Summary: It’s your last year of college and you’re just trying to make it though. But what happens when Rafe Cameron sets his sights on you?
Warnings: Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader, 18+ NSFW, smut, HEAVY non-con/dub-con, drug use, possessive behavior, blackmail, manipulation, DARK. More to add. Read at your own risk.
Notes: this series will be dark but so so juicy! find me on ao3: TheFates I have it posted on there as well but that is the ONLY place where it'll be too.
I feel like boxer!rafe would be the kind of guy who would like drag you away from stores after a long day of you draining his wallet. (Smut!! Closer to the end!!)
And no, Rafe’s not an evil boyfriend, he’d buy you the world if he could. He’s just tired from his matches earlier that day, he’d went all out. Obviously, you had your own money, but why spend yours when you could spend his?
Rafe would’ve been patient through the first few stores, then you saw a thrift store (of course he let you in there, he had to), then you saw a designer shoe store, and you looked up at him all sweetly and innocent before dropping the fact that you’ve been wanting Miss Z’s since forever.
He looked up to the sky and exhaled as if he was looking for patience,”Seriously?”
And you nodded aggressively,”Yesyesyes!”
He looked at you, and sighed,”I really can’t say no can I?”
You grabbed his arm,”Nope!”
And he let you walk him there. You went straight to the Louboutin section, then got the shoes in your size—but wait—the Dior section looked good, so you browsed. Rafe ended up choosing one out for you, it was a pair of Adiorable slingback pumps.
You narrowed your eyes,”I thought you didn’t wanna come in here, Ray?”
He looked at you and shrugged,”Didn’t, but you’d just look good in these soo pshhh.”
Then you started tickling him, and he started tickling you back, and then he joked that he’d run out on you then you stopped…then hit his arm as your proof of winning. He just rolled his eyes.
After a quick snack at a cute bakery you said you had to try because well the cinnamon rolls looked good (Rafe was hungry so he went in there with joy), you stumbled across a boutique.
You weren’t really a reseller, you just wanted some stuff to inspire you on your next estate sale or Depop search for your own boutique. Rafe seemed to be distracted, so if you walked in there before he could see…then well he’d come find you and he’d have to pay.
But he saw and paused, and gave you a sideways glance and chuckled,”Seriously?”
You pretended not to hear him, already two steps to the door.
“Uh-uh. I love you, but not on my watch.”
In three long strides he caught up, grabbing you by the waist rom behind gently and picking you up and setting you back on track, well after kissing you silly of course.
You giggled,”Just one more!”
Rafe grabbed your face lightly with both hands and matched your tone of voice,”That’s what you said two stores ago, baby!”
“Walk.”
“Ray…”
“Walk.”
You rolled your eyes,”Fine.”
He stepped in beside you, draping an arm on your shoulder,”There’s always gonna be more shopping. How many things do you have waiting on that wishlist of yours?”
You thought for a second.
“I don’t know, I lost count.”
He nodded,”Perfext. I’ll buy all that. You give me the list and we go buy ‘em. But I gotta save my wallet. I have a chip coming up, and it’s big money.”
“Big money?”
“I could buy you the world and more, Y/n”
You kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear in a sultry tone,” You better win, buster.”
He inhaled sharply,”Don’t talk like that.”
You giggled,”What do you mean?”
“The voice.”
“What voice?”
He sighed,”Forget it.”
He opened the passenger side door, he tapped your ass softly. You turned around and stuck your tongue out. He went round the other side. You guys sat there.
Then you leaned over the console and whispered in his ear,”This voice, Rafe?”
He tossed his head back and ran his hand over his face,”Damn…”
The drive home was quiet, but the air between you still was heavy with tension. Rafe kept glancing over at you, cheeks a little flushed, one hand resting on your thigh like he needed the contact. That sultry whisper in his ear had clearly done its job.
By the time you got inside, he was already soft-eyed and pliant. You pushed him gently back against the closed door and kissed him slow and deep, tasting the faint salt of his post-fight exhaustion. He melted into it immediately, hands settling lightly on your waist instead of gripping hard.
“You’ve been so good to me today,” you murmured against his lips, sliding your hands under his sweatshirt to trace the ridges of his abs. “Carrying all my bags. Letting me drag you around. My big strong boxer… all tired and sweet for me now.”
Rafe let out a shaky breath, head tipping back against the door. “Baby…”
You tugged his sweatshirt off, kissing down his chest as you went. When you nipped lightly at his collarbone he whimpered—actually whimpered—and the sound went straight between your legs.
“Bedroom,” you said softly, taking his hand.
He followed without protest, letting you guide him. Once you had him sitting on the edge of the bed, you straddled his lap, cupping his face in both hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted, already breathing harder.
“Can I take care of you tonight?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.
He nodded quickly, cheeks pink. “Yeah… yeah, please.”
You kissed him again, slower this time, grinding gently in his lap while your fingers worked open his jeans. When you freed his cock, it was already leaking at the tip, flushed and heavy against his stomach. Rafe hissed when you wrapped your hand around him, stroking lazily.
“Feels so good,” he mumbled, hips twitching up into your fist. “Don’t tease me too much tonight, I’m already—”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
You pushed him back until he was lying down, then stripped the rest of his clothes off, followed by your own. Climbing back on top, you rubbed yourself along his length, coating him in your wetness. Rafe’s hands fisted the sheets, eyes fixed on where your bodies were almost joined.
“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking just a little. It was rare to hear him like this—needy, unguarded, completely at your mercy—and it made you ache.
You sank down onto him inch by inch, both of you moaning softly. Once he was fully inside, you stayed still for a moment, just feeling him throb, and leaned forward to kiss him again. Sweet, lingering kisses while you started rolling your hips in slow, deep circles.
Rafe’s head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat. “Fuck… you’re so warm. So tight. I love when you ride me like this.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Yeah? You like letting me use you after you’ve been such a good boy all day?”
He nodded frantically, hands sliding up to rest on your hips—not guiding, just holding on. You kept the pace languid and playful, grinding down every time he bottomed out, occasionally leaning down to suck little marks onto his chest and shoulders. Every soft moan and whimper he gave you was gold.
When you sat up again and started bouncing a little faster, his eyes fluttered shut.
“Look at me, baby,” you coaxed.
He did, gaze glassy and adoring. “Gonna cum soon if you keep doing that… feels too good.”
“Not yet,” you teased lightly, slowing down again until he was whining beneath you, hips chasing yours. “Want to play a little longer. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”
Rafe nodded, biting his lip hard. “I can… I will. For you.”
You rewarded him by reaching down to rub your clit while still moving on his cock, letting him watch. His breaths came quicker, chest rising and falling, but he stayed perfectly obedient, letting you set the pace.
Eventually you took pity on him, leaning down to kiss him messily as you rode him harder.
“Cum with me,” you whispered against his mouth.
Rafe’s arms wrapped around your back, holding you close as he finally let go—thick, warm pulses deep inside you while he moaned your name like a prayer. The feeling pushed you over the edge right after him, trembling on top of him as pleasure washed through you in soft, rolling waves.
You stayed like that for a long time afterward, still connected, trading lazy kisses and gentle touches. Rafe’s hands stroked up and down your spine, his voice sleepy and content when he finally spoke.
“Love you spoiling me sometimes too,” he admitted quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Especially after a day like today.”
You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done taking care of my tired boxer tonight.”
Summary: after losing Ellie to the fireflies Joel has lost his purpose. He finds a new one when he meets you.
Aka, Joel is obsessed with you being pregnant, whether you want to be or not.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Warnings: Warnings: Non-con, murder and canon typical violence, beatings as punishment, kidnapping, threats of SA, suicidal thoughts, suicide by clicker attempt, manipulation, use of fear as a weapon, breeding kink, pregnancy kink (Joel is insanely turned on by reader being pregnant), manipulation, forced marriage. Please let me know if I forgot anything! Reader is described as having boobs and a vagina and a bush but otherwise is a blank slate.
Your stepfather made an ill-advised wager with Arthur Shelby and when he lost the coin toss, you were are to be given to Arthur for the night. And you will be taken tonight. Just not by Arthur…
The next day, after claiming you himself, Tommy doesn't return you to your home in Small Heath to face the consequences of actions that weren't yours. He tells you he's keeping you hidden, to send a message to those in Small Heath who think that when you gamble with the Peaky Blinders, you don’t walk away unscathed.
Is that his only motive? Or could it be that he doesn't plan to let you go... ever?
Summary: a new neighbour moves in and changes everything.
Character: Frank Castle
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.
Part of the Trailer Park AU
Please leave a comment and reblog. Or send an anon ask! Always happy to hear from y'all. ♥️❤️
“Would you take this outside?” Your grandmother snaps.
She shoves the lawn chair so it tips. It’s half-folded, as far as she can get it on the rusty frame. It hits your toe and you swallow a squeak as you catch it. She tramps into the kitchen area and rips the carafe from the coffee maker.
“When’d ya make this, girly?” She sniffs it.
“A few minutes ago.” You say through a grunt as you drag the lawn chair across the floor.
“Don’t be scratchin’ anything,” she warns as she sloshes coffee into a cup.
“I won’t,” you struggle not to do just that as you angle to the door.
You slide the frame over the threshold and the corner hits the top step. Your grip loosens and the chair falls through your hand, half rolling down to the ground and crushing your foot again. You stamp down after it but not fast enough.
