new things.”

“Ha.”

Ellie cracked up, way too proud of herself, and Joel smiled in spite of himself.

“Are you too busy thinking to see something cool?” Ellie asked.

“Depends.”

With Ellie, “cool” could mean anything from a Nirvana album to a frozen rabbit in the backyard. For all that civilization had ended, Joel would still rather finish his coffee before dealing with a mummified corpse.

Ellie took another spoonful of oatmeal and spoke before swallowing.

“Hold out your hand. This is cool, I promise.”

With a sigh, Joel obliged, stretching out his palm on the table.

“Uh,” Ellie said. “You probably want to give me your left hand.”

Like an idiot, Joel made the switch. In hindsight, he should have seen it coming.

Ellie’s thumb and forefinger flashed across the table to pinch the soft skin at the base of his wrist.

Joel grabbed her hand to stop her. That is, he tried to grab her hand.

His fingers didn’t obey. He couldn’t even feel them anymore. He shook his arm, and his hand flopped with it. Pins and needles pricked dimly at his fingertips.

“What the hell, kid?”

Ellie grinned. “Pressure point! If you were a raider, I’d have your gun by now.” She angled her thumb and forefinger like a pistol and aimed it at Joel. “Not today, fucker.”

Joel grunted. It wouldn’t exactly take down a raiding party, but it was a neat trick.

“Thought pressure points were made-up.”

“Me too! Javi showed me.”

Javi.

Joel crossed his arms. “Peña? You know him?”

“Yup. We got partnered up on dish duty.”

“What’s he like?”

Joel didn’t know why he asked it. He heard enough about Peña from everyone else, didn’t he? But Ellie didn’t trust easy. If she was calling Peña nicknames, Joel needed to know why. It was his responsibility to protect her, after all.

Ellie shrugged. “He’s kinda intense. Slow at washing dishes, but he’s got crazy stories. Did you know he caught bad guys before the outbreak?”

So Peña was a cop – or claimed to be. Another tall tale about Jackson’s biggest hero. Jackson didn’t need a hero. It was doing just fine before Peña came along. But Joel couldn’t stop himself from asking questions.

“What sort of bad guys?”

“Who cares?” Ellie said. “The kind that needs catching. Do you know what D.E.A. stands for?”

Joel snorted. “Drug enforcement agency. Peña was chasing down stoners in flip-flops.”

Ellie wilted. “Oh.”

Joel felt a pang in his chest. Why did he have to be such an asshole?

“Hey,” he said. “Feeling’s come back in my hand. Wanna teach me that move of yours?”

“Really?”

“I’m practicing on myself, though, not on you.”

Ellie grabbed his wrist with a grin.

Joel’s hand was still prickling that night at the Bison. Tommy raised an eyebrow across the booth as Joel tried to shake the feeling back into it. No use. Joel scowled and took a pull of whiskey.

“Did you know Peña was a Fed?” he asked. “D.E.A. or something.”

Tommy grinned.

“What, Javi? Oh, yeah. He took down Pablo Escobar.”

Joel choked on his whiskey. “Yeah, right.”

“Told me about it himself.”

“And you believed him?”

“He’s not the kind of guy to show off.”

Joel looked over Tommy’s shoulder, to where Peña leaned against the bar with his shirt half-open, wearing a pair of jeans so tight they hugged every muscle in his thighs.

“Sure, he’s not.” Joel chased his swallow with another. “I bet that’s how he gets so many women into bed. Tells them lies about hunting Escobar.”

Tommy craned around.

“I don’t think he’s lying. But either way, he’s off his game tonight.”

It was true. Peña had already turned away the tall woman who ran the stables, and the curly-haired one on the construction crew. He was busy tonight, caught up in conversation with a lean councilman.

Peña offered the councilman a cigarette and leaned forward to light it for him, cupping his hands by the shorter man’s face. The two of them held eye contact, and Peña’s mouth twitched.

Joel’s stomach lurched. What was Peña up to?

Peña slid from his stool and shrugged on his coat. The councilman followed him to the door. It had almost closed behind them when Joel saw it.

Peña’s hand. Dipping into the councilman’s back pocket.

