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casualhedonists · 4 months

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✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter four)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder/violence mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, roughhousing, overstimulation, insane amounts of teasing, some mild dubcon scenes/allusions to dubcon, some power play, lots of switching between dom/sub dynamics, oral sex, thigh riding, face sitting, degradation, dirty talk, edging/orgasm denial, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

chapter: 4/?

SERIES MASTERLIST

words: 6.3k (🫠)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: thank you for your patience while i got my shit together (christmas edition). enjoy, this filth seems to get longer with each chapter. i’ll be gone for a few weeks over the holidays, so no chapter updates for a bit, but have no doubt i’ll be back for more in the new year <;33

Coriolanus Snow was not a patient man. He’d played the long game enough times in his climb to the top of Panem to know that once he got up there, he wouldn’t be sitting on the sidelines anymore, waiting for life to happen to him. He would take what he wanted from whoever he wanted, with no delay.

Who were you to tell him what he could and couldn’t have? Who were you to deny him, walking away like you’d won, like you’d just played him like a fiddle and left him out in the dust? He replayed your self-satisfied smile as you disappeared from his view and he stood there, considering his options. The most tempting would be to follow you back to your room, to shove you up against a wall, to tear off his jacket and watch that smug look melt right off your face.

The second would’ve been to send for the whore, but it would’ve been a cheap thrill and besides, you’d made a point of getting rid of her.

He’d almost had you, he could see it. Could see the quiver in your lip as your blown-out eyes had rolled open, before you’d climbed off his lap. He was certain that if he chipped away at enough of your resolve, you’d give in. The thought of having to work for this incensed him, who were you to make demands from the President himself?

But the calculating part of his brain decided, with disdain, that he would have to be patient for once. He doubted you could go very long before giving into him; he’d seen it in your eyes, it had taken everything in you to leave him that night.

You wanted to go on a power trip? Fine. Snow knew it would be short lived, and you were making enough of a spectacle of yourself that it should prove entertaining to him. He decided he was going to let you have your fun, brief and fleeting as it may be. He always did enjoy a chase, and he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

You wanted to play? Fine.

He closed his door, leaving it unlocked.

Let the games begin.

Breakfast was a sweet kind of torture. You’d wrapped a short, silk dressing gown around your underwear set from the night before, confident after your first good night’s sleep in weeks. Headed downstairs early, so you could be there when he walked in.

“Morning, sweetie.” You smiled as you sipped at a cup of coffee.

Snow’s eyes narrowed. He sat opposite you without a word, pouring himself a cup and buttering a piece of toast. His morning paper was neatly folded on the side, and you eyed it quickly, before taking him in.

It was subtle – something probably only you could pick up on, knowing what you did – but it was there, in the slight crinkle of his usually perfect shirt, in the way he took coffee instead of tea, in the way he focused carefully on spreading the butter to every edge of his slice of toast. You glanced down again, a mischievous sense of pride filling you up.

You’d gotten under his skin.

Finally.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “I don’t know about you, but I slept like a log. You?”

His eyes met yours heatedly, but he didn’t reply. One of his footmen stood posted by the door, eyes straight ahead.

“No?” You faked pity. “You look a little tired, Coriolanus. Rough night?”

Nothing. He didn’t respond to your taunts, but instead took his paper, unfolding it, and you watched intently with a glint in your eye as you saw him react to something slipping out of the pages and into his lap.

He let out a surprised scoff, lowered the paper, and looked straight at you. Your eyebrows raised in response.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, with a lilt in your voice.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

“Leave us, please.” He said to the footman, without breaking off his stare once. The footman obliged, closing the door behind him. His eyes bored into you with a similar intensity as they had the night before.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He asked, but it was flat like a statement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You batted your eyes, feigning innocence.

He lifted his hand from his lap, holding up the pair of white lace panties you’d tucked between the folds of his newspaper. Raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Oh,” you smiled. “Whoops. I’d been wondering where I left those.”

His stare remained unfaltering, and you rubbed your legs together.

“Very cute, sweetheart.”

You smirked.

“You think so? Just something to remember me by. Lucille said you’ll be gone until tomorrow for work, I wouldn’t want you forgetting about last night.”

His eyes darkened, never leaving yours as you stood, making your way down the table.

“It’s a shame, really. I feel a little guilty about what I did. I got you all worked up for nothing.”

He scoffed, watching as you got closer.

“Yeah, you seem all torn up about it.”

You hummed, reaching him, and nodded at his lap, where his hand gripped the white lace.

“May I?”

“Be my guest.” He said tightly.

You straddled his lap again, and he looked up at you. You felt another surge of that power, standing over him with very little between you, as you ran your palms over his jacket, smoothing it out, then plucking the white rose from his breast pocket, and tucking your panties inside. As you pushed the rose back in, you smiled, satisfied.

“I should be more careful about misplacing things,” you mused, “Could’ve sworn I threw those in the laundry. You want to know something funny?”

“What?” Snow watched your hand pull away, and you met his gaze again.

“I’m not even sure I’m wearing a pair right now.”

It happened so quickly, it knocked the breath out of you. One second, you were balanced with your legs either side of his, and the next, you were pushed back onto the table as he stood, grabbing your waist, and leaning over you. A plate shattered on the floor, but Coriolanus didn’t flinch.

You squirmed but he gripped your hips harder, sliding one hand up to support your back and stop you from toppling straight onto the table. The cold wood pressed into your bare legs, and a glass dug into your back. You realised with a shaky breath that your dressing gown had fallen open. He was stood flush between your legs, pinning you down.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He snapped.

“I told you, didn’t I?” A hum as his hips rolled into yours. “Whatever I want.”

“I could force your hand, you know.” He commented. “Right now.”

“You think I wouldn’t want you to?”

His face was unreadable. His head dipped towards yours, and when he spoke it brushed against your lips.

“You really are a whore.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I know you’re all bark and no bite. You want to know why I know that, Snow?”

He huffed.

“Why?”

“Because I think you like chasing me.” Your eyes lowered to your legs, pressed apart by his hips. Your ankles wrapped around his lower back and pressed him in further. His jaw clenched.

He followed your gaze, and you felt his breath hitch when he saw that you weren’t lying, there was nothing between the two of you except his pants.

“Fuck.” He whispered.

It did something to you, hearing him so desperate. You pulled him in again with your heels, and he looked back at you. He rocked his hips, velvet cloth rubbing against your bare cunt, and you gasped at the feeling, still sore from last night.

Any time now.

“You want to fuck me, Snow?” You whispered. “Do it. Right now, I won’t stop you.”

His breaths were heavy as he rocked his hips again, firm, and it was obscene, really, how you could feel the outline of his cock pushing against you through the thick material, and his breath was getting laboured.

Almost there.

“Knew you’d give in.” His voice was rough as he pressed in harder, and you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, “So fucking desperate. Didn’t expect you to open your legs this soon, though. Thought you’d rile me up for a few days first. But look at you,” he rambled, “giving up so easily. Where’s all that fight now, sweetheart?”

A loud rap sounded at the door.

There it is.

You couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across your face as he stopped still.

“Oh,” you blinked innocently at him, “I wonder who that could be.”

“President Snow? We’re ready for you, sir.” The footman’s voice was muffled through the door.

“Well, would you look at the time? I guess duty calls, Mr President.”

He scowled, shooting ice cold daggers at you.

“You bitch. You knew.”

“And you fell for it.” You smirked, digging your heels into his back again. “Who’s desperate now?”

He scoffed, meeting your eye again.

“You think you’re so smart, little girl. You really think I’d mind if they walked in on me fucking you into the table?”

“I know you’re not against having an audience, Snow. But what are you gonna do, hang the health minister if he walks in? I know you’re not above it, but it’d be a slight inconvenience. Surely there are wiser ways to spend your precious time.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

His nails dug into your back as he pulled you in closer. For just a second, you had a doubt. But not long enough.

“I’m calling your bluff, Coriolanus Snow.”

He shook his head. Peeled himself off you with a huff, and tried to smooth out his shirt, glaring at you the whole time.

“I’ll be right out.” He called.

You slid off the table and stood, tying your gown, then reaching to fiddle with his collar. He batted your hand away.

“Let me.” You reached out again.

“Fine.”

Your hands smoothed over the material, straightening it out, then once you were satisfied, they rested on his chest for a beat.

“You look handsome.” You confessed quietly, not meeting his eye as you spoke. You could feel his stare burning into you as you did. When you finally looked, his expression had shifted to something unreadable again. Confusion, perhaps. It was times like these when you wished you could read his mind.

The moment finally passed and you cleared your throat, trailing a hand over his breast pocket, a physical reminder of the game you were intent on winning.

“This was fun.” You declared with a smile, putting the mask back on. “Hurry back. What time shall I expect you?”

“No later than noon.” He watched as you stepped away.

“I look forward to it,” you smiled, playing with the string of your gown, “sweetheart.”

With Snow out of the house, you jumped at the chance to head straight upstairs, making a beeline for his room. Something inside you just knew the door would be unlocked, that he wouldn’t be able to resist. You were right.