That man grabs it, lifting it easily. You stand up straight and stare at him. He opens it easily and sets it on the grass where the imprint of the feet already flatten the grass.
“Oh, uh, thank you. You didn’t…mm.” Your voice and courage fizzle out.
“Nah, you can’t be fallin’ down after it,” he pushes the arms down to make sure it’s steady. “There y’are. Your throne.” He stands and frames his belt with his hands. “I got a spare one if you need. Not so crooked.”
“Erm, no, it’s…”
“Girly,” Your grandmother jabs your back with her fingertip. “Make a great wall, don’t ya?”
You shuffle down the steps and out of her way. She descends as she slurps her coffee. She clears her throat as she wipes her lips.
“Who’re you?” She growls at the man without hesitation.
“Just moved in.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb.
“Mm.” He sits and the chair jerks under her weight as the frame releases further. She extends her arm to keep her coffee from spilling. “Well, you don’t let your weeds grow over my grass and park that rig on your own.”
He glances over his shoulder at his truck. “Not a problem.” He says. “Frank.”
She huffs. She takes another messy gulp of coffee. “Magdaline.”
“And your daughter?” He asks.
She snorts. “You don’t got the face to be charming. Thats–” She introduces you.
The man, Frank, snorts. “Heh. Nah. Ma always said I had the hide and the head of a mastiff.”
“Face even a mother can’t love.” Your grandma jeers.
Frank doesn’t flinch. If it was you, you might cry. She never holds back what she’s really thinking.
“Well, I was hopin’ to clean up this place.” He turns to look at his trailer.
“Ones before you were pigs,” she scowls.
“Ah, looks like.” He faces her again. She doesn’t notice as he looks past her, to you. “Was likin’ the look of your flowers. Maybe’ll get some of my own. But ya know, I could build ya up a few flower boxes. Protect em, give em a bit of show. Put some mesh over the soil and squirrels won’t eat the bulbs.” He points to the garden as he talks.
“Uh huh. Why’d you do all that?” She looks into her cup.
“Cause I’m doin’ is anyway and I got the stuff to.” He shrugs. “If you don’t want em, saw a lady down the row was planting some new stuff–”
“Bess? Nah, I’ll take em.” She interjects. “Have the girl help bring em over.”
“Sure. Uh…” he drawls your name. It’s like gravel on his tongue. “You any good at painting? They’ll need a good coat. Less you ladies are busy? Day in the sun?”
“Tryna enjoy some coffee.” Your grandma snarls and turns her cup over the side of the chair to dump the rest. “Can’t even do that.”
“Got some of that too. Dark roast. And a press.” He offers. “You learn to make any coffee good in the field.”
Your grandma sucks her teeth. “You military.”
“Semper fi.” He salutes.
“Would known.”
He drops his hands to his hips again. “Well, I’m gonna get started. If ya change your mind, I’ll be around.” He backs up on one heel, stops, then gestures to you. “Uh, if you wanna help with the paintin’, wouldn’t mind.”
He turns and stalks away. Your grandma shoves the cup at you. “Make a new pot, girl.”
You take the mug and go inside. You put on a new pot. As you wait for it to brew, you pace and near the window. Frank breaks apart an old crate with his hands. You watch him curiously.
He stacks the slats of wood near the side of his trailer. As he stands straight, he catches your eye. You frown and reach for the curtain. He raises his palm. He approaches.
“Hey, you hidin’?” He says.
You shake your head.
“I scare ya?”
You can’t move or say a thing. You just stare.
“I hung up the dragonfly. Didn’t know if ya’d wanna see. Right up on the door.” He looks up at you. It’s the only time you’ll be taller than him.
“Oh, okay. That’s… nice.” You eke out.
He nods and runs his hand over his cheeks and jaw. “I don’t mean to pressure you none, just seems like you could get out. So… I got some paint and stuff. Maybe you could put some little dragon flies on the boxes?”
“I… I don’t know,” you hug yourself. “I… It’s nice of you to… do that.” You lower your head and speak to your chest.
He steps across the invisible border between lots. He stands right beneath the window.
“You’re quiet, sug. Can’t hear ya.”
You chew your lip and look at him, your head still tilted down. You sway nervously. “Sorry,” you cheep. “I don’t mean to…” you trail off again. You squeeze your arms tight and notice his eyes flick over to the tension in your grip. “I’m making coffee. I’ll bring you a cup.”
“That’s real nice of ya.” He says.
You nod. “It might not be very… good.”
“Mm, maybe when you come out, I’ll be able to hear ya right.” He reaches to tap on the window’s frame. “Always welcome, sug. Whatever you got for me.”
s1!RAFE . . still trying to keep that rich boy/perfect guy facade. so, i think he’d be pretty performative in his dirty talk to hide the mess underneath.
i.e. “you’re so fucking lucky to have me fucking you.”
s1!RAFE . . pulls hair to make you look at him in his face, pins you down to prove you’re not better than him at all—not a chance. i genuinely don’t think, he’d be submissive at all in this season.
kinks: light choking, (hand over your throat) spanking, angry sex, and praising with a mix of degrading.
favorite position: probably missionary, he definitely loves watching people and how they react. he thrives off of seeing people react, so watching you visibly struggle with his cock would make his day. he’d probably also have your wrists pinned as well, he likes control.
s2!RAFE . . would be intense and full of his mood swings due to the coke. i.e. one second he’d be fucking you like you’re the only thing that’s keeping him together and then he’s fucking you like he’s punishing you.
s2!RAFE . . talks way more than S1!rafe, but it’s not behind the persona he hides behind. it’s possessive, dark, and filthy.
i.e. “you’re mine, please don’t go” or “you’re mine, you hear me?” and he’d grab your face to make sure you nod.
kinks: ownership, (i hope this exists) biting, hair pulling, (that actually hurts) slapping, i think any rough kink in general would fit S2!rafe.
favorite position: doggy or against the wall. he’s still thriving on power and control.
s2!RAFE . . would possibly do aftercare, when he does it’s not cute, it’s messy. he’ll jump from one thing to another and then lay down next you, holding you tightly while his leg bounces with adrenaline, would probably apologize for being too rough inside you.
s3!RAFE . . would be possessive and obsessive. i genuinely don’t think there would be a single time while having sex with him is when he’d let you go or not have his hands on you.
s3!RAFE . . would (maybe) have a breeding talk kink, even if he’s not serious.
i.e. “you’re gonna carry my baby whether you like it or not.”
i.e. “gonna knock you up tonight, baby, make you swell with my kid”
s3!RAFE . . would manhandle the fuck out of you; picking you up, flipping you around, fucking you in dangerous or semi public(ish) places because the risk turns him on. he’s way more ‘off the rails’ in this season.
s3!RAFE . . would definitely edge you for hours, until you cry type of edging. not because he gets off doing it, but because he’s terrified of the moment it ends and reality comes back to him.
kinks: breeding talk, restraints, making you look at him the whole time, maybe some knife play/fear play if you’re both fucking insane.
s4!RAFE . . is his ‘reformed’ but he’s still completely fucked up era.
s4!RAFE . . is a mix of S1 cockiness, S3 darkness with moments of genuine (even if it’s toxic) affection.
s4!RAFE . . dirty talk would be possessive at it’s all time high.
i.e. “don’t ever fucking leave me” or “please don’t go”
s4!RAFE . . is more attentive in this season, so when it comes to your pleasure, he’d probably take care of you sexually but also get selfish as hell when he gets lost in it.
s4!RAFE . . would love slow, deep, eye contact sex when he’s in a rare soft mood, then totally flip the switch and rails you till you feel like you can’t breathe because he’s scared you’ll leave.
s4!RAFE . . would probably do aftercare! comparing to S2!RAFE his aftercare improves..just slightly. he’ll actually hold you and stroke your hair while his brain is still racing from other shit.
kinks: breeding/creampie, (i don’t think he’d actually be serious with this, probably just saying this because he doesn’t want you to leave) mix of praise and degrading, eye contact, emotional intensity, (semi) public sex, restraints, manhandling, ownership.
favorite position: missionary, (solely for eye contact and his breeding talk) prone bone, you on top.
notes. please be nice to me if you don’t agree, i’m only on season 2. the head cannons from season 3 and above is from my friend! another thing, thank you guys so much for 600 followers, i genuinely appreciate you all so much. what should i do for everyone?
I love how some fics are called shit like "They Only Shoot The Birds Who Cannot Sing" and it's like the most insane porn you're ever read and then some fics are called Spit On Me and it's 18,000 words of the most achingly id-scratching prose you've ever read and they're both. They're both so fucking good. thank God for fanfiction.
people who comment on fics just to say that they are re-reading and still cried/felt emotions/loved it are the greatest people on earth and should be given a thousand dollars.
addition: people who comment on fics to say that they are not even in this fandom and didn’t know the characters at all but read it anyway and loved it are also the greatest people on earth and should also be given a thousand dollars.
Part man, part beast, Joel Miller lives in solitude a few miles away from Jackson. At fifty-seven years old and without a Soulbond, Joel can't coexist with others— a man without his mate crazed by time and age. Until the day he sees her, the girl with tangerine blossoms in her hair and a laugh that echoes through the trees.
