Jealous Kiba

Jealous Kiba

I have absolutely been slacking on writing any fics, and this isnt my normal content, but I have been thirsting for Kiba recently. So obviously, I have to write this 5.3K word filth :)

✧˖ ° includes~ seemingly modern au, established friendship, nsfw, jealous Kiba, praise kink, choking, dom!kiba, sub!reader, biting, scratching, hair pulling, honorifics, reader called good girl etc.

You all gathered at Sakura’s apartment for her small birthday celebration. She had finally turned 21, the house smelling of booze and excitement, Kiba noted. He was stone-cold sober, having driven himself here, and not as happy as everyone around.

Kiba watched stealthily from his spot on the couch as you stood next to the pony-tailed idiot. Now he had nothing against Shikamaru, it's just that he was standing too close for comfort and he missed when you would stand that close to him, even if you and him had only been friends. You guys used to hang out every day, but recently Kiba noticed you distancing yourself. Probably because you were buddy buddy with Shaikamaru. God, Kiba could practically smell the jealousy on himself. He had no right to really be mad, having never confessed his feelings to you, but still, had all your days together meant nothing? Now you’re outwardly flirting with one of his friends?

You threw your head back, laughing. Kiba noticed the way you placed your hand on Shikamaru’s shoulder, slightly pushing him away. He knew Shikamaru wasn’t that fucking funny, so why the hell were you laughing so hard? Kiba watches as you lean in and give Shikamaru a hug, figuring you were getting ready to leave. He couldn’t help but notice the way Shikamaru held you, one arm on your waist, the gentle rub of his hand on the back of your head as you pressed flush against his chest. Kiba could have torn him apart at that moment, but he calmed himself. He could never cause a scene like that, but if Kiba ever sensed discomfort from you, he would be by your side in an instant. No matter who the person was, if they made you uncomfortable, Kiba was there.

He got up, flattening out his army green hoodie, and walked over to you.

“Hey (Y/N), you heading home for the night?” He asks you.

You jump, a little stared and a little nervous. You had missed Kiba, but distancing yourself was the only way you thought you could get over this stupid crush. You and him had been friends for years, you couldn’t ruin it over some silly feelings. But fuck, did he look good in grean, the long sleeves of his hoodie pushed up giving you full view of his muscular forearms.

“Oh, yeah, I’m ready to hit my bed. Just gotta say bye to Sakura and thank her for inviting me,” you respond, looking up into his eyes. He towered over you.

“Let me drive you home then, you’ve been drinking, no?”

“Only like, two. You know I don’t drink like that. I’m fine to walk home, Kib,” you say.

“Well, you know I could never let a pretty girl like you walk home alone at night,” he starts, mimicking you. “Plus, I miss your stupid face,” He says, one hand on the back of his neck.

“Wow,” you say jokingly. “I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered with that two in one combo.”

Your laugh calms his nerves. “Oh come on, I can’t just be giving out compliments, (Y/N). But, you can take it however you want,” he says, flashing his canines.

“I take it you won’t have no for an answer, so I’ll meet you at the front door, hm?” You question, looking at him with doe eyes.

He swears his knees almost buckle with you looking at him like that. Faking innocence. Kiba nods his head like an excited puppy and makes his way to the door.

When you’re done saying bye to everyone, you walk over to the front door. You spot Kiba standing there, rocking on his heels. His hands were stuck in his jean pockets, head down, his scruffy hair falling a bit into his face. He looked so good.

“I’m ready,” you say simply, trying to collect yourself.

He gives you a look up and down, brows furrowed. “Where’s your jacket?”

“Oh, I didn’t bring one,” you say with a smile.

“Tsk, tsk. (Y/N), you know what kind of man I am. Did you really think I was gonna let you walk outside in that little dress with no jacket?” He begins to pull off his hoodie. His black T-shirt underneath lifts along with it, giving you a full view of his toned abs. You can’t help but squeeze your legs together, knowing if you put that hoodie on, the smell of him so close would drive you nuts.

“Kiba I’ll be-” you start, but are cut off by him shoving the sweater into your chest.

“No buts. Put the sweater on please,” Kiba says. You do as you’re told, the sweater falling slightly below your bottom. Almost the length of the white dress you were wearing. “There,” he says. “Much better.”

While you walk to the car, Kiba keeps the doors locked. He knows you would try to open it yourself and he just could not have that. He was too much of a gentleman. When he gets to the passenger door, he holds the handle, unlocks the door, and pulls it open for you. You can feel your cheeks warm at his action. You have to stop thinking of your friend like this, he’s just being nice.

He waits until he sees you are all set in your seat, feet comfortably in the car, before he softly closes the door and makes his way to the driver's side. You look through the tinted windows, openly ogling at his biceps and chest that are oh so visible through his shirt. You realize you do not really want to go home. You want to spend some time with the boy you’ve been avoiding for a month now. As he connects his phone to the radio and picks a playlist, you call him.

“Kiba, do you actually mind if we drive around a bit or something? I don’t actually want to go home, I was just tired of being around so many people,” you say, which isn’t a total lie. You didn’t want to be around everyone. And his hoodie was just a convincing factor for you to stay out with him.

“Of course, you know I love my late nights,” he says, looking over at you. “Especially when I spend them with you.”

Kiba can’t stand himself. For one, he’s being too corny. Two? He is trying to flirt with his best friend. Maybe he’s just confident after seeing you with another man, but he doesn’t think he wants to hide his feelings anymore. “Why don’t we go to our little spot by the water? Listen to some music in private?” he asks.

All you can do is nod your head and watch as he puts the car in drive. You keep looking over to his hands on the wheel, his muscles flexing with each turn. You feel stupid getting turned on by something so small, but you can’t help it. The sound of the leather cracking when he grips the wheel, the veins on his hands. You clench your thighs together, that familiar feeling erupting in your lower stomach. Kiba pretends not to notice.

He pulls up close to the water and turns the headlights off. One of your guys favorite songs starts to play, you make out the lyrics even though the volume is low.

“Oh my god, remember when we used to sing this so loud and your mom would yell at us to shut up cause it would wind up the dogs too much?” You ask, giggling at the memory.

“How could I forget?” He responds. “We did that everyday for weeks. We were always together.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve just been busy recently,” you lie.

“Busy with Shikamaru?” Kiba asks, letting jealousy get the best of him. How fucking stupid.

“Why,” you ask with a sly smile, still very nervous. “Are you jealous, Kiba?”

Kiba gives you a double take, blushing at what you just said, the color of his cheeks matching his markings. “No no not at all. I-i’m just saying you guys are hanging out a lot recently. Didn’t know if you guys had a thing or something. I mean, I didn’t peg him to be your type, honestly,” he says, fidgeting with his own fingers.