At last, you were able to take a good look around the room, touring it as if it was some art museum. And it wasn’t far from it; with wood panelled walls and strong beams on the ceiling, plush velvet throw pillows and bedsheets, with crisp white linen tucked underneath. You wandered around for a while, brushing your fingers over the sides, taking it all in. It was perfectly neat, almost jarringly so. You wondered if he always kept it like this, or if it was for your benefit. Since he’d probably guessed you’d be going inside, you took little guilt in peeking into a few drawers, and flipping through the pages of the book on his nightstand.

Your curiosity then took you into the bathroom, where, after scanning the shelves, you decided to undress and take a shower, steam and the smell of his soap filling the large room. You took the opportunity to slide your hands between your legs and replay the morning’s events, filling in what you’d have had liked to have happen instead of him leaving. When you were finished, you wrapped yourself in a soft towel, and walked out, spotting a glass bottle of cologne on the edge of the sink. With a smile, you gently sprayed a little on your wrist, breathing it in, sighing deeply as the smell of him went to your head.

You got dressed again, thumbing through his closet, basking in the buzz you had from being in his space. You sat on his bed, taking his room in from a new perspective. When you were satisfied, you headed back to your own with a smile, only coming back that evening with a handful of your things, before falling into a peaceful sleep under his sheets.

A few days passed after that morning, and you barely saw Snow. He’d come back, but gone straight to his office, where he proceeded to spend long hours on the phone, stuck on some important business you had no business nosing about.

So, you waited, your games paused and painfully anticlimactic. You hated feeling like a helpless housewife, but this was apparently what you’d been reduced to. You saw your friends some of the evenings, and your family on others. Then you’d come home to hover outside Snow’s locked study to listen to the sounds of pen on paper, peppered with the occasional sigh. You would have waited for him to come out, but you gave up as the hours drawing longer. He stayed holed up in his office, night after night, and by the time he’d finished the evening’s work, sleep had long carried you away.

It hadn’t all been dull; you’d fallen into a habit of sneaking pairs of your underwear in with the clean laundry that was carried up to his room, and that had earned you a little attention, but it was merely in passing. A few heated glances at the dinner table, a brush past each other in the hallway. You’d go so far as to say it was almost like flirting, only laced with the undertones of something far heavier. It wasn’t enough for you now that you’d tasted what you could have if only you reached for it, and you started to go a little stir crazy again.

One of these nights, you’d slipped into his empty room after dark, and lay in his bed, trying to stay awake as long as you could, but sleep caught up to you and by morning, you woke alone, wrapped in soft sheets, no sign of Snow except for a slightly warm dent on his side of the bed that had long been abandoned.

You got nothing. Not a touch, not an argument, not a kiss. For a week and a half, until he was called away again. Your annoyance had started to creep back up on you tenfold by then, and you were practically crawling out of your skin.

You saw your family for dinner more and more, making a habit out of filling the empty space he'd left with small talk and laughter. It was on one such night, when you'd been silently mulling over what move to make next, that your mother mentioned a name you hadn't heard in years, and you knew right away what to do. You were done hiding away, you wanted to make yourself known. Make every second Snow spent in your presence a living hell, and a reminder of what you’d denied him. You'd hoped for something outrageous, something that would push him to the very edge. And if this didn't work, nothing would.

Nathaniel Greene was an old flame of yours. He’d always been good to you, warm and well-meaning; and he was handsome, in a gentle, boyish way. When your mother mentioned him, a beautifully cruel idea struck you. You weren’t naturally as cold-hearted as Coriolanus, but as the weeks had gone by, you’d begun to believe that maybe, in order to win this, you needed to be. Nathaniel would be perfect; the two of you had been school friends, you had history, something Snow couldn’t compete with, and you knew that would drive him insane. He was all soft edges, smiles, and pleasantries, everything that Snow wasn’t.

You felt a sliver of guilt as you began putting your plan together, but you reasoned that you and Snow had bruised each other, and low blows were what it would take for you to press into his the hardest. This was always never going to be simple; it was a messy game, and you needed to get your hands dirty.

Besides, he’d paraded a whore around the house for you to watch him fucking for weeks on end. It was fair game, you reminded yourself. So with that decided, you rose to the occasion, and the plan was set into motion.

That was how it came to be that on the day Snow returned, he walked in to find a guest sat in his living room. You were all false smiles and batted eyelashes when you saw him.

“Coriolanus, you’re back. I’d like you to meet Nathaniel, he and I used to be friends at school.”

Nathaniel rose from his seat on the sofa, and leaned toward Snow to shake his hand.

“Mr President, sir, it’s an absolute honor to be in your company. You have a lovely house.”

Nathaniel missed the slight tick in Snow’s jaw, but you didn’t. He offered his hand in response.

“The pleasure’s mine. Any… friend of my girl is always welcome here.”

My girl. The words went straight to your head, and Coriolanus pulled you in for a kiss that lingered half a second longer than usual, like he knew.

“Would you like some tea, sweetheart?” You asked, “Nathaniel and I were just catching up.”

“I remember that summer.” You laughed. “Your aunt took us to the coast, and we swam in the ocean at least twice a day. It was so cold one morning, your cousin’s lips turned blue. And on the way home, we had to stop at that inn, do you remember it?”

“With the owner and his crazy beard.”

“The crazy beard owner!” you exclaimed. “And the room you and I stayed in was so laughably small, the bed touched three of the walls all at once. Cozy, though.”

Nathaniel glanced awkwardly between the two of you, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, those were, uh… good times.”

Fire ran rampant through Snow’s eyes. You didn’t look directly at him, but your peripherals gave you plenty of satisfaction.

He was enraged. Good. You’d been mercilessly torturing him for the better part of an hour.

“Oh, Nathaniel, that reminds me, I’ll go get the book I was telling you about earlier.”

“Book?” He frowned, “I don’t-”

“You know the one! I’ll be right back.” You interrupted, then practically bounced out of your seat and walked toward the library. At the far end of the large room, you paused, pretending earnestly to scan the spines for a particular title.

You were quiet, making sure you could hear the echo of Snow excusing himself, followed by steady footsteps approaching you from behind.

“Something wrong?” You asked, keeping your back turned.

He grabbed your waist and spun you around. Backed you up until you were pressed to the wall, wooden shelves digging into your spine.

“Give me one good reason,” he spat, “why I shouldn’t kill that boy right now.”

You blinked.

“What’s wrong, Snow? Can’t take a little jealousy? Surprising, given your recent choice of company.”

“So that’s it? All this to get a rise out of me? You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” he scoffed.

You smiled, meeting his eye.

“Oh, but maybe I should. See, Coriolanus, here’s the thing.” you leaned towards him, running a finger down the front of his dress shirt, catching over each shining button as it glided down. “I haven’t decided if I should fuck him, yet. What do you think I should do?”

“I think,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pressing them against the wooden shelves, then dropping his voice down to a whisper, his breath mixing with yours, “that I should fuck you right here while he listens in the next room, and show him who you really belong to.”

You faltered, if only for a few moments. Your pride wavering as you heard the want drip from his voice, still getting used to his eyes skating across your skin the way you’d hoped and prayed they would for months. If you wanted it, you could take it right now, and you almost folded. He moved in ever closer, and your head dropped against the bookshelf, letting his lips graze your neck, blonde curls dusting your shoulder. You stayed there, suspended, letting it roll over you like water.

“What would your little friend in there think, if he could hear how much of a whore you really are? I wouldn’t even let you cover your mouth. I’d just hike up your slutty little dress and send you back out there with cum dripping down your thighs. How do you think he’d like you then?”

Your breath hitched, and you squeezed your eyes closed, pressing your legs together. Tried to rationalise the logic of throwing your plans to the wind and letting him stake his claim on you.

You considered it. Briefly.

But you were already in so deep, you had to see this through. Snow had fucked with you, then left you out to dry, and you had to make sure he would never do it again. So no, you wouldn’t be the one to fold. He would, on your terms. And now wasn’t the time, not yet.

So you collected yourself. Pulled away, batting your pretty eyes at him.

“Oh, but I’m having so much fun.”

“Don’t test me. You’ve proved your point.” he seethed, stepping closer, and one more inch and you might burst-

“Nathaniel’s waiting. I’ll see you at dinner, Coriolanus.”

With that, you slipped away, silently catching your breath.

You’d just finished dinner alone, no Snow in sight, and you were walking back towards the hallway when the doors swung open.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your hands were above your head as Snow pushed you into the dining room wall. This was starting to become a habit. A sly smile pulled at your lips.

“Stings, doesn’t it? Getting a taste of your own medicine.”

He got in close, rage burning hot in his eyes.

“What you did was different, and you know that."

"I don't know, Coriolanus, was it? I've just been so bored, lately. Idle hands, I suppose."

If looks could kill, you'd be a goner.

"That's your excuse? At least I had the decency to fuck a stranger. Tell me you didn’t-”

You laughed.

“You really think I’d do anything without making sure you watched? God, Snow, you don’t know me at all.”

He moved in closer.