So, he tracks her down. Hunts her through the woods, and brings home a girl that is not the wilting flower he expects.
click here to join the taglist. / click here for my main masterlist.
story warnings: feral!joel, reader is afab and goes by she/her, soulmates au, kidnapping, culty vibes, dual pov, big age gap (reader's early 20s and joel's late 50s), canon-typical violence, gore, kind of hunter/prey vibes, everyone's unstable, eventual smut, light bdsm, plus-sized reader, somewhat-minor character death, no y/n, lowkey stockholm syndrome, toxic relationship, loss of virginity, daddy kink, joel and reader match each other's freak, more specific warnings for each chapter.
rating: +18.
fox says: had a mental breakdown, wrote this, bon appetit! no but for real this took me literally five tries (and around four months) of writing several chapters and then deleting it all to get the character voices and the plot the way i wanted to, i was *this close* to giving up on this story entirely but here we are! this is a soulmate au which is a very familiar trope but in case you don't know: people are born with the first words their soulmate says to them written somewhere in their bodies; in this particular version, people go a little bonkers if they don't find their soulmate early enough, as they are truly two halves of the same soul.
project hail mary is like i'll make you believe that friendship will save the world. i'll make you remember that our society rests on the backs of teachers and scientists. i'll make you see that even the most cowardly can be brave. i'll make you horny for sandra huller. thank you greatest scifi film of the last 10 years
Summary | Tommy has always been the loyal and doting boyfriend, the literal man of your dreams. Ready to take things to the next step, you soon find that Tommy is unable to have children. A family is all you've ever wanted, and neither of you are going to let this get in your way. Enter Joel, dark and mysterious and willing to do anything for his little brother, including fucking his girlfriend to get her pregnant. That's what brothers are for, right?
Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader & Tommy Miller x F!Reader
Warnings | Like, I literally don't even know anymore. Tommy is a cuck in this one, Joel is a dirty talking menace. Pre/No Outbreak AU. Talk of infertility, mention of consuming alcohol, Breeding kink, girlfriend sharing, masterbation (M), oral (F receiving), unprotected PiV sex, creampie, plenty of dirty talk, praise kink.
Word Count | 4.2k
Authors Note | I just want to shoutout the anon who left this request in my inbox. It rotted my brain and now we're here. Special shoutout to the JFC - specifically @sinsofsummers for telling me I could do this and @dinsdjrn and @cavillscurls for their help with some of the dialogue here. This is just filth. Pure unadulterated filth. Enjoy.
That damn piece of paper was haunting you, even from its place deep in the drawer where Tommy had stuffed it when he’d opened it and showed you. Its words telling you what you’d both anticipated but had wanted to prove wrong. Tommy. Infertile. Dashing those hopes of your beautiful babies with thick curls and big, beautiful eyes. He’d taken it hard, like it was an abject failure of his own manhood – the one thing he should be able to do beyond anything else, give you the child you so desperately yearned for, he couldn’t.
There was a week of tension, where you treaded on eggshells, trying not to bring it up, despite desperately wanting to discuss other options. Then came his acceptance of his emotions, late at night, curled up behind you in bed. It started with a light sniffle, then you could feel his tears drip onto the skin of your shoulders, then the whole-body sobs as he held you, told you he was sorry. You’d turned in his arms, wrapped your arms around his neck and held him, whispering softly that it was okay, that it didn’t matter, that you had options. You could still have a family, just perhaps not in the traditional sense.
Then came the weeks of appointments. You’d met with an adoption agency first. They’d talked you through the application process, what they expected of you, talked about the type of family you want, but Tommy had been adamantly against it for your first child. He wanted something borne of your blood, of your flesh, even if it wasn’t his that joined it.
Then there were the medical appointments talk of special drugs Tommy could take, or the possibility of IVF, even a sperm donor. It had started to look like these could be an option until the cost was placed in front of you. There was no way either of you could afford it, not even together, not even if you sold the house for something smaller. You’d reached the end of the line with no answers and the thought that you’d have to resign yourself to being childless.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? You could take all the love you’d wrapped up for a baby and put it somewhere else. You could love your niece Sarah harder, give some of it to the children you worked with each day at the school – you didn’t need to be a mother to feel complete. The longer you sat with it though, the more you felt something missing. The end of the line was frustrating and lonely. That was, until Tommy came up with an alternative.
It's late on a Thursday evening. You’ve just cleaned up from dinner and you’re lounging on the couch with Tommy’s arms wrapped around you, your head resting on one of his shoulders.
“Can I ask you somethin’?” He muses above, settling his lips on the crown of your head.
“Always.” You squeeze the hand you’re resting on his thigh.
“What if we ask Joel?”
“To fix the back steps?” You ask, referencing the rotting steps that had needed sorting since winter cleared, “Can’t you just do it yourself?”
“No sugar,” He clears his throat, “Y’know what, forget I said anythin’.”
“Tommy,” You grumble, pushing yourself off his shoulder, you rest an arm across the back of the couch where he’s sitting, “You can’t just say that and not elaborate.”
He’s nervous. You can see the bouncing of his knee, something you’d clocked was a nervous habit on your first date. He’s also running a hand along the back of his neck, exactly what he always does when he’s got to say something difficult. You can also see the start of prickles of sweat on his brow. He’s not just nervous, he’s uncomfortable. You rest a hand on his shoulder, the way he’d taught you to do it when you’d first met, when he was still grappling with the anxiety and PTSD of being a veteran.
“I’m worried I’m gonna scare you, sugar.”
You run a hand through his thick head of curls, “Tommy, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise to just hear me out before freaking out, okay?”
You stick your pinky up, motioning for him to join his own with yours, “Pinky swear, Tommy Miller.”
“What if we ask Joel, you know….” He trails off, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he searches for the words he needs, “Fuck, I don’t even know how to say it.”
“Just take a deep breath and say it all at once.”
He takes a deep breath in like you instructed, blowing it out through his mouth, “What if we ask Joel to help with gettin’ you pregnant?”
It takes a minute for what he’s said to properly sink it. Your first train of thought, stupidly, is that Joel is a carpenter, not a doctor, so there’s no possible way he’s qualified to help with this. Then it washes over you all at once. Heat prickling at your cheeks, breath hitching in your throat, you think you might be sick.
“You want me to sleep with your brother?” You ask, tone coming out far more accusatory than intended, you soften your expression and squeeze his shoulder when you notice how hurt he looks.
“Well, it certainly ain’t my first option, or the second and third for that matter,” He sighs, “Look, it was stupid, forget I asked.”
He moves to get up from the couch, but you’re dragging him back down, fingers gripped around his wrist, “It’s not stupid Tommy, but you gotta help me understand how this is an option.”
He’s looking at you now, big brown eyes with a hint of sadness staring into your own. He cups your cheek in one of his palms, “I know how bad you want this sugar, how much you want a family,” He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your lips, “And I’m sorry I can’t give that to you, sorry we can’t afford the fancy drugs that would make this easier,” He sighs deeply, “The only option we have is to do somethin’ like this, and if I’m gonna let another man touch you, I want it to be someone I trust, and he’s the only person I would ever trust with this,” He rubs a hand over his face, “Least I know it might have a chance of lookin’ somethin’ like me too, instead of goddamn Steven from Ohio or whoever they’d use.”
You feel your gut twist when he speaks. This absolutely batshit crazy idea is actually coming from an incredible place of care. He knows you want a child; lord knows you were trying your hardest together to make it happen before that damn piece of paper had to go and ruin it all.
“You wouldn’t find it weird, knowing I’d had sex with your brother?”
“Well, it doesn’t mean anythin’, does it baby?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” You shrug, it was just a means to an end, “You think he’ll agree?”
“I don’t know baby,” He answers honestly, wrapping you back into his arms, “I’ll take him out this weekend, ask him and see what he thinks.”
There’s still something here that doesn’t sit right with you. Sure, it makes sense, and of all the people who you could choose for yourself you’d probably have settled on Joel too. Stoic and sensible Joel, brooding and grumpy Joel. He’d always been kind, had welcomed you into the family with open arms, praised you multiple times for finally keeping his brother on the straight and narrow. He was a good man, loved his little girl with all his heart, would never hurt a hair on your head, but you were still uncomfortable.
“If he does agree,” You shift nervously on the couch, “I want you to be there.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“No, of course I trust him Tommy,” You sigh, “I’d just feel more comfortable if you were there.”
“Anythin’ for you, sugar.”
It’s early on Sunday morning when Tommy rolls into bed, 3am to be exact, smelling of whiskey to tell you he’s finally asked Joel to help you. He slinks onto bed and wraps his arms around your waist, kissing over your neck and down your shoulder to wake you. When you finally grumble and admit you’re very muchawake now, with his hand gripping your hip, he’s speaking in a hushed whisper.
“He said yes.”
“He take much convincing?” You ask, shuffling around in his arms so you’re facing him, his face gripped in your palms.
“He was wary, thought I’d lost my mind for a good few minutes,” Tommy leans forward, pressing a kiss to your lips, “Told him it was my idea and you’d thought the same, but he came around, think he knows how much we both want this.”