“What do you think my type is, exactly?” You ask, leaning a bit closer. You don’t know what it is or where your confidence is coming from, but you can’t help but tease the boy. He doesn’t take the bait, though, only shrugging his shoulders.

“Yeah well, you’re right. Definitely not my type at all. He’s too quiet and laid back. You know I’m pretty quiet too, I’d like someone a little more outgoing to push me out of my comfort zone. Someone really funny, too, you know? A gentleman. Plus, he’s got a really big thing for Temari. We’re only been hanging out recently because he wants me to be his wingman,” you say, leaning back into your seat. You cross your arms over your chest.

“Wingman?” Kiba asks, again with his cute, furrowed brows.

“Yeah, I’m the one that brought Temari to the party. I guess I’m more of a wingwoman,” you say with a giggle. You look over, trying to maintain eye contact, but he keeps looking away.

“Oh okay, so when are you gonna start hanging out with me again,” he asks, leaning back in his seat. A stupid smirk plastered on his face. “Or is there more to ditching me than you’re letting on?”

You push his shoulder, admiring the feel of his muscle under your hand, only for a second. “No there’s nothing, you idiot. I miss hanging out with you.”

“Yeah well I’ve been missing you. And don’t tell Akamaru I said this, but he misses you too,” Kiba laughs. “If I’m being honest, I might’ve been a little jealous of Shikamaru,” he confesses. He knows you won’t judge him for saying that.

“Why’s that?” you ask, innocently. Your heart starts beating faster at the thought that Kiba is jealous of someone else for stealing you away.

“You’re my girl,” he says, looking up through his lashes.

“Don’t say that, stupid. You’re being so mushy.”

“But it’s true, you are my girl,” Kiba says. He knows Shikamaru isn’t a problem anymore, but he can’t stand the idea of you being with any man. He needs to make a move, even if it ruins the friendship. At least then he would know he tried. He can see your blush spreading across your face. You are no longer teasing Kiba, he always comes back 10 times stronger, your lips held in a thin line. “You don’t want to be my girl?” He asks.

You squeeze your thighs at his words and look down, no idea how to respond. “I-,” you start, but it goes nowhere. Your stomach is spinning.

Kiba slowly places his hand under your chin and brings you to face him. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Honestly, it's easier for him to be this soft with you, having not seen you for weeks. It's like all this time being away has given him the courage to finally open up. You still can’t answer, but Kiba can smell you. Smell the slight arousal. Notice how you have your hands neatly folded in your lap, squeezing your plush thighs together. All he can think about is being suffocated by those thighs. Kiba can’t believe his own confidence, but he finds it harder to believe how easy it is to turn you on. And how cute you are.

He leans into your ear. “You know,” he whispers. “The only thing I can think about is kissing those pretty lips of yours.”

You feel your heart stop. “Do it, then,” you whisper back.

He’s on you in a second, lips molding together like art. His hand runs up the back of your head, pushing you closer into his mouth. You shiver at his touch. Kiba licks your lower lip, wanting allowance to fully explore your mouth. You part your lips slightly, letting him in. You can taste the mint on his tongue as your hand slides over to rest on his chest. Kiba’s breath hitches when he feels your delicate fingers slide up to his neck and back down to his chest. You pull away at the sound.

“I-I’m sorry,” you say quickly, bringing your hand up to wipe your mouth. He snatches your hand before it reaches your mouth.

“Why are you apologizing, cutie? You getting flustered?” He asks. Of course he’s gonna be cocky now, knowing you want him the way he wants you.

“I just… I don’t want this to ruin anything, I just…” you can't find the words.

“I want you, (Y/N). I can smell that you want me too. How long have you been hiding it?” Kiba asks. You remain silent. “Come here, baby, come sit in my lap,” he says, pulling your arm slightly. You follow his orders, always having been so obedient. It turns Kiba on to no end and he can feel himself straining in his pants. The thought of fucking you sensless in his car floods his mind.

“I’ve been lying to you for a long time, (Y/N). I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” he says, kissing the corner of your lip to your jawline and down your neck. “I want you to really be my girl.”

You whine at the feeling of his tongue on your neck. “Can I touch you here?” He asks, placing his hands on your hips lightly.

“Yes… please.”

His lips are back on yours, hands gripping your waist and sliding up slightly, smooth fingers gliding up your back. Your hands are running up over his biceps, on his chest, fingers curling into his hair. You can’t help yourself, having finally been given the chance to touch the boy of your dreams. You can’t help but moan when his teeth graze your ear.

“Shh, don’t do that. You can’t handle what comes next, yet,” Kiba says. He doesn't want to hurt you.

“I-I can,” You grind your hips down, causing him to groan in return. He tightens his hold on your hips. “Please Kiba, I want it, want you,” you beg. He’s silent and you become overly aware of the situation you’re in. Sitting in your best friend's lap, practically drooling at the thought of him touching you. You’re afraid you went too far.

He stares at you intently before grinding your hips against him again. “How am I supposed to say no when you ask all sweet like that, hm? Look so fucking cute in my sweater. Always act so innocent, but you want me to ruin you, huh?”

He’s rambling now, sliding your hips against his even harder. You go to kiss his neck, biting slightly, when he lets out a hiss. “You gonna let me touch you underneath this cute little dress? Gonna let me take it off?” he growls into your ear. You can feel yourself slick from just his words.

“Please, Kiba. Touch me, I want you to touch me,” you whine.

“Where, baby? You want me to touch you here?” he says, letting his thumb graze over the wet patch forming in your panties. You gasp at his touch, hips bucking into his hand. “So sensitive,” he whispers.

“Don’t tease me, Kiba.”

“I won’t if you keep saying my name like that,” he responds, canines flashing through his smirk.

Your lips crash into his again, his hands sliding up under your dress. He palms the plush of your thigh, squeezes your ass and drags you closer against him. You move your hips against him as he slides his hands up, slowly taking off the hoodie and dress in one go. You’re embarrassed to admit you weren’t wearing a bra, the cool air causing your nipples to harden immediately.

Kiba throws his head to the side, swearing under his breath. “No bra, baby?” He smirks, kissing your chest.

You shy away. “They- they’re uncomfortable… never wear ‘em,” you whisper.

His thumb swipes over your nipple and you arch into him. “They’re so perfect, you’re so fucking perfect.” He’s practically devouring you, leaving purple and pink bruises all over your chest, collar bones, wherever he can get his mouth. He needs to mark you, show the world you belong to him, claiming you.

“Kibaaa,” you whine.

“Whaaat?” he asks back, mimicking you. He smiles softly, bumping his nose to yours.

You become shy all over. “Can, uh, can we go in the back?” you ask. Your body is pressed to his chest, hiding yourself slightly.