“If you ever do that again, if you so much as look his way, I’ll have him whipped in the middle of the city. Or maybe I won’t bother. I’ll just have him hung, and I’ll make sure you’re there at the front of the crowd to watch him drop, knowing his blood is on your hands. Do you understand me?”

You set your jaw. Shrugged.

“Okay.”

He frowned. You took pride in the way you could see it, him trying desperately to figure you out.

“Okay?” He repeated.

“You heard me. You think I really care enough about him, that I’d invite him into the house just to make you jealous, then expect him to end up alive? How stupid do you think I am?”

You did care about Nathaniel, at least enough to not want him dead, but Snow couldn’t know that. Not for this to work.

“You’re bluffing.” But you could hear in his voice that he wasn’t sure.

“Am I? Your threats don’t phase me, Coriolanus. Do your worst, I don’t care anymore. What, did you think I’d try to talk you out of it? You think I’d beg?”

His bewilderment caused him to drop your wrists, and you took the chance to push yourself away from the wall.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I won’t fold. I meant what I said that night. You want me to be yours, you want to own me? You have to earn it. My way. You’re not going to get anywhere trying to scare me into submission. It won’t work.”

Disbelief flashed across his face. You stood your ground, raising your head up high, leaning in.

“I don’t want to fight you, Coriolanus.” You confessed. “Your room. An hour. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Say what you wanted about Coriolanus Snow, but when you asked him to be on time, he obliged. You didn’t even need to hear his footsteps to know he’d come, which you’d grown finely attuned to by now, enough to hear them leave his office two rooms away and walk the short distance to his room, swinging open the door you’d left decidedly ajar.

And you made sure what he walked in on was a sight to behold; you, sprawled out on his bed in nothing but a white shirt of his, unbuttoned all the way down, falling to your sides. Your head pressed into his silk pillowcases, legs parted lazily as your hand rubbed slow circles on your clit beneath the red lace of your underwear. You could tell from the look on Snow’s face when you rolled your head to the side and looked at him that you’d had the desired effect, that you’d orchestrated this perfectly, because he couldn’t take his eyes off your hand, hips rocking into it, the visual made all the more lewd by the scrap of fabric hiding your movements, leaving his brain to fill in the blanks.

You slowed.

“Glad you could make it.” A small smile formed on your lips.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“I have. Your bed’s a lot softer than mine.”

He hummed, crossing his arms.

“Why did you ask me here, sweetheart? This is my room, after all.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and even that small motion wasn’t lost on him. Your hand stilled.

“I waited for you.” You said quietly.

He let out a sigh, ragged and tired.

“I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. If you knew how badly I wanted to see you-”

“Don’t. I don’t want your apology.”

His expression gave way to confusion for a split second.

“Okay. What is it you want?”

You paused, gaze flitting between his eyes and his mouth. Then you swallowed, your voice an embrassing whisper.

“I want your mouth on me.” It almost hurt to hold his stare, but you did.

“That so?” was the response. You cleared your throat.

“You say you’re sorry, Snow? Prove it. I’m right here.”

He paused, like he was mulling you over. Like he was figuring out just how to play his cards. Then a small smile pulled at his lips.

“Take your hand away.” His voice was rough, and it gave him away.

You obliged, watching him step towards the bed, towards you. He rolled up his sleeves, eyes on yours and your stomach twisted.

There he is.

“If you’re going to be making demands, it’s only polite that you ask nicely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You nodded, flushing under his stare.

“You want me to take these off?” He smoothed his hands up your thighs, thumbs hooking into the band of your panties. You'd missed feeling his hands on your skin.

You nodded again, and he tutted.

“Yes.” You corrected. “Please.”

“Good. It was about time you learned some manners.” He slowly slid them off, and you lifted your hips to help him. His gaze slid between your legs, and you shifted your knee so you were covered.

“Not getting shy now, are you? Open your legs for me.” He instructed, and you obliged, burning under the heat of his gaze as he unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off before moving in towards you, kneeling on the ottoman. You were already soaked, and you could feel the heat building even more, just from having him near you, having him see what a dripping mess you were.

“Shit.” It was no louder than a whisper, but your perked ears caught it and you pressed your lips together.

He tentatively pushed his thumb through your folds and you whined, a look on his face like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. Did it again, and it caught on your clit, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Please.”

“Good girl. You know how many times I’ve thought about this over the past week? I’ve lost sleep over it.”

“Coriolanus.”

He smoothed his hands over your thighs again, and you yelped as he suddenly pulled you forward, hooking your legs over his shoulders. He kept staring, and you couldn’t take it, blood rushing from your head, so you dropped it back onto the pillows.

“Look at me.” He squeezed your thigh.

You did. You felt a sliver of pride as you noted the slight flush in his cheeks, like maybe he was more worked up than he was letting on.

“You know how many times I came all over those pretty panties of yours, wishing you were wearing them? Think I lost count.”

You couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped you as his breath brushed over your folds, wound so tight you thought you would burst.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Say it again.”

“I want your mouth on me. Please, put your mouth on me.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice, because with a sharp inhale, he pressed his mouth onto your cunt and dragged his tongue over your clit, slowly, firm and deliberate, like he had an itemised list of exactly how to cause your undoing. You gasped at the sudden contact, and your hips bucked off the bed, before his fingers gripped into your hips the way they had the other night, and slammed you back down.

“So fucking needy. Were you really that worked up? Parading your little boy toy around will do that, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” You gasped, as he worked his tongue over your clit again, tracing slow, firm circles that made your legs weak. You grabbed a handful of his hair, blonde locks twisted between your fingers as he pulled away again. You whined.

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t think you are. But you will be.”

You didn’t have time to wonder what that meant, because his tongue was all over you again, lapping at your entrance, lips sucking loudly at your clit as you moaned, free hand twisting creases into his bedsheets.

“Fuck.” You keened as your hips bucked harder, searching for friction that was so close to being enough. Your heels pressed into his back and your hand tightened in his hair, to which he retaliated by digging his nails into your thighs, scraping against the almost-healed bruises that were left from the previous week. The pinch brought you further into that headspace, where you could feel yourself slipping away, crying out as you thrashed under the pressure of his tongue on your cunt.

You kept rocking your hips, hopelessly trying to grind against him, but his hands held you down firmly, keeping the pace torturously slow. You couldn’t help your spaced-out brain from slipping back to weeks ago, when you’d watched him do the same to his whore on this very bed, and you made a sound of protest that just melted in with the rest of your noises, going unnoticed.

You didn’t want to feel this way, to feel disposable, like he could just have his way with you and throw you out. You knew that if you didn’t do something, you’d lose yourself altogether. And you couldn’t bear that thought, of having to give in. Not like this. Not when he held all the cards again.

“I want to sit on your face.” You breathed without thinking, strung out and desperate. Coriolanus pulled back. A smirk on his lips, which were swollen red and covered in your slick. You whimpered as the soft light caught him, showing you the mess you’d made of his face, dripping down his chin.

“Do you now?”

“Please. I’ll ask nicely, I’ll – I’ll beg, if you want me to. Just please, let me sit on your face. I can’t take it anymore, I’m so-” You broke off, gasping as he pressed a soft kiss onto your clit, causing your legs to jolt.

“Poor thing. You really want it, don’t you?”

“Yes. Please, I’ll do anything. Just… please.”

“Good girl.” He murmured, trailing soft kisses down your thigh. “Since you’ve asked so nicely, I’ll let you. Just for a few minutes, okay? Think you can cum that fast?”

“Fuck, yes. Thank you.”

A messy tangle of limbs as he pulled his shirt off, sliding flat onto the bed, hands guiding your shaking legs as you inched over his torso. It was nearly too much, watching his pretty face as you lowered yourself onto him, but you couldn’t look away, hands grabbing the headboard to steady yourself. You couldn’t help but think back to that night, riding his thigh like you were being paid for it. As he carefully eased your hips down, thighs either side of his face, you knew this was going to be a hundred times better than that. And Snow didn’t disappoint, lifting his head to nuzzle your clit as you sucked in a breath, hips jolting forward. You dropped a hand to grab onto his hair, and he didn’t retaliate this time, letting you wind your fingers around his curls as you started to move slowly, rocking your hips against his mouth.

This was much better. The angle was perfect, pressure everywhere you needed it, and you tipped your head back as you moved, one languid lick causing it to drop forward again to look at Snow.

The only time he really moved was to pull you in firmer, and the motion reminded you of how he’d pulled you into his thigh, and before you knew it the ache in your stomach was growing into a throb, burning you up until it felt molten, until you felt drunk from it. The coil tightened further as you got into it, rolling your hips, tugging Snow’s hair to the point where you were sure it must’ve been hurting him, but he either didn’t care or just didn’t stop you. As your hips bucked faster and you looked down at his face, eyes hazy as he ate you out like he was starved, you couldn’t help it, you just started talking, rambling near nonsense and it wouldn’t stop.