A part of you had thought he’d say no. That there was no way that stoic, sensible Joel would ever consider sleeping with his brother’s girlfriend in order to knock her up, but he’d proved himself a man of many surprises before. As Tommy presses kisses to your lips and settles you both to sleep, there’s the bubbling of nerves in your belly, of doubt. Are you really doing the right thing? Is this going to make the dynamic between the three of you awkward as hell? Sure, you’re all grown adults and this is just a means to an end, but there’s still the unknown of what comes after.
Tommy goes out that morning and brings back a bag, filled with ovulation tests and, perhaps a little prematurely, pregnancy tests. You do one of the ovulation tests that morning and as expected, the screen shows a sad face, gratefully showing you that you still have time to prepare for what you’re going to do. Three days later when you do the test again, there’s a grinning happy face, almost taunting you that it’s time to face the music. You show the test to Tommy, who places a palm on the back of your head, bringing your forehead to his lips. He murmurs that he’ll tell Joel, and that’s how not even twenty-four hours later, it really is time to bite the bullet.
It's late, Joel having insisted that he needed to make sure Sarah was settled and asleep before he came over. You’re sitting at the foot of the bed, legs dangling aimlessly whilst you wait. You really had no idea how this was going to play out, so you’d dressed yourself in a simple cotton nightdress, silk robe tied around your middle for extra coverage. There was an empty whiskey tumbler on the nightstand. You’d had three, maybe four? Enough to take the edge off, but not too much that you weren’t aware of what was happening.
You hear the doorbell chime and then Tommy’s heavy footsteps downstairs as he opens the door. You can hear his voice and Joel’s mingling together, but you can’t decipher what either are saying. You probably don’t want too either. What could two brothers’ possibly have to say to each other when one is getting ready to sleep with the others girlfriend? You listen to them talk for a bit before you can hear two sets of feet ascending the stairs. You stand from the bed, wrapping your arms around yourself for another layer of comfort when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!” You call, bouncing nervously from foot to foot.
The door swings open and Joel is stood there, dressed in his usual attire, dark wash jeans and a black t-shirt, work boots obviously discarded downstairs, Tommy knew you hated people tracking dirt into the house. He takes a moment to take the sight of you in and you think you must look ridiculous, silk robe making way to bare legs – it had seemed like such a good idea at the time, he could just push the material up, do what he needed to do and be gone, but now you wonder if it looks like you’re trying to seduce him.
“Hey sweetheart,” Joel’s voice is soft and when you look into his eyes, they are too, and it does put you at some ease, “C’mere.” He’s motioning for you to step closer, opening his arms so he can pull you into a hug.
You’ve hugged Joel hundreds of times before this, in much the same way. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders, the other squeezing into the middle of your back. It’s usually friendly, meaningless really, but when you take in the press of his broad frame, you can’t help but realise you’re going to know him far more intimately than you’d ever imagined by the end of the night.
He releases you and you’re semi-aware that Tommy has slunk into the room behind his brother, he’s leaning against the wall as he watches Joel take hold of your hand, guiding you back to sit on the bed where you had been before. God, you think, he’s not wasting his time, he wants this to be over just as much as I do. You look up at his broad frame towering over you, if this was anyone else, you’d be intimidated, but he’s still got that soft look to his brown eyes. He shocks you next, cupping your jaw in his hand and running his calloused thumb over your bottom lip.
He turns his head to Tommy, “You wanna tell me what she likes?”
Oh. Oh. You’d expected something much more clinical than this. You’d never imagined he’d work to make sure you enjoyed it. You also turn your head in Tommy’s direction. He’s still leant against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other with his arms crossed.
“She likes getting her pussy eaten, don’t you baby?”
Joel is gently coaxing your face back to look at him, staring directly into your eyes, “That right, darlin’?” You look up at him as you nod, mouth open a little in shock, “Wanna make sure you enjoy this,” He’s saying, “Gonna take real good care of you.”
Then, he’s dropping to his knees at the front of the bed, shifting so your legs are draped over his wide shoulders. Whilst Joel is focused on kissing trails from your knee, slowly up the expanse of your thigh, you look to Tommy, who has moved from the wall to sit in the small chair in the corner of the room that you would usually use to read in. He gives you a nod and a small smile, silently telling you to enjoy yourself. Your turn your attention back to Joel between your legs, who has slowly hitched up the cotton of your nightdress to pool at your hips, exposing your pussy to him.
You can feel his hot breath skittering across your skin and there’s an anticipation building that you hadn’t expected. You’re moving your hips, almost subconsciously, to chase the relief you know his mouth was about to bring. Joel has his big palms on your hips then, holding you steady before he’s licking up the length of your pussy, tongue dipping ever so gently between your folds to find your clit. You let out a shaky breath that you hadn’t noticed you were even holding in, then Joel is moving again, tongue dipping into the entrance of your pussy, licking all the way up again before he’s laser focused on your clit.
Your hands instinctively rake through his hair, gripping the strands between your fingers to keep him in place as he uses the tip of his tongue to run tight, wet circles to your bundle of nerves. You’re propping yourself up with a hand on the mattress behind you whilst the other keeps its place locking in Joel’s hair. Then, you’re actually grinding your pussy into his mouth, desperate for more but scared to ask for it.
“It’s okay baby,” You hear Tommy speak from his place on the chair, “We want you to feel good, don’t be shy about askin’.”
You look down between your thighs and see Joel looking up at you, mouth still latched to your aching pussy, “Joel,” You groan, “Fingers, please.”
“So polite, darlin’.” He murmurs against your skin before he’s doing as you asked.
He’s still showering your clit with attention, the sounds of his literal slurping doing nothing to stop the flush of arousal you’re feeling right now, as he pushes two of his thick fingers inside your slick cunt. You don’t know what you’d expected of Joel in this kind of scenario, perpetually single Joel, who never really seemed interested in anyone. You knew now, as he was curling those fingers inside of you, pressing into the spot that had you crying out and gripping his hair tighter than ever, that it wasn’t because of his abilities that he was single.
“Fuck, holy shit Joel, I think….”
“You gonna come for him baby?” You hear Tommy ask from the corner of the room.
“I think…” You let out a sharp cry, “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t. He keeps thrusting his fingers into your pussy, tongue still running those tight circles over your bud, but now he latches his lips around it and sucks, actually sucks at your clit. You’re lost. Your elbow buckles and you collapse on your back onto the bed, crying out a string of expletives as Joel works you through your high. Pleasure has burst across your skin, finding every single possible nerve ending and setting you on fire, your thighs are gripping his face as you ride out the last of the shuddering aftershocks on his fingers, pussy walls fluttering around them as you try and catch your breath.
You can feel Joel recoiling from between your thighs. You can hear the sound of him undoing his belt and then it clattering to the floor. You use your weak arms to push yourself up the length of the bed, head settling in the pile of pillows at the top. You turn your face to Tommy and gasp, hunger igniting in your belly at what you see. Somewhere in the middle of Joel shattering your world between your thighs, Tommy has shucked his jeans and underwear down just enough to free his cock. He’s using his fist to work himself in slow strokes at the sight of you.
You can feel Joel’s body clambering onto the mattress with you, settling between your thighs with his wide hips spreading your legs an obscene amount to accommodate him. He’s taking hold of your jaw in his hand, dragging your attention back to his face, “You’re fuckin’ me tonight pretty girl,” He growls, “Eyes on me.”
It isn’t a torturous job by any means. Joel is weathered, his skin holding the early sign of wrinkles at his eyes, beard starting to grey, but you can’t deny that he’s handsome. Especially when he’s looking at you with eyes that are begging to devour you. He sits back on his knees, taking hold of the belt that is keeping your robe shut across your body to undo the loose knot you’d tied in it. He’s dragging you up by a wrist just far enough to shuck the material from your shoulders, laying you back down to play with the straps of your nightdress.
“Can I undress you properly, darlin’?” He asks.
You gulp. Finally noticing that he’s stripped to just his boxers, outline of his incredibly hard cock visible when you let your eyes drag down that far.
“Go on baby,” Tommy encourages from across the room, “Let him see how beautiful you are.”
Your eyes are back to holding court with Joel’s own and you nod. He’s pulling you up by the wrist again, sitting you up so he can drag that final bit of material off your body. You lie back down and watch as his eyes drag over every single inch of your skin.
“Pretty as a fuckin’ picture.”
He’s got those wide palms dragging down the curves of your sides, holding you in place to just watch you for a second before he’s hooking his thumbs into his underwear and dragging them down his thighs, freeing his cock. He’s fisting himself a few times before he hooks your knees over his arms and slides himself into your waiting cunt.
It’s all you can do to let out a high-pitched moan at the intrusion, but fuck he feels good. You look up at his face, eyes closed and breathing deeply as he stills inside you once he’d buried in you to the hilt.
“So fucking tight, darlin’,” He groans as he pulls himself almost all the way out before starting the long, torturous thrust back inside you, “So fuckin’ perfect, ain’t ya?”
“Fuck Joel,” You throw your head back into the pillow, “Feel so good inside me.”
He’s picking up the pace now, thrusting into you in earnest now. The angle he’s got you folded into means his cock in brushing that fucking spot inside you that is driving you crazy, raising goosebumps and setting you on fire, drawing high-pitched whines from your throat whenever he finds it.
“Touch yourself baby,” You hear Tommy’s throaty request, you don’t dare look at him for fear of the sight of him finishing you off, “Joel’s gonna want you to come on his cock, so show him what a good girl you can be.”
