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.
He dried off his wet hands on his pajama pants.
“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.
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.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Mandalorian f!reader/ MC
Rating: 18+/ M
WC: 11.9k
Challenge Masterlist | Main Masterlist
A/N: Day 11 of my Din Djarin one shot solo fanfic challenge! I started thinking about the final story in this series many, many months ago, and decided I wanted to explain the backstory of that- so this one is that backstory. This took me a *long* time because I realised halfway through writing it that I really really wanted to get it right. It’s a bit of a beast (11k+ words, what?!), set after the end of season 3, which personally was not my favourite (understatement), but I recognise its strong points and love that it ended with Mandalorians on their home planet once more. I’ve diverged from canon in that I’m ignoring how most of season 3 went, but ending up at the same conclusions anyway without filling in the gaps too much, that the Razor Crest never got destroyed, and Din isn’t told to leave Mandalore immediately after adopting Grogu (which I understand the reasoning behind, but was still a total dick move imo- see notes at the end of the fic for more on that!) I wanted to explore the aftermath of Din’s involvement in reclaiming their ancestral home, give him the recognition he deserved, and have him meet someone he would never have met otherwise. All that to say, here’s a Mandalorian love story! Enjoy!
Tags: Mando Season 3 spoilers, Din’s POV, Domestic!Din Djarin, good space dad Din Djarin, Din Djarin the reluctant main character, reference to canon character death, season 3 spoilers if you haven’t seen it, processing grief, a dash of survivor’s guilt, brief angst, (brief) hurt/ no comfort then hurt/comfort, (D)introspection, matchmaker Grogu, a lot of fluff, some Mandalorian world buildy stuff, making shit up about space, (blink and you’ll miss it) implied age gap, Mandalorian MC, f!reader, minimal physical descriptions of reader- reader is referred to with she/ her pronouns, and it’s implied she’s shorter than Din, no use of Y/N.
The biggest shout out and thank you to the absolute legend that is @djarins-cyare for helping me with the Mando’a for this- without her I would have been completely lost and butchered it horrifically. I’ve included the Mando’a translations and other notes at the end of the fic :)
Taglist: @dotyoureyez
(If you would like added or removed from this taglist, please let me know!)
Divider Credit: @saradika-graphics
As a boy on Concordia, Din Djarin had always stared up at the sky and wondered what it was like on Mandalore. He had vowed to visit one day, to witness for himself the other clans and their strange way of life, despite what he’d been told about them. After the Night of a Thousand Tears, he’d resigned himself to the fact that it was a dream he would never realise, knowing that there was nothing left there but glass. Fate, strange as it was, had brought him to the planet for atonement and from that, came the defeat of Imperial forces hidden in the mountains which brought about a chain of events he could never have anticipated— until Bo- Katan Kryze had taken her rightful place as ruler of Mandalore.
Whispers followed him of course— he was, for want of a better phrase, to blame for these events. A somewhat reluctant participant as it all unfolded. All he’d wanted was to make restitutions to his Creed, to be able to rejoin the covert, to do what was best for him and his son. He’d never wanted a title, but if others insisted on calling him something, he supposed there were worse things than Got’solur: the Unifier. At least he was no longer an apostate.
He’d given everything to the fight and now longed to be nothing more than just Mandalorian, to return to being one tiny part of a bigger whole. To enjoy the fruits of his labour with those he held dearest. He’d experienced it in tiny slivers so far, limited by injuries he sustained during the fight; burns from fire that had touched him despite his flight suit and Grogu’s shielding, angry bruises and welts across his neck where he had been choked by Gideon and his commandos countless times throughout the fight, and with all of them came a fatigue that had taken more than a few long sleeps to shake.
Din had returned to his Tribe, stationed outside the city walls. Despite being offered a space by Bo-Katan in the heart of the city, near her new operational base. He had declined for now, knowing that he likely wouldn’t be able to rest anywhere but familiar surroundings for at least a little while. He had the Crest, and planned to stay there until he could confidently say he was back to his full strength.
The city had begun to stir in ways he never expected, and exceptionally quickly. News of renewal reached him, even in the quiet expanse of the outskirts, and with them reports of a memorial commissioned by Bo- Katan as her first decree as ruler. As much a gift to the living as it was the dead, a marker of her benevolence and honour. He swore to visit it as soon as he was able.
The square just inside the city of Sundari was apparently once a sight to behold; bustling with life, shaded by tall trees grown from saplings inside the impressive dome that shielded everything inside it. Now it was only rubble and dust, save for the single monolith of remembrance stationed pride of place just inside the old city’s grand entrance.
The air felt thicker around the memorial. Heavy in its own mournful weight. The shard of Mandalorian glass rose from a rough-hewn base of beskar ore, catching what little sun pierced the ashy clouds above, sending a dapple of green across the slabs it had been placed upon. Others lingered along the square’s derelict edge, having paid their respects. From their hushed voices rose an otherworldly susurrus, as if the dead themselves had gathered in the broken stone that surrounded them.
Din had seen monuments before, erected on worlds across the galaxy to honour their fallen. He’d never approached them, for fear that his long-buried grief would attach itself to a misplaced outlet.
This was different.
The sight of the names of his brothers and sisters etched in to the glass — over a hundred names carved in neat lines that cascaded like tears from the top of the shard— hooked on to his deep-seated anguish and hurled it to the surface with such force that it made his chest twinge and his eyes water.
He rounded the plinth, careful not to step on the tributes that had been laid before it, until he reached the front. There, at the base, below the familiar image of a mythosaur skull, were words carved in to the raw beskar, so deep they would never fade.
For the fallen. For Mandalore.
His gaze moved back up to the shard, eyes scanning the letters for one name in particular. It didn’t take long; he found it near the middle, fittingly near the heart of the monolith, the letters etched with the care and precision they deserved: Paz Vizsla.
Din gazed at the shapes, taking in the Mando’a runes, and knew that his fallen vod would be proud. To say that they had not seen eye to eye would be an understatement— Paz had often been the wall Din found himself up against, who had declared him unworthy of the Darksaber, who had fought him for it with every ounce of fury carried in his bloodline, and whose challenge had been the spark that sent Din down the path to exile.
And yet, in contrast, Paz had descended through blaster fire the night on Nevarro and carved a way for Din to escape with Grogu in his arms. He had shielded his own son, Ragnar, from the maw of a winged beast. He’d had a father’s instinct, so reckless and absolute, and showed the kind of devotion that helped Din understand with bone-deep certainty that they were not as dissimilar as he had once thought.
He hadn’t seen Paz’s end with his own eyes, but had been told that he held the line, alone, so that others might escape. That he had fought until the last breath rattled out of him, until he could give nothing else.
Din’s throat tightened beneath his cowl. They had been rivals, brothers, adversaries and allies over the years. Never quite one thing, not entirely the other.
Even as children, sparring with Paz had been Din’s least favourite activity. The former had always been perpetually bigger and stronger, and never let anyone forget that he carried Tarre Vizsla’s blood in his veins. He spoke of it often— of the weight of his ancestry, of the legacy of his clan. Of what it meant to stand in the shadow of greatness and be proud.
Din had no such honour. No lineage to boast about. He was a nobody, a foundling from a planet that no longer existed, made anew by a people who had claimed him when everything else he knew had turned to ash. He couldn’t even remember his own father’s name.
But here he stood, the Got’solur of Mandalore. It was difficult not to think of it bitterly as he stared at the etchings before him. Paz should have been here to continue his great bloodline, voice thundering in the new council halls beneath cracked statues of his descendants, continuing in the good fight to make them proud.
Din reached down and brushed the tips of his fingers against the carved curves of the mythosaur’s tusks on the plinth. If the Resol’nare was a map, Paz had followed it to the very end: loyalty to his clan, devotion to his people— his son, his house, his Creed. His demise was the type that all Mandalorians spoke of in awe, the kind of death a warrior could only dream of. It was, without any shadow of a doubt, what Paz would have wanted, Din knew. But knowing it didn’t make the sight of his name cut in to crystal any less raw.
He swallowed down the tightness in his throat and felt the lump shift in to his chest to make way for words. As steady as he could manage, he spoke the only ones he could offer.
“This is the Way.”
The words echoed back, just as reverential, in a voice that was not his own.
“This is the Way.”
Din stiffened, and his head snapped up. He rounded the monolith and found another Mandalorian knelt on the slabs. She wasn’t a member of The Watch— her helmet rested at her knee, set carefully aside, and her head was bowed. The refracted light spilled through the shard, washing her mismatched armour, her hair, and her unguarded face in a soft green glow.
For a moment, he could only stare before he realised it was wrong to witness her grief. He turned his head away, shifting to study the other names etched on the memorial.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, rising to turn to him.
He didn’t answer, unsure of how he would sound if he did. The Mandalorian in front of him tilted her head inquisitively— a movement he recognised all too well. It looked a lot more condescending when there was no helmet.
“I’m sorry,” she said, curiosity igniting her eyes before she smiled and moved to put her helmet on. When it was settled and sealed on her head, she nodded at him as if she’d righted the world.
“You are a child of the Watch.”
It wasn’t a question, and Din’s shoulders tensed at the idea that it was so obvious. He shifted and gave a terse nod. Although now hidden by her helmet, he could still feel the weight of her eyes on him, and imagined what they looked like, highlighted by beautiful green hues in the murky daylight. He figured she was likely regarding him like a cornered animal— as if he would bolt if she moved too quickly.
In the absence of a verbal response from him, she spoke again; an attempt at friendliness that caught him off guard. It took longer than he would have liked to realise she’d given him her name, and it startled him enough to let his own fall from his lips.
When she let out a breathy laugh, Din was struck with dismay that she’d covered her face at all and he couldn’t see her smile— and as surprising as this was to him, it was nothing compared to the jolt that shot through his chest when he heard her say his name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Din Djarin.”
Time had sped by in the months following the battle for Mandalore, and you were grateful for it.
When the memorial had been placed, you’d found a surprising amount of comfort in it— with your father’s name among the many, he had been honoured in a way befitting of his life and legacy. Although he hadn’t lived to see Mandalore re-taken, he had died to secure its future, and you knew it was what he would have wanted.
He had joined your mother as part of the Manda, and his name had been set in everlasting memory as part of the first step in rebuilding the city he loved so much. You’d visited the memorial every day, and the grief had been made easier to carry.
Your parents had spoken of Mandalore with a heavy nostalgia that you could never have understood until you’d seen it for yourself. Born and raised there, only to be forced to flee, they’d carried the Mandalorian way of life forward in the absence of a home. In the stories they told you— tales of great domed cities, clans and warriors who came before. Your parents had woven its rich history in to bedtime stories until the names of the great Mandalorians and cities of old offered a solace you’d always want to return to.
They had, in their stories, mentioned the Children of the Watch, but only as distant figures who were rigid in their ways, holding tight to a creed that, in your parents’ opinion, did nothing but drive Mandalorians further apart, and as such, you’d always imagined them as a group of religious zealots with outdated practices who had nothing much to offer modern Mandalore. You had been surprised when the Watch had turned out to be such formidable warriors and strong allies in the fight for the planet. What little you’d experienced of them so far had impressed you.
Meeting Din Djarin at the memorial had been disarming— you hadn’t thought you’d meet a lone member of the Tribe so near the city. The Children of the Watch tended to stay together, keen to keep to themselves and slow to integrate, as though proximity to others alone might dilute the loyalty to their creed.
Singular in more ways than one, Din’s armour was free of any clan colours, but he was almost defined by its starkness, made more imposing by the figure underneath Tall and broad, notably so, even by Mandalorian standards, and although awkward, he did not carry the same rigidity as the other members of the Watch. An odd fish, even among his own. And while you’d only exchanged a few words, they were enough to make an impression.
In the days that followed, you caught yourself searching for him— skimming over groups of Mandalorians looking for that telltale gleam of polished silver.
Weeks passed, and although you’d managed to catch a glimpse of Din in passing and had waved a couple of times, he’d always been too far away to speak to, and you were reluctant to diverge too much from your daily tasks.
You had flitted from one job to another, offering a hand where it was needed, growing to know familiar faces and armour and trying to make what felt like a home for yourself. The makeshift compound you were staying in wasn’t far from the heart of the old city, and it wasn’t long before you began to recognise landmarks in the rubble, making supply runs just that little bit easier as the days went by. Eventually you were spending your days hauling goods from one end of the upper city to the other, bolstered by your good sense of direction and compliments from others about your work ethic. Busy hands and determined focus kept your grief at bay; it was just what you needed.
An unexpected lull one afternoon, just before the last run of the day, saw you carrying supply crates in your arms and a satchel laden with rations over your shoulder. You left the hover cart behind for the next day— it seemed foolish to have to bring it all the way back after the run when you could simply carry what was left.
So focused were you on the rhythm of your steps, counting the uneven stones underfoot, that you didn’t notice there was anyone else on the path until they slammed in to your shin.
You cried out as you stumbled, clutching at the crates in your arms so hard that they dug uncomfortably in to your throat. The satchel swung violently and hit you in the back of the legs, causing you to stumble further.
There was a giggle, and when you looked around the crates, a child was sat in the middle of the path, his impossibly bright eyes blinking back up at you from between the longest, greenest ears you’d ever seen.
You’d heard rumours of this little guy from the others on supply runs; a strange looking kid who’d appeared as part of the other Tribe. A boy with hidden abilities and skill well beyond his age. An adoptive foundling. The apprentice of the Got’solur.
You placed the crates down on the nearest rock and lowered yourself to one knee, hands hovering in front of him.
“Oh kriffing— Stars, did I hurt you? Are you hurt?”
He only blinked at you again, head tilted, entirely unconcerned. You gave a huff of disbelief that made you sound like your mother and rose back to your feet.
“Well I might not have hurt you, but it’ll happen eventually if you keep hurtling yourself around, ad’ika. Where did you even come from? Are you here all on your own?”
The kid gave a squeal of delight in response and tapped at your shin with a tiny clawed hand, urging you to walk like the galaxy’s smallest prison guard. You began to laugh, despite yourself, and tried to move out of arm’s reach, but he followed, patting against you with more gusto than before.
“Alright, okay, relax,” you told him, hands raised in mock surrender, “I’m moving. Why don’t you lead the way, huh? Where do you want to go? Maybe we can try and find the mythical Got’solur so I can tell him to keep a more careful eye on his apprentice.”
“You won’t have to look very hard.”