“Fuck, that’s it, right there. You’re gonna make me cum all over your face if you keep that up. Holy shit.” Your grip in his hair tightened, so hard it was pulling his head back so you could grind against him just right, clit catching on his nose, cunt spasming against his tongue, and he winced, a broken sound escaping the back of his throat, but it only egged you on. Your voice breathy but taunting, getting cockier by the second.

“Does that hurt, baby? Am I pulling too hard?” His eyes narrowed, but his tongue only fucked into you harder. “You can take it though, can’t you? Fuck. You’re being so good for me, letting me fuck your face like this. Feels so fucking good. Shit, I thought you’d take more convincing, but look at you, eating from the palm of my hand.”

His hands gripped into your hips again, nails digging crescent moons into your skin, and you tightened your thighs around his head which only made him dig harder, the pain tipping you over the edge as you shouted out, hips jerking as your thighs shook, and Snow only pressed in firmer with his tongue as you came, riding out your high with a strangled sob.

He didn’t give you chance to come down from your orgasm, instead pushing you off his face and flipping you over. You landed on your back, scared for a second that you’d be punished for getting carried away, but his lips met yours in a sudden battle for dominance. You moaned into his mouth as you tasted yourself on his tongue. He’d never kissed you like this before. It lit another fire in your stomach, just when you thought you were done.

After what felt like a lifetime getting drunk off each other, he pulled away, and you got to see the mess you’d made of this man. There he was, propped above you, the most powerful man in the country, blonde hair a sweaty wreck of tangles, parted lips sore and swollen, your cum smeared across his mouth and chin, mixed with the trail of your wet tongue in the places you’d just cleaned him up.

You tasted it on your lips, heard it in his laboured breath, saw it in his blown-out eyes, felt it in the small space between you.

This was what power felt like.

He was shaking his head incredulously, like he couldn’t quite believe you. Then, ignoring your hiss, his head dipped between your legs again, smooth tongue rolling over you like cool water on a burn. You flinched, a broken sound slipping from your lips.

“Oh, come on. You can give me one more, right?”

Fuck.

“Coriolanus, I can’t-” You whined as his hot breath lit you up, long fingers sliding inside you.

“You will. Come on, baby. You can take my fingers, can’t you?” His voice mimicked yours as he opened you up, speeding up a little. You hummed as he pressed against your sweet spot, and you hated how it seemed like it was so easy to him, to take you apart like this.

“Good girl. Look at me.” He scolded, when your eyes rolled back, squirming from the overstimulation, pressing his thumb against your clit just to watch you jolt.

“You’re going to do something for me. You’re going to promise me you won’t ever see him again.”

“What? Who, Nathaniel? I-”

He pressed into your clit again, mean, and you squeaked.

“Don’t say his fucking name. Promise me, right now. Say it.”

“I promise. Never again. I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry.” You sobbed.

“Good girl.” He smiled.

“Don’t want anyone else, just you, please. Please, Coriolanus. Will you promise me too?” Your words were airy, and your voice shook.

He slowed his fingers, and shifted himself up to place his lips on yours.

“I promise, sweetheart. It’ll just be us.” His fingers pressed into you harder, scissoring lazily, but every movement lit all your nerve endings on fire. You were so wet it was almost humiliating, or it would be if you weren’t so turned on, obscene sounds bouncing off the walls as he worked you open. Coriolanus could tell, smiling as he whispered praises, sweet nothings into your ear and added a third finger, thumb brushing across your clit as the sensitivity quickly morphed into more pleasure.

“You close again, baby?”

You only whimpered in response, head jerking as your eyes squeezed close, arm sliding down to grab his wrist, pushing it further. You were wrecked, and he knew it. It was his doing.

“Ah.” He knocked your hand away with a knowing smile. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’m listening.”

You paused, at a mental crossroads, but as he twisted his fingers just right, pressing deeper, you dropped all your inhibitions. Squeezed your eyes closed, cunt gripping his fingers, and confessed.

“I want you to fuck me.” You whispered.

You knew full well what it meant. You didn’t care anymore; you’d had your fun, and you were ready to fold. Lay all your cards out on the table. This ache inside you had never felt so loud. You refused to open your eyes, which were threatening to fill with desperate tears.

“Ask nicely.” He pulled his fingers back, dragging them along your sweet spot. You were starting to lose feeling in your legs.

“Please. Please, fuck me. I’m done, now, I promise. I won’t do it again, Coriolanus, I’m so sorry-”

“Say it again. One more time. Look at me.”

You sighed, eyes flooding with hot tears. You finally opened them.

“Please, Coriolanus. Fuck me.”

He smiled, but as quickly as it arrived, it morphed into something sinister.

“No.”

His hand stopped, fingers slipping out of you before you could stop them. Your high started to slip away. You rocked your hips, confused out of your mind. Driven to your edge, and then in the same breath, catapulting to a stop.

“I- wait, no… what?” You sounded delirious.

He shrugged, casually lifting his fingers, sucking them off with a pop.

“I don’t think I will. You’ve done quite enough, and I’ve had a long day. So I think you should be on your way now.”

You gaped, dumbfounded. The tears threatened to spill down your cheeks, but you held them in like they were your last shred of pride.

“But… you said we wouldn’t… I thought-”

He traced a hand across your check, gently, and it took everything in you not to sob.

“I meant what I said. But I’m not quite ready to forgive and forget. You should go and get some sleep.”

“Coriolanus, I- please.” You begged him, eyes wild and desperate.

“Stings, doesn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows and something inside you sank like a heavy cruiser. “A taste of your own medicine.”

a/n: sorry mom

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#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #snow x reader #snow x you #tom blyth #tom blyth x you #tom blyth x reader #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #attention #x reader #x you smut

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punkitt-is-here · 7 months

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LIFE UPDATE!!!! RAGHHH!!!

Okay, so, as some of y'all know, I was fired from my job a couple of months ago. I reapplied, and unfortunately, despite getting an interview, I was turned down. Because of that, I'm going full-time as a self-employed artist. This means I'll be focusing on making fun stuff for my shop, learning better how to ship out items, and doubling down on doing more commissions.

As some of my wonderful commissioners know, I struggle a lot with deadlines and motivation. I have ADHD and even though I'm medicated, it still often gets in my way and kicks my ass often. It's part of why I have such a big struggle when doing commissions; they're hard to motivate myself to do and sometimes require a lot of communication back and forth that I'm just not the best at right now. I would like to say thanks to everyone that's put up with my inability to figure out a decent schedule for commission work, and hopefully everyone who's tried to get art from me will get their stuff very soon!

SO, uh, now that I don't really have a job, what's that mean? Well, I'm going to set a goal to actually make good on my promises for commissionwork. I tend to actually get a lot done in bursts, but they come and go, so I'm going to try and do weekly commissions but with much smaller slots. What I'll be doing is upping the frequency while also limiting the amount I get per-week so I can have a form of consistency with my output. That way, both parties are satisfied and I don't have to keep beating myself up for taking my time because I kept convincing myself I had a big-ass workload I couldn't chip away at.

Part of how I'll be doing this is acting like I still have a job. I'm gonna set aside work hours in the week to specifically work on commissions and shipping and interfacing with clients. I depend on the kindness and goodwill of my incredible followers, so the last thing I really want to do is tarnish that (at least any more than I have; apologies to everyone who's put up with me learning how to run a shop!). I think I'm at a point where I understand a lot of my limitations and abilities, and so I hope going forward I can begin to create a routine for myself and be able to make this something I can do far into the future! If you'd like to support me while I do this wacky lil thing, i've got a ko-fi and now a Patreon! (which I will link in my reblog since I heard Patreon links are weird here on tumblr.) I'm really excited to be launching a patreon. I can't guarantee any specific type of content, but the plan is just to show tiny little previews of stuff early if you're a supporter and stuff like this. I've never had anything of this kind, so I ask for your patience as I work stuff out, but if you feel like supporting me on either platform it'd mean the world to me. Thanks :)

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hier--soir · 4 months

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a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

#finally am i right?#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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ellecdc · 10 days

Note

Hiiii! I have a request, poly!marauders x animagus!fem reader (you decide what type of animal) and everytime it’s full moon she turn into an animagus and watches hboyfriends (kinda lurks around secretly) as they take care of Remus. The thing is they don’t know that she’s an animagus, and what would their reaction be when they found out?

(You’re an amazing writer and your fics makes my day🫶🏻)

this was so sweet - thanks for your request and for your patience in me getting this to you!

please note: my requests are currently closed as I finish exams and work through the requests that I currently have.

poly!marauders x fem!reader who's a secret animagus

Prongs was very confused.

This was the third moon in a row that he, Padfoot, Wormtail, and Moony had been romping through the woods when Moony seemed to get caught up on something.

He wasn’t sure what had changed; they always followed the same routine: transform in the shack, let Moony out, follow their trail where they can run (and roll, in Moony & Padfoots case) down a large hill, chase each other along the river bank, drink from the edge of the Black Lake, and slowly make their way back to the shack for Moony’s transformation.

Except, once again, they seemed to be caught up under this unassuming tree.

Prongs looked to his canine companion who offered what he could only assume as a doggy shoulder shrug as Moony yipped and stood on his hind legs in an attempt to see through the lowest bows of the tree.