Joel is already circling your wrist with his hand, dragging your fingers to your pussy as he watches where his cock disappears inside you. Your own movements are sloppy but the slick that Joel’s mouth has dragged from you make the movement of circles on your own engorged and sensitive clit easy. It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm to hit you, clenching your pussy around Joel’s hard cock which hasn’t let up for a single second since he started pounding into you.
“She’s so fuckin’ pretty, Tommy,” Joel’s voice is low and husky above you, almost desperately so, “So fuckin’ pretty when she comes like that.”
“Don’t I know it, brother.” You hear his strangled reply.
Joel is all of a sudden flipping you on the bed, your legs straddling his hips, palms planted on his chest to steady yourself.
“Take what you want darlin’,” He’s groaning, “Ride my cock and knock yourself up.”
You do just that, grinding your hips backwards and forwards on his cock with your fingers digging halfmoon shapes into the meat of his chest as you lean forward, bouncing on his cock in earnest.
His palms are gripping the globes of your ass, knees coming up to rest on your bare skin as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your thrusts halfway. The sounds of your skin slapping together is obscene but oh so delicious.
“You like when my brother fucks you like that?” Tommy’s deep voice draws your attention to him, he’s still got his cock in his hand but he’s thrusting up into it and you can tell just by the look on his face that he’s close.
You look him dead in the eyes, breathy moan falling from your lips when you say, “I fucking love it, Tommy.”
It all happens at once. Tommy is moaning and you can see him start to spill across his hand. Then Joel is gripping your hips, stilling your movements as you feel him start to come inside you, filling you up with his cum, your name falling from his mouth with a tangle of expletives built in for good measure.
“Fuckin’ take it, pretty girl.” Joel is growling from beneath you, pushing his cock impossibly deep inside you like he’s begging your pussy to soak it all up, to get it to take.
The room is silent save for the sounds of the three of you trying to catch your breath. You collapse, somewhat unceremoniously off Joel’s body and onto the mattress, placing an arm over your eyes to try and calm yourself down. Why the fuck was that so hot? Is all you can think. You’re only semi-aware of him shifting and gathering his things, only semi-aware of Tommy cleaning his hand off on his jeans to re-dress himself. You’re almost asleep when you feel the press of a kiss to your cheek, opening your eyes to find it was in fact Joel who did it, thumb running soothing circles across the skin of your hip.
“Thank you.” You say meekly, reaching up to cup his face in your palm.
“My pleasure, darlin’,” He smiles down at you, “I hope it helps.”
Then he’s gone, following Tommy out of the bedroom and back down the stairs. You can, once again hear their muted voices, but this time, instead of setting you on edge, it lulls you to sleep. By the time Tommy comes back, climbs into bed and spoons you from behind, you’re almost asleep.
“Did so fuckin’ good for me baby,” He murmurs into your ear, “So fuckin’ proud of you.”
Through the haze of sleep taking over you, you manage to mumble out, “Hope it works.”
He chuckles, his body shaking your own where he has you wrapped in his embrace, “Me too baby, me too.”
Within minutes you’re asleep. So asleep that you don’t feel his hand resting above your womb, silently praying that sooner, rather than later, he’s going to start feeling you swell there. Silently thanking the good lord for giving him such an understanding brother and a girl willing to do anything for him.
summary: Getting lost at midnight in the middle of nowhere doesn't sound too good. Neither does the shitty engine of your beat-up truck that decides to stop working, very conveniently, near an auto shop. Joel, the mechanic, insists on taking a look despite the shop being already closed. But after what you saw in the back room and with no money to pay, trusting him with your truck might be a very bad idea.
warnings: no outbreak AU, unspecified age gap, dirty pervert joel, masturbation, slight voyeurism (as much as she wants to deny it, reader is a freak), trading sex for a service, protected piv, fingering, spanking, choking, cum eating, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, alcohol & smoking, banter, teasing, no descriptions of reader's appearance, no use of y/n (if anything is missing please don't hesitate to tell me!!)
word count: 7.1k
a/n: went down the rabbit hole of sleazy!joel and i just had to write something for this filthy man 🌝 i blame the amazing fics of @littledes1re for the shit i just wrote girl i swear you put cocaine in your writing or smth i'm ADDICTED
No, no, no.
"Fucking piece of shit-"
Yeah, cursing at the damn truck would definitely make it move forward. That's clearly how cars work, throw in some bitchy whining and the engine will magically stop the death rattle it's currently making.
"Come on, come on, come on.." you mutter, gripping the wheel until your fingers go numb. "Don’t do this to me, not now."
Maybe you should call someone for help, ask them to come pick you up.
Sure, great idea. If you actually had cell service. Maybe you could find a phone booth somewhere. Even then… what would you say to anyone?
Sorry for calling in the middle of the night, could you come pick me up, please? Where? Oh, right. I have no fucking clue where the hell I am.
The engine gives a pathetic wheeze, almost as if it's mocking you, then goes silent again. You sit there for a second, debating whether to cry, scream, or just accept your fate.
That’s when you see it: a dim rectangle of light in the distance, a little oasis against the dark.
An auto shop. Closed, almost certainly. But the lights are on. Maybe someone is still there, someone who could at least tell you where you are if they can't fix your truck.
Not that you had any money to pay for it, anyway.
After many frustrated groans and fists slamming on the dashboard, you somehow managed to keep the engine alive just long enough to pull up to the door. The "CLOSED" sign stared back at you, but the dim glow of the shop promised hope, or maybe someone who could help you.
You exhale, gripping the steering wheel as the truck rolls to a stop, grateful it held together for just this long.
Just by looking through the dusty window, you can tell there's no one there, the place is empty. Still, you push the shop door open, the little bell above it giving a tired jingle.
"Hello?" you call out, stepping inside. "Anyone here?"
The front area is completely empty. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off tool cabinets and a grease-stained counter. The place smells like oil and metal and stale beer, just what you'd expect from an isolated auto shop. Somewhere deeper in the building, something shifts, the noise drawing your attention.
So someone is here.
"Hello?" you try again, louder this time.
Still nothing, just a muffled sound from the back.
You hesitate for a moment before walking towards it, footsteps echoing softly in the quiet building. The door at the end of the hall is cracked open, light spilling through the gap.
You start hearing sounds that grow louder with every step you take. Muffled groans that lure you closer to the source, heavy breathing, a lewd sound you'd recognize anywhere. The slick, sloppy twap of skin meeting skin in uneven, rapid claps.
You should knock, you know that.
But you don't.
Instead, you glance through the opening, eager to see who's making those wet, obscene sounds.
It's a man, probably in his fifties, if you had to guess. He's leaning back in a worn office chair, the wheels squeaking faintly under his weight. He's wearing a dirty short-sleeved button-down littered with oil and sweat stains. The top buttons are undone, revealing a patch of tanned skin, prickly dark hairs curling across his chest.
There's a name tag pinned under the chest pocket of his shirt, part of what you assume is supposed to be his work uniform. You can't quite make out the letters on it, but right now you don't really care to learn his name.
The sight in front of you is far more interesting.
The dim light casts lines over his arms, highlighting the flex of muscle beneath sweat-streaked skin.
In his left hand he's clutching a Penthouse magazine, the damn thing is probably older than you by the looks of it.
The cover is crumpled, the image of a pretty blonde woman sprawled across the front with her legs spread eagle, staring out with a sultry, inviting gaze. The gloss has worn thin at the folds. Many of the pages are dog-eared and surely stuck together, some edges warped from years of repeated use.
But you're not interested in the pretty lady on the cover either, your gaze is fixed somewhere else. On the source of the sounds you've heard earlier, to be more precise.
His right hand is wrapped around the girthy length of his cock, stroking it leisurely.
You squint, taking in the movement of his calloused palm sliding up and down, from the pinkish tip, slick with small white drops, down along the pulsing vein on the underside, all the way to the base. Coarse hair traces a thin line up to his bulging belly, disappearing beneath that filthy shirt of his, and down over thick thighs left bare by the denim pushed to his knees.
You freeze behind the doorframe, heart hammering in your chest. Every stroke, every slick movement, every pant that leaves his lips makes it impossible to look away.
Your stomach twists and the slick pooling in your daisy dukes doesn't make it any easier to look away.
You shouldn’t be here. You really shouldn’t. What you should do is turn away and go, give the man some privacy.
Okay, go. But where? Last time you checked, your truck is acting up and you have no idea where you are.
Then, suddenly, the frantic movements of his hand stop.
Your heart lurches. Surely he saw you, caught you peeking. When you look up from his twitching cock, bracing to meet his eyes, you're relieved to see that he's not looking at you. His gaze is locked on the magazine in his other hand. He flips a few pages, examining each one with slightly furrowed brows. The crease on his forehead eases when he seems to find something he's satisfied with.
Then, with a small sigh, he leans back against the squeaky chair, spits into his palm and wraps his hand around his dick again. His thumb glides over the tip, gathering the small pearly beads that have formed there, stroking slower now as his eyes remain glued to the pages.
Heat coils low in your belly, spreading outward in a way that makes your thighs tremble. You shift your weight, pressing them together instinctively, but it barely helps with your aching clit not getting the attention it yearns for.
Your nipples prickle through the lightweight fabric of your tight top, straining for notice without the barrier of a bra.
You press your hands to your thighs, gripping the denim to steady yourself, but it’s useless.