“Fuck yes, we can go in the back. Go ahead baby,” he says. You climb back and cover yourself with the hoodie as he makes his way out of the car and walks to the back seat. Opening the door, he climbs in and notices the hoodie. “Take that off sweetheart, let me see my pretty girl.”

He's back on you in a second, kissing you roughly, pulling you against him while sliding his hands up your back. He gets you onto your back and rolls up the hoodie into a pillow. After placing it under your head, he places his left hand on your cheek, kissing you softer this time. More passionate. His right hand slides lower, cupping you gently and placing little pressure. You grind up into his hand and he can’t help but grind into the seat. Kiba is unbelievably hard, especially with seeing how needy you are for him. He kisses his way down till he makes it to your sweet cunt. It's a tight squeeze, but it's all worth it. He has been smelling your arousal for over an hour now, he needs to taste you on his tongue.

Kiba takes a look at your cute, lace panties, noting the wet spot that's formed in the center. “These are cute,” he says, toying with the fabric.

You’re looking down at him, trying to muster up the courage to say something. “Th-Thought you didn’t just give out compliments,” you say.

Kiba kisses your thigh dangerously close to your core and responds, “Baby, I would give you any and everything.”

His fingers loop under the waist of your panties as he looks up at you for permission. You nod your head slightly and he pulls them off in one swift motion, holding them to his nose and inhaling sharply. You clamp your thighs shut, shy from his action.

“You smell so fucking good. Open your legs, babygirl, let me taste you. Please?”

You do as you’re told and it makes his cock twitch, still caged in by his pants. The way you respond, giving him everything he asks for, drives him mad. He takes a second to admire you, your body, the slick gathered on that pretty pussy of yours. He slides one hand up your thigh, rubbing softly, while the other uses his middle and ring finger to swipe through your folds. Your hips thrust upwards as he pulls the fingers to his mouth, absolutely drunk off your arousal.

He groans at the taste, his breath fanning over your dripping core, causing you to clench. Kiba is already addicted to you, needing to feel you everywhere. He kisses your inner thigh, mere inches away from where you need him most. The feeling of his teeth sinking into the soft flesh sends a shiver up your spine and leaves your mouth hanging open.

Kiba softly kisses your clit before licking a stripe through your folds. He curses himself for not trying to get with you sooner, already addicted to your taste. His tongue teases your hole before swirling it around your clit. Kiba’s hand slides up your waist slowly as he works his tongue on your most sensitive part, your moans only spurring him on. His fingers slide over your nipple, pinching softly, and you arch into him, grinding into his mouth. He moans into you, the vibrations adding to your pleasure and you can’t help but squeeze your legs around him. He slides his other hand up to force your legs back open, while his other leaves your nipple to wrap around your throat. He squeezes softly.

You gasp and your hands fly down to his hair, wrapping your fingers around his brown locks and tugging. He growls into you, making you moan, “Kiba o.. oh fuck, please,” you beg, not sure what for. He hums back to you, the vibrations making you tremble again.

He pulls his face away, only darting his tongue out to play with your clit, while the hand holding your leg open reaches for your entrance. “So fucking good,” he mumbles against you. “Such a sweet, little pussy for me.”

Kiba enters you slowly with one finger and you pull his hair harder. He feels like he’s about to burst, but he knows he has to get you ready. Wants you to cum on his fingers first. You’re getting louder, moaning over the music, when he adds a second finger. Kiba curls his fingers upwards and finds your spot almost immediately, as if he already knew your body inside and out. With his fingers inside you, he pushes his face back into you, circling his lips around your clit and sucking softly. You wonder where he got such skills for a moment and it makes you jealous, which doesn’t last long, when you feel his hand slowly slide down from your neck to your waist.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck K-Kiba I’m cl-close,” you stutter out.

“I know baby, you’re clenching around my fingers. So tight,” he mumbles back. “Go ahead, cum for me. I need to taste you. That’s it, good girl.”

That's all you needed to send you over the edge. That neat, little coil wound up so perfectly had finally snapped. Your legs were trembling, back arched, and head thrown back. Kiba couldn’t help but admire your expression as you came all over his face and fingers. He slowed his movements and finally pulled his face away, sitting on his knees while still finger fucking you slowly.

You look up at him, his lips and chin soaked with your juices. You can’t help but look down at his hand inside you, watching the muscles in his arms flex as fucks you, before looking back up at his face. He leans over and kisses you softly.

“You see something you like, sweetheart? You’re clenching around me again,” he says with a satisfied grin.

“You just look so good with my cum dripping down your chin,” you say out of breath.

“Oh yeah? For a second there, I could have sworn you were looking at something else” Kiba mumbles, kissing your neck softly and curling his fingers again.

You moan at the feeling, “Please Kiba, I need you inside me.” You wrap your hand around his length and rub through his jeans.

“Fuck, baby, you gonna let me use this cute pussy of yours?” he asks. You nod eagerly, sitting up with him and pulling at his shirt.

“Take this off. I wanna feel your skin on mine,” you mumble quickly.

Kiba laughs back, “Yeah? Or do you wanna just see my muscles? You’ve been eyein’ them this whole time.”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” you smile and lean in, pecking his lips. He pulls his shirt over his head quickly and you run your hand down his chest, towards his length, admiring his toned torso and smooth skin. You unbuckle his belt to the best of your ability and he lifts his hips, allowing you to pull his length out. You’re speechless.

“I-I don’t know if it's gonna fit,” you say, without thinking.

He laughs, “Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna take care of you. And if it's too much,” he starts, grabbing your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, “you tell me right away, okay? I don’t care what the issue is, if it hurts, if you’re tired. There doesn’t even have to be a reason. You wanna stop? Just say the words, no questions asked, and I will take care of you.”

He slides his hand to your cheek, caressing it with his thumb. You nod your head, but he won’t take that for an answer this time. “I need your words, my love. Tell me you understand.”

“I promise to tell you if I need you to stop,” you say confidently.

“Good girl,” Kiba says. “Come sit on my lap, princess.”

You swing your leg over his, sitting directly over his tip. He slides his hands up your back, kissing your chest softly. Your hand reaches down and lines his length up with your entrance. You wrap your arms around Kiba’s neck and his hands settle at your waist. You begin to sink down on his length, the stretch painful, but good at the same time.

“That’s it, love. Slow, just like that. Doing so good for me, so tight,” he mumbles into your ear. Your head is down, struggling to maintain any bit of composure, and his grip tightens on your waist. Kiba hisses through his teeth when you fully sink down on him, your walls already fluttering around him. You swear you've never had anything this deep inside of you before.

“You okay, babygirl,” he asks, searching your eyes for any lies. You can see the love he holds for you.

“Y-yes… just so, s-so full,” you respond.