The first time this happened, Moony almost took one of Padfoot’s legs off for trying to encourage him to leave the tree.

The second time, Moony could only be convinced to leave as his bones actually started stretching and reorganising themselves as the transformation started.

What was even stranger, though? After both of those moons, Remus woke up in a panic asking where you were and if you were ‘okay’.

It took Sirius shifting back into Padfoot and laying across Remus’ chest in order to provide grounding pressure to his chest before they could get him to calm back down and convince him that you were safe.

James hated seeing this side of Remus; the side of him that none of them had seen since before the Marauders told him that they knew his secret. He felt horribly paranoid, reclusive, and entirely too guilty.

Guilty for daring to love you even though he felt you deserved better. Guilty for allowing you to love a werewolf. Guilty for not telling you that you were in love with a werewolf. And guilty for lying to you about it every month.

Sirius and James hated the secrecy too - but it wasn’t their secret to tell. They loved you, but they couldn’t take away Remus’ autonomy when it came to his infliction.

But, tonight - the third moon in a row of this nonsense from Moony - and Prongs had had it.

Prongs bowed his head and scooped Wormtail up into his antlers, hoisting him up to the lowest branch of this damned tree Moony was fucking obsessed with and encouraged him to investigate.

Moony let out a little whine and a huff as he sat and watched the little rat disappear through the bows of the grand pine.

A squeak alerted the two animagi and one werewolf to trouble when the top branches began to move and out flew a large black crow with a rat trapped in its talons.

The crow gently glided to the ground about ten feet away from the trio and let go of the rat who quickly ran up Prong’s leg and situated himself in the safety of his antlers.

Padfoot - ever protective of his pack of misfit toys animals - began stalking toward the offending bird, sure that Moony was just as excited as he was about this impromptu hunt. It wasn’t their favourite - it was not a rabbit - but it would do.

However, much to both Padfoot and Prongs’ surprise, Moony quickly leapt in front of the crow and grumbled warningly at Padfoot, going so far as to bare his teeth at his pack member.

Padfoot tilted his head in confusion at Moony as if perhaps the situation would make more sense at a 45 degree angle, but it appeared that it made no difference when Pads ultimately huffed and turned back towards Prongs.

Prongs wanted to laugh - but deer stags couldn’t do that - so he let out a ‘bleat’ as the crow flew above Padfoot and teasingly landed on his head.

Padfoot, ready for a fight, turned to nip at the bird who simply jumped back up and hovered just out of reach of the dog.

Prongs was suddenly even more confused.

What crow willingly releases a plump, likely juicy, rat from its talons instead of enjoying it as their meal? And what crow willingly teases a large werewolf sized dog in front of his werewolf friend?

This one, apparently.

And Moony - usually very possessive and exclusionary when it came to the other creatures they came across in the Forbidden Forest - seemed not only accepting of this new addition, but really quite pleased with it.

But it was time to go if Moony’s flinches and groaning was any indication; the transformation would happen soon.

Padfoot moved towards Moony and affectionately nudged him with his shoulder, hoping to encourage him towards the Shrieking Shack.

Moony seemed to understand that he ought to go, but couldn’t bring himself to leave without his newest friend.

Somehow - to Prongs’ absolute astonishment - the crow seemed to understand what the hold up was and flew over to situate itself on Prongs’ antler.

Prongs - far too tired after a night full of romping with a werewolf directly after a full day of classes - acquiesced to being a glorified chauffeur for his smaller friends and led the way to the shack.

The crow sat quietly on the top of the old fireplace as the Marauders went about business as usual.

Padfoot convinced Moony to curl up on the bed so he would wake up at least semi-comfortably, whilst Prongs used his antlers to encourage a blanket up around Moony so he wouldn’t wake up completely nude, and Peter ran back towards the castle to give the lovers some privacy.

Once Moony returned fully to Remus, Prongs and Padfoot took a moment to shift back to their own human forms and started up on the healing process, completely forgetting about their interloper.

With a groan, Remus came to after James encouraged healing potion down his throat.

“I’m sorry, Moons.” He apologised in a whisper as he handed the empty vial to Sirius’ waiting hand.

“Where is she?” Remus croaked.

“Where’s who, babe?” Sirius asked, sharing a concerned glance with James.

Remus choked in his attempt to respond and both boys began shushing him. “Dovey.” He finally got out.

“She’s at the castle, Moons…she’s safe.” James placated.

“No.” Remus argued. “She was there.”

James turned to see if Sirius had any idea how to handle their boyfriend’s insanity when he spotted it behind Sirius.

The crow.

“You.” He whispered in awe, causing Sirius to whip his head around.

The crow hopped down from the mantle of the fireplace and landed gracefully on the floor before it spun and grew back into you.

“Dovey.” Remus groaned. James turned to see there were tears in Remus’ eyes, though he knew not what for.

“Hiya Moons.” You answered shyly, shooting guilty glances at Sirius who was still staring at you in shock and to James who was looking frantically between you and Remus.

“It’s been you?” James asked incredulously.

“How long have you known?” Remus asked at the same time.

You smiled sadly at Remus and knelt down beside him. “Long enough to become an animagi?”

“You sneaky little witch.” Sirius finally let out with a breath, sitting down unceremoniously at the foot of the bed to look at you.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” You begged quickly; eyes darting nervously between your three boyfriends.

“You’re worried about us being mad?” Sirius asked disbelievingly.

“Angel, you’ve caught us sneaking around and lying to you.” James teased with a certain level of sincerity, nudging you with his shoulder.

“Do you hate me?” Remus whispered, eyes still trained steadfast on you.

You looked at him like he had grown three heads.

“Remus, I love you. That’s why I’m here.” You pressed severely.

Remus laughed out a sob and covered his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck were you thinking?” Sirius asked suddenly.

“What?” You responded warily.

“Casually inserting yourself into a werewolf pack! What would you have done if Moony hated you?” He barked, flinging a hand towards Remus’ general direction.

You scoffed derisively and shot Remus a look like ‘can you believe this guy?’ “I’m impossible not to love, Sirius. Do keep up.”

Your cheek earned you a scoff before Sirius was launching himself at you and the two of you fell to the floor, disturbing layers of dust and causing the particles to dance through the air.

“You’re so lucky you're cute.” Sirius said in faux contempt as he peppered your jaw and neck with kisses.

James sighed in relief as he looked back over at Remus who was watching the two of you with a look so full of fondness, James was surprised he couldn’t see hearts pouring out of his eyes.

“You okay, Rem?” James asked him quietly, pulling one of his hands to his mouth and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Perfect, Jamie. Just perfect.” Remus said with a content smile and a single happy tear trailing down his cheek.

James was more than inclined to agree.

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strang3lov3 · 5 months

Text

Massage Chair

Summary: Joel teaches you to massage him, then takes advantage of your new skill. After, he shows his gratitude.

Tags: Lots of joel teasing, malicious compliance, light arguing, smut, fingering, teasing, romantic massaging, creampie, slower and more emotional, joel comforting u after boning.

a/n: thank you for your patience with me! I wanted to have this done last week, but I ended up in the ER which slowed me down a little. But, that gave me more time to write and @papipascalispunk time to beautifully edit this <3 she's such a babe.

(mall rats 5, though can be read as standalone. find more mall rats in my masterlist)

A brown leather chair is flipped on its side, and Joel’s tinkering with the parts inside, cursing and hissing expletives. It’s a broken massage recliner that came with Joel’s house, and he spotted the same model at Macy’s back in the old mall. So he stole bits and pieces, and now he’s attempting to fix the chair. It’s not going too well.

“God bless it,” Joel grumbles at you, “Quit shinin’ the flashlight on the damn floor. Shine it inside the chair.”

“I am shining it inside the chair, Joel,” you argue, “Why don’t you make Ellie hold the flashlight for you?”

“‘Cause she can’t hold it right either. You girls suck at using flashlights,” Joel grimaces as he sits up off the ground, then reaches for your hand that’s holding the light. He manipulates your position, adjusting the way you’re sitting and how you hold the flashlight and says, “There. Stay like that.”

You smirk, “Oh Joel, it makes me so hot and bothered when you take control of me like that.”

Joel sighs, frustrated with you. Like always. “Was that really necessary?”

“Of course it was,” you reply. Moving gingerly, he lays back down on the carpeting. The chair makes small, metallic clanging noises as he works, and you’ve got a perfect view of his ass. So tight and plump in those jeans. What a treat.

Joel turns on his side, twisting his torso to reach for a different screwdriver. This time, he grunts in pain. He works a little longer, then tosses the screwdriver aside before hoisting himself up. His knees crack and ache as he slowly stands up, carefully pulling the chair upright and plugging it into an outlet. You watch as he sits in the chair, lifts up the armrest to press a few buttons, and the chair comes to life. He keeps his eyes squinted shut, his chest rising and falling heavily with every labored breath he takes. He fidgets with the buttons as the chair makes different mechanical whirring noises, vibrating and pressing into his back.

“Can I try it?”, you ask.