You shouldn't be here, shouldn't be peeking, shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are.
You really shouldn't.
For a moment, you almost forget why you’re even here, why your shitty truck is still waiting outside. Your fingers drift to your pussy, heat radiating even through the denim of your shorts, and your body shivers at the sight of sticky spurts shooting from his twitching length.
Great, you didn't even get to enjoy the view long enough and now he's already cumming all over that damn magazine.
Now you really shouldn't be here, any moment now he'll notice you. So you do the most logical thing you can think of.
Run.
Feet pounding softly against the concrete, you dart back to the front desk, hands braced against the edge to steady yourself.
You freeze just for a second, listening, straining to hear any sound from the man.
Nothing. Just the hum of a fan circling lazily and a distant song on a dusty radio tucked in the corner of a table amongst some dirty tools.
Safe. For now.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It must’ve been a few minutes later when you finally hear a whistled tune drifting down the hallway, followed by the soft jingle of keys.
The man appears from the back, a cigarette hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth like a toothpick, a ring of keys spinning around his finger carelessly. He strolls out of the hallway unhurried.
In the bright overhead lights you can finally get a proper look at him, far better than in the dim back room where you just saw him jerking off.
He’s exactly the kind of man you’d expect to run a place like this.
Mid-fifties, maybe. He’s broader than you first realized, his body filling out the stained button-down that surely has seen better days. The short sleeves hug thick forearms dusted with dark hair and faint grease smudges. His shoulders are strong and wide, while a soft, pudgy stomach strains faintly against the buttons, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and belly. You can finally read the word on his name tag.
Miller.
His face has that worn, roadside look to it. Weathered skin, a crooked nose that might’ve been broken once, and deep lines around his mouth and eyes like he squints into the sun more often than not. Dark stubble covers his jaw, a little uneven, and there are faint streaks of gray running through his hair at the temples. Not neatly styled, just pushed back like he ran his hands through it a few times and called it good.
The cigarette bobs between his lips as he walks, and when he pulls it out to exhale, you catch the smell of cheap tobacco drifting across the room.
He looks exactly like the kind of sleazy guy you’d run into at a lonely gas station at midnight. The kind who’d lean on the counter, give you a long once-over, and ask where you’re headed with a half-smirk like he already knows the answer.
"I’m sorry, man, we’re closed," he calls out gruffly, not bothering to check who’s standing there. "You’ll have to come back in the morn-"
He finally looks up.
And stops.
He takes you in from head to toe without much effort to hide it, smoke curling from his mouth as he exhales towards the ceiling.
His posture changes almost instantly. Shoulders roll back. Chin tilts slightly. The keys stop spinning on his finger.
His eyes run over you slowly, starting at your legs and taking their time climbing upward, lingering on your tits a moment longer before lifting a brow when he finally sees your face. The cigarette shifts in the corner of his mouth as his expression changes, less annoyed now, more interested.
"Well now," he mutters, his voice dropping into something rougher. "What's a gal like you doin' out here in the middle of the night?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you're closed-"
His eyes flick towards the window where your truck sits outside, then drift back to you again, slower this time.
"Lemme guess…" he says, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You havin' problems with that truck of yours, sweetheart?"
Another slow look up and down, completely shameless. He taps ash from his cigarette onto the concrete floor without breaking eye contact.
"Well, yeah. Damn thing's acting up," you admit, shifting your weight a little under his stare. "But I just need some directions, actually. I don't wanna bother you after closing time."
"Bother?" he scoffs softly, taking a few steps towards you. "Nonsense, sweet cheeks," he gestures lazily towards the garage bay with the cigarette between his fingers. "C'mon, lemme take a look at it. I'm sure I can fix it for ya."
"Are you sure?" you ask quickly. "I mean, you're already closed. I really don't want to-"
He stops a few feet away, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as he studies you again.
"Wouldn't be right lettin' a lady sit out on the side of the road all night," he adds, voice turning almost mock-chivalrous.
You hesitate, glancing towards the window where the truck waits outside under the dim light.
"I really was just hoping to find the next town," you say.
And I really don't have any money for your greasy ass.
"Next town's a good twenty miles down that highway," he interrupts, jerking his chin towards the road. "And if that thing's already actin' up, you might not make half of it."
He flicks his cigarette aside and crushes it under his boot without looking down.
Then his eyes return to you, that same crooked smile creeping back.
You hesitate, fingers curling into the hem of your shorts.
"I just need to know where I am," you say carefully. "So I can… call someone. Have them pick me up."
His brows lift slightly.
"Call someone," he repeats, tone slow.
"Yeah. I don't have service out there, and I have no clue what road this even is," you offer a small, tight smile. "If you could just tell me the name of the road, that’d help."
He studies you for a second too long, eyes narrowing just slightly before telling you what you want to hear.
You've never even heard of this road. How the hell did you get here?
"Is there a gas station or something nearby?" you ask. "Somewhere I could get signal?"
He huffs a quiet laugh.
"Closest place with decent reception’s back the way you came. ‘Bout thirty minutes," he tilts his head. "You plannin’ on walkin’?"
You glance towards the door, towards the endless dark road stretching in both directions.
"I'll figure something out."
"Mhmm," his eyes drag over you again, slowly this time. "You ain't gonna last ten minutes out there, sugar. Road's full of sketchy guys at this hour. You wouldn't wanna run into the wrong people."
Wrong people? You can’t help the thought that you’re already standing in the presence of one.
You bristle slightly. "I can handle myself."
"I’m sure you can," he replies, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it’s clear he’s not entirely convinced.
"So…" he says, hooking his thumbs casually into his belt loops. "You gonna let me help you out, or you plannin' on riskin' it?"
If you go out there, chances are that he's right and you're really fucked if you run into some drunk guy looking to blow some steam off.
But if you stay and let him fix your car, how are you gonna pay?
You reach into your purse, the one you tossed onto the passenger seat after spending your last cash on gas a few hours ago. Except for a few crumpled receipts, a lip gloss and a lighter, it’s empty. Nothing.
"Look, I don't have a lot of money right now."
None at all, actually.
"Don't worry 'bout that, sweetheart. We'll negotiate the price later."
You swallow, heart hammering, and look back at him. His smirk hasn’t faded. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he knows exactly what’s going through your head.
Fuck it. You'll figure something out.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
"Hmm, she’s not looking too happy," he mutters, voice low and casual.
By she, he means your truck.
"Could be the battery… starter… hell, the whole engine might be busted."
He crouches by the truck, hands resting on his knees, scanning the engine without even touching a tool.
You’re perched on the edge of a metal worktable, legs swinging lazily, watching him move.
You cross your arms, eyes following every motion. There’s something mesmerizing about him, confident, unhurried. And though he focuses on the truck, you suspect he’s aware of you, too, the way his glance drifts your way every so often.
"Huh," he mutters again, straightening and leaning against the fender, eyes squinting over the engine with a practiced intensity. "She’s been treated like a cheap rental, ain’t she?"
"She’s been treated very well," you snap, rolling your eyes. "Not that it’s any of your business. Can you fix it, or not?"
He chuckles, taking a big gulp from a bottle of beer he took out of a mini fridge earlier. You watch his neck bobbing when he swallows, a small drip of beer running down from the corner of his mouth. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand before speaking.
"Oh, don’t worry. I’m gonna get her running. She just needs a little… lovin’."
He sets the bottle down and crouches again, one hand resting casually on the wheel well as he examines the engine, muttering under his breath. His eyes flick to you, lingering just long enough to remind you that he enjoys having an audience.
You shift slightly on the table, trying to appear casual, but your pulse ticks a little faster at the way he moves and the tone in his voice.
He straightens from the engine, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and glances up at you when you decide hop off the table and approach him.
You might as well make conversation while you're trying to figure out how the hell you're gonna pay this motherfucker. You realize that your snappy comment from earlier clearly wasn't the best approach. Maybe if you're friendly enough he won't charge you at all.
Highly unlikely, but it won't hurt to try.
After a beat of silence, curiosity gets the better of you. "So… what did you say your name was?"
"Name’s Joel, sweet cheeks. And I don’t think I caught yours either."
He extends a grimy hand towards you. You hesitate for a second, then shake it reluctantly after giving him your name.
Why does he even care? It’s not like he’s going to use it, probably prefers anything else in its stead.
Joel’s grip lingers just a second too long before he lets go, his thumb dragging slightly over your knuckles before he turns back to the engine.
"Pretty name," he mutters after repeating it, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.
He leans back under the hood, grabbing a wrench, but not before his eyes flick over you again.
The sharp click of metal fills the space.
"Are you sure you can fix it?"
He huffs under his breath. "Don’t stress your pretty head with that, sugar" he says, voice rough, almost lazy. "I know what I’m doin’."
A beat.
"Been fixin’ things longer than you’ve probably been alive… all kinds of things."
You roll your eyes, but you feel your cheeks burning anyway.
"Don’t get many visitors out here this late," he goes on casually. "’Specially not ones like you."
You shift your weight, crossing your arms again without realizing that you're also squishing your breasts together in the process. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
He lets out a quiet laugh, tightening something with a sharp twist. "Means you stick out. Most folks who come through here got beer bellies, not a nice rack like yours."
Disgusting pig.
His eyes flick up to you again, slower this time, lingering on your chest without a hint of shame.