You turned to see a familiar silver-armoured Mandalorian a few paces behind you, helmet tilted down at the child, who stopped tapping at your leg and ran toward him with his arms outstretched, babbling happily.
Din looked at the crates, then to you and gave an almost comical sigh, as he bent to scoop the child up.
“Sorry about Grogu,” he said, “I told him to be careful.”
Your mouth opened behind your helmet, but no sound came out. You thanked the Maker your face was covered, at least. Heat crawled up the back of your neck at the realisation of who this man was— mortification burning at not knowing the first time you met. At how, in all the days that had followed since, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
“Are you hurt?”
Your blood froze for a second— you assumed he was talking to the kid. When he got no response, he said your name and asked again, tone filled with more concern than before. Grogu blew a wet raspberry at him, as if mocking the very idea that anyone could hurt you, and it startled you in to giving a small shake of your head.
Din dipped his chin, and you thought you heard the faintest huff of amusement in his tone. “Good.”
His attention shifted to you, and still you said nothing. The silence pressed on and left you too aware of your own breath. If you’d known at the memorial that you were standing before the sole reason you were even on this planet, the man whose actions had unified the separate factions of your people— the Got’solur of Mandalore, you might have shown more decorum and less brazen curiosity. You’d waved at him in passing since then, for kriff’s sake, and even enjoyed the flip in your stomach when he acknowledged you back. And now, as if your mortification wasn’t complete, he’d heard your mock admonishment about the fact his son was unsupervised.
You stammered through the beginnings of an apology, but he cut you off, visibly flinching when you said his title out loud.
“It’s okay. I don’t…” He paused, shifting his weight. A huff of static filled the space before he continued. “Please, Din is fine.”
The plea caught you off-guard, and steadied you enough to take a deep breath.
“Okay… Din”. He gave you a small nod, like the ones he’d given you when you’d waved at him. Your stomach flipped purely from conditioning and you took another breath before speaking again.
“I won’t use your title but I should still apologise.”
“You have nothing to apologise for," he replied.
“I disagree.” You said, voice softening. You looked at the ground and traced around the jagged rock with your eyes. “I didn’t show you the respect you deserve. Not when we first met, and not since. And for—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “If I had known who you were I wouldn’t have spoken to you.”
“Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”
Heat flared up the back of your neck again, but not from embarrassment this time. It radiated down through you, easing your panic somewhat. Din shifted his weight again; the smallest tilt of his helmet betraying something almost sheepish before he took a breath and continued.
“I know what others have said, and I know what you must think, but it’s not… I don’t…” he paused, looking down at the kid as if he might tell him what to say. When he offered nothing but a gurgle, Din looked back up at you and took another breath before continuing.
“Every Mandalorian who fought— everyone we lost— every one of them is worthy of the title of Got’solur. Vode An.”
Snapped immediately from your worries about being disrespectful, his words soothed the last of your panic. Every rumour you’d overheard about him paled in comparison to the man standing before you.
He had convinced rival clans to stand together, held the line alone against overwhelming odds, defeated an Imperial Moff, and offered support that paved the way for Lady Kryze to take her rightful place as Mand’alor. And yet remained humble about it all.
He was proud, but not of himself. His pride lived in the collective, held resolutely in the actions of his brothers and sisters. Brothers all. He bore a title he never sought, and couldn’t see that the very fact that he resisted it was proof that he deserved it. In wanting only to be a Mandalorian among others of his kind: to live by the Creed, to serve a greater good without claiming glory. He was truly a shining example of what you should all strive to be.
Your father would have loved him.
You blinked tears from your vision at the thought, and were once again grateful for your helmet.
“Vode An,” you parroted with a nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “I understand. I’d like to thank you for your part in it all the same.”
Din took a step closer to you, helmet bowed.
“And I, you.”
Mottled sunlight broke through the clouds then, filtered by the hazy mist that still lingered in the atmosphere, and danced off his armour, giving the impression he was glowing.
Briefly, you wondered what he might look like under his helmet, whether his eyes would match the warmth and kindness of his voice, what it would look like if the filtered sun shone through his hair. What he looked like when he smiled.
You ignored the pang of disappointment at the realisation that you would never find out— he may be an outlier of his people, but he still followed their Creed. Their singular Way.
You bit back words that would have been overfamiliar and were grateful when Grogu began to wriggle in Din’s arms, clearly growing bored of the stillness. You let out a small chuckle and beamed down at him as the last of the tension faded away.
“How would your little apprentice feel about having a job to keep him out of trouble?” You asked, slipping a hand into your satchel. “I’m heading to the main gate— think you could carry this for me?”
Din put the kid back down and you crouched, handing him a ration pack. Grogu took it from you with an incomprehensible babble, enthusiastic enough to pass for agreement. You pointed toward the half-cleared street ahead, past the piles of rubble.
“That way, ad’ika. Straight on, no detours.”
Grogu scuttled away over the broken duracrete with a chirp, bundle clutched proudly to his chest. Din sighed from behind you again, and you heard the fondness in it as he watched his son toddle off.
“That’s the most focused he’s been all day,” he said, moving to lift one of the crates from the rock they were perched on. You reached for the other, and without a word, you carried the load side by side, following Grogu down the path.
You fell in to step with Din and, for the first time in a long time, the edges of this new world didn’t seem so sharp.
The world softened further with every day that passed, compounded by Din’s presence.
He had been waiting for you the morning after you’d discovered he was the Got’solur, leaning against the hover cart with his arms crossed. He helped you until midday, in what you thought was courtesy; his way to extend acknowledgement of your apology the day before. A pleasantry and nothing more.
At least, that was what you believed until you’d arrived the next morning to find him in the same place at the same time, waiting for you again.
When you had said as much, he’d only nodded and said, in a tone threaded with a smile, “This is the Way,” as if that explained away his insistence on helping you several mornings in a row.
And so, a new routine began. Din would walk with you, helping with deliveries until it was time to collect Grogu from his studies and begin his daily combat training. You would wave him off at the surface city gates, and watch until he disappeared over the horizon on his way back to his Tribe.
Between deliveries, you talked. He seemed happy to listen and interested enough to ask questions, so you told him about your parents— that they had met in Sundari and had only survived the Night of a Thousand Tears because they had been off-world on their honeymoon. You shared with him the stories they had told you, which led naturally in to your own.
You talked to him about your childhood, how your family had moved from world to world in search of work. How your parents struggled to find scraps of Imperial-impounded low-quality beskar so you would have armour when you came of age. How your helmet rattled on your head for years until you’d grown in to it, and how you’d worn it proudly anyway, clinging fiercely to your Mandalorian heritage.
Eventually, you told him about how hard it had been when your mother had died. And then how the years since had passed with you and your father, a clan of two, making the best way you could through the Galaxy until you crossed paths with stragglers of Bo- Katan’s faction. How hearing their plans to retake Mandalore had drawn your father home.
In return, over the weeks, he began to open up to you. He started with how he had come to care for Grogu, then worked backwards. Details from his bounty hunting days came in fits and starts, and you found that he preferred to talk more about the planets he had visited and the cultures he had encountered.
Then late one morning, he told you how he had come to be taken in by the Watch. You’d sat together on the edge of the empty hover cart, and he had stared at the ground as he spoke— quiet enough that you had to lean in to hear him at all. His gloved hands settled on his knees; shoulders tensed as he braced himself.
Each detail he gave you about the day his parents passed was offered carefully, as if he was unlocking every part of the memory as he told the story, fragments that had rarely been brought together to their tragic whole.
The peaceful morning on his home planet had been upended so suddenly, and he was so young that the details were hazy, he said. He told you everything he remembered; a rising panic, distant blaster fire, and the fear on his parents’ faces before he was lifted and they ran.
Quieter still, he told you about the smell of plasma bolts mingled with hot earth and singed skin as his father carried him through the chaos, dodging blaster fire at every turn. About the ash so thick it stung his eyes, and the flashes of the carnage that unfolded over his father’s shoulder, despite his best efforts to shield him from it.
He shared, in a murmur, the final memory he held of his parents. Their dust-covered faces streaked with tears, rushed final words and embraces before he was lowered in to the cool dark of a cellar. Their silhouettes against the haze of the sun as they shut the doors above him, and the blast that followed. That he thought he was about to meet his own end—staring up in to the barrel of a blaster carried by the battle droid towering above him. How his eyes had scrunched shut as his fear took over.
Then, Din’s tone shifted. His awe was palpable as he told you about how he was saved by the Watch— how he opened his eyes to flashes of orange and a Mandalorian filling the doorway above him like a shield. How gloved hands pulled him out of the cellar and carried him to safety. How, once he’d been taken to the covert, he’d been given food, bedding and clothing before he even knew the names of those who provided them. How they expected nothing in return.
He told you that he had taken the Creed the moment he was able to do so. That it was renewed purpose in a life almost lost; that walking the Way had given him reason to continue.
You reached out tentatively when he finished, curling your fingers around his. His hand twitched beneath yours and you started to pull away, fearing you’d misstepped, but then his other hand settled over yours, holding it gently in place.
He gave a tiny, stuttered exhale, leaning so close to you that your pauldrons knocked together.
“Your story is a gift,” you said, recalling the old customs your parents had taught you. “I receive it with honour.”
His head snapped up and his grip tightened.
You took a breath, steadying yourself before continuing.
“Your parents would be so proud of the man you’ve become, Din.”
Then you closed the small gap between you, and let your helmet rest gently against his.
“And I am proud to know you.”
Sundari changed around you with a momentum that caught even the workers by surprise. Each morning the air carried a little less dust, and each evening revealed a little more of a city among the ruins.
You began to pass newly selected apprentice armourers making their way toward the relit forge at the same time every morning, their steps quick and eager. Their helmets gleamed with fresh paint; clan colours restored in crisp lines across the metal. It made something warm sweep though you every time you saw them. You shared your excitement with Din, wondering aloud if they would be able to re-work your armour to make it fit better.
Around you, banners appeared across walkways and newly erected scaffolding. Some were simple strips of fabric with painted symbols; newly formed clans that had come together in the aftermath. Others were intricate; sigils from the olden days embroidered in gilded thread, restored to their former glory by fastidious hands. They fluttered in the dry breeze, waving their declaration: We endure.
Food stalls sprang up along your routes, diminishing your need to carry rations with you for the workers along the way. Cobbled together at first, they also grew with each passing day. The more popular ones installed permanent grills and were given names, hammered in to the stone piles at the perimeter. Workers paused there to rest, you and Din among them, and the air was always fragrant with spiced meats and frying dough. You would eat, and Din would be given his food in a tied package to have later.
He started to meet up with you in the late afternoon with Grogu in tow after their drills, and the three of you would settle in what became your usual spot, Din watching as Grogu ate his own evening meal and most of yours, before he would order two more; one for each of you to take away with you. They would walk you back to your quarters before beginning the long walk back to their own, and as the days went on, it got harder not to ask them to stay for longer. Eventually it got difficult not to ask them to stay for good.
You told yourself what you felt toward Din was simple admiration, nothing more. He was a man who was easy to respect, who was a steady presence in an ever-changing landscape of a city being rebuilt. He listened more than he spoke, and silences with him were never uncomfortable. He was your first friend in this new world. You appreciated his company, and he seemed to appreciate yours.
You saw how he was with the kid, watched them together with a dopey smile on your face, sought out their company because it filled your heart with joy to see the bond they shared, and the love they had for one another. It was always endearing to see a hardened Mandalorian warrior powerless to stop a tiny green child from climbing all over him.
You told yourself that was why you gravitated toward Din- he was kind and gentle. He was a good man.
It was only sometimes, when his helmet stayed inclined towards yours a fraction too long, or when he said your name softer than you’d ever heard it uttered, that your composure threatened to betray you. You would remember the warmth of him, the feeling of your hands together, and a surge would rise too fast beneath your ribs, and you’d have to force a steady breath before you could speak again.
You always caught it and got yourself back under control. What you felt for him was admiration and had to stay that way— anything else felt disrespectful.
Wanting more was selfish; an impertinence to Din’s Creed, and betrayal of your vow to rebuild your parents’ home in their memory.
Anything other than admiration was unthinkable.
But then you saw him fight.
Din had invited you to watch Grogu’s training drills. An opportunity to visit the far outskirts of the city and stand among the Children of the Watch in their camp, and support the foundlings from the sidelines.
The fringes of the city were unfamiliar. Glassy rubble stretched in to a green plain that gave way to jagged outcrops of grey rock. Din had once told you that it was settling for the Tribe— that it reminded the elders of their home on Concordia.
Across the plain, ships of all sizes made up the growing settlement. Awnings had been pulled overhead, anchored to the rock formations between them. Crates were stacked beneath as benches, patched tarps marked the perimeter of temporary kitchens, the faint smell of roasted meat lingered in a haze above the entire camp. Sparks flew from plasma welders as a group mended a ship’s hull, and modulated laughter spilled from beneath helmets as foundlings chased each other with toy blasters. The settlement was full of life, and it warmed your heart to see it.
You followed the clang of weapons through the makeshift streets and soon found the training ground and joined the edge of the crowd gathered there. Within the surprisingly well-established sparring ring was where you found Din.
Sparring with another, clutching a vibroblade, chest heaving with exertion as his partner pulled no punches. His armour caught the sunlight, glinting in flashes as he moved, rapidly blocking every attack.
Some of the young foundlings, yet to gain their helmets, watched on with wide eyes and open mouths. You could hardly blame them. Din was what every child in the Galaxy thought a Mandalorian to be; everything the stories said and more. He was breathtaking.
A tiny tap against your calf pulled your attention. Grogu was beside you, ears perked and eyes bright. You knelt beside him, still keeping Din in view through a gap in the crowd.
“Hey, kid,” you said, tilting your helmet so that he knew you were smiling. He gurgled in response and patted your thigh before turning back to watch the sparring. Following his gaze, you saw Din disarm his opponent in a single, fluid motion, earning impressed murmurs from those gathered.
“Your buir is pretty impressive, you know,” you said, eyes never leaving Din, “You’re lucky to have him as a teacher.”
Grogu cooed back at you as if he were saying ‘I know’. You brushed a careful hand over his ear, reluctant to take your eyes off the match for a second.
Din feinted, pivoted, and brought his opponent down with a final, decisive strike. A ripple of approval travelled through the crowd as he straightened, offering a sharp nod and helping his opponent to their feet.
The crowd began to move, milling in every direction now that the show was over. The foundlings gathered by the edge of the ring, and Grogu hurried to join them, clearly inspired, as the others were, to train as hard as possible after Din’s display.