Kiba pulls you in for a kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth instantly. He pulls your hips back up before pushing you back down on his length, trying to find a steady pace. You melt under his touch and lean your head on his shoulder. Your moans sound directly in his ear and he can’t help but graze his teeth on your shoulder. When you whine, he sinks his teeth in softly. Not enough to pierce your skin, but enough to leave a mark. When he lifts your body again, he keeps it there.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says, pulling you against his chest. Your arms fold in, hands left on his shoulders and your head remains next to his. Cheek against cheek. “I got you baby, so good,” he whispers, one arm around your waist, his hand squeezing your side. His other arm is pulled diagonally across your back, with his hand gripping your shoulder. He begins to thrust up into you, hugging you against his chest.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. To have you falling apart like this because of me,” he starts. Kiba pushes his head down and starts kissing along your collarbone. “When I saw you and Shikamaru today, I got so jealous, the way you touched him, the way you let him touch you. God, I’m angry just thinking about him touching you. Anyone touching you. I can’t let anyone else touch you after that.”

He’s full on grunting now, slamming into you at an ungodly pace. Your legs are shaking and your moans are spilling out, unable to control them anymore. The hand he has on your shoulder runs up the back of your neck and grabs a fist full of hair, pulling your head back. He nibbles on your neck and you can feel him grinning against you.

“You are mine,” he growls out, accentuating each word with a particularly hard thrust. You clench around him. You can’t help but topple over the edge again, your juices dripping down your thighs as you moan out his name.

“Oh you like that? Being told who you belong to? Look at you, baby. Always acting so innocent in public, but here you are, cumming all over my cock in the backseat of my car. You sound so fucking pretty, baby, taking me so well,” He continues. “Go ahead, tell me who you belong to.”

Your head is dizzy, trying to grasp on to anything as he fucks you stupid. The words coming out of his mouth have you shocked. The humiliation and praise all at once has you sinking your nails into his shoulder. “Y-you,” you try to start but only end up stuttering. “I belong to you, Kiba,” you gasp out.

“Good girl,” he kisses your cheek. Kiba can feel himself getting lost in you, and tries to hold back the urge to finish already. He wants to finish with you.

“I’m close, love,” he whispers. “Think you can finish with me?”

“Yes! Yes I can, please, feels so good inside,” you babble out.

He pushes you back, your back hitting the back of the driver's seat, and you hold yourself up with your thighs. Kiba wraps his hand around your throat again, squeezing slightly. You reach a hand down to play with yourself, but Kiba grabs your hand and puts it on his chest. You whine in response, knowing you wouldn't be able to form a full sentence anyway.

“It's okay, sweetheart, let me do it for you. You know I take care of you, don’t you?” Kiba asks, though he doesn’t expect an answer. Not with how blissed out you look. He rubs steady circles on your clit, his abdomen burning from holding back. Your legs are shaking and he can’t help but smile at you, the only words leaving your mouth being “Oh fuck” and “please.”

“Awww, you cockdrunk that easy?” He grabs your jaw and forces you to look at him. “Your pussy feels so good clenching around me, like you were made for me. You were made for me, weren’t you, baby? Fuck,” Kiba says. He’s never talked so much during sex, but it's so easy with you. And you obviously love the sound of his voice, judging by the way you flutter around him every time he speaks.

You know you can’t last much longer, the overstimulation from your previous orgasms having an affect on you. Your thighs are burning from holding yourself up. “Ki-Kiba I-” you try to start.

“I know baby, me too. Look at me, I want you to look at me while you cum on my cock,” he says, turning your head to face him. “That’s it, so pretty, doing so good for me. Taking me so well.”

You begin to shake, looking Kiba in his dark eyes, as your orgasm washes over you. He’s falling over the edge almost instantly, your pussy milking him for all he has, filling you until the sticky, white substance begins to slip out.. He pulls you into his chest and you relax against him, steady your breathing as he rubs small circles on your back.

“Such a good girl,” he says, kissing your forehead. You look up at him, puckering your lips for another kiss. He laughs lightly, kissing your lips, and pushes your hair out of your face. His hairs are sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can feel the slick covering your bodies, but don’t want to move.

“You want to be my girl, now?” Kiba asks.

“You idiot, I’ve always wanted to be your girl. I’ve always wanted you to be my boy.”

Kiba leans over and grabs that same green sweater, pulling it over your head and guiding your arms through the sleeves.

“Why don’t we go back to my place? I’ll help you take a shower… maybe cuddle and spend the night?” Kiba asks, hopeful.

“Yes, I’d love to,” you giggle.

He helps you put your panties back on and gets himself dressed. Getting out of the car, he picks you up from the back seat and brings you back to the passenger side, buckling you in and kissing your forehead. When he gets back to the driver side, you cuddle up to his arm and stay there the whole ride home.

Pretty sure I fixed any typos, but apologies if there are any. Also apologies for slacking recently on writing, just a full time college student thats burnt out haha :). Of course, will be doing my best to get some stuff out.

7 Different Sheets (BTS OT7 x Reader)

Pairing: NonIdol!BTS x black!female reader

Word Count: 3,897

Warnings: Smut(18+ but I don’t control what you consume), multiple partners, unprotected s*x(please be safe and speak with your partners before doing this), public s*x, spanking, oral(m and f receiving), doggy style, missionary, riding, mentions of a mating press, reader does a split on someone’s 🍆🫣, intimate s*x, car s*x, múltiple orgasms(m and f receiving), mentions of STD testing, mentions of being arrested, weed smoking(reader is alluded to have smoked but it’s not explicitly mentioned), overstimulation, praise, degradation, choking, gagging, panty in mouth stuffing, restraints(wrists), mentions of a break up, i also might have gotten the tiniest bit carried away with Namjoon’s part hehe, he definitely has me in a chokehold

A/N: Hi there! I’m here with my take on Seven by Jungkook ft Latto! I’m pretty sure someone requested something like this but now I can’t find the ask so hopefully they see this! I decided to include all of the boys in this. I absolutely love Latto and her verse in the song was just so good! And how could I not write gratuitous fuck buddy smut? I’m always open to criticism and please feel free to tell me what you think. Thanks so much. Stay safe💜

~

You had 7 fuck buddies.

Each of them were entirely different. Different jobs, different styles, different ways they liked to fuck you.

Just how did you fit all of them into your schedule?

Mondays were for Jimin.

You met him while out shopping with your friends. He worked at a luxury jewelry store. While your friends were busy staring at different charm bracelets, your eyes were focused on the rings on his hands—the way he twisted them whenever he was waiting for a customer to make a decision, how they glimmered under the bright lights, and especially how they’d look wrapped around your throat. Would they leave marks? Would he finger you with them on? Would your ass sting whenever he laid a harsh smack on it? So many thoughts yet so little answers.