He crouches lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other works the tool loose. His movements stay unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you do too. You can swear that he's doing it on purpose.
"You’re wound up too tight," he says, like it’s a simple observation. "Ain’t gotta be."
"I’m not."
Liar.
He hums, not buying it for a second. A faint smirk pulls at his mouth as he shifts, wiping his hand on the rag before reaching deeper into the engine. His arm flexes with the movement, grease smearing across his skin.
"Relax," he says, tone low, almost amused. "I ain’t gonna bite."
Your throat feels dry, a stark contrast to the damp heat pooling in your panties. Why do you feel like this? How did he manage to get you so wet without even laying a finger on you?
You need something to steady yourself. Your eyes land on the bottle he left sitting nearby, still half full.
Screw it.
You grab it without asking, lifting it to your lips and taking a long swig. The beer’s warm and bitter, but it calms your racing thoughts and eases the tight coil of tension in your chest.
Joel notices immediately. His hand stills for a fraction of a second before he glances up at you, eyes dropping to the bottle, then back to your face.
"Help yourself, sweet cheeks," he mutters, voice rough, edged with amusement.
You lower the bottle, shrugging like it’s no big deal. "You left it there."
He smirks. "Want a smoke too while you’re at it? I'm sure there are some snacks you can eat in the fridge," his tone drips sarcasm.
"Yeah, actually," you reply, shrugging again. "A smoke would be nice."
He's probably gonna keep you here all night or call the cops on your ass when he sees that you've got no money to pay, so you might as well enjoy yourself while he's working.
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds. The smell of tobacco mingles with motor oil and sweat.
You step closer, inhaling the mix and waiting as he hands you a cigarette. You place it between your lips, waiting for him to light it.
His eyes flick up, slow and knowing while he brings up the lighter to your mouth.
"You always steal people’s drinks, ask for cigarettes… and spy on ’em while they’re havin' a good time?"
Having a good time?
Oh-
Oh.
Goddamn it, so he did see you peeking.
Well, at least there's no point in denying it now.
You take a long drag from the cigarette, lips wrapped tight around the filter, staring him dead in the eyes. His lips twitch under the scruffy mustache, just the faintest smirk tugging at the corner. You can almost see the image forming in his mind while he takes in the view of your mouth sucking on the filter.
Pervert.
Him? Or you? You're thinking the exact same thing, so are you really any better than him?
After pulling the cigarette away you hold the smoke in your lungs for a moment, then blow it straight in his face, letting it envelop his jaw and nostrils. The gesture is bold, almost teasing, and you can see his amused eyes narrow slightly through the haze.
"You always jack off when your clients are waiting?" you ask, voice steady despite the heat pooling low in your belly.
"We were closed, sweet cheeks," he says, voice low and lazy, that crooked smirk reappearing on his face. "There weren’t supposed to be any clients."
He takes a slow step closer, wrench still in hand. The faint smell of motor oil and sweat drifts towards you, mixing with the burning tobacco in your hand, heady and intoxicating.
You instinctively take a step back. Joel moves again, shrinking the distance between you.
Your shoes click against the concrete, and you realize too late you’re being backed towards the metal worktable where you’d been sitting earlier.
One more step, and suddenly your back presses against the cold edge of it. You’re caged, him in front, the table behind.
He leans in slightly, wrench in one hand, the other landing on the surface behind you, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker.
The space between you shrinks, and the warmth of his body presses into you. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, every nerve screaming warning. The fluorescent hum of the garage fades around you.
"That’s not the point-" you start, voice sharp, trying to put some authority into it. "You can’t just-"
He cuts you off with a low, lazy chuckle, leaning closer. He sets the wrench down on the table beside you, freeing his hand just long enough to pluck the cigarette from your fingers.
"Oh, I can," he says, wrapping his lips around the filter before pulling a slow drag. He hums when he tastes the faint flavour of your lip gloss left on the cigarette.
"I’m off the clock, sweet cheeks. I can do whatever the hell I want."
You straighten your back, trying to keep your voice steady. "That doesn’t make it right. You can’t just-"
"Right? Nah, don’t worry about right and wrong," he interrupts again, exhaling smoke to the side.
His eyes gleam, scanning you from your legs up to your face. "Tell me, sugar.. is it right to let me fix your truck when you ain’t got a dime to pay me?"
You freeze, heart hammering in your chest like it's ready to explode.
"I-"
He leans just a fraction closer, smirk widening. "Pretty little thing like you, all alone, no money… what am I gonna do with ya?"
Your stomach twists, part dread, part arousal, and you realize there’s no point trying to argue. He’s got the upper hand, and he knows it.
You don’t know what possesses you. Pride, defiance, or the reckless heat simmering under your skin, but instead of shrinking away, you grip the edge of the table and push yourself up onto it. The cool metal bites into the backs of your exposed thighs as you lift yourself.
You hold his gaze as he steps forward until he’s standing between your legs, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth.
Your hand rises slowly. Your fingers brush his lips as you slide the cigarette free and bring it back to your own mouth. Joel’s eyes darken at the touch. His hands come to rest on either side of your waist.
"You could let me go without paying…" you murmur, voice quieter now.
"And why would I do that?" he asks softly, gaze dropping to your mouth as you take a slow drag.
"Because that's what a decent man would do."
"I think we’re past decency, sweetheart…" His hands trail up from your waist, touching the curve of your chest. Instead of pushing him away, you lean into the touch when his thumb swipes over a hardened nipple through the material of your top.
"I accept other forms of payment, you know."
"That so?"
He nods once. "Mhm.. I’m a flexible man."
One of his hands snakes back down to your waist, further down to your hips until it nestles between your legs and cups your pussy through your jeans.
As much as you want to deny it, you want this, probably more than he does. Oh Lord, you can't even explain how much you crave it. You know it's wrong, you shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are. You shouldn't be as wet as you already are.
But is it truly that wrong?
Would anyone blame you for simply wanting to be at the mercy of a total stranger?
Probably.
But after the long, exhausting day of driving you've had, you couldn't give a fuck about what anyone would think.
"I thought payment comes after the job’s done," you say, forcing a cool edge into your voice.
"Sugar," he murmurs, leaning in closer, "I like knowin’ what I’m workin’ with before I put in the effort."
You swallow but hold his gaze.
"So this is a down payment?" you ask, raising one eyebrow.
His thumb presses lightly on the denim, right above your puffy nub, testing your reaction.
"Call it whatever the fuck ya want, but I prefer.. exchanging favours."
The forgotten cigarette trembles slightly between your fingers, the slow movements of his thumb over the rough denim making you bite the insides of your cheeks.
Without breaking eye contact, he lets go of your breast, reaches down and plucks it from your hand, taking one last drag. The ember flares bright in the dim garage, but you don't look at it. You can't avert your eyes from his piercing gaze.
Then he drops it.
It hits the concrete with a dull thud and he crushes it under the heel of his boot, grinding it out slowly.
"Come on, sugar. Get your pretty ass off that table."
You hold his gaze for a second longer, then slide off the metal surface. Your feet hit the floor softly. You turn your back to him and lean against the table, palms flat against the cool steel. You tilt your head slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder.
"Better?" you ask.
He hums in response, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, rough knuckles brushing your stomach as he tugs you back an inch, just enough to create space.
He drags the zipper down in one steady motion, the sound loud in the quiet garage. The button pops free under his thumb. His hands slide to your hips again, thumbs slipping just inside the loosened waistband. The denim scrapes against your skin as he pulls your jeans down to your ankles.
You hear a sharp whistle behind you before his hands land on your ass, kneading the flesh in his palms.
"Well, I’ll be damned," he mutters under his breath.
You feel his finger hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging the fabric away from your skin before letting it snap back into place.
"I was right, sugar," he murmurs, voice low and satisfied. "Look at those sweet cheeks," his palm comes down sharply on your ass.
The impact is sudden enough to make your whole body jolt. A sharp hiss slips past your lips as the sting blooms across your skin. For a second, every muscle in you goes tight. Then his hand smooths over the spot he struck, easing the heat he just created. The contrast makes your breath hitch, the roughness replaced with an almost comforting caress.
"Sensitive, huh?" he mutters, voice thick with amusement.
"Shut up."
You press your palms harder into the table when you hear him chuckle, trying to steady yourself, telling your body not to react.
But it does.
His hand lingers, dragging lightly over your hip before drifting to your front as he leans his body forward against yours.
God, you can just imagine that smug look on his face.
How the hell did you end up like this? Bent over a table, ready to get fucked stupid by a pervert with a filthy mouth, all in exchange for getting your truck fixed.
Speaking of said pervert, his fingers are currently making their way down to your pussy agonizingly slowly.
"I bet this pussy's already wet for me, sugar. Ain't that right? Ain't she soakin'?"
Out of all the seedy men in the world, you had to fuck the one with the biggest mouth, who thinks calling your truck and your pussy by a pronoun is perfectly normal. It might not be normal, but it sure makes your walls flutter. He’s so confident, so sure of himself, and rightfully so. You’re soaked just from him slapping your ass.
You just hope his dick is as big as his ego.
"No, she's not-," you try, and fail, to convince yourself, at least, that Joel's touch has no effect on you, "Fuck.. I'm not-"
You try to distract yourself, looking at the cracks in the wall in front of you as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the room. Your gaze lingers on the wrench he placed on the table earlier, now sitting in the corner of your eye, anything to keep your attention off the man standing behind you.