You stood again, and as you did, a flash of silver from across the ring caught your eye. The sight that greeted you when you turned your head made your stomach jolt and your thighs clench.
Din, standing victorious at the back of the ring, chest heaving and weapon in hand, visor locked squarely on you.
The world narrowed, and you froze.
He was terrifying.
And Maker, you wanted him.
The thought slammed through you before it could take its usual detour, through your mind’s filter of veneration, and this time you could do nothing to push it back. It was raw, undeniable want: sudden and all-consuming.
Only mildly concerning in the way it made itself known; a desire for him to close the distance in long strides, the heat of the fight clinging to him, and push you against the nearest boulder. You ached to feel the weight of his strength, the sharpness of adrenaline-filled restlessness turned on you. For him to take you like a man possessed, right there in the dust.
Heat curled in your belly and licked at your nerves, sparking low and insistent. You held his gaze, unmoving, and a reckless part of you wanted to incline your head and twitch your fingers in a dare. He hadn’t moved either, as if waiting for it. A tether formed in the span of a few thudding heartbeats, and you were certain he felt it too.
Then it fractured- someone clapped a congratulatory hand against his shoulder and the moment was broken. Din accepted the praise in his usual modest manner, and when he glanced back to you, the tension in his stance was gone; scattered in to the dirt between you, as if it never existed at all.
There was a flurry of movement that stole your attention. The foundlings and apprentices began to line up enthusiastically to begin their drills, and you watched the adults murmuring advice to their wards. Din was no different, and he knelt when Grogu approached him.
The child tugged at him until he was low enough to reach and patted the side of his helmet in congratulations. The sight made your heart twist and you couldn’t help a laugh. An impressive warrior, who only minutes ago, had fought with such a display of lethal precision, now crouched on the ground to meet his son’s joy with equal measure.
Din gave grogu a nudge in to place and rolled his shoulders once he was upright. His visor turned to you, and a remnant of the previous heat flickered. His stride was steady as he crossed the ring, and you tried to match his calmness as he approached you.
“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said when he got near enough. “I’m glad you did.”
You almost jolted at the kick your heart made against your ribs at his tone, but caught yourself.
“Me too,” you replied, hoping the words weren’t nearly as breathless as they felt.
As time went on and the city became more established, your role as courier was less required. Din invited you to spend more time with the Children of the Watch, and you would walk with him after lunch to collect Grogu for training. It made sense to stay there for dinner rather than the three of you walk back to the city, so that became the new routine.
You offered to do work for the Tribe— anything they needed, rather than sit idly while Din fulfilled his responsibilities as Grogu’s mentor. You mended tools and sharpened weapons, losing yourself in the work until after dark, when Grogu and Din would find you. You would act surprised every time Grogu snuck up to hug you, even though you could see him in the reflection of the stack of polished weapons. He would squeal with delight when you gave a mock shout of surprise and, even though this happened every night, he never seemed to tire of it.
The Tribe began to shift in their response to you. They began offering you seats near the fire, children tugged you in to their games, and the elders began to acknowledge you with nods in passing. You had not pledged to them, but you respected their Way— your helmet stayed on when you were around them, and soon enough it was on more than it wasn’t.
It became too easy to fall in to the rhythm of the evenings, and you returned to the city later and later every time, until one night, you didn’t at all.
Grogu had fallen asleep early, a tiny heap beneath a borrowed blanket, the week’s drills finally catching up with him. Din gathered him up and you watched with a smile as he fussed over the child in his arms, covering his little clawed feet with the blanket as he stood.
He hesitated before turning toward the Razor Crest.
“Would you like to come in?”
The question made your stomach flip. Din had shown you the Crest before, given you a tour of it one day while the kid was playing, running up and down the open gangways squealing and laughing. You’d never been inside at night, with the doors sealed and no one else around.
You nodded and rose from your spot by the fire before he mistook your stunned silence for a slight, and followed him to the ship.
Inside, with the ramp raised and locked, you watched as he tucked the kid in to his hammock above the bunk, making sure he was fast asleep before he closed the door. He turned and moved to a satchel on the floor of the hull that clinked when he lifted it, and produced two bottles of fresh ne’tra gal.
You’d heard the announcement the other day that the first batch of the old Mandalorian ale was ready, and when Din had asked what it tasted like, you told him you’d never had it. When you’d joked that he could buy you a pint of it sometime, you hadn’t expected him to actually do it.
He passed one to you and, when you raised an eyebrow beneath your helmet, he seemed to sense it.
“I thought we could try it together,” he said “It would be nice. To… have a drink with you.”
And so, at his suggestion, and after some awkward shifting and breathy chuckles, you found yourself back to back with him on the floor in the middle of the Crest, feeling like a giddy teenager who’d snuck some spotchka from their parents’ cabinet.
You removed your helmet first and set it to the side before opening your bottle. You waited for him to be ready, to take your first sip together.
After a few moments, you were jostled a little by the movement of his shoulder blades as he lifted his hands and removed his helmet, but you didn’t mind. You held your breath, zeroed in on the shuffle of noises behind you as he settled and leaned back against you, his own bottle opening with a hiss.
It hit you then that you would finally hear his unmodulated voice.You stared down in to the black liquid in front of you, the butterflies in your stomach already making it feel like you’d drank something bubbly.
“Ready?” You asked, and you felt his nod, his hair brushing against the back of your head before he uttered the first word you’d ever heard in his natural voice.
“Ready.”
You felt it vibrate through his back in to yours. It wasn’t as deep as it was through the modulator, but just as kind as it had come to be when he spoke to you.
Without moving your head, you raised your bottle to the side and angled it in a toast. He raised his and clinked it against yours.
“K’oyacyi,” you said through a smile, before taking a swig. He chuckled at that, and the only thought you had as the ale hit your tongue was how you wanted to hear his unmodulated laugh again. And again. And forever.
You considered the thought and pushed it back down as you took in the flavour. It was roasted and deep, like cold caf with sweetener, and smoother than you expected. You closed your eyes and savoured it, along with everything else around you.
“Thoughts?” He asked, and you felt his head tilt round, as if turning to look at you. You kept your eyes shut to avoid mirroring the movement without thinking and seeing anything you weren’t supposed to.
“It’s good,” you replied. “I can see why everyone was so happy to hear it was ready.”
Din chuckled again, and your eyes scrunched tight. You wanted to pour out the ale and bottle the sound of his laughter instead.
“It is good,” he agreed.
He took another swig and you felt him relax further. You tried to do the same, and when you leaned in to him he let out a contented sigh.
It was the most beautiful sound; one that you’d never heard him make before. You wondered if you had ever seen him truly relaxed, and supposed you hadn’t. It warmed you from within to know that he trusted you enough to want to unwind together. Eyes still closed, you downed more of the drink than you meant to and told yourself it was because it was refreshing, rather than an aid to keep your nerve.
You both sat suspended in the quiet for a time, settling in to the new sounds, tastes and sensations. When he spoke again, it was lower than before.
“I spoke with the Armourer yesterday. She said she would rework your armour, if that was something you still wanted.”
“Really?” you asked, surprised he’d remembered you had mentioned it.
You felt him nod, and fought the urge to turn and hug him.
Although your armour was precious to you, it had never really fitted you right. It was also distinctly not fit for purpose, especially given the battle you’d been through retaking the planet. And although you had never told anyone but Din, the Imperial impound stamps on the underside of the plates made it feel tainted; a blight on an otherwise hallowed remnant of your people’s history.
Now, however, you were being given the opportunity to have your armour remade by skilled hands in ancient forges. You would finally feel like a true Mandalorian.
“That would be such an honour,” you said, voice a little watery, “Thank you.”
Din cleared his throat and gave a final nod, much less languid than the ones before. You could picture how it would look when he had his helmet on, and smiled fondly at the thought.
“This is the Way,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
The ale was soon gone, but neither of you seemed in any rush to move. You chatted about the kid and his training, and Din explained more about his abilities. You listened, awestruck for the most part, while he told you about the reason behind his clan’s mudhorn signet, and the kid’s part in it all.
Eventually your legs went numb from sitting and you had to move. Din replaced his helmet and spun to sit cross-legged in front of you, fingers tapping against his knee as he watched you stand and stretch out the pins and needles in your legs.
You smiled down at him, and it seemed to help him come to a decision.
“It’s late," he said. “You… can stay here for the rest of the night. If you’d like. We can visit the Armourer in the morning.”
So you did. You stayed the night in the Razor Crest, and chatted as the hours ticked by. You ended up lying in the hull of the ship in the dark, a little cramped, but happier than you ever thought you could be laying on a cold, bare metal floor.
Din lay with his head inches from the top of yours, close enough that your heads brushed every now and then when one of you shifted. His helmet was off somewhere by his side, and conversation rose and fell in waves, punctuated by long stretches of comfortable silence where you simply breathed the same air, content to just exist together.
You eventually fell in to a sleep more restful than it had any right to be. When you stirred awake, you were alone. Din was gone, and the bunk was empty too; he had no doubt taken Grogu to his lessons.
You pushed yourself upright and rubbed the bleariness from your eyes. The movement sent something sliding from your shoulders and you blinked down at it, confused.
It was Din’s cape, draped over you like a blanket. Beside you also sat a small flask of caf, steam curling lazily from the rim.
A flutter that began in your stomach grew and travelled up to settle in your chest, knocking a shaky laugh from you that rang off the durasteel. You knew then for certain that any attempt to keep your feelings for him at bay was futile. Whatever you had called this before fell entirely short now.
You had to admit that it had strayed from admiration, past camaraderie and simple friendship— that your heart had already crossed well beyond the line your mind kept trying to redraw.
And you were sure he felt the same.
Later that morning, standing with Din at the entrance to the great Forge of Mandalore, you were practically vibrating with anticipation. He entered first, steps confident and eager as he guided you towards the Armourer.
“This is the one whose armour carries an Imperial seal?” She asked without looking up at you.
“Yes,” Din replied. You wondered what else he had told her.
“You may leave us, Din Djarin. This process will take time, and you have other responsibilities.”
He turned to go, brushing his fingertips against yours as he passed— a tiny gesture of luck, and a silent promise that he’d see you later.
“Tell me,” The Armourer said, leaning further over the flames to study the molten metal below, “how did you come to be in possession of such pieces?”
You shifted, aware of how loud you’d have to speak to be heard over the forge, and how exposed you felt with the apprentices nearby. They didn’t seem to be listening, but the idea of it made you bristle. You stepped closer, hoping for even a little privacy.
She must have sensed your reluctance. When you stepped on to her platform, she finally turned and gestured toward a set of crates in the corner, stacked in to a makeshift table and chairs.
You sat and talked her through the history of your armour. In less detail than you’d shared with Din in some ways, and more in others. You told her which planet each piece had come from, which plates lacked integrity, and pointed out sections that had never quite fit right. She asked direct questions, mostly about your favoured weapons and fighting style, but also about your past; your life, clan, and your views on aspects of Mandalorian culture.
She listened without moving, a hammer resting across her lap. When you finished, she stood and motioned for you to rise as well. Approaching for a better look, she walked around you in an orbit.
“This armour is indeed lacking durability,” she said at last. “It contains a high level of alloy, and an insufficient amount of beskar to truly serve you. Your helmet, however, is pure beskar. Your parents did well to source it.”
You nodded, not trusting your voice enough to give a response without wavering. She circled you one final time before moving back to the forge to gather her tools.
“If you are content for me to do so, I will smelt your armour in its entirety, extract the ore from the alloy and add what is necessary to form a full set of armour. Armour suited to one who stands with the Got’solur. Is this agreeable?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “More than agreeable. An honour, truly. Thank you.”
She stilled, head tilted with one last assessing look. After a long moment, she gave a small, familiar nod— the same resolute gesture you had seen Din make a hundred times.
“This is the Way.”
You mustered the boldness to reply with the same resolved tone.
“This is the Way.”
When the final piece of armour was set in place, you felt remade along with it. It was heavier than your previous set had been, but that only aided in its sense of legitimacy.
The Armourer stepped back to admire her creation. The forge hissed and crackled behind you, heat blooming against your freshly painted plates.
“Armour as it was meant to be,” she said, with unmistakeable pride in her work.
She lifted her hammer and tapped it sharply against your left pauldron. You held your footing as the sound rang out— pure and sharp. Resonant, as beskar’gam should be.
“You carry the weight well,” she said, and you couldn’t help the pride that bloomed under your ribs. It ebbed as she spoke again.
“You have walked without a clan or tribe over-long. May this armour remade in the forges of your ancestors remind you of the Way. Theirs of old and ours of now. As a Mandalorian, isolation is not recommended.”
You managed a small nod, and resisted the urge to flee her unwavering gaze. She finally turned and dismissed you.
“Go now. Let the Got’solur see what has been forged.”
You thanked her again and bowed your head as you left. Even with her back turned, you were sure she saw it.
Cool air billowed down the corridor as you exited, drifting across your new armour like an ancient blessing.
Din paced at the base of the steps, Grogu cradled in one arm, helmet angled toward the door as if tracking every sound.
He went completely still when you appeared.
Grogu cooed and reached toward you, small fingers wiggling. He still recognised you, at least. You took him gently, letting him inspect the Armourer’s handiwork. His ears twitched, and he pressed a hand to the center of your chest plate, humming with approval.
“Oh you like it, huh?” You murmured. His little hand was only a couple of shades lighter than the metal. “This is the colour it should have been all along.”
When you looked at Din, you wished he could see the joy plastered across your face, hidden under your helmet. You wished you could see whatever expression he wore under his.
He hadn’t moved since you’d emerged, and an odd sense of nervousness crept up your spine. You hadn’t realised before how important his opinion of it would be.
“Thoughts?” You asked, burying the anxiousness beneath a smile; parroting his tone from the ale-tasting the night before.
He tilted his head in recognition and when he spoke, thankfully, it sounded like his grin was as wide as yours.
“It’s good,” he replied with a laugh. “It’s very good.”
The plaza buzzed with energy, the sound surging as formalities gave way to celebration. Lanterns burned in soft orange rows along rebuilt walkways, throwing light across the polished stone that led to the newly-opened school— the first of Mandalore’s great institutions to stand reborn.
You stood against a far wall, helmet off, watching the gathered crowd revel in their accomplishment. Children wove through the crowd, their joy echoing against the polished stone as they whooped and cheered. The building that loomed over you all was a triumph; the first new jewel in Sundari’s crown, built in such a way that honoured the old architecture of the city.