“No,” he deadpans, “S’not massagin’ too good anyway – kinda just vibrates. And before you ask – no,” you smirk as he glares at you, “It doesn't vibrate like that. So don’t even think about doin’ that to my chair, you horndog.” He knows you so well.

When Joel is done speaking, he sighs and closes his eyes again. It’s a little awkward, watching Joel sit in his massage chair. He doesn’t seem very comfortable, and it’s making you feel sort of sad. His back has been killing him for weeks. He doesn’t talk about it much, but you can tell it’s getting worse. As he squeezes his eyes shut, those two little lines between his brows grow more prominent than usual. He inhales through his nose and exhales from his mouth, like he’s trying to breathe away the pain.

Before the outbreak, he found things like heated massage chairs and beds that move up and down to be frivolous and unnecessary. In his twenties and thirties, if his back hurt he’d pop a few Advil and tough it out. Not exactly an option now. So, an old massage chair it is.

“Have you been icing your back, Joel?”, you ask but Joel opens just one eye and glares at you. You take his silence as a no. “You need to ice it.”

“My back’s fine,” Joel lies as he rolls his eyes at you, “Go away. Go play in traffic.”

“Are you keeping yourself hydrated?”, you continue.

“Yes.” You look at Joel, then you look next to him. The full glass of water on his end table says otherwise, condensation pooling on the wood. Joel looks there too, then back at you as you stare at him, unimpressed, “Yeah, I drink enough water, dammit. What’s with the third degree?”

You ignore his question, “Are you getting enough rest?”

“What do you think I’m tryin’ to do right now?” Again, you stare at him with an unimpressed expression. Joel sighs, exasperated, “For the love of god, I rest plenty.” Out of all the ways you could annoy him, this is the most brutal. It’s torturous. He continues, “I’d rest easier if you weren’t here, y’know. So get gone. Quit naggin’ me.”

“Charming, Joel. Like always,” you tell him, your tone sarcastic. Lifting yourself up, you stand in front of him and take his hand in your own. You pull with all of your might to lift him up, and drag him to his feet. He groans the entire time.

“Oh, come on,” Joel complains. He knows that look you’ve got on your face, knows that you’re on a mission and he’s coming with. Of course he’s coming with. He’s always stuck with you, somehow. “What are you signin’ me up for now?”, as you lead him to his room, matching his slow pace as he takes heavy steps, so as not to overwhelm his ancient bones.

“Bed,” you tell him.

Oh. Joel gets it now. You’re forcing him to take a rest. Could be worse, he supposes, but he always has a flair for the dramatic, so he sighs heavily as he lays down, making sure you know he is not happy that you’re putting his ass to bed. You untie his boots and pull them off his feet, then toss them aside.

Just as Joel settles on his back, you move to his side of the bed and put your hands under his torso and thigh, then roll him onto his stomach rather harshly. He yelps in pain, “Jesus Christ–”

“Sorry,” you mumble sheepishly. You join him on the bed, straddling his butt, careful not to put too much pressure on him.

Joel is confused beyond words. Before he can process what you’re doing, he feels you bouncing the sides of your hands down his shoulders and spine, and then you’re pinching and smushing his body haphazardly. “Uhh, what are you doin’ to me?”, he questions now. It is a deeply uncomfortable sensation.

“Massaging you, because your chair doesn’t work,” you tell him, continuing your work on his back, “It’ll help you rest. I’m feeding two birds with one scone, Joel.”

“That – that’s not how the phrase – fuck, never mind,” Joel relents, baffled as you “massage” him. He lets you continue for a few moments longer before deciding he’s had enough. “Sweetheart, it’s very kind of you, but you are terrible at this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no, this is god awful. You’re gonna break my damn spine in half,” Joel pauses before speaking again, thinking to himself. There’s no way you’ve had or given a massage before now. “Am I your guinea pig?”

“Kinda,” you answer quietly.

“I could tell,” Joel taps you on the leg twice, “Alright, get off and switch me spots.”

“What for?”, you ask.

“So I can teach ya how it’s done and keep you from committing a fuckin’ felony assault on my back,” he says, “What you’re doin’... it’s inhumane, darlin’.” He’s being very Joel about this. Harsh, a little rude. Dramatic. You climb off him and he scoots off of his bed. “Take off your shirt,” he tells you, “S’rule one of a good massage. You’re supposed to massage a person, not their clothes.”

“Noted,” you say. Joel leaves then, maybe to give you privacy or something, not that you need it. If Joel wants you to strip naked, you’ll strip naked, no questions asked. You’d lay yourself on a silver platter for him, cherries on your ass and an apple in your mouth. Though, you do think it’s sweet he’s trying to keep you feeling comfortable. Joel Miller, always the gentleman.

You strip nude, then lay on your stomach on the bed, right where Joel was. His sheets feel warm from his body heat and they smell like him too, warm and musky and woody. You’re facing his window, where outside it’s overcast and gloomy. On his bedside table sits his book of crossword puzzles.

The stairs and floorboards creak as Joel returns to you. He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of you naked and face down in his bed, rolling his eyes at your lack of modesty. Joel places a few things on his dresser, then a little glass container full of oil on his bedside table. “Only had to take your shirt off, hon,” he says.

“Oh. I thought you wanted me naked.”

“You’ve got selective hearing,” Joel lowers the curtains by his window and lights a few candles on his dresser, “I think you wanted you naked.” In the darkened room, he moves behind you and you hear the sound of fabric moving before he’s draping a blanket over your bum. You shrug, “Sorry, Joel. Guilty as charged.”

“Uh huh,” he mumbles. Joel rolls up his sleeves before beginning. “You ready?”, you nod, and so does he. He takes the container of oil and drizzles it down your spine. It’s warm, a little sweet and fragrant. You feel relaxed already. Joel then pours some of oil into the palm of his hands and rubs them together. “First thing, you always wanna be mindful of any painful or sensitive areas. Anything you need me to be careful about?”

“Uh, no. My back doesn’t usually hurt,” you tell him.

“Must be nice,” he mumbles. After rubbing his palms together, he places them on your back. He spreads the drizzled oil from your lower back up to your neck and shoulders in long strokes with his palms, so big and strong and warm. You sigh in relief. “The oil makes it easier to glide your hands. Don’t wanna use too much, though. And you’re gonna spread it out, nice and even.”

You nod, your eyes closed, “What about the candles?”

“Candles don’t make a difference. Just thought you’d like ‘em,” Joel whispers.

“I do.”

He spends the next couple minutes using wide, gentle strokes of his hands to completely spread the oil over your body. Once he’s satisfied, he places his hands at your shoulders. He works his thumbs into your traps and up your neck, pushing and sliding them up your skin. “How’s the pressure?”, he asks, “Too much? Not enough?”

“Little too much,” you tell him.

Joel lightens the pressure and continues the motion, “Feel nice?”

All you can do is hum in response. It feels incredible. His hands are so firm and gentle, so careful. Your skin is warm and his touch is comforting. He works his way down your body, massaging and rubbing your muscles. He alternates between circular and back and forth movements.

“Good. Remember that. Be nice and fluid when you massage me,” Joel whispers, “None of that karate choppin’ shit.”

“None of that karate choppin’ shit,” you repeat, matching his tone.

Joel massages you everywhere for the next ten minutes. Instructing you to stay away from the spine directly, but focus your pressure next to it. Focus on the muscles. You can dig your thumbs in, use your knuckles, even the heels of your palms. He tells you he’s being more gentle, but he’s gonna need you to use your body weight.

“You writin’ this down?”, he asks.

“Mmm, yeah. Got my pen and paper right here,” you murmur. He massages a sensitive spot on your back and you moan softly.

“Hey,” he warns, “Don’t be enjoyin’ this so much. S’for my benefit, not yours. I’ve got ulterior motives for massagin’ you.”

“Oh?”, you whisper.

“Yeah, oh. You volunteered yourself to fix my back, so I’m gonna take advantage.”

“Joel?”

“What’s that, hon?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not, fuck, right there,” you breathe, “M’not learning a whole lot. Need some more pointers.”

“Always workin’ an angle,” he retorts, “But I don’t have nothin’ else to tell ya.” Joel massages you quietly for a couple more minutes, generously giving you more massaging than he anticipated. But he likes it, likes knowing you’re feeling good. The soft noises you’re making, how smooth your skin feels. He loves watching the candlelight dance across your skin while he runs his palms up and down your hips, your sides, pouring over your curves. You’re lost in the sensation for a few moments longer before Joel taps your hip, “Alright, time’s up.”

“No, Joel, come on,” you whine, “Not yet, don’t stop now.”

“Move it,” he says, tapping your hip harder, “S’my turn. My back hurts, not yours. You said so yourself.”

You whine again, “Please? Just a little longer.”

“Mmm, nope. Let this be a lesson to ya, don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.” Joel leaves to go to his bathroom then, turns on the hot water in his sink and returns with a warm rag. He gently scrubs your back, removing the excess oil.

Finally, you sit up in defeat. “Give me that,” you grumble, reaching for the rag. You take it to the bathroom and rinse it out for Joel as he begins undressing. When you return, Joel is shirtless face down in his bed, a blanket draped over his ass, just like how he had you.