“Does that feel good, my pretty slut?”

No words were in your head, your mouth stuffed with the panties he had ripped off of you. All you could get out were muffled moans and muffled calls of his name. Salvia soaked the material as much as your arousal did when you walked in his job, the fabric heavy on your tongue and slightly choking you which gave you a rush.

A sharp slap landed on your ass, his rings adding a pleasurable burn that made your juicy walls hug him impossibly tighter.

“Fuck.” He groaned out, eyes never leaving how your ass clapped back on him, cock coated in your creamy release. Sweat dripped down your back making your dark skin look like the most decadent chocolate, glistening like the gems displayed in the case below you. But not even those could compare to you when you were bent over like this.

Your hand slammed down on the display case, the sturdy counter shaking under the force.

Your walls spasmed around him, signaling your 5th orgasm since you came to visit him on his break.

His hand that wasn’t holding your hip moved to wrap around your throat, hauling your body up until you were arched. You felt unstable on your feet but Jimin was your rock, holding you up before your knees could give out of you.

He applied medium pressure to your throat, just barely pressing into your windpipe, stealing some of your already sparse oxygen from you. You felt dizzy like you were on a rollercoaster but one that never went down. Only up. And it was climbing and climbing until….

“This neck would look so pretty with a new necklace on it. Don’t you agree?” That low tone was enough to hurdle you right off the edge, eyes rolling back as you shook like a leaf in his hold.

And yes, your neck did look pretty in a new necklace.

~

Tuesdays were for Seokjin.

You met him at a wedding. Your “date” had gotten a little too friendly with the open bar which immediately turned you off. Not that you were that turned on to begin with. The man was nothing to write home about. Just someone who happened to approach you in a coffee shop.

After successfully detaching yourself from him, you were getting ready to leave before you caught the eye of Seokjin. He was tall and broad with a face you’d love to sit on. Respectfully, of course.

Conversation flowed easily between you two. He was a proper gentleman with a goofy laugh that made you smile. He was definitely the type of person your parents would love for you to bring home. Polite and respectful and not bad on the eyes either.

But that gentleman act went out of the window when he got you in his bed.

“Jin! I can’t take it!” You screamed, yanking at the restraints on your wrists that were keeping you stationary. You were surprised you hadn’t broken his headboard from how hard you were jerking. His neighbors were probably tired of the slamming against the wall by now, their own calls for you two to pipe down died down a while ago. Let them call the police. You’d be damned if they put you in cuffs before you got Seokjin’s cock inside of you.

He was nestled between your legs, holding your thighs back to have more access to your cunt. His tongue never stopped its assault on your clit, abusing the bud until your entire body was shaking. Your legs would jerk to try and close with every lick but one firm look from him quickly put you in your place.

His plush lips were soaked with your juices, dark eyes staring at you as if you had just personified from his dreams. You might as well have.

“Your pussy tastes so fucking good. I could eat it all day.” It sure felt like he has been. Your pussy felt both numb and electric at the same time. Sensitivity wanted to push him away but a desperate part of you was pushing you towards another orgasm. “You’ll be a good girl and give me another one, won’t you? You’re always my good girl.”

Fuck yes you were. Fat tears rolled down your face when he dove back in, sucking your clit in between his lips, his tongue flicking over it faster than before. Back arching, you screamed bloody murder as the strongest orgasm of the night engulfed your body.

Placing one more kiss on your throbbing bud, Seokjin backed up to let you breathe, stroking your thighs and whispering sweet nothings to you as you came down. Body still tingling from your release, you could barely blink through your blurry vision before you felt a shift on the bed.

A hand nestled in your sweaty hair, silk press gone to waste. You blinked through your tears, looking up to find Seokjin hovering over you, his knees on either side of your shoulders. His cock stiff and right in your face, the tip leaking precum.

He smirked down at you.

“Open wide, darling.”

~

Wednesdays were dedicated to Hoseok.

Honestly, you met Hoseok on a dating app. He was meant to be a quick one night stand since you were growing tired of your vibrator. After scrolling through a bunch of profiles and responding to a few messages, you came across him. He was a paralegal but apparently, he taught dance classes on the weekends which told you he definitely knew how to move. His photos were a sharp contrast to his job; bright and with him always smiling. He even had a picture of his dog on there which made you smile.

He was cute though and perhaps he’d be a fun night.

The pillow did barely anything to cover your screams, not when there was so much happening at once. You tossed it to the side, allowing your eyes to adjust to the glorious sight above you.

Hoseok’s head was tossed back in ecstasy, lip pulled between his teeth as he needlessly tried to keep quiet. You wanted to hear those noises, the way he cursed whenever you purposefully clenched around him.

“Hmpf, shit.” Just like that.

The pulses of the vibrator in your hand was making your arm numb but it was sending the most delicious vibes through your clit so whatever.

“Hobi…..”You called making him finally open his eyes and tilt his head forward to look down at you. You could have cum right there from how sexy he looked—sweat soaked hair sticking to his forehead, his chest littered in love bites you had obsessively sucked into his skin, and of course, the thin silver chain around his throat that bounced with every thrust. Take the wheel, Carrie Underwood.

He leaned forward, both of his hands moving from your thighs to place next to your head. His hips never faltered, keeping their languid pace rolling into you.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I…..I….can I cum?” Everything was moving so slowly. He had put the vibrator on its lowest setting so it wasn’t doing much for you and with this slow pace, he was prolonging your orgasm further than you wanted it to be. That was the thing about Hoseok. He liked it slow and intimate, going for hours until he brought both of you over the edge.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his chain tickling your nose.

“Not yet, my flower. Hold it a little longer for me.”

A particularly deep roll of his hips caused him to stroke slowly past your sweet spot, pulling a whimper from you.

Your bottom lip quivered, eyes tearing up from your waning orgasm. It kept building and falling but it wasn’t enough to push you over. And with everything that happened today, you think this is exactly what you needed.

A gentle touch.

“But….”

He shushed you with a peck to your lips. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”

~

Thursday’s were for Namjoon.

You met him at the gym. Don’t get it twisted. You weren’t really there to work out. Those few squats you did every couple of months were enough. That wasn’t the reason you had signed up for a membership.

It was because of the buff and drop dead sexy man that you often saw lifting weights. What exactly was the point of that tank top? Modesty? It looked like it was only soaking up the sweat that dripped down his honey kissed skin but it was failing at that too. Your tongue could do a better job. You’d lick every inch of that man for free and cook him a meal afterwards.

The steam of the shower was making it hard to breathe but Namjoon’s cock was making it even harder. When people told you to breathe through your nose, they factored out the cock being an absolute monster. You thought your jaw was gonna snap off.