It was unmistakably Mandalorian: crisp, clean geometry rising in vertical columns, softened only a little by the green embedded throughout. Fragments of the planet’s surface crystal woven in to the walls- shards of the city that had been destroyed, now used in its renewal. It scattered light that danced in the air above the gathered crowd, auroral and otherworldly.
It was as if the city had gained a beating heart, and it celebrated with you all.
It was beautiful.
Your chest swelled at the sight. Your parents would have loved to see this, and you wished they were here. You longed to hear tales of old Sundari, told their way, just once more. Your heart throbbed against your ribs at the thought, and the edges of your joy turned hollow.
You were proud, of course, but it sat skewed within you. You had never missed your parents as much as you did right now, and standing amongst this new beginning of their city felt suddenly distasteful. For the first time since you arrived, you didn’t want to be there at all.
You scanned the crowd, scrambling to keep a tether to the joy that was all around you. Searching, not for the first time that evening, for any sign of Din. You had hoped to see him here, to celebrate with him and the kid. Now, you surveyed the crowd through the blur of unspilled tears, hoping that a glimpse of him might restore the happiness you’d felt before.
“You okay?”
Din stood a few paces away, head tilted with concern. You let out a watery laugh at the sight of him, it was as if you’d wished him in to existence.
“I’m fine," you said as he stepped closer. A tear slipped free when you smiled in an attempt to make it seem more convincing.
His knuckles rose to your cheek and caught it with a soft swipe, before his fingers trailed down and lingered against your jaw.
“Walk with me?” He asked.
You nodded, leaning in to his touch just enough to betray how much you needed it.
He seemed to notice. Or maybe he didn’t want to pull away yet either. His hand lowered and skimmed over your bare fingers in silent question.
You answered by curling your hand toward his.
Din laced his fingers with yours and without another word, tugged you from the wall and away from the celebration.
Lantern light faded behind you as you walked, your attention anchored to the warm, steady grip of his hand around yours. He led you further in to the still-derelict part of the upper city, far beyond where the new road ended and rubble began, the pale glow of Concordia the only light around you.
You placed your helmet on the nearest rock before looking back around at him. Din turned to you, and took a long, deep breath.
“I was summoned tonight to speak with the Armourer. Now that Grogu has completed his apprentice induction, I have been tasked with continuing his training off-world. We are to leave Mandalore and travel the galaxy so he can learn its ways, as I once did.”
He paused, and you looked up at him, staring into your own warped reflection in his visor.
“I see.” Your throat tightened. “For how long?”
“For… as long as it takes,” he replied.
The thought of him leaving made your stomach lurch so violently you felt sick, and you struggled not to show it.
Din took a step closer, looking to the sky before his gaze tilted back to you.
His thumb brushed the side of your hand, a soft, subconscious movement, and if you didn’t know any better, you would say he was nervous.
“I know what this city means to you,” he began slowly. “What it meant to your clan. But I can’t leave without telling you what you mean to mine. Or… without asking if you’ll consider coming with us.”
Memories of your parents stirred. You had clung to them and your past out of love, tried to honour their memory in helping rebuild their city. The truth you’d been avoiding settled heavy around the unease you had felt before; you couldn’t spend your life tending to ghosts, frozen in their memory. Not when it diminished your chance of a future.
Your breath hitched around a shaky exhale.
“Is that all you’re asking?”
The brush of his thumb quickened, as if he was gathering his courage.
“No.”
Din took both of your hands between his and you could barely breathe past the hammer of your heart.
When he spoke again, the tremor in his words was no longer hidden.
“I’m asking you to come with us. And… if you want—” his breath hitched. “—to stay. With us. With me.”
His armour rippled as he took shallow breaths; his hands tense around yours.
“You once said you were proud to know me. I have held those words close and want you to know…I feel the same.”
He leaned forward and rested his helmet against your forehead with the greatest of care; the metal soothed your heated skin and you welcomed it. You closed your eyes and steadied your breathing, determined to remember everything about this; down to every last detail.
His next words were barely above a whisper.
“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”
Your heart hammered, chest swelling with joy and disbelief. As steadily as you could manage, you repeated the words back to him. You loved him too, unequivocally.
You wanted to pull him close, to say the words over and over just because you could, but you fought the urge, reluctant to interrupt whatever he wanted to say next.
He gave your hands a single tight squeeze and let go to pull a parcel from a pouch on his belt. It was wrapped in an off cut of fabric the same colour as your armour. He gave you a tiny nod before offering it to you.
The fabric slipped open under your trembling fingers to reveal a freshly-formed pauldron, the same shade of green as your armour and just as heavy. Upon it, shining in the alabaster glow of the moon, was the raised outline of a mudhorn skull.
You blinked away tears, unwilling to let anything obscure the moment. Din lifted his hands again to cup beneath yours, and let the weight of the beskar press your hands down in to his.
When he spoke again, his voice was thick with an emotion you’d never heard from him before.
“I give this to you as a symbol of your place in my clan. If you will accept it… and if you will accept me, then I pledge myself to you. I am yours.”
He waited, and a tremor rolled through him. The shiver transferred to your hands, and you also began to shake. You looked up and gave him a wide smile, and heard his breathy, incredulous laugh beneath his helmet.
“I accept,” you breathed, still smiling, “I happily accept the offer of a place in your clan. And I accept you, Din Djarin. If you are mine, then I am yours.”
He tilted his head. It was a silent check-in. Asking, without words, if he could continue. You nodded, and took as deep a breath as your heart would allow before he spoke again.
You already knew what the words would be, but nothing would have ever prepared you for hearing him say them.
“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”
He said his vow with absolute conviction.
You urged your voice to stay steady as you repeated the words back to him. He deserved to hear them strong and unwavering.
The quiet that followed your vows crackled with energy. It was as if the tension within you both had been released in to the air and, if sparked, would catch light.
Din, with reverential care, reached for your left pauldron. The unadorned piece came away with a clink, and he wrapped it in the cloth before sliding it in to the pouch on his belt.
He lifted the new one from your hands, thumb brushing once over the mudhorn. Handling it like a holy relic, he set it against your shoulder. The beskar clicked in to place with fated ease.
He drew back just far enough to admire the sight of his signet on you, before reaching for your hands again. Gently, he guided them upwards until they rested on either side of his helmet. He took a long, steadying breath, then lowered his head, letting his hands fall to his sides so you could remove it.
You cast a quick glance around; the streets and ruins around you were deserted. Certain you were alone, you lifted it from his head.
And for the first time, you saw the face of the man you so adored. Your riduur.
Dark brown eyes met yours— bright with unspilled tears and set in an expression so wondrously tender.
Messy curls brushed his forehead, softening the strong lines of his face and the faded scars across it: one across the bridge of his aquiline nose, another above his left brow. Stubble dusted his jaw, and the moonlight caught the specks of silver threaded through it, glinting like his armour.
His lips parted around a breath, before curving in to a half-smile as you took him in. You gave him a watery smile of your own; a silent reassurance.
When you lifted a hand to his cheek, his eyes fluttered closed beneath furrowed brows, and he leaned in to your touch so quickly your heart wrenched. You wondered when he’d last felt a comforting caress; whether he had ever felt one at all.
A soft sound escaped you, half laugh, half sob. Bathed in Concordia’s moonlight, he was achingly, impossibly beautiful. And he was yours.
Your hand slipped to his jaw, thumb brushing the scruff there in steadying strokes; watching lovingly as he took shaky breaths. You admired him a moment longer, before leaning up to press your lips against his. A whisper of a kiss, but enough, you hoped, to say everything you wanted to without uttering a word.
When Din opened his eyes again, the expression in them had shifted and deepened to such a raw, unmistakeable need that it punched the air from your lungs.
He surged forward, hands rising at last to cradle your face as his mouth met yours.
The kiss threaded with all of the want that you now understood he had carefully caged.You slipped a hand in to his curls at the back of his neck and he let out such a soft groan at the touch. You pressed closer, deepening the kiss, and felt him answer in kind, holding you as if he feared you might disappear.
Easing back to breathe, your lips grazed one last time before he rested his forehead against yours. Breathless laughs mingled together in the air; you had never felt so light. For a moment the entire Galaxy faded away to inconsequential nothingness.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes soft and smile wide.
“Hi,” you whispered.
You revelled in how expressive his face was. Every emotion flickered across it in quick succession without restraint; it was clear he existed hidden behind his visor.
Dimples tugged in to his cheeks; the kind of smile that existed only because he felt too much to contain it. He was happy. Truly, openly, happy. The purity of it, and that this was your first memory of his bare face, was glorious.
“Hi,” he murmured back, forehead nudging yours. After another couple of minutes, he brushed the end of his nose against yours. “We could... head back,” he said, although he didn’t move. “If you want to.”
The celebration still pulsed in the distance and you felt that you should return. If you were different people it might have been a great way to celebrate your vows. But the thought of stepping out of this moment and back in to a bright, crowded plaza felt wrong, and you were sure Din would feel the same. Your earlier feelings only compounded the decision.
You shook your head. “No, I saw enough. We should leave them to it.”
Relief flickered across his face, and you let out a laugh.
“When were you planning to leave?” You asked.
“Depended on your answer,” he said, shrugging. It sounded flippant, but you could tell he was serious.
You passed him back his helmet and took the opportunity to give him one last kiss before he slid it back on, already excited for the next time you would see him without it.
“Where are we going first?”
He tilted his head, and now you could imagine the grin he gave you from behind the visor, your pulse spiked.
“Nevarro.”
You knelt by the cot in your quarters, the thin blanket atop it pushed aside. Beneath lay the case that held most of your weapons, both your own and inherited, tucked safely away since the day after your father had died. His blaster nestled safe beside your mother’s dagger.
You moved the case to the door and set about packing everything else in to a rucksack. There wasn’t much— underwear and flight suits, spare boots, a datapad, a chip containing a hologram of your parents, odds and ends you’d gathered since you’d arrived. By the time you had packed, the rucksack still had space to fill with the same amount again.
When you stepped back and surveyed the empty space, no more than a box bay dorm, you realised how little you really owned.
It wasn’t a new development. Prior to Mandalore, you and your father had lived minimally, items curated for movement rather than settling. It had always served you best that way, and now would serve you again.
You gathered your bag and the case and left the bay without a backward glance.
You had agreed with Din that you would meet at the Crest, but had to make a pit stop first.
You crossed the city on derelict pathways, giving the celebration a wide berth, and came to a stop in the memorial square. It was empty save for you, and you were glad.
You crossed to the monolith, hovered a hand over your father’s name engraved upon it, and whispered the same thing you had every other time you had visited:
“I remember you, and so you are eternal.”
A soft wind stirred around the square, knocking the dust free from rubble that lined it. It swirled the perimeter and dissipated on to the breeze. For a moment you let yourself imagine your parents there, watching on proudly as you began a new chapter and chose your own path.
With a final glance at the city behind you, you set off toward the Razor Crest, filled with a bubbling anticipation.
Din and Grogu waited for you.
The life you were choosing, the family you now had, awaited just beyond the horizon.
Notes:
Phew, that was long.
As are these notes, so strap in :)
Again, a million thank yous to Jem for help with the Mando’a!
Got’solur. - The Unifier (“to unite, to make one, to gather” and literally translates as “to forge as one”. This is a compound word created using:
-“got-” which relates to all things created, i.e. birth, make, create, forge, etc
-“-sol” which relates to singular, i.e. the numeral one, alone, isolation, unique, unite
Vod- Brother/ sister/ sibling/ comrade
Ad’ika- Little one/ child/ darling
Vode An- Brothers all. A (Legends) Mandalorian war chant sung in Mando’a. It is featured in the 2005 video game Star Wars: Republic Commando. My feeling is that the song/ saying would probably have been well known enough throughout Mandalorian culture to be referenced and understood generally. It fit the theme of this story, so I included it (and ultimately used it for the title!) There is a really awesome audio clip of it on the Wookiepedia page, and there are cool versions mixed with the Mando theme tune on Spotify if you fancy a listen. It’s very cool, and got stuck in my head for several days. It’s like a mixture of something from the Halo soundtrack and the Misty Mountains song from the Hobbit. To keep this from being an actual essay, know that I found some really cool Mandalorian drinking songs on my travels in research for this fic. I might make a separate post about them some time!
Ne’tra gal - Mandalorian black ale. A traditional Mandalorian drink. It earned its name from it’s dark colour and was a sticky ale with a sweet taste. Similar to Guinness or Mackeson but more alcoholic! I went with the taste of Guinness for describing it, because I've never had Mackeson.
K’oyacyi - Cheers In Mando’a. Literally “Stay alive!”
Beskar’gam - Mandalorian armour in Mando’a- “iron skin”
Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum- “I love you” in Mando’a - literally “I hold you in my heart forever”
Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde. - Mandalorian wedding vows. (“We are one together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors”)
Okay, now that the translations are all done, I have some thoughts.
Firstly, I will say that where this one-shot ended up is a million miles away from where it started. I changed the name twice and re-wrote parts of it multiple times, and the more time I spent with these two, the more I wanted to do them and their relationship justice. That is but one of the reasons it took so bloody long. I will go through things as they appear above and then rant some more. Okay? Okay.
“Your story is a gift. I receive it with honour.” - This isn’t in SW canon, but I wanted an acknowledgement that sounded like it might have been old and Mandalorian. Something that was a formal response to a trauma dump, and that Din would recognise as significant.
Mandalorians resting their helmets together is called a Keldabe kiss - It’s a sign of affection or greeting between armoured Mandos. It’s called the same thing when they headbutt people. It’s very funny to me because this is something that Mandalorians and Scots have in common. (Glasgow kiss= headbutt)
A word on armour- it’s very rare for Mandalorian armour to be pure beskar (See- Din’s armour in S1 E1). Beskar is mined and then carbon is added in refinement in the foundry to make it capable of withstanding blasters, lightsabers and the like. Which technically makes it an alloy. However, for the purposes of this story I have decided that an alloy is used to describe beskar that has been mixed with another metal. I wanted to keep the significance of the beskar due to this story being set where it comes from. Also, it helped my overall theming. So don’t come at me for getting fake space science wrong- it was deliberate!