Joel’s pulse churned in his ears. A rush of fire flared in his chest, coursing up his throat and down through the center of his body.

What the hell was wrong with him? It meant nothing to him, what Peña did in his spare time.

Joel didn’t even know why he’d come to the Bison tonight. He needed to build something, or kill something, or do anything that wasn’t in this goddamn bar.

He was at the ammunitions shed before sunrise the next day.

His favorite rifle was already checked out, but he settled for the next best one. It could kill infected, and that was all that mattered.

He slung the gun over his shoulder and made for the wall. The cold rungs of the ladder stung his un-gloved hands, and the morning air bit at the tips of his ears. Good. The pain would make him sharp.

On top of the wall, everything was silent. The sky was clear and blue with dawn, and for the first time in a month, the world felt simple.

Joel peered through the scope of the rifle. Nothing. Just miles of empty forest. His skin throbbed with frustration.

He was such an idiot. Hoping for infected? It was the type of stunt Ellie would pull. He needed to be better for her.

It was just so hard to think lately.

Last night, when Peña left with the councilman, he hadn’t just slid his hand in the man’s pocket. Joel was pretty sure he had also leaned in for a kiss. Now that Joel thought about it, he was certain.

Peña’s nose had brushed the man’s cheek. Maybe his breath had grown ragged. Had the touch of his hand felt warm, like it did on that very first night?

Peña might have even grabbed the man’s collar, might have – wait a second. There.

Three runners shambled from the edge of the forest. A huge clicker followed, and behind it – yes, a fifth, another clicker, small and twitchy.

If there was ever a time for Joel to clear his head, it was now. If he didn’t take them out, these infected could make it to Jackson.

He would take care of the big clicker first. It was an ugly one, with fat blue gills driven out of its face. Joel centered it in his sights.

A gust of wind shivered through the forest. This was going to be a tough shot.

Joel inhaled. The air smelled of pine.

He let the breath go. Beneath his feet, the planks were firm. He was wearing his oldest boots.

Inhale. Steady the aim. Exhale.

Quiet unfurled in Joel’s mind, and he rooted in place. The clicker writhed beneath the crosshairs. Joel could do this.

A shot rang out, and the clicker’s head exploded.

Joel flinched back from the scope, his heart slamming against his breastbone. He checked his face for gore, then felt like an idiot for doing so. The infected had seemed only inches away.

What the hell? Who else would be out here this early?

Joel straightened up, and his chest felt hot even before he found the culprit, because there was only one man who could have stolen that shot.

Sure enough, a few hundred feet down the wall, there was Peña. He was still in those ridiculous tight jeans of his, and his body coiled with control as he stared down the barrel of – oh come on. Joel had dibs on that rifle.

Joel clenched his fingers on the butt of his rifle, waiting for Peña to look up, waiting for that frustrating tiny nod that Peña seemed to reserve only for him. But Peña didn’t turn.

Joel’s heart sank. Peña hadn’t even noticed him.

Well, Joel would make him notice. He picked up his rifle and took aim at the runners. Never mind if they were easier, less twitchy targets than the clickers. He needed to make something dead.

He took out two in the space of a breath. That was more like it. Where was the third?

The moment he clocked the runner, it collapsed in a spray of red.

Joel shot a glance along the wall. Peña looked back, a cheeky grin on his face.

What an asshole. This wasn’t some sort of game.

Joel glared back into the scope. Only the clicker was left, jittering out into the open.

Peña had two. Joel had two. This final infected was the prize, and Joel would be damned if he let Peña shoot it out from under him.

He allowed himself one breath.  

Why was Peña even up here? Shouldn’t he be sleeping in? He’d had a busy night, hadn’t he?

No. Enough thinking.

Joel fired.

The bullet slammed into the clicker’s left shoulder. The creature spasmed, then hobbled on toward Jackson.

It took two jerky steps before Peña nailed it in the head.

Joel snapped upright. Down the wall, Peña lifted a hand.

Yeah, whatever.

Joel packed up the rifle and scrambled back to Earth.

part two: Locked and Loaded

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end notes: this has been in my drafts for ages, excited to finally share it! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in part 2