“Alright hon, I’m ready. Show me whatcha got.”

Standing next to him, you step a little closer to the bed and survey Joel. He’s on his tummy facing you, his eyes shut gently. He looks gorgeous like this, his hair messy, his shoulders thick and broad. You trace the curve of his back with your eyes, curious when you look at his ass. So plump under that blanket. Reaching forward, you lift the blanket.

“What’re ya doin’,” Joel asks in an annoyed tone.

“I’m just…”, you trail off, admiring the swell of his ass cheeks. Joel doesn’t seem to mind when you touch his bum, squeezing the flesh gently and watching it move beneath your fingertips.

“You’re snoopin’,” he answers his own question for you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You look at Joel again, and he’s still got his eyes shut. A small smile on his face that you know wouldn’t be there if he knew you were looking at his face.

“Why don’t you snoop a little higher, dirty bird.”

“Okay,” you murmur, draping the blanket over his ass. “Can you remind me of step one again?”

“Ah, someone wasn’t payin’ attention,” he teases, “Sure. Ya gotta ask me where it hurts.”

“Where’s it hurt?”

“Everywhere.”

You sigh, “Thanks, Joel. That’s helpful.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to give my neck and shoulders a little extra lovin’, though.” You nod, then reach for his shoulders. “Nuh uh,” he tuts, “Oil first.” You reach for the oil and hover it over Joel’s body. “Easy does it. Little goes a long–”, but Joel is interrupted when he feels a large splash of oil on his back, dripping over his sides and onto his sheets. Definitely gonna stain.

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, “My bad.”

“God bless it,” Joel grumbles, “S’alright. Get the rag and clean me up a little.”

Doing as you’re told, you get the rag from the bathroom and wipe away the oil you don’t need. Then you spread the oil on Joel’s back, using your palms to drag it from the area just above his ass cheeks to his wide shoulders. Joel hums in satisfaction. You lean over him to begin massaging his body, but you’re finding it uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I straddle you again?” you ask, “To reach your back easier.”

“Go for it.”

You hold onto Joel’s shoulders for stability as you straddle yourself over him, sitting on his ass and settling your knees at his sides. This way, you have much more mobility. You place your palms at his lower back, thumbs on either side of his spine and press into him hard, then work your hands up his body. He sighs softly. “How’s that?”, you ask.

“Jury’s still out,” he replies, “Do that again, little harder this time.” When you do, Joel sighs deeper, “S’it. Much better.”

You repeat the general motion, but vary your movements. Sometimes letting your hands explore his sides, making big and small circles, large sweeping motions. Joel groans when you walk your thumbs up his spine. “Yeah, very nice,” he praises.

Once at his upper back, you focus pressure on his shoulders and neck. You curl your fingers inward and use your knuckles for added pressure. “Little more,” he tells you. You press harder, but his muscles are so tight. “Harder,” he says, “C’mon, use some elbow grease.”

“I’m gonna hurt you, Joel,” you argue.

“You ain’t gonna hurt me,” he says. “In fact, I want you to try.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, hon. Hard as you can. Like you’re tryna squeeze the life outta me.”

Shaking your head, you try it. You squeeze his traps, digging your thumbs into his flesh as hard as you can. You watch his skin turn white under your fingertips.

“Fuck,” he moans, “There it is. Good girl, doin’ such a good job.”

Oh dear lord. His words go straight to your pussy. You continue to work his neck and shoulders, listening to Joel breathe and sigh, moan and groan. You admire his back, his freckles and moles and stretch marks here and there. “Good girl,” he praises you again. He whispers it over and over and over. Good girl.

He’s making all sorts of sinful noises, cursing all kinds of obscenities, and you’re falling to pieces just listening to him, feeling his hot skin. You picture his face, contorted in pleasure.

You feel warm, your core beginning to ache. You didn’t quite expect to get so worked up over this. As you lean forward over Joel to massage him, you tilt your hips into his back, pressing yourself against him for some sort of relief. Maybe repeating the motion once or twice.

“I can feel that,” he says.

“Feel what?”

“You. Drippin’. Rockin’ those hips on me. You’re makin’ a mess all over me, dirty bird.”

Your cheeks heat up and you’re feeling a little bashful at the accusation.

“Ya gotta finish my massage before we take care of that, hm?”

“Yeah,” you agree. Not like you have much left to do anyway. You’ve been massaging him for half an hour at this point, paid special attention to each area of his back. After massaging him for a few minutes longer, you tap his shoulder blade to let him know you’re done. Joel lifts himself up and begins to twist over, so you lift up to your knees to make room. “Wait, Joel, your sheets–”

“You ruined ‘em already.” He’s right. Oh well.

Once he’s settled, you sit down on his lap. His cock is half hard already. You reach for it, and he swats your hand away. You balk in confusion. “Ya ain’t done yet,” he tells you.

“What are you talking about?”

“Massage tax,” he says plainly, as if somehow you should have known that’s a thing and you roll your eyes, “It’s the law.”

“That is not a law.”

“Is now,” he says, taking his cock into his hand. You watch him work himself, swiping his thumb over the blushed tip a couple of times before holding it tightly, restricting your access.

“Joel,” you whine, “This isn’t– come on, man.”

“I know. I ain’t happy about it either,” he says, though his mischievous smile says differently,

“Government’s just rife with corruption, ain’t it?”

You can’t say you didn’t have this coming. You’ve tormented Joel for months in a myriad of ways. You deserve this.

“I don’t deserve this,” you tell him.

“‘Course not,” he says softly, still holding his member tightly. You try to wriggle his fingers away, but he’s got an iron grip. You sigh in defeat, annoyed. Joel looks all too proud of himself.

“I hate you, Joel.”

“You wound me sweetheart, really. It hurts,” he inhales sharply through his teeth, extending an arm to you, “Hurts almost as much as my arm, you know that? S’been so sore, my hands an’ fingers too.”

Yeah, yeah. You get the picture.

Glaring at him, you watch him shimmy into the pillows and wiggle his arm at you again. You’ve still got some oil on your hands, so you don’t bother with the bottle on his nightstand.

“Start up top,” he instructs you.

You move a little closer, taking his upper arm into your hands. You squeeze the muscles of his biceps and triceps, and as much as this is bothersome, it’s nice too. His muscles are strong, big, and firm. You’ve never really seen them until now. You admire the contours of his arm, the soft lines his muscles make. “And work your way down, down,” he says. And you follow, massaging his forearm. He sighs when you reach his hands, “S’my favorite part,” as you massage his palm, each knuckle of his digits. His hands are worn and calloused.

You drop his hand once you feel like you’ve done enough, “Done.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Hm,” Joel hums before offering you his other arm, holding his cock now with his other hand, “I’ve got an entire arm you haven’t touched yet.” You stare at him with a blank expression. Joel pouts and acknowledges your disappointment by saying, “I know, hon. I’m so sorry.”

You roll your eyes, taking his other arm into your hands. “No, you aren’t.”

“Yeah, I’m not sorry,” he says, “Not one bit.”

And so again, you repeat the motions, first massaging his biceps and triceps. The hand that holds his cock rests between your thighs, and you begin grinding into it. Eyes shut, he raises one brow in amusement at your arousal. You’re soaked.

Finally, he lets himself go. His cock springs free, rock hard with protruding veins, and you inch forward so that it sits between your thighs.

As you massage his forearm now, you rock your hips slightly. Joel surely notices, though he doesn’t mind. You rock yourself quicker, chasing that sweet friction on your clit. Your hands are at his palm now, thumbs urgently rubbing circles into the flesh. You need to be done with this.

“Slow it down,” he tells you, “S’not a race.”

You groan, but slow down anyway. You screw your eyes shut as you massage his palm sloppily, your focus now concentrated on what's happening between your thighs. Your pussy is slick as you roll your hips, grinding against his hard cock. That familiar coil in your gut is back. “Joel,” you cry, “My hands are sore.”

“Now you know how I feel,” he retorts, and you whine impatiently. “Ya never do any hard work in your life. C’mon, you’re almost done,” he taps your ass, “Lift up a little. I like watchin’ you get yourself all worked up on my cock.”

As you work Joel’s hand, you lift yourself, hovering just inches above him. With his free hand, he takes his cock and drags himself through your dripping folds, collecting your slick on his tip. It feels good, your pussy is sensitive. He nudges his head against your clit, back and forth and periodically notches himself at your entrance, playing with you, achingly torturing you. “Joel,” you whine as he teases you, “My thighs are aching, hands too, ca— can’t do this anymore.”

“Sure ya can,” he coos. It feels like you’ve been massaging him for hours, way longer than he massaged you. This isn’t fair in the slightest, even with his back pain.

Truth be told, the hand and arm massage stopped feeling good for Joel a long time ago. You’re aching and tired, and so are your hands, not giving him the proper pressure he needs. But he’s taking advantage of this opportunity to tease you, drive you insane. He feels it’s warranted.

And then finally, finally, he pulls his hand away from you. You’re done.