A little note about Din and reader’s vows - I know that in Mandalorian culture you say the words any time, anywhere (even across a comlink) and you’re married. But! I wanted to do something a bit special for these two because they deserve it. Din has a pauldron made because it’s symbolic and tracks for something he would do (see: Grogu’s chainmail shirt) and as a man who holds his little clan in such high regard, who earned his signet with blood, mud, sweat and tears, you bet your ass he’s going to want his entire crew wearing that thing. He’s proud to show it off, and proud of his little family. I’ve mentioned before how many similarities I see between Mandalorians and Scots, and I took inspiration from the Scottish tradition of ‘pinning the tartan’, which welcomes a spouse in to the new family’s clan by giving (often an in-law to the bride) a sash of the tartan of the clan she’s marrying in to. It’s symbolic of a warm welcome in to the clan/ family. Technically, if we go with my headcanon that the armourer is Din’s mentor, then she made the ‘sash’ that Din gives reader, which signifies that she approves of the match. That’s what I was going for anyway.
I decided to make their vows a lot more ‘exchangey’ than they needed to be, or ever are in SW canon, mainly because it’s sweet and cute and I wanted to.
“I remember you, and so you are eternal” - This is part of a Mandalorian remembrance for the dead. - (Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc. Ni partayli, gar darasuum) Which is- “I’m alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.” I cut it so it was shorter, and put it in basic so it didn’t mess up the flow toward the end.
And now, for the rambling:
In my hours of thinking about this one shot while I wasn’t writing it, I thought a lot about this post (also by @djarins-cyare- I say once again, absolute legend) “What did Din do wrong?” - Mainly because the end of season 3 baffles me unless I look at it through the lens of this question. The way the Armourer reacts to Din’s attempts to have Grogu made his apprentice, and then as soon as he has officially adopts Grogu she tells them to leave Mandalore? Lady, they just got there. I get that it’s customary for Mandalorian apprentices to travel the Galaxy and learn all about it, and while my headcanon is that the Armourer was Din’s guardian/ mentor, but the way that it was handled at the end of the episode just never sat right with me. Sure, it might just be lazy-ish writing, or a way to hastily align the movie and Din and Grogu’s future adventures, and sure the amount of time between the re-lighting of the forge and Ragnar’s Creed re-taking is never actually specified, but to me it felt rushed and a bit odd.
If I may be allowed a rant for a moment- I would have assumed Din would have needed time to heal from his injuries (the man is choked with grappling wire so many times in those last 2 episodes my GOD). Also, for a man who fought so hard, basically went against every single person who told him that Mandalore was cursed or at least unsafe, that it was impossible for him to atone, and the effort he went to do it anyway, and then to nearly die twice in the process of trying to bathe in the living waters, this is a man who truly believes what he has done is a sinful wrong. He wants to atone so very badly and will stop at nothing to achieve his goal or die trying. Then he swears fealty to Bo-Katan, risks his life (again) to reunify the planet for their people, and the man doesn’t even get to stay and I dunno, move a few rocks around? Or at the very least support others while they grieve significant members of their covert? That is some bullshit. I can’t help but agree with Jem and say that Din must have done something utterly heinous in his younger years to offend the matriarch of the family, and she’s never gotten over it. In short, what the hell is her damage, man?
Does all of that make this a fix-it fic? Maybe. I've never written one of those before. I just wanted to do *something* deeper than what we were given at the end of the last season. I wanted to root around in Din’s feelings, give him the recognition he deserved, even if he is a bit Jon Snow about it all, while also adding in a love interest from an angle I’ve never explored before. As I said above, this is part 1 of 2 fics that are a little out of my comfort zone, but once I’d considered it and let it sit for a while, the idea wouldn’t leave me alone.
While I’m here on my soap box, I’d like to touch on Mandalorian architecture because I mention it in passing in this fic, but I wanna shout about it. I spent a good long while squinting at zoomed in stills of the Clone Wars and admiring the detail that went in to the background of Sundari, including the Cubist-inspired paintings of Mandalorian battles.
Given that Dave Filoni stated outright that Cubist art was the direct inspiration for the Mandalorian city, their architecture, their clothing and their art (and that it makes sense with their geometric lines and shapes within the armour) I went with that for my imagined design of what a Mandalorian memorial might look like, and mixed it in with the idea of ancient Egyptian obelisks, as they would often symbolise rebirth. I felt that it would also be fitting to fashion it out of the crystalline glass that Mandalore was covered in. While I’m aware that Mandalorians don’t have gravestones, there were memorials present in Sundari in the Clone Wars, so I went with the canon idea that if a battle was significant enough, they’d honour the dead in some way.
We know that the surface glass of Mandalore can be hewn because of the chip that Din gives the armourer, so it would make sense to me that they would also be able to carve and shape it in their forges (much like blown glass). I’ve been imagining it sort of like IRL green tourmaline colour and shape-wise.
Then I thought- wouldn’t it be so very cool (and extremely bittersweet) if they were also able to use this as materials for rebuilding- to build beautiful windows and decorative facades for their new city that would all have a green hue - not dissimilar to a giant cubist Emerald City. How beautiful would it be when the sun shone through the glass and everything was bathed in green, like stained glass windows in medieval cathedrals?
And how beautiful would it be, then, if because of this, younger Mandalorians started painting their armour green to signify the rebirth of their culture. As a statement that they’re not so easy to kill, that they are their own people and that they’ll never surrender.
If you need me, I’ll be in the corner sobbing about shit I’ve made up about space.
I’ll go now, leaving you with this image I made in August when I was wading through wedding-stress sleep deprivation:
OMG, Bec, this was phenomenal! 😍 I was grinning like a loon in so many places - such a perfect balance of hurt/comfort, healing, and fluff. And I love love love me some (D)introspection!
I’m so sorry it’s taken me ages to read and reblog this; work has been hellish, but now I’m on leave until the second week of January, and the first thing I did was sit down to catch up on your writing. And I’m kicking myself for not making time to do it before now, because I really enjoyed this.
As usual, your research and attention to detail are stunning. I share your headcanon/musings about the new Mandalorians using the glass in their rebuilding efforts because it’s such a Mandalorian mindset to use a material that’s a consequence of the Imperial destruction of their homeworld, forged into something stronger by the heat of battle (that’s some seriously toughened glass, I suspect), and carved into something beautiful. I swear, if we see future Sundari in canon and it’s not full of exquisite green glass accents, I’ll be in Filoni’s walls. The idea of the memorial is perfect, and I can picture it so clearly.
I am in love with the saying “Your story is a gift; I receive it with honour.” Like, how perfect is that for this culture? If it’s okay with you, I would love to borrow it for use in future fics of my own (with credit to you, of course).
There are too many wonderful details for me to list how much I love them all, so I’m just going to urge anyone who sees this to please read this wonderful oneshot!
Also, thank you so much for the shoutouts; it was a pleasure to help you with the Mando’a and discuss Din-related topics! I adore how you’ve used Got’solur as an honorific in this story.
I always look forward to your Din fics, and this was no exception. Thank you so much for writing it, my friend 🙏🏻💖
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
warnings: MDNI | age gap | sherrif!Joel | choking (light) | power imbalance | piv sex | (mocking) dirty talk | brat tamer!joel (if you look hard enough) | car sex | spanking
word count - 7.5k
summary - one bad habit behind the wheel, one pissed-off sheriff, and suddenly you’re paying your ticket in the backseat.
The backroads out of town were empty this late, nothing but low-slung telephone lines and the occasional mailbox leaning like it was drunk on the edge of somebody’s yard. You should’ve slowed down miles ago, but the speedometer’s been hovering fifteen over, needle quivering right above seventy in a fifty-five. Music blares through the speakers - not the soft acoustic you’d picked up from your mom, or the rock you’d picked up from your dad. No, you’ve got the radio dialed up to some mediocre pop hit that came out five summers ago, the kind that sounds better when it’s too loud and the windows are down. Even though your windows aren’t down. It’s just you, boxed in by the stale air of your car, your voice shrieking half the words like you’ve got a stadium crowd instead of empty fields.
Your phone’s in your lap, screen lighting up your thighs every few seconds with a new notification. Half the time you’re thumbing out texts at the red lights, the other half you’re flicking the brightness down because the glow is too obvious in the dark. You probably shouldn’t be multitasking - steering with two fingers while queuing up another song, bouncing one knee like the caffeine from that last gas station iced coffee is still burning in your system - but it’s the backroads. Nobody out here to see it, or so you think.
There’s a restlessness crawling under your skin tonight. Maybe it’s leftover nerves from a shift you didn’t want to take, maybe it’s just the itch that comes from living in a town where nothing ever fucking happens. You’ve got the volume cranked so loud you can’t even hear the cicadas through the cracked seal of your driver’s side door. Not the squeal of your worn brake pads, either. All you can hear is the pulsing bass and your own laugh when you belt out the wrong lyric.
The funny thing about backroads, though, is how quickly they turn on you. One second it’s just your headlights stretching thin over the blacktop, the next there’s a bloom of red-and-blue light that washes the whole world in neon. It hits your rearview mirror so hard it stings your eyes. The sirens don’t wail, probably because the sheriff knows they don’t have to. That soft whoop of his cruiser is enough to yank the air right out of your chest.
“Shit.” You slam the volume down, the song dying mid-lyric. Phone tumbles from your lap, clattering against the seatbelt buckle before slipping into the floorboards. Your pulse skitters with the same beat that had you dancing a second ago, only now it’s not fun - it’s anxiety, humming under your skin. Tires crunch as you ease off the road, small rocks pinging up against the undercarriage until you roll to a stop on the shoulder, engine still running too loud in the sudden silence.
You sit there, hands glued to the wheel like maybe if you don’t move, the world will reset itself, the lights will blink out, and you’ll get to keep tearing down the backroads. But the glow keeps strobing in your mirrors, red-blue-red, every flash reminding you just how cornered you are. The car idles too loudly, your pulse louder, and you find yourself ducking your head like a kid caught passing notes in church. If you can’t see him yet, maybe he can’t see you.
That fantasy dies the second you catch the crunch of boots against gravel steadily, like whoever’s walking up doesn’t need to rush - it’s not like you’re not going anywhere. The sound scrapes up your spine, makes you stare down harder at the creases in your jeans, the chipped polish on your thumbnail, anywhere but the rearview mirror. You almost hold your breath, waiting for the shadow you know is about to fall over your window.
When you finally look up, he’s already there. Joel Miller. Sheriff Joel Miller, technically - though you’ve never once thought of him as anything but the man who used to stand in your dad’s driveway with a beer in hand, talking about cars and property taxes and whatever else grown men drone on about. The badge pinned to his chest doesn’t change that. Neither does the uniform stretched tight over shoulders that look even broader now than when you were a kid. He leans down just far enough for the brim of his hat to cut a shadow across his eyes, one hand braced on the window frame, the other lazy around a flashlight he doesn’t bother to click on. He doesn’t need the light; he’s already looking right through you.
He’s a stuck-up sheriff, always has been. You swear he was born grumpy, like the nurses must’ve had to slap the scowl onto his face right after delivery. He’s got that same drawl you remember from cookouts at your house - the one that made your mom roll her eyes when he got going on politics - only now it’s edged with authority, with the absolute confidence that comes from knowing this whole town answers to him whether they like it or not. And as much as you hate to admit it, that authority does something to you. The way he fills out the uniform, the slow patience in his stance, the sheer weight he carries by just leaning against your car - it makes your stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with nerves. You can almost picture him saying something else in that voice, not about stop signs or speeding tickets, but low, commanding words meant just for you.
“License and registration.”
The words snap through your daydream like a twig underfoot. His voice is deeper than you remember, rougher, like gravel dragged down the back of your neck. You fumble for your wallet in the cupholder, the plastic already warm from sitting under the blast of the heater. He doesn’t move, doesn’t ease back an inch while you dig around. Just stands there, broad and immovable, hand braced on the frame like your little sedan belongs to him now.
You fish your license out and hold it up between two fingers, flashing him a too-sweet smile that doesn’t even make him blink. “Sure thing, Sheriff,” you say, drawing out the title like honey, like you know it sticks in his ears. “Y’know, most girls gotta pay extra for a man in uniform barking orders at ‘em.”
His jaw ticks, the smallest shift, like he’s holding back the first of a thousand things he could say. His eyes flick from your license to your face, lingering and unimpressed. “Most girls don’t damn near blow through a stop sign like it’s a suggestion,” he says flatly, reaching out to pluck the card from your hand. His fingers brush yours for half a second, and it’s nothing, but it makes you blush anyway.
You bite down on the urge to grin, leaning a little closer to the open window. “Guess I’m not most girls.”
He flips your license over once, like he hasn’t already known your name since before you could drive. The card looks flimsy in his grip, swallowed up by the rough stretch of his hand. His eyes don’t leave yours when he speaks. “Where were you headed in such a damn hurry?”
You spread your hands over the wheel, the picture of innocence if innocence came with a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Didn’t mean to, Sheriff. Must’ve just… slipped right past it. Won’t happen again.” Your voice is syrupy, sweet as pie, like you’re handing him an apology wrapped in a bow.
Joel’s mouth presses into a line, the kind that says he’s heard every excuse and filed them all under bullshit. He slips your license into his pocket before bracing heavier on the window frame. The cruiser lights catch the edge of his jaw and the crease between his brows.
“You think I’m standin’ out here wastin’ my night ‘cause I care about excuses?” His voice drops, each word dragged out so you can’t mistake the meaning. “You blow through signs, mess around on your damn phone, you don’t just put yourself at risk. You put other people at risk. That make sense to you?”
You swallow, but you still can’t help the grin tugging at your mouth. “You sound like my dad.”
Joel huffs through his nose, sharp enough to sting. “Difference is, your dad never carried cuffs on his belt. I do.”
You nod like a scolded kid, lips pressed together, trying not to let the smile break through. “Makes sense,” you say softly, like you’re about to stitch a halo over your head if he stares long enough.
Joel doesn’t buy it, not for a second. His hand shifts against his belt, grazing the metal at his hip, the quiet jingle cutting through the hum of your idling engine.
“You keep pushin’ it, I’ll show you just how much sense it makes,” he says - his voice smooth, but edged with something that makes the hairs at your neck stand up. His fingers tap once against the cuff case before settling there casually, like he’s done it a hundred times. “A night ridin’ in the back with your wrists chained up - maybe then you’d learn.”
Heat flares low in your stomach before you can stop it, a quick, stupid rush that has you shifting in your seat. You cover it with a laugh, tilting your head at him. “Kinda dramatic for a stop sign, don’t you think?”
Joel doesn’t blink. “Ain’t a joke.”