Your nails dug into his yummy thighs, feeling the muscles tightened with every push of his cock into your warm and inviting mouth. You were definitely riding these things once you got back to his place.

“Damn, relax your throat, love.”

You happily followed his instructions, swallowing before exhaling through your nose. That allowed him to slide all the way home, your nose tickling the trimmed hairs at the base of his cock. Your eyes watered from the welcomed intrusion.

“Look at me.” He commanded from above you, the low tone of his voice making your pussy clench. Damn. Being a housewife sounded incredibly good right now. Patriarchy be praised.

Your eyelashes fluttered, looking at him and the sight was absolutely glorious. If he didn’t fuck you right now, you’d probably implode.

He must have seen that through your gaze because a dopey smile stretched across his face, adorable dimples indenting his cheeks.

Pulling out of your throat, you coughed and sputtered, swallowing a few times to soothe your sore throat. You barely had time to really cover before he was grabbing your arm and hauling you up. Legs draped over his buff arms, your arms scrambled to wrap around his shoulders. Now this position was the reason why bitches pull up to your mother’s house looking for you. You could feel the head of his cock sliding against your sopping cunt, your walls clenching in delight of finally getting what you want.

“Ready, baby?” He whispered in your ear before sucking on your lobe.

And no, you didn’t renew your gym membership.

~

Fridays were for Taehyung.

Funny enough, you met Taehyung while he was sneaking out of your apartment building. He was leaving a one night stand’s place and bumped into you while you were on your way inside. Of course, you could smell sex a mile away and the walk of shame was heavy on his shoulders. He actually tried hitting on you when he saw you, his eyes never leaving your cleavage.

You thought he was incredibly handsome though—a pretty boy type which you definitely liked. So you stopped him, told him to come back to you with a clean STD test and then you’d talk.

Taehyung had to will himself not to cum when you did a full split on his cock. Your hands kept your leverage on his knees, your head lolled forward from how his long cock was kissing your cervix each time, your legs stretched all the way out to give him the best view of his life.

He’s already cum twice, third orgasm almost painful but he just couldn’t stop. He didn’t want you to stop either(as if you could). You’ve been horny all day and you were going to get your fill of his cock. He knew you needed morning sex to get through the day yet he decided to go in for a shift at work, leaving you sad and desperate. The moment he walked in the door, you grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pushing him on the rug in your living room. You didn’t even prep yourself and he was hard while driving to your place anyway so foreplay was unnecessary today. Maybe you’d ride his face later and you’d use that headband he was wearing as reigns.

Until then, you were going to ride his dick until he gave out. Or until you got tired, whichever came first.

“I’m gonna cum again. Slow down. Please.” He whimpered, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

You whipped your hair behind you, the tips of your braids resting on his stomach. “Hmmm, give it to me, Tae. Fill me up again.” You leaned forward, bringing your hips all the way up to his tip before slamming back down. His cock was creamy with both of your releases, a wet smack sounding everytime you came down.

If this was how he died, put it on his tombstone.

“Oh shiiiiiiii….”His head thumped back against the floor, toes curling as you forced another orgasm out of him, the pulsing of his cock triggering your own.

You barely gave him time to calm down before you started your pace again.

He’d pick up another shift next Friday.

~

Saturdays were for Yoongi.

It was actually your favorite day of the week when you got to see the weed dealer. Not really because he let you smoke for free but because high sex was just another level. You met him when you were out one night. He catcalled you from his car and before you could even give whoever it was a piece of your mind, your voice got caught in your throat.

Your first thought was: man bun. Long hair in a man bun. Sexy ass drug dealer in a BMW with long hair in a man bun. Your parents always told you not to do drugs but how could you heed those warnings when temptation was served to you on a silver platter like that?

You gripped the headrest of the backseat, your breasts currently under attack by Yoongi’s expert tongue. The same tongue that had just ate you out like a champion a few minutes ago.

He pulled off your breast with a pop, delivering a smack to your ass with the hand that wasn’t holding his blunt. “Faster. I didn’t tell you to slow down.” His cat like eyes were hooded and glazed over from both the weed and the feeling of your tight walls hugging his cock. For a second, he didn’t even think he was high on weed—he was high on you. You were like an addiction; savory and hard to avoid, you were like a forbidden fruit. One he’d sink his teeth into everytime.

He brought his blunt back to his lips, inhaling a deep pull, holding the smoke in before blowing it back into your face. Just that action had you cumming on his cock, the feeling vibrating all the way to your toes. When he felt a splash against his pelvis, he dropped his head to look down at where you were connected. You were still bouncing on his cock, prolonging your orgasm and with each bounce, a small spray of liquid squirted from you.

He tossed his own head back, making sure to put his blunt in the ashtray on the door to prevent any burns to his upholstery before grabbing both of your ass cheeks in his hands and beginning to piston up into your spasming cunt.

“Bout to fill this pussy up. You want it?” He grunted against your collarbone, sinking his teeth into the skin there.

He had knocked all of your words loose so all you could manage was a frantic nod of your head and a drawn out, “yessssss yessssss pleaseeeeee”.

“This pussy is so fucking good.” He landed a slap on your ass, the sting sending shocks of pleasure up your back as another orgasm crashed into you.

You were so absorbed that you didn’t even hear the police sirens as they pulled up next to you.

Wow. You thought you were just imagining the car rocking. Guess not.

~

The end of the week meant only one thing.

You had deep cleaned your apartment, moving slowly since your body still ached a little from sleeping on that bench at the station. Good thing Yoongi had connections that could bail both of you out. Still, you’d probably risk it again if it meant getting fucked like that.

You had just lit a candle and you were about to sit down to have a glass of wine but you were interrupted by the sound of your doorbell ringing.

“Ughhhhhh.” You groaned, placing your wine glass on a coaster before hauling yourself up less than gracefully and shuffling to the door. You didn’t even look at the screen on your intercom, just opening it and immediately trying to close it back after seeing who was on the other side.

A foot jammed itself between the door, stopping you from shutting it completely.

“Baby, come on. I said I’m sorry.”

“Screw you, Jeon! I told you I don’t want to see you again.”

He managed to push the door enough to slip his upper body through. The sight of his face sent a weird rush through you but you didn’t know if it was good or bad. You didn’t like it.

His doe eyes pleaded at you. “Please talk to me. I can’t stand not being with you anymore. Please please. I’m sorry.” He sounded so genuine that it made you break, heartstrings effectively tugged on and strummed by the only man you truly loved.

You shouldn’t let him in. You really shouldn’t.

“Oh. My. God. J-Jungkook!”

His hand whizzed through the air, landing a hard smack on your bruised ass that has taken a lot of punishment tonight.