You flop next to Joel and take his hand back in yours, guiding his fingers to your center. “Please,” you beg him, “Touch me. Do something.”

Joel clicks his tongue, “No can do.”

“What?”

“Yeah, think I just wanna rest now.” You stare at Joel, confused. He shrugs, “And I’m just parched. Need some water. And I’d go and get it, but I don’t want ya to yell at me again. I’m supposed to be resting, like you said.”

“You want me to get you water,” you confirm, annoyed.

“And some ice, too,” he adds.

Joel watches with a smirk on his face as you shove his hand away from your thigh and huff, then stomp out of his bedroom and all the way downstairs. After Joel hears the sound of running water and the slamming of cabinets, you return moments later with a glass of water and some ice wrapped in a towel. You mumble, “You can shove this ice right up–”

“Right up my ass, got it,” Joel takes the ice in one hand and the glass of water in his other. Joel drinks a sip of the water, then makes a disgusted face, “You gave me warm water? What is wrong with you?”

“You didn’t specify the temperature.”

Joel rolls his eyes and sets both the ice and the water on his nightstand. “Fuckin’ psycho,” he mumbles. Even when he thinks he’s one step ahead of you in the never-ending quest to piss one another off, he’s not. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

You smile, “Thanks.”

Joel stares at you for a moment, admiring the mischievous grin on your face and that look in your eye. And then faster than you can blink, he takes your arm in his hand and pulls you back into bed as you giggle. You hear him laughing too, and then he’s situating himself above you. Hovering over you with one arm by your head, he takes his fingers into his mouth and sucks on them before bringing his hand between your thighs.

You breathe a sigh of relief. You’re so sensitive and he’s finally fucking touching you, fingertips dragging through your slick folds, circling your clit before dipping one, then two fingers inside you. He finds your clit with his thumb, rubbing tight circles into you. “Quit teasing,” you plead.

Joel laughs breathlessly above you, “M’not teasin’—”

“More,” you interrupt him, “I need more.”

“You got it,” he says, then inserts a third finger. He curls them repeatedly inside you, your pussy gushing and soaking his fingers, making all sorts of wet, sticky noises.

But it’s still not enough. You’re so fucking needy, so ready for Joel to just fuck you. You push his hand away and reach for his cock, wrapping your legs around him and using your feet on his ass to push him down closer to you.

“Ah, fuck,” Joel hisses when he feels your hand touch his member, “Hey, easy, sweetheart. Let’s slow it down.”

“Slow it down my ass,” you argue, “I want you now, Joel.”

“Now?”

“Need you now,” you repeat, tilting your hips and bouncing your heels on his ass, “Now, now, now, now–”

Joel smiles at your desperation, at the way he’s managed to torture you. “Didn’t quite catch that, bad hearing and all that. You want me to fuck you when exactly?”, you cry in pure agony and Joel says, “Gotta mark my calendar, set my alarm clock...”

Your groans of frustration quickly turn into a soft sigh of pleasure as Joel takes you by surprise, pushing his cock inside you deeply, inch by inch, in one fluid motion. The stretch feels incredible and you’re so perfectly full of him. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close with one of your hands resting on his shoulder and the other tangled in the soft curls on his head.

“Been needin’ this, huh?”, Joel asks as he settles inside you, letting you adjust to the stretch.

You nod, your cheek brushing against his scratchy, salt and pepper facial hair. “You’re such an asshole,” you whisper, “You make me so mad.”

“Ditto, sweetheart,” he mumbles as he kisses your cheek. That’s become a regular thing, now. Always kissing your forehead, your cheeks. It always makes you blush. Joel pulls out of you nearly all the way before pushing back in. Over and over, building to a steady pace, and he makes soft grunts as he fucks you.

You love how he cages you in, surrounds you, the low light of the candles dancing on his face as he fucks you passionately. And he’s watching you, big brown eyes full of something you can’t quite read. He pulls your hand from his hair and pins it next to your head, his fingers interlaced with your own. It’s sweet and it’s intimate, almost too intimate.

You can’t take this right now. Can’t deal with the way it feels, to be treated so specially by Joel.

You untangle your fingers from his, and he watches you with a confused expression on his face. Reaching low, you slap his ass, “C’mon, fuck me harder. Use some elbow grease,” you mock his words from earlier, “Or does your old ass back hurt too much?”

Joel stills and stares at you. You stare back, challenging him. “Why are you bein’ like this?” he asks, “Do y’always have to instigate?”

“Think I just heard your hip crack, too,” you tease, but it gets no reaction from Joel.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” he warns, then composes himself before speaking again, “Have some faith. You trust me?”

There’s something different about the way he’s looking at you, watching you. You’re apprehensive, but you nod anyway.

“I said, we’re gonna slow it down this time,” he whispers, “Gonna go nice and slow.”

Joel pulls out of you then, and you groan in disappointment. He silences your displeasure with a quiet shhhh, then moves lower down your body. He runs his hands over your tummy, up your sides, tracing each and every curve. Kisses one hip bone, “I know I was teasin’ ya,” he says, “And I really put ya to work with that massage. That you offered t’do, mind you,” he adds as he kisses your other hip bone, “Really didn’t think that you were gonna get me ice and a glass of water. Wasn’t surprised when you told me to shove it up my ass, but I wasn’t expectin’ to drink warm water. Was a nice touch, trouble.”

You begin to speak, but you stammer, struggling to find the right words. You squirm under his touch. He’s being so gentle, so sweet that he’s got you all flustered now.

“Yeah, I know, sweet girl,” Joel mumbles against your skin. Pressing soft and wet kisses on your body, his fingers leisurely dragging through your dripping folds as he looks up at you, “I want you to know that I appreciate you. I appreciate all the ass backward things you do for me. I really do.”

“Joel, I–fuck,”, you moan. He’s pumping his fingers inside you again, now licking and kissing your nipples, swirling his tongue over the soft skin, worshiping every inch of your body.

“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head. Y’still drive me fuckin’ nuts.” You laugh breathlessly, voice caught in your throat as Joel kisses up your neck, up your jaw, your chin, and stopping just before your lips when he hears your breath hitch. He searches your eyes, sensing your apprehension. He knows the weight of the intimacy that kissing your lips holds, especially since it’s been put off so long. He’s gonna kiss you. Just not yet. “Now can we try this again?”

When you whisper a quiet yes, he enters you for a second time, burying himself inside of you. He begins to fuck you again, slow and deep, letting you feel every inch of him, parts of him you don’t usually feel. His quiet breaths on your skin, the thick vein of his cock, his soft tummy, so warm against yours. Usually he fucks you hard, fast. But today, he’s savoring you. You dig your heels into his ass, faster. It has to be faster.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he says, “We can just be nice, pretend you like me and I like you. Just this once. We don’t always have to argue.”

“Joel,” you whine, “Please. I can’t–I want–”

“I know what you want, ya want what we’re used to. But s’not so bad, I promise,” he purrs above you, “Tell me– fuck, tell me how you feel.”

Exposed, but good. Really good. It’s new and unfamiliar, but so fucking good, but it feels like a crime to admit that. “Joel,” is all you can say, “Joel.”

“I know,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against yours, one hand on your waist holding you tight as he fucks you, “Doin’ so good for me.”

You still can’t bring yourself to say anything, don’t know how to respond to him. You’re at a loss for words, feeling him like this. How warm and protected and loved you feel. Your skin is on fire and you can’t help but close your eyes, retreating inward. But as different as this is, you don’t want him to stop, so you hold him tighter, pulling his face down to yours and burying yourself in his neck.

Joel fucks you like that for a while. Just like that, with every thrust being intentional, feeling devastatingly good. You lose yourself in the feeling and Joel seemingly does as well. Words are left unspoken as he savors this moment with you.

Hours could have passed, you wouldn’t know. Joel’s movements are becoming erratic, quicker. “Come with me,” he begs, resting his forearm above your head and moving the other to your center, as he paints tight circles around your clit, “I want you to come with me, sweetheart. Please.”

It’s not long after that when that familiar heat in the pit of your stomach is back, fluttering and intense. “Oh, god,” you moan, “M’close.”

“That’s it, just let yourself go,” he breathes, “With me, now.”

His words are all it takes. Your orgasm washes over you slowly, intensely. It’s powerful, the way lava flows from the earth, setting your skin ablaze. It’s overwhelming as Joel fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He makes broken moans and grunts as he comes with you, painting your insides with his hot seed.

He pants on top of you, catching his breath before pulling out of you, not caring that you’re now dripping his spend onto his bed. He lays next to you, pulling you into his side with your legs tangled between his and your head resting on his shoulder.

You’re crying, quietly. That’s never happened before. Joel feels your tears dripping down his skin, and he looks at you with concern.

“M’fine, Joel, I was just–It was just–”

Joel speaks to you soothingly, “I know, I know,” he whispers, “I’m right here.”

He just holds you like that, his fingertips trailing over your skin in lazy patterns. When he chuckles to himself, you look at him. “What?” you ask.

“Warm water,” he says, amused, “You amaze me.”

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