Your laugh lingers in the cab, too sweet for how fast your pulse is skipping. Joel doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift his weight off the doorframe. He just watches you, eyes dark in the wash of the cruiser lights, one hand still resting heavy at his belt. The curve of metal glints there, enough to make your stomach twist tighter.
“Not a joke,” he repeats, slower this time, like he wants to pin the words straight through you.
You wet your lips, leaning back against the seat, and let the smile pull at your mouth anyway. “You’d really cuff me? For one little accident?”
His brow furrows deeper, jaw hard as stone. “Don’t test me. You think I won’t?” He lets the silence sit after that, long enough to make you squirm.
You swallow, caught between nerves and the reckless itch in your chest, and finally let it slip. “Guess I wouldn’t mind finding out.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks again, sharper this time. He pushes off the frame, straightening to his full height. “Get out of the car.”
For a second, you just stare at him, half-expecting him to fold and tell you to quit running your mouth. But the look on his face tells you that he isn’t bluffing. Your hand trembles just a little on the door handle as you shove it open, the road crunching under your shoes when you step out. The night air bites colder than it felt inside the car, and the quiet hum of the cruiser behind you makes the empty road feel even smaller.
Joel doesn’t rush. He shuts your door for you, big palm slamming it closed with a finality that makes your pulse trip. One broad hand clamps around your shoulder, steering you the short distance to the front of your car. He isn’t gentle with you, but he isn’t rough either.
“Hands on the hood,” he orders, leaving no room for you to ask questions.
Heat sparks in your chest, rushing lower as you drag your palms across the chilled metal. It makes you hiss, but you don’t move. You let him put you there, bent over the hood like the warning he promised. The reflection of red-and-blue light ripples over the paint, over your fingers splayed wide.
“Still think it’s funny?” Joel asks, close behind you now, the words brushing the shell of your ear.
You hear the clink before you feel it, metal knocked loose from his belt. He catches your wrists easily, apparent that he’s done this a hundred times, and drags them behind your back. Cold steel bites against you quickly, making you twitch against the hood. You swallow it down and tilt your mouth into a smirk he can’t see.
“Doesn’t feel like much of a punishment,” you say.
Joel goes still for half a second, then lets out this long breath through his nose, the kind that’s half laugh, half curse. “Jesus Christ.” The metal closes in, snug until there’s nothing to give. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Never been a strong suit,” you shoot back, chin tipping toward the glassy sheen of the hood. The cruiser lights keep strobing across the paint, across your reflection, and you catch the faintest ghost of your own smile there before it smears out.
He leans in closer, his shadow falling heavy over your back. “This ain’t a game,” he says, voice lower now, each word weighed down. “You don’t get to mouth off like that and walk away. You’re ridin’ in the back ‘til I’m good and done with you.”
You turn your head against the hood, grinning crookedly into the paint. “Backseat’s kinda cozy, huh? Gonna keep me company back there, Sheriff?”
Joel exhales hard through his nose, grip tightening on your bound wrists. “For fuck’s sake.” He straightens, pulls you upright with him, the cuffs biting as he hauls you around. Gravel shifts under your boots as he steers you toward the cruiser.
“You don’t have to manhandle me,” you say, stumbling to keep up. “Could’ve just asked. I’d have gotten in nice and easy for you.”
“Don’t think you’ve done a damn thing easy in your life,” Joel snaps, shoving the back door open with one hand while keeping you pinned with the other.
You laugh breathlessly, leaning into the hold just to test him. “Well, maybe for you I’d make an exception.”
That’s the last straw. He all but lifts you off your feet, ducking your head so you don’t crack it on the frame before he all but throws you into the backseat. The cuffs clatter against the vinyl as you fall against it, still smirking up at him through the glow of the flashing lights.
Joel’s jaw tightens, the muscle jumping as he looks at you “Keep talkin’, girl. See how far it gets you.”
Joel’s hand hovers at the frame of the door like he’s about to slam it shut, lock you in, and be done with the whole mess. For a second, you think that’s it - that he’ll climb up front, drive you off in silence, and let the night end right there. But he doesn’t. Instead, he ducks low, one shoulder crowding through the door, the other hand catching the edge of the seat beside your thigh as he leans in. The cruiser dips under his weight, the air inside shrinking down to nothing but him - the heat off his body, scruff shadowing his jaw, the smell of leather and the faint burn of smoke clinging to his clothes.
A flicker of amusement tugs at your mouth before you swallow it back. “What, Sheriff, you gonna cuff my mouth too?”
His hand comes up hard to your jaw, forcing your head back against the seat. Fingers dig in, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you can’t look anywhere but at him. The cuffs bite deeper behind you when you twist, but there’s nowhere to go - only him, close enough to choke the air out of the cab.
“You don’t listen worth a damn,” Joel mutters, his breath hot against your face. “So I’ll make you.”
You squirm under the weight of him, thighs rubbing together before you even realize you’re doing it. The leather squeaks loudly in the silence, a traitor’s sound, and Joel’s eyes flick down, catching the way your body’s moving. A sharp grin tugs at his mouth, humorless and mean.
“Well, look at that,” he says, thumb dragging along your jaw until it presses against your lower lip. His breath ghosts over your cheek, his chest nearly flush with yours, nowhere to escape. “Said it didn’t feel like punishment - so tell me, then. Why’re you squeezin’ your legs like that? Tryin’ to hide somethin’, or just too worked up to sit still?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try, but it’s unconvincing, your body betraying you with every shift of your legs.
Joel’s grin only deepens. He tilts his head like he’s humoring you, thumb pressing harder against your lip. “Oh, I don’t?” The words are quiet, almost amused. He leans in closer until the smoke on his clothes is all you can taste. “Then if I checked, I wouldn’t find you wettin’ my seats, is that it?”
Heat burns up your throat, but you can’t stop; your body moves before your mind can catch it, a desperate shift that drags another squeak from the leather. Joel’s laugh rumbles low against your cheek, hot breath curling over your skin.
“Christ,” he mutters, voice edged with rough amusement. “You really are a mess. Smart mouth, no brakes, and now sittin’ here cuffed up, rubbin’ around like a bitch in heat. That what you call discipline?”
His words don’t just sting, they slice clean through every flimsy excuse you’ve been clinging to. You should’ve blamed the cold, the cuffs, the cramped seat, anything else. But Joel’s not buying it, and worse, neither are you. You’re squirming because of him, because the sheer weight of his body crowding you into the corner is doing something it has no right to do. Because the heat in his voice coils low in your stomach and makes your thighs twitch, no matter how hard you try to hold still.
And he can see it; of course he can see it. That’s the part that makes your chest seize: not the fact that you’re wet, but that Joel Miller knows you’re wet. Knows you’re trying and failing to hide it, and that your body’s betraying every ounce of attitude you had five minutes ago.
You want to tell him off, spit some clever bite back in his face, but nothing comes. Definitely not when his thumb presses roughly at your lip, or when he tilts your chin higher like he’s cataloguing every inch of your expression. All you manage is a sharp inhale that sounds way too close to a moan, and Joel hears it.
“Knew it,” he mutters, and it isn’t triumph in his tone so much as inevitability, like he’d already had you pegged and this is just proof. “All it takes. Little steel on your wrists, little pressure on your mouth, and you melt. Thought you were some tough act. Turns out you’re just waitin’ for someone to call your bluff.”
He nudges your knees apart with the outside of his thigh, and you let out a sound that shouldn’t belong to you and hate that it does, but you love that it seems to settle something in him. He plants one hand down, pinning you to the seat. Heat scalds your face, but it only makes his eyes darker. His hand drops heavy against your stomach, pressing you back into the seat with the kind of force that says you’re not moving until he decides you can.
“Now’s your chance to tell me the truth. You been sittin’ here rubbin’ your legs like that ‘cause of me?” His eyes drag slowly over your face, cataloguing every flicker, every twitch. “Maybe I’ll reward you if you’re good.”
Your chest heaves against his, but nothing comes out. Just silence, just the warm press of breath between you.
“Words,” Joel says, and you’re startled by how even it comes. “Yes or no. Not that smart-mouth mush you like to sling.”
You swallow around the dryness in your throat. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” He’s closer now, but he doesn’t have to raise his voice; the badge does it for him.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Good. That’s the only thing I want to hear outta you unless I ask for more.” His fingers walk from the edge of your cheek to the line of your throat. “Now shut your mouth and pay attention.”
He talks you through the rest like it’s procedure: where your knees go, where your shoulders stay, how you breathe (in through your nose, slow it down), what you say (only what he asks for), and what you don’t (everything else). Then, he spreads your thighs wider with the edge of his boot, and the leather squeaks against the floor mat. The sound that tumbles out of you is strangled and humiliating, and Joel’s mouth crooks like he’s been waiting to hear it.
You shudder, your bound wrists jerking uselessly in his grip, and he clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed in you. “Don’t look away,” he says when your eyes dart off. He drags two fingers down, pressing through your jeans right where you’re throbbing. “You’re wet enough I can feel it through the damn fabric. That true?”
The nod you give him is clumsy and rushed, and you know it shows. He punishes you for it with a sharp slap against your cunt, the heel of his palm catching your clit. The sting makes your vision stutter, and the cry that bursts out of you is pathetic.
“Use your words, troublemaker.” His voice has gone cold, precise. “Yes or no.”
“Yes, sir,” you gasp.
“That’s right.” He smears his fingers roughly against the seam of your jeans, dragging wetness up until it stains the fabric. He lifts his hand, holding it in front of your face, glistening even in the cab’s dim light. “See that? You did that. Nothin’ smart to say now, huh?”
Your mouth opens before you can think better of it, and Joel shoves his middle finger past your lips. “Suck,” he orders, and the taste of yourself blooms bitter and salty on your tongue. He presses down hard enough that you gag, his laugh vibrating against you. “Can’t keep your mouth shut unless it’s full. Figures.”
When you cough, wetness dripping down your chin, he smears it across your cheek with the rest of his hand. The slick cools quickly on your burning skin, humiliation and heat twisting together.
“Joel-” you try, but it collapses into a whimper when he shifts above you, his body caged in stiff uniform fabric, the starched line of his pants pressing cruelly between your thighs. You feel every ridge, every seam; the holster digging into his side as he moves, the badge on his chest brushing against your arm. He doesn’t even have to be naked to make you feel ruined.
Joel’s hand snaps back down, striking your pussy again, harder this time. The smack echoes in the small space, making your ears ring. Your whole body jerks forward, bound wrists clattering against the seat. The fabric of his shirt scratches your skin as you stumble into him, and for a moment, all you can think is how heavy he feels, how immovable - like the uniform itself has fused with his body, and you’re pinned beneath both man and authority.
“Oh,” he drawls, grin spreading slowly as his grip tightens. “So that’s what you’re callin’ me now? Joel. Not Sheriff. Not sir. Just Joel.”
He laughs under his breath. “That mouth of yours,” he growls, breath curling hot against your ear, “is gonna keep earnin’ you pain if you don’t learn how to use it right.” He grinds down again, the thick ridge of him dragging up your clit through the rough cloth. You cry out, and Joel doesn’t even have to look to know exactly what he’s doing to you. “So tell me, girl - what’s the only thing you’re allowed to say to me right now?”
“Yes, sir,” you whimper, chest heaving, throat raw.
His hand clamps around your jaw, denting the skin into your teeth, forcing your gaze to his. “Say it again. Louder.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good girl.” He releases your face, letting your head drop forward onto his shoulder as he grinds on you, the pressure absolutely perfect. “Now we’re speakin’ the same language.”
He hums, pleased, and his fingers catch your chin, forcing your face back toward him until you’re staring at the hard cut of his jaw and the sharp gleam of his badge inches from your nose. But all you can think about is that he’s still in uniform, still dressed like he could walk right back into the station after this, and no one would know, except you’d be sitting here, wrecked, the proof of him smeared all over your thighs. The thought makes your skin prickle. You hate that it thrills you, but it does.
Joel’s hand slides lower, callused fingers pressing at the seam of your jeans, testing you. He smacks you again, and this time he doesn’t wait for your cry to fade before striking twice more in quick succession. The sound ricochets off the roof of the car, your ears buzzing with it, your clit screaming from the sting.
“Fast learner,” he mutters, voice low enough that it’s almost for himself. “Couple smacks and you’re already soakin’ through my pants. Think I don’t feel that? Think I don’t know you’re sittin’ here floodin’ yourself over a man who’s supposed to keep the peace?”
Your cheeks blush, the flush impossible to hide with him this close. Because he’s right. You can feel it: the sticky drag every time he shifts, the humiliating proof seeping through layers of denim - yours and his. You want to tell him to stop, to let you breathe, but the truth lodges in your throat. You don’t want him to stop, not at all.
His thigh nudges higher, grinding up against your core with ruthless pressure. He presses in so tight the badge on his chest digs into your arm, and when he speaks, it vibrates through you. “Answer me, girl. What are you?”
You shiver, tongue heavy, chest heaving. “Y-yours, sir.”
Joel stills. For a moment, you think you’ve said too much - gone too far, broken the wrong rule. But then his grip on your wrists tightens, almost bruising, and he lets out a low, dangerous laugh that thrums through your back.
“Damn right.”
His hand clamps around your jaw again, ready to snap some order out of you - but instead of another command, his mouth crashes onto yours. Joel spreads your legs wider, his hips pressing firmly over yours as he pulls you into a hungry kiss. His mouth tastes like smoke and heat, breath heavy from the closeness as his lips move hard against yours. You open for him without thinking, and he takes it, his tongue tracing against yours, slow at first, then deeper, mapping every corner like he has all the time in the world. His hands tighten on your hips, keeping you caged beneath him, and the only thing you can do is kiss him back until you’re breathless. His teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting, and you moan into him, helpless against the rough scrape of his beard.
He pulls back just long enough for his breath to break hot against your cheek. “That’s better. All quiet when my mouth’s on yours, huh?” The word drips with mockery, but it twists hot in your chest all the same. Joel’s eyes dip lower, noting the dark patch spreading across your jeans, the gleam where you have soaked straight through. His mouth hardens.
“Christ. You’re like a goddamn slip ’n slide,” he mutters, voice sharp in your ear. “Drippin’ all over me in a patrol car. My uniform. My seat. Don’t give a damn who sees it, do you?”
Before you can catch a breath, he hauls you up and over, flipping you onto his lap until you’re straddling him, knees braced against the seat, his hands clamped hard on your hips to keep you there.