His fingers slip down the front of your underwear, tracing an experimental circle over the bundle of nerves tucked between your thighs just as you were inspecting the rust on the wrench’s handle. Your hands clench, the bite of your nails digging into your palms forcing your eyes shut.
You’re sopping wet, and he knows it. Feels it.
"Oh, sweet cheeks.. I wish you could see 'er, she’s practically drippin’-"
"Can you please shut the fuck up?" you snap, lowering your head and resting your forehead on the table.
Your body feels like it’s on fire, and the cool metal pressing against your torso does nothing to soothe the sensation. If anything, it only makes it worse. You struggle to breathe, your hardened nipples pressing uncomfortably into the surface with every rise and fall of your squished body.
You can feel the rough calluses of his fingers even through the fabric of your panties, the friction against your clit making your legs tremble.
This man can’t possibly be just a mechanic. This dump of an auto shop has to be some kind of front for a brothel or something. It’s kind of embarrassing, the state he’s got you in from nothing more than the pads of his fingers.
There’s a low groan from his throat when he pushes your underwear to the side and runs a couple of fingers between your damp folds. The feeling and the sound of him has your jaw clenching tight in an attempt to muffle a whimper.
"Why would I shut up, huh? I can see how much you enjoy-"
"I don't-"
"Deny it all you want, sweetheart. This pussy's practically beggin' for me," his other hand grips your hip, fingers digging into your skin.
Oh, how you loathe that filthy mouth of his and everything that comes out of it. You despise every corrupt remark, especially the way they make you feel. Because he's right. You do enjoy every depraved word.
You try to conjure a comeback in your head, but when two thick fingers sink into your cunt with a loud, squelching sound, your mind goes numb.
Your head snaps up from the table, your back arching, hips straining against his grip when he starts moving his digits, curling them inside you to hit that spongy spot that makes you see stars.
Fuck, it's not enough. You want more. You need more of him.
"Please-" you practically whimper, trying to turn your head to catch a glimpse of him.
He takes great pride in hearing your strained voice attempt to beg for him. And you take great pleasure in seeing him hard, straining against the denim of his worn jeans. Scratch that, you don't just see him. He's pressed so closely to you that you can feel him twitching against your ass.
"Please what, sugar?"
You can't take it anymore, without even realizing your mouth parts and a hushed moan slips out. Then another, and another, and another. Each one of them louder than the latter.
You need him. Who cares that it's wrong to do this with a stranger? Who would care when just the stranger's fingers can do that to you?
"Please," you whine, "I need it.. I need you."
That's all he needs to hear.
His hands move, no longer gripping your hip, no longer buried inside your weeping cunt. You nearly pout at the loss of his fingers, feeling the void they left behind.
You hear the faint metallic scrape of his belt buckle coming undone, the soft rasp of leather sliding through loops. Your walls clench around nothing in anticipation.
There's a faint shuffle behind you, him searching for something in his back pocket. For a split second, you think he’s pulling out another cigarette. But the sound is different. A plastic wrapper?
A condom.
At least he's a prepared pervert.
He gets his hands filthy because he refuses to wear gloves when working on cars but draws the line at fucking you raw. Do all of his clients end up like this? How many other girls have been bent down on this exact table before you? Is this a regular thing he does?
So many questions and yet you can't be bothered to find any answers when his jeans slide down to the floor along with his underwear. You bite your lip at the sight of his length springing free, the dark tip glistening with precum. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, rolling it down smoothly to the base.
His left hand returns to your hip, guiding your body back until your calves are pressed to his thighs, while his right hand strokes himself a few times.
You feel him dragging his cock through your folds, the tip grazing your clit with every pass. Then a poke at your entrance, a shallow pressure struggling to enter.
"Fuck- you're so goddamn tight," he mutters under his breath.
His words barely register, all you can do is moan out his name. Your mind is reeling, thoughts swirling around endlessly making you dizzy.
He pushes once and in one swift mood every last inch of himself is sheathed inside you to the brim. You cry out at the pleasurable sting, eyes rolling back into your head.
"Goood girl.. that's it, sweet cheeks. Look at ya, so full of my cock," he praises.
You don't have it in you to answer. All you can do is nod a few times, hoping that he can see the back of your head bobbing up and down.
He drives into you again, falling into a fierce, relentless rhythm with each impossibly deep motion, harsh yet intoxicating, giving and taking. Every gasp that slips from your parted lips seems to fuel his fervor, urging him on with even greater force and intensity.
"Damn, you’re a needy one, ain't ya?" he mutters, gripping your hips tightly, his hands spanning your waist as his fingertips press against your stomach. "You’re pullin' me in so deep, sweetheart- been craving this that bad, huh?"
His hips drive into yours, the softness of your skin shifting under his grip with every rough thrust. You give him every sound he draws out of you: every cry, every breathless moan, every whispered plea, especially when he brushes against that perfect spot.
"You got nothing else to say, sugar? Where's that big mouth of yours, huh?" he taunts, bending over you until his warm breath grazes your neck, his mouth trailing slowly across your shoulder.
His arms cage you in, one hand slipping lower, his practiced fingers circling that sensitive nub in slow, maddening strokes, the other rising to cradle your jaw and throat in a possessive hold.
“Too gone to think straight, huh? I’ve got you that messed up, baby?” he growls, pushing himself deeper, forcing another broken sound from your lips.
Flattened against his chest, he lifts you off the table, hauls you upright and drives up into you with a sharper, more punishing rhythm, a low chuckle rumbling from him when a cry rips free from your strained voice. His hold tightens as if he could press you right into him, every movement claiming more. He doesn’t ease up, his hand keeps working between your legs, his touch rough and insistent, while his mouth leaves heated marks along your neck, teeth grazing and lips sucking slow reminders into your skin.
"I can’t- 's too much, I’m gonna-"
Pleasure surges outward from your core in relentless waves, pulling you closer and closer to the brink. You’re teetering on the edge, barely holding yourself together, clinging to a few more stolen seconds of bliss, just a little longer with him.
His grip tightens around your throat, while his forearm presses hard between your breasts, the pressure hard enough to leave its mark.
"You gonna cum, sugar?"
Yes.
Your head falls back, fitting perfectly into the curve of his shoulder as the same word spills from your lips again and again, breathless and broken. The sound of it, sweet and desperate on your tongue, feels almost as intoxicating as the climax crashing through you, pleasure ripping from your center and flooding every inch of your body.
What happens next is a blur. You're too fucked out of your mind to even remember your name.
You just feel the loss between your legs when he pulls out with a loud groan, his rough hands turning you to face him. The cold floor hits your skin when you sink down to your knees. Did he push you down? Did you just do it on your own? You can't tell.
You see him pulling the condom off, throwing it carelessly on the floor before returning his attention to you. You look up to him with hooded eyes, parting your lips when he starts stroking his throbbing cock.
"That's it, sweet cheeks.. open up for me. Yeah, just like that-"
Before you can even process what’s happening, thick white ropes shoot from his tip, warmth spilling over your skin. You lift a hand to your cheek, brushing your finger through it before bringing it to your lips. A soft, satisfied hum escapes you as you savor the taste of him.
Damp with sweat, vision blurred as if stars are swirling before you, you struggle, gasping, to draw in a full, steady breath, but it won’t come.
Minutes pass in a haze. You're moving on wobbly legs, going back to sit on the metal table. You feel your thighs aching as you watch him pull his jeans back on, getting another cigarette from his back pocket.
Something clicks in your brain. Suddenly, you're too aware of the stickiness clinging to your face, of the loud whistle that echoes off the walls.
"Y'look real pretty with my cum drippin' on your face, sugar," he's sporting that shit eating grin you've grown accustomed to in the last hour.
"Get me something to wipe this off, asshole."
"There she is, thought you were still cock-drunk s-"
"Shut up."
Something is thrown at you, that grimy scrap of material he’d used to wipe his hands of motor oil earlier.
You wrinkle your nose. "Really? That’s all you’ve got? Nothing clean, maybe?"
He chuckles, a low, rough sound. "Just use the damn thing, sweet cheeks. Gimme somethin’ to remember ya by."
Gross.
Your fingers brush against the fabric, and you can feel the grit, the smell. Every nerve in your body bristles at it.
And yet… you do as he says.
You drop the filthy rag, wiping your hands on your thighs, "So… when’s my truck going to be ready?"
He leans back against your car, arms crossed, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Already done, sugar."
You blink, incredulous. "What do you mean… already done?"
He shrugs lazily, eyes roaming over you. "Took me longer to deal with you than the engine. She’s good to go. Start her up and see for yourself."
Cautiously, you hopp off the table, stumbling on unsteady legs toward the truck, glancing back at him. He just watches, that crooked grin never leaving his face, like he’s thoroughly enjoying the whole show.
You slide into the driver’s seat, turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Perfect.
“See?” he calls after you, voice low and teasing. “Told ya I knew what I was doin’.”
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"
btw i want to say that the entire tumblr community banding together is what got these changes reversed so i hope u all realise the power of a reblog and start reblogging posts instead of just liking them this is the reblog website so hit that button right now
The Fates Write the Stars @youaremyhome - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