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear a word from you, you little whore.” He spit into your ear, hand coming up to cover your mouth while the other one held your hip to keep you in place as he delivered the deadliest back shots.

Your entire body was lit up in pain and pleasure, both mixing together in a beautiful cacophony that had you ready to propose to him.

Your moans were muffled by his large hand, his grip forcing your head back at an uncomfortable angle but he could give less of a damn about your comfort.

“How dare you let someone else fuck what’s mine?” He uncovered your mouth to slap your ass again in a tender spot causing you to jump, a high pitched scream coming from you as he pushed you into another orgasm. You had lost count a while ago, brain not keeping up with your body. Everything just felt endless.

You didn’t want him to know you were fucking other people. It wasn’t any of his business. You weren’t together anymore but am accidental slip up revealed what happened yesterday and in seconds, you were bent over the arm of your couch with Jungkook behind you.

“Count.”

He had made it to 21 before your knees were buckling, your eyes and mouth begging him to fuck you. To put you in your place and make you remember exactly who you belonged to.

He gripped at your hair, yanking your head back and making your body arch even more. Only your fingertips touched the bed below you, knees spread wide as you began throwing yourself back on his thick cock.

“I expect an answer when I ask you something, slut.” Contradictory since he told you to shut up earlier but logic was not necessary here. You were just a pliant little doll in service to the hunk of a man that was abusing your walls so good that your pussy should file a restraining order.

“N-no….I’m…ah! Fuck! S-sorry…..oh shit, I’m cumming!”

“That’s right. You come on my cock and my cock only. Do you fucking understand me?” He could feel his own orgasm building. He’s been holding back, a hard task with a pussy like yours but he managed. Denying all of your orgasms earlier made it easy enough for him. Then again, he did almost blow his load earlier when you put both of your feet behind your ears and held out your tongue for him to spit in your mouth.

He was an idiot for letting you go.

“I said, Do.” Smack! “You.” Smack. “Understand.” Smack. “Me?”

“YES!!! Oh shit!” Your walls clenched around him so tightly that it forced him out of your cunt, a long spray of liquid soaking the bedsheets beneath you. He brought his hand between your legs to rub furiously at your clit, splashing your juices everywhere. You’d definitely be upset later about your freshly washed sheets but he’d cross that bridge when he got there.

Your body jerked around as pure bliss and pleasure coursed through your veins, legs squirming all around as you both tried to chase and run away from Jungkook’s assault on your clit. He held your hip firmly, trying to keep you still while you rode out the waves of your orgasm.

When overstimulation began to get too painful, you turned over onto your side, pushing his hand away with your own. You twitched in the aftershocks, covering your cunt with your hands. Even the cool air was too much against your abused pussy. You’d probably have to take a break for the week just to recuperate.

When the haze began to clear a little, you slowly turned your head, peeking through your braids that covered your face to peek at Jungkook. Only to find him missing. You didn’t even hear him get out of the bed. Where did he go?

You waited a few moments, trying to catch your breath before Jungkook entered the room with a bottle of water. He was still fully naked, cock hard and angry looking, shiny with your juices.

He came over to the bed, placing a knee beside you to leak over your twitching body.

“Here. Drink some water. You need to be hydrated before I make you squirt again like that.”

Your eyes almost popped out of your head. Again? Was he trying to kill you?

“W-again?”

His lips quirked up into his signature grin, nose scrunching cutely and it made you want to punch him in it and then kiss it better.

“You think that was it? We’re just getting started. This will teach you not to give out what’s mine.”

It didn’t teach you anything though. You’d have to learn your lesson again next week.

And he’d teach you faithfully every Sunday.

---

pretty babies – gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: idk about yall but I love me some drunk gojo

satoru never drinks, but when he does, ohoho, you’re in for quite the ride.

today was one of the days when he was less of a chaotic handful but more of an emotional mess who apparently can’t even remember his own wife. you sip on your drink, ignoring the drunk satoru leaning on the bar.

he slurs his words as he tries to flirt, “you’re sooo pretty, y’know that?”

you nod with a hum and give him no further reaction. in situations like these, you figured out that letting him go all out until he is tired and sleepy is the best solution. it really is like treating a baby.

thankfully, after many years of being in the presence of one gojo satoru, you’ve built up some patience.

he rests his head on the counter and he looks up at you, eyes wide and in awe, “I bet,” he hiccups and it is followed by a silly little giggle, “we’d make superrrr cute babies! like all round and chubby and we’d much on their cheeks like…mochi! yes! mochi…now I am hungry.”

a smirk makes an appearance on your face as you glance at satoru who is blabbering about building a family with you and spoiling you rotten.

a little teasing won’t harm anyone. so you quip, “you know,” and his attention is already on you, “you already gave me three super cute babies.”

his mouth is wide open in disbelief as he sits up, “no way!”

“yup! And they’re waiting at home for us.”

his eyes crinkle because of his wide grin, “really?!” he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, “you got photos?! please tell me that you do!” and he switches to a pout so quickly, it gives you whiplash.

however, you gladly pull out your phone and show him the multitude of photos you have.

ones ranging from him being in a crib to help the youngest one sleep to ones with two of the three kids ganging up on him and him desperately calling for your help. satoru goes through every single photo, head on your shoulder and cheek squished.

he is silent throughout it all and when he is done, he looks up at you, “so that means that you’re my wife?”

you nod and your fingers, naturally, find their place on his head. he feels a little shiver of satisfaction before he smiles, one lovesick and silly smile, “I really hit the jackpot.”

you laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “I guess you did.”

so you take him back home where the kids are already asleep. satoru crashes on the bed right away, steady breaths filling the room. slowly, you take your place beside him and you feel his arms wrap around you.

he pulls you closer and buries his face in your hair. and you close your eyes, letting yourself be lulled to the land of dreams.

when you do wake up, you’re greeted by satoru literally on top of you and deep in sleep. you would like to let him sleep more especially since he looks so comfortable, but you’re going to suffocate at this rate. so you pat his back lightly, “satoru, honey, wake up.”

he groans and buries his face in the crook of your neck, grumbling something along the lines of ‘five more minutes’.

not budging? then fine, you decide. you take as deep of a breath as you can then call for your kids, “who will help mama?!”

it’s quiet and you can feel satoru smirking against your skin. it looks like he won, but then a bunch of footsteps are heard and it’s your turn to smirk.

your husband lifts his head to glare at you—of course, not without sporting one of his famous pouts.

the door is then slammed open and your eldest son is there, “WHO DARES HURT OUR MAMA?!”

he gasps, very dramatically like a certain someone, and points at his dad, “PAPA?! you’re suffocating mama!”