“There,” Joel murmurs, setting you heavy against the line of him, the words delivered like a judgment rather than a comfort. “Not the seat. Not the car. You want to ruin somethin’, you ruin me.”
The contact makes your pulse stutter, and you think about what this must look like - you straddling him in full uniform, the steel divider behind you, the cruiser humming quietly around you. The thought makes your stomach lurch even as your hips jerk forward without permission.
His hands bite into your hips, keeping you flush against him. “That what you wanted all along? Fine. I’ll give it to you - but you’re gonna be grateful for it.”
He rocks his leg up, grinding you down against it, holding you there until you’re squirming, desperate to move on your own.
“Ride it.” His hands stay clamped on your hips, forcing you down. You try to move again, chasing the drag of denim, but his grip locks tighter, holding you still. “No. Not like that. Take ’em off.”
Your wrists jolt in the restraints, uselessly, and your chest lurches with the words. “But-”
“Now,” Joel cuts in, leaving no space for you to argue. He leans in until his badge glints inches from your cuffed hands, his mouth grazing your ear. “You wanna grind on me, you do it right. Pants off. I wanna see you work for it. You’re gonna put on a show just for me.”
The wet fabric clings to you, dragging as you shift, reminding you just how far gone you are. Heat rises in your face, but Joel doesn’t ease his grip. He waits, his grip tightening on your hips until you can feel the bruise starting. “C’mon, girl... You been loud all night. Let’s see if you can back it up where it counts.”
You shift awkwardly, wrists bound tight, fingers fumbling uselessly at the button of your jeans. Every movement is clumsy, elbows knocking the console as you twist for leverage you don’t have. Joel doesn’t lift a hand. He just sits there, thigh braced beneath you, gaze fixed while you fumble. The button slips from your grip, wrists scraping raw against each other. Your breath comes fast, shaky with the effort, filling the close air.
Joel’s chuckle breaks through it. “Look at you. Can’t even undress yourself right. Goddamn comedy act, sittin’ here in my lap with your pants halfway undone.”
You whimper, fumbling harder, but it’s useless. Joel’s sigh fills the cab, long-suffering, like you’ve failed some test you didn’t know you were taking.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, and his hands move in at last. He knocks your fumbling fingers aside and makes quick work of the button and zipper, jerking the denim and your panties down hard enough to burn the backs of your thighs. You gasp as the air hits you, bare and exposed in the close dark of the cruiser.
Joel grips your hips again, tugging you flush against him, his voice sharp in your ear.
“There. That’s the show I paid for. In my backseat, cuffed and wide open. You couldn’t make yourself look guiltier if you tried.”
He rocks you once, the friction raw now, nothing to blunt it.
“Now ride it proper. Let me see you earn every sound you’re makin’.”
Your legs tremble as you rock forward, the rough seam catching exactly where you need it, sharp enough to make your stomach seize. The noise that breaks out of you is nothing you meant to give, pulled up from somewhere deep and helpless, and Joel doesn’t let it go unanswered. His hands close harder on your hips, dragging you down until the pressure spikes and a shiver runs the length of your spine.
“Don’t you get shy now. You were all talk before, remember? Big mouth, all that lip, and now look at you - makin’ a fool of yourself just to grind off on me.”
Your wrists scrape against each other, straining in the cuffs, but your hips move again even without his push, seeking out the drag that’s already unraveling you. Pressure begins to build, each pass worse than the last, your body giving him everything you swore you wouldn’t.
“So desperate,” Joel says, almost like he’s mulling it over. “Cryin’ on my leg like you’re starved. Actin’ like you never had a thing feel this good. And you can’t even help it.”
Your head tips back, mouth falling open, and every scrape drags you higher until your thighs lock tight around him. The ache blurs into pleasure, and Joel watches the whole mess play out on your face. His mouth twists meaner.
“Yeah. That’s it, baby.”
The way he says it cuts straight through you. Your hips falter, caught between wanting to pull away and needing to chase more, and the tension in your stomach winds tight enough to make your breath stammer. Joel notices instantly, and the curl at his mouth says he’s already filed it away, another piece of you he owns.
“Oh, you like that,” he says, letting it hang. “You like when I call you that, don’t you? Baby.” He repeats it slower, rolling it on his tongue while his hands drag you over him again. “Say you don’t, I dare you.”
Your face burns, the words catching in your throat, but the drag is relentless, the ache pulling you apart until you can’t hold it back. “I-I like it. I like when you call me that.”
Joel groans like the confession feeds him, grinding you harder, steering your hips without mercy. “Course you do. One word and you’re drippin’ through your clothes like a desperate little slut. Coulda had it easy if you knew how to behave.”
The pressure builds into something unbearable, every scrape pulling you higher. You choke on a cry, your wrists jerking in the handcuffs. Joel’s voice cuts through cruelly.
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare. You don’t come ‘til I say so.” His hand cracks against your ass, making you lurch against him. “You wanna finish? Beg for it.”
Your voice shakes, caught between sobbing and pleading. “Please, sir. Please, I need to - ”
“Not good enough.” His grip bruises your hips, dragging you harder against him until your clit throbs. “Tell me you’re soakin’ my leg like a whore. Tell me you’ll do whatever the fuck I want, and maybe I’ll let you come.”
The demand guts you. Your body jerks, trembling on the edge, every nerve pulled tight, no air left to hide how close you are. His hand leaves your hip just long enough to shove under your shirt, calloused palm rough against your breast. He squeezes hard, thumb scraping over your nipple until your back arches helplessly into him. Your legs give out first, faltering under the pressure, your mouth falling open on a cry you can’t swallow back.
“I’m makin’ a mess on you. I’ll do anything, just let me come. Please - ”
Joel laughs darkly, his thigh snapping up under you. “Attagirl. Come on, baby. Give it to me. Make a mess right where you’re sittin’.”
The second he gives you permission, your body goes. It hits hard, snapping through you before you can catch a breath, every nerve pulled tight as a wire. Your wrists jerk against the cuffs, your thighs locking around his leg, and Joel doesn’t let you hide in it. His grip holds you flush, dragging you through every spasm, forcing the shudders out of you like he’s wringing you dry.
“That’s it. Fuckin’ soak me. Ruin my pants with that messy little pussy.” His voice is a growl in your ear, the words chasing every shockwave as it tears through you. “Hear yourself? Cryin’ like you’re gettin’ split open when it’s just my leg under you. Pathetic, and you love it.”
You sob, hips twitching uncontrollably, the wet drag turning sloppy as your release spreads hot between you. Joel rocks you harder, refusing to let you ride it out gently.
“Keep goin’. You’re not done ‘til I say. Gonna grind yourself raw for me, baby, smear every drop on my leg so you never forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
The overstimulation crashes over you, brutal in its intensity, your clit screaming as the friction bites, but the ache and pleasure are tangled so tight you can’t separate them. Tears streak hot down your cheeks, your mouth spilling broken pleas you can’t even catch.
Joel fists your hair, jerking your head up so you’re forced to face him while your body convulses in his lap. “Look at you. Shakin’, soaked, beggin’ me for permission like it’s the only thing keepin’ you alive. Say thank you.”
You choke on a sob, hips still grinding helplessly, your voice wrecked. “Th-thank you, sir.”
He grins, cruel and satisfied, his thigh jerking up once more to wring the last of it out of you. “That’s more like it. You’ll thank me for every goddamn second.”
You’re still shuddering when he drags you forward again, grinding your bare slit against the hard line of his leg. Your wrists strain uselessly, breath catching, and Joel doesn’t give you the mercy of a pause.
“Soakin’ me already, and I ain’t even fucked you yet. You just got yourself off on my leg like some virgin, and that was the warm-up.”
His thigh jerks once more under you, forcing another choked sound out of your chest. Then he shifts, undoing his belt with one hand, the metallic clink cutting through the tight air of the car. The zipper slides down slowly, and then he’s pushing himself free, the blunt head of his cock dragging hot against your soaked folds.
“You feel that?” Joel mutters, guiding your hips until he’s smeared in your wet. “That’s what you’ve been beggin’ for since the start. My cock. And you’re gonna take it sittin’ right here, wrists tied, knowin’ you asked for every bit of it.”
You can’t see him, but you know he’s big from the way your body fights to take him, every inch a stretch that feels too much and not enough at once. Then he finally presses in just enough to breach you, making you jolt, then pulls back, teasing, drawing another wrecked noise out of your throat.
“Beg for it,” he says, still guiding himself through your slick. “Beg me to put it in. Tell me how bad you want it.”
“I want it, I need it so bad, don’t make me wait, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, just fuck me-”
Joel only rocks his hips enough to drag along your soaked slit, smearing himself through it, teasing while you fall apart in his lap. “Not good enough,” he says, tightening his grip on your hips until the skin burns under his fingers. “You sound like a brat. Say it right.”
Your chest heaves, wrists twisting uselessly against the restraint, and the plea spills raw from your throat. “Please. I need you - stretch me, use me. Please, I need to feel you-"
That’s when he pushes in slowly, splitting you open around him. The stretch burns, every inch dragging against you until your body clenches down tight, the sound you make muffled against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Joel mutters, forcing you lower until he’s deeper still, watching every twitch and spasm as your body struggles to take him. “That’s it. You begged for this dick, now feel how it fills you. You’re not movin’ a muscle until I’m buried all the way.”
He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out - you’ve been seeping since the moment you settled in his lap, every drop slicking the way for him. The thick tip pushes forward without hurry, the burn sharp enough to make your whole body lock up. He slides in deeper, dragging through you inch by inch until your walls spasm around the intrusion, pulling at him like they don’t want to let go. The wet squelch spilling between you is obscene, loud enough in the cramped space that you duck your head, ashamed of the noise even as more of your juices run down over him.
Joel pushes deeper, and the way your pussy clamps down makes him grunt. His mouth drags against your temple, the smirk clear in his voice. "Feel that? Your body’s beggin’ for me to split you open."
He pulls back slowly, dragging through you until only the swollen tip remains, the stretch easing for a heartbeat before he slams forward again, burying himself to the hilt. Slick gushes down your thighs, sticky against the leather under you, each thrust forcing more of it out.
Joel’s grip tightens, holding your hips steady as he works into you with brutal precision. “Hear that? Loud as fuck. That’s you, makin’ a mess all over me, and we’re just gettin’ started.” His laugh is breathless this time, not from amusement but from the way your cunt clamps around him with every stroke. “Greedy little thing, takin’ me like you’re tryin’ to wring me dry.”
Your forehead tips against his shoulder, muffling your cries, but Joel jerks your chin up with one hand until your mouth is open to him again. “Nah. None of that. You let me hear it. Don’t go hidin’ now.” He slams into you harder, his voice gritted between thrusts. “You begged for this dick - now you’re gonna let me hear you takin’ it.”
He pushes you upright by the small of your back, making you arch, the new angle forcing him against a spot that knocks the breath from your lungs. His boots plant wider on the floor, spreading your thighs with his knees until you’re completely split open, the shift brutal enough to make you cry out. You claw for air, another strangled sound spilling out before you can stop it.
“Pretty thing,” he mutters against your ear, the rasp in it warm and cruel at once. His thumb presses at the base of your skull, angling your face until your mouth is open to him again. “Slick little cunt so sweet and messy I could ruin it all night."
His grip tightens at the back of your neck, forcing your head down until your cheek scrapes the leather seat. The position leaves you wide open, every thrust driving deeper, harder, the squelch of it obscene in the cramped cab. Your wrists strain against the cuffs, but he only presses you lower, like he wants you to feel every bit of control he’s got.
“Please. Fuck - please…” Your voice breaks as you writhe against him, words spilling out without thought.
“Can't help yourself, can you?” His hand spreads wider at your nape, rough thumb pressing into the hinge of your jaw. “Go on then. Let go for me again.”
That’s it. It’s all you can take. You shatter with a scream, your cunt gripping him so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. His hand locks at the back of your neck, pinning you down against the seat as his hips drive harder, rougher, every thrust punching deeper. Your head lolls back against the seat, vision swimming, every thrust turning your brain to static. You can barely hear him, just the rough scrape of his voice breaking through the haze.
“Gonna come - fuck, can't hold it.” Joel’s words rip out strained, like he hates admitting it, his grip bruising your hips as his thrusts turn feral.
“I want it - want you in me,” you choke, desperately.
His groan breaks into a growl, teeth gritted as he drives deeper. “Then you thank me for it, baby - thank me while I fill you.”
He snaps up into you, the sharp rise of his body slamming you down harder, deeper, each collision jarring your wrists against the cuffs. The cab rocks with it, leather squeaking, sweat-slick skin sticking where your thighs meet his. You feel the quiver start deep in his stomach, pressed hard against your body - then the hard flex of his cock, twitching inside you with every ragged breath he forces through his teeth. You can’t stop the sobbed words tumbling out, broken against his shoulder. “Thank you-”
He jerks up into you, groaning in your ear as the heat gushes, thick and spilling, until it seeps down between your thighs and soaks him and the seat beneath you.
Then for a moment there’s nothing - just the weight of him still inside you, your wrists aching in the cuffs, the air thick with sweat and the smell of sex. Your head tips forward against his chest, dizzy, caught on the thought of what you’ve just let happen.
Joel shifts, his hand coming up to brush the damp strands of hair from your face. The touch is almost tender, completely at odds with the bruising ache of the cuffs and the mess dripping down your thighs. Then his mouth tilts, roughened by exhaustion more than humor as he murmurs,
“Maybe now you’ll learn how to slow the fuck down.”
Summary: You’ve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, you’ve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?
Word Count: 15.9k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Rec: Pavlov’s Bell by Aimee Mann
A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I herald…experienced!eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!
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“So, what do you think?” you eagerly ask.
Eddie’s sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is still—frozen. He’s not too sure what to make of your plan.
Honestly, he’s waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.
But you don’t, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.
“That is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Gareth’s ‘million-dollar-cashgrabs.’”
He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan.
Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall—
The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman.
You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first?
It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans.
He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence.
“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight.
You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—
“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”
Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—
A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting.
Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface.
“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.
A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing.
After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin.
“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”
Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor.
And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction.
From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong.
And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave.
Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you.
It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.
With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter.
Not when it’s you.
Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.
Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all.
“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head.
“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy.
Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes.
For you?
Yes, it should be special—
“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.
“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”
He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met.
He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.
When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.
He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix.
Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time.
One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—
Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.
It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to.
And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.
Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours.
You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness.
He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night.
He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.
A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss.
But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him.
After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily.
All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had.
White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.
He feels like throwing up—
This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—
He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.”
But he was just being used.
The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.
And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story.
And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy.
But he’s not a hypocrite.
He’s just a liar.
He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him.
Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time.
He can’t let you feel how he felt.
Not you.
You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words.
“You wore it like a badge of honor!”
Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—
“Yeah, and I lied!”
Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence.
Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—
“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.
“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”
Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles.
But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.
The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.
“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.
Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off.
Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.
A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.
But you’re killing him.
Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.
That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you.
You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor.
You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.
And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance.
If given the chance.
If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—
“What’s the rush? Why now?”
He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.”
Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.
Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice.
“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”
Your eye twitches.
“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”
Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale.
The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played.
Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit.
You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.
Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze.
After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you.
Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb.
He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh.
“I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”
Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?”
You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake.
But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse.
He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.
Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.
You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.
He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—
“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.”
Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—
“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…”
You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.”
Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love?
As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—
Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion.
But he doesn’t do either because love is awful.
It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back.
Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part.
He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him.
And love is fickle.
Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you.
The pain of wanting it and not getting it.
If he could….
If he could get it…
If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you.
But love is fickle.
“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.
You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—
“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze.
His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.
If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—
“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.”
For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight.
Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.
He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him.
A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.
“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen.
Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—
When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity.
You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?
What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him?
Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—
He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”
All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy.
Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston.
“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two.
You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”
“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs.
When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement.
“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!”
“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”
Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen.
Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump.
Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section.
“What the f—”
Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers.
“Hey!”
You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud.
“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.
You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him.
Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.
In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more.
“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.
“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor.
Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy.
Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand.
Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work—
His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side.
Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.
He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him.
“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist.
Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number.
As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—
Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him.
Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.
You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm.
A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint.
In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you.
Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms.
“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!”
“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages.
“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow.
“Don’t care.”
His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old.
Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again.
“Ugh, you’re a child.”
He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.”
You huff at his declaration. “Am not!”
“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter.
“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.”
He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.
You watch him for a moment, then—
“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.”
You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section.
Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?”
Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”
He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone.
Fuck it—
“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again.
He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears.
Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.
You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes.
Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it.
Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now.
More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze.
“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”
“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.”
You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues—
“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”
You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.
Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.
He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind.
Like it would mean nothing.
An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.
But what if you want strings?
Does he want strings?
Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches.
But it’s him—
“Eds—”
Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”
The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you.
Because he looks like him—
The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more.
All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place.
Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.
And now, he’s finally offering something much larger.
Reaching for you with a divine gift.
How could you possibly say no?
Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.
Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—
Fuck it.
Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity.
You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table.
Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises.
There’s something there, you find.
Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown.
Something you want to know more about.
Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his.
You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore.
You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants.
A sacrifice.
Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built.
Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.
His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.
Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again.
He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.
A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.
Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.
“D’you want this?”
He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.
“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.
Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to.
But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together.
“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”
The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night.
The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life.
Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands.
Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—
Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut.
Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.
He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it.
Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back.
His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.
Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.
You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—
“Can I take this off?”
His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne.
It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—
You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—
“Words.”
A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.
When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.
“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”
Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake.
Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—
His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—
“I— I, um…”
You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key.
His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.
Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.
You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—
Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?
Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?
You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only—
“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him.
You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.
Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.
“What do you want, baby?”
You bite back a whimper at the new endearment.
Because that’s reserved for lovers too—
“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.
In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have.
With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation.
His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts.
Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more.
But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—
“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”
“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.
Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to.
Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide.
You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.
With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room.
Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest.
You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired.
And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans.
Whatever lies—
But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.
All heat and hardness.
Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you.
With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.
Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris.
Nobody could compare to Eddie.
Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes.
“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”
Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.
Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs.
Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor.
You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened.
“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants.
It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip.
Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken.
With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”
A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.
Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it.
You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling.
With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.
“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”
“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”
He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation.
The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you.
“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance.
Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.
Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress.
You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate.
Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more.
The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need.
Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—
Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.
The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.
And you do.
You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—
Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision.
“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”
Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—”
The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.
Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.
Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you.
“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”
His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions.
“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!”
Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.
When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.
Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—
“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.
You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.
In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—
His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth.
Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you.
All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.
“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down.
“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”
You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”
“Please,” you mewl.
His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire.
“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”
It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed.
Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers.
Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you.
“That’s— You’re—”
Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length.
Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager.
Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer.
“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”
A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it.
He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.
He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—
His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him.
He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more.
But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.
If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy.
His.
Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—
“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper.
His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension.
“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on.
Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”
You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”
That leaves him frowning—
“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”
You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad—
“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”
Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well.
You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion.
“‘Course I will.”
He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes.
Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—
Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed.
His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs.
“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower.
He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous.
You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.
He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips.
Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.
Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh.
“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists.
Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”
The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—
“Not like you.”
His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.
And neither does he.
Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you.
If you allow him to have you in that way—
He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his.
He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you.
So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep.
Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.
Another cop-out from a coward.
You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer.
“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth.
“Fuck— Okay.”
You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness.
The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him.
“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?”
Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm.
“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?”
“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head.
“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times.
“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.”
“Good girl.”
His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it.
Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.
“Oh, god. Mmm.”
Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you.
“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.
“Need more.”
“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?”
You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.
Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—
As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.
But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort.
His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.
“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?”
You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—
“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—
“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.
“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides.
“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”
You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again.
“Okay, you…you can move now.”
But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.
When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.
“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.
Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.
Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs.
“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”
Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.”
For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.
In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—
“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?”
Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need.
But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides.
So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.
Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips.
Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”
“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”
His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power—
“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”
Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.
“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way.
The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute.
Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.
You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.
Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh.
“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”
Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.
All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—
“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”
“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”
Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit.
And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting.
Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.
“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”
Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.
“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.
You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement.
And, God, you can feel him—
He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—
“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.
You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in.
His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water.
“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition.
When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses.
“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”
The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee.
Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him.
“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.
Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.
Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex.
The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention.
Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body.
The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—
The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum.
He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.
“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”
You only hum in response, deep in focus.
“Unh, unh, look at me.”
Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris.
But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—
He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.
“No, up here, pretty girl.”
Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.
“Are you sure you want this?”
As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly.
And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come—
“Yes! God, please. I need you…”
Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him.
“Okay.”
Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.
Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”
Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest.
His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.
“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace.
Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of.
Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes.
“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”
“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.
Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping.
His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—
And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—
“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.
Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier.
Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—
“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth.
“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.
Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.
He’s not strong enough—
“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you.
Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.
Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing.
Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—
Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more.
His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.
All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you.
“Ah, s-shit, baby— I—”
By the time you find your way out of the depths—crawling back to him—you register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms haven’t loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls.
Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at you—to memorize.
What he sees is exactly what he expected—
Something he could never forget.
Something he could never be normal about.
In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skin—he sees you.
Just you.
A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.
Like he’ll never live long enough to see you walk out of his room—his sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside you—he kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breath—he prays to you with selfishness in his heart.
“I felt something,” you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.
Ignoring the ache in his chest—the kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly die—he forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat.
“Well, yeah…. God, I hope so,” he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.
A small smile pulls at your lips. “No, I mean.… I mean— You said, um, earlier, you said…”
While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline.
“You said if I was gonna sleep with— If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I should…feel nothing with you.”
Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldn’t take place with him inside of you—
“Maybe we should—”
“No!” You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. “Please, don’t! Don’t— Don’t go.”
Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heart—
“Okay. Okay.” He nods, placating.
Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respond—
“What, uh, what did you feel?”
Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesn’t think you’re aware. Then—
“W-What— Um, did you…feel…anything?”
He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.
A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He can’t discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what he’s certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, that’s the one that stops for him—
“I don’t think it matters,” he mutters, avoiding your frown. “It’s— I’m not the one who lost their virginity.”
You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means you’re not letting him slip by. “Yes, it does.”
Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until he’s a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze.
“I just mean, it matters more how you felt. If you— If I made you comfortable. Doesn’t matter how I felt,” he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny day—
Because you’re looking at him like he’s eighteen again. Like he’s stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But there’s something else in your eyes—
Something that makes him feel almost mendable.
“No, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,” you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries you’ll feel it before he says it—
“But did you—”
“Yes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?”
“I feel like— I don’t want you…to…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head. “I feel like I wish you were mine,” he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. “And I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.”
In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay.
As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruit—
“Well, technically you suggested Chris,” you half shrug.
Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.
“Okay.” He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.
Your face falls. “No, I’m sorry! I— That was a joke! ‘M sorry, it was stupid—”
“Okay,” he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throat—
“Eddie, no! Don’t— I love you!” you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skin—the skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. He’s so selfish with you—
But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadn’t meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truth—
He was right.
He doesn’t leave you to explain yourself—doesn’t wait for you to quantify the secret.
“It’s okay,” he answers your worried gaze. “I told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, it’s all good.”
Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, he’ll start to believe it too.
But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face.
“I’m sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,” you huff, eyeing him like you can’t even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. “True, I didn’t mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. For…” you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddie’s heart, “years.”
And suddenly, he feels like he got his wish—
Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossed—
“I’ve—” you pause, then scoff. “Like, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how long—”
He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you most—
Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in stride—every bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.
“I don’t care,” he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time he’s missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detail—even the painful bits—
Even if just to hear you talk—
“Well, I do care,” he amends. “I just—”
You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.
“Not right now,” he drawls, unable to think past ‘I love you, too.’
A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao.
Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.
W.C: ~6.2k
TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).
Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)
Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading
One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction.
It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.
You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.
All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.
Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.
In fact, tonight you had a date.
A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.
The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.
After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.
Then, you heard it.
A faint gurgling.
You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.
The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?
You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened.
You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.
“Shit.” You breathed.
The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.
You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.
A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do.
So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.
Or…
Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing.
He answered on the third ring.
“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.
“No.” You inhaled.
“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.
When nothing came, he cleared his throat.
Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Um, my sink’s busted.”
“Your sink… is busted?”
“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
A moment of silence, then:
“You need me to fix it?”
Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.
“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”
“I’m on my way.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face.
Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.
You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.
It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen.
But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.
“Hi,” You said breathlessly.
Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.
“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”
You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.
“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”
“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”
You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.
He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking.
But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.
“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.
“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.
Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.
“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”
“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.
“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”
For the divorce.
Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—”
“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”
That was very unconvincing.
Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.
“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”
You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?
“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”
The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.
You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.
Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.
“You fixed it.” You blinked.
“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”
Without missing a beat, “You did.”
“…Right.”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”
“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him. “You’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”
You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”
Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”
“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”
“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”
“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.
Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.
You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.
“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”
Right, your date.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.
Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.
“I’m staying with you.”
Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”
“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”
Ex-husband.
You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”
Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”
“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”
Joel’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.
To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.
His voice was soft when he responded.
“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”
Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.
Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.
The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.
“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”
“My mom has always been bad with names!”
“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.
You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”
“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”
“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”
“He still callin’ me–?”
“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”
Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.
You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.
You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.
And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did.
God, you missed this.
“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.
You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.
“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents at the lake house.”
“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”
You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”
“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”
You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”
A beat.
“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.
A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”
The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.
And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.
“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.
But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you?
There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement.
Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.
No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving.
Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.
He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.
“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”
“Think about what?”
A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
“How things used to be.”
“Oh,”
A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.
And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.
You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.
Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.
All the time.
Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”
“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”
You held your breath.
Joel heaved a sigh.
“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”
“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.
He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.
And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.
This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.
“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.
Joel whispered back, “Always.”
“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.
“Do I what?”
“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?”
You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.
And you did.
“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.
You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.
Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”
“We did.”
“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.
His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”
Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.
Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.
Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first.
He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.
You held your breath.
Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.
“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”
Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.
“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”
His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.
“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”
His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.
“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”
He loves you.
Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.
“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.
Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.
Joel nodded.
“I never stopped.” He whispered.
Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years.
He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.
You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.
Shit. Was this even a good idea?
You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.
“Wait,” You panted.
His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.
“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.
“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”
Joel smiled softly at your words.
“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”
“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”
“After?” His eyebrows rose.
“After you fuck me.”
A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.
With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.
His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.
“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.
“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second.
“Might break the sink again.”
“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”
And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.
“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.
You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—
“How much was this dress?”
Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”
“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.
“A moderate amou—”
“Can I rip it off you?”
There it was.
In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.
You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face.
“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”
Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”
And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.
His eyes darkened.
You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.
You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.
“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.
Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”
“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”
With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.
“Joel!”
“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”
You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.
He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.
“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Don’t fucking tease me.”
And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie.
He was practically salivating, now.
“I’ll try not to, ma’am.”
Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.
Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had.
Fuck, you were gorgeous.
“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”
“You.” You breathed without a second thought.
“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”
“You.”
Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”
Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.
His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance.
Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—
“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”
He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.
You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.
After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.
“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.
He barely pulled away to look at you.
“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.
He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.
Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.
“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.
He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.
His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “Y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”
A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.
Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.
And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.
A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.
He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk.
“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.
“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.
Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.”
And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.
He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.
Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.
“Need somethin’, baby?”
“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.
“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.
“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.
“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers.
You heard yourself swallow.
Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.
He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.
“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.
And you very willingly obliged.
“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.
With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.
Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”
And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.
You gasped some variant of a plea.
Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.
“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside.
Deeper, deeper, deeper…
He winced. “Shit—there you go.”
When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.
Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.
“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours.
You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.
Joel got the message, though.
Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.
“Good. Feels so good.”
And, fuck, he did.
He felt amazing.
His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.
“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”
An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.
“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”
Dumbly, you shook your head.
“You, Joel.”
Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.
“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”
“You, Joel!”
Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.
You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.
Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.
“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.
“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”
With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.
Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.
And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.
“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.
“Yeah.” You exhaled.
He smiled against your lips.
“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”
You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.
He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.
“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.”
You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.
Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.
A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.
He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.
Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.
He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.
“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.
You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.
Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.
Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.
You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.
“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”
Joel was even more of a sight.
The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.
Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”
You could only respond in broken syllables.
“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”
He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.
“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.
If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.
You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.
As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.
“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.
You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.
His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.
Again. And again.
“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.
Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.
“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”
Not even a full second later, “Inside.”
“You sure?” He panted, starstruck.
“I have an IUD, just—please.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed.
And then he resumed his earlier pace.
He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.
After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.
His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.
Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.
“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.
And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.
“That was great, George.” You panted.
Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”
“Nope.”
He huffed out a chuckle.
Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.
A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.
You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.
Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.
“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.
“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”
He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.
You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.
Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.
“I won’t.”
And you meant it.
thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
janainaart
snowghoul
germansingergirl
jacobvanloon