“again?!” your daughter pops up from behind her brother, staring at her dad in disbelief.

they both stand beside your bed glaring at him and he glares back, the three of them forgetting why you called for your kids in the first place. so you do them a favor and remind them, “satoru…I AM GOING TO DIE LIKE THIS!”

satoru is pulled  back by his shirt and your kids take turns in—trying—to beat him up. you get up, greedily breathing air till you’re satisfied. you ignore the screams of your husband until you’re done with your morning routine.

luckily enough, when you got out of the bathroom, you found no one except your husband.

laying on the ground.

presumably dead.

with a bunch of drawings on his face and his hair contained with multiple hair bands.

you snap a picture of him very quickly then you sit on the ground next to his corpse. you poke his butt and he groans, making you giggle, “what happened to the strongest sorcerer?”

he turns towards you with a small frown, “his pretty wife didn’t kiss him good morning so he had no energy to fight,” his head snaps towards the two tiny figures giggling behind the door, “these monsters.”

they squeal and run away once again before he ctaches them.

you gently take the hair bands off, “you’re lucky that our youngest devil is still asleep,” you then smooth down his hair and pat his head, “I love the smiley faces on your cheeks.”

he whines and rests his head on your shoulder, “stop bullying me!”

you hum and stroke his hair, “you know, you did something pretty cute yesterday.”

“I am always cute; what’re you talking about?”

“you flirted with me, your wife, and said we would make ‘super cute!’ babies,” you reveal and satoru seems unbothered. in fact, he seems proud and very happy with himself so you continue, “so I had to remind you of our three little devils and then I showed you pictures.”

he stands up, posing all confidently, “what can I say? I excel at everything even being cute—“

“then you cried like a little baby when I showed you my picture post labor and kept apologizing.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

---

lakeside

13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something

a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.

this is part 11 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?”  He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.  “Nothin’,” he says.  And then he kisses you. 

Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas. 

You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close. 

You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go. 

You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss. 

Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes. 

You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat. 

And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken. 

“You’re home,” he says. 

You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.

You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired. 

You don’t answer. You know he already knows. 

He sighs. His head hangs. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”

You wince. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping. 

Your cheeks burn. 

“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—” 

You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much. 

You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past. 

He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels. 

“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom. 

You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised. 

You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.

He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side. 

You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed. 

He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam. 

“Get in,” Joel says. 

You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street. 

He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting. 

He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now. 

Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place. 

But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad. 

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Joel stays put. 

“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?” 

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl. 

Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest. 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down?”

He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel. 

“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back. 

And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning- 

Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder. 

“Step back,” he growls. 

There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running. 

And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered. 

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”

“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”

Your dad stares. You swallow. 

“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms. 

Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift. 

You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”

—

Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.

The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel. 

It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time. 

It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom. 

And they have food. Lots of food. 

“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now. 

“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”

“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”

He shoots you a glare. You grin. 

You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer. 

You point to the beer. Shake your head. 

“You’re useless,” you say. 

He frowns. 

“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.

“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.

“Just put it in,” he grumbles.

—

You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack,  for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.

A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store. 

He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you. 

“Passin’ through?” the man croaks. 

He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both. 

Joel grunts. 

The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger. 

“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls. 

Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross. 

Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.” 

The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again. 

He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble. 

“Y’all have a nice day,” he says. 

Joel grunts. 

You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. 

You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers. 

No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy. 

But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer. 

—

Tommy’s cabin is nice. 

Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all. 

But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore. 

The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.

He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume. 

You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car. 

He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries. 

He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels. 

“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.” 

“This ain’t campin’,” he says. 

Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see. 

“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.” 

You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder. 

“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.” 

He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock. 

The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch. 

“What, so, you can read my mind now?” 

He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says. 

You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile. 

“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.” 

You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh. 

“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.” 

He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve. 

“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.” 

—

It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both. 

You don’t ask. Yet. 

The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel. 

You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.

And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out. 

“What the hell is this?” you ask. 

You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass. 

He straightens. Turns. 

“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.” 

Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap. 

“What the fuck,” you sputter. 

Joel laughs. Told ya so.

You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?” 

He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.

“Tommy’s,” he gruffs. 

That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but — 

“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.” 

His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Or what?” 

He almost smiles. You almost catch him. 

“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.” 

“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.” 

His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart. 

“Should be,” he murmurs. 

You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot. 

You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean. 

You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed. 

“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur. 

He starts to shake his head. You cut him off. 

“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.” 

“You bought it.” 

“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.” 

He frowns. 

“Don’t say no,” you say. 

“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.” 

“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.” 

He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.” 

He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down. 

You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done. 

“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.” 

He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh. 

You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw. 

He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago. 

He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all. 

He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you. 

You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered. 

And then you try not to kiss him. Again. 

The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out. 

You clear your throat. 

“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely. 

He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.” 

You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin. 

“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.” 

He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.” 

He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider. 

“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?” 

He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence. 

“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.” 

There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.

He’s blushing.

You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood. 

You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions. 

You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile. 

It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side. 

It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased. 

When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You’re ‘bout to.” 

“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand. 

“It’s cute,” you say. 

He glares at you. Then the duck. 

“It ain’t cute,” he says. 

“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.” 

“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.” 

“Right. For more ducks.” 

He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist. 

He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk. 

“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Fine. Then you can make me one.” 

He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck. 

He straightens up. Turns back to face you. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.” 

He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular. 

“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”

He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist. 

You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours. 

“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.” 

You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into. 

He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” 

He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. 

“Nothin’,” he says. 

And then he kisses you. 

You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack. 

You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh. 

You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat. 

And then your phone buzzes. Again. 

He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy. 

“Wanna get that?” 

“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen. 

You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet. 

 “Shit.” 

Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead. 

“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him. 

“Figures.” 

You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in. 

Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk. 

“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly. 

You shrug. 

“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.” 

You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is. 

“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.” 

Joel nods. 

“Sure,” he says. 

You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?” 

“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.” 

He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway. 

You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little. 

You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die. 

You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home. 

The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little. 

Dad: OK. Be safe.

You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something. 

And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—

“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”

He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.

“…find,” you finish, lamely. 

He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means— 

He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in. 

You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm. 

“What’s this?” he drawls. 

You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl. 

Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger. 

“Uh,” you say. 

His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life. 

Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, softly. 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm. 

You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs. 

He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound. 

You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.

He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.

“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink. 

“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.” 

He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible. 

“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up. 

And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both. 

You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back. 

His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear. 

The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water. 

The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.” 

And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred. 

— 

You wait five minutes, like he asked. 

It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right. 

But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone. 

It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees. 

You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him. 

And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom. 

You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his. 

You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place. 

There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed. 

He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark. 

“C’mere,” he says. 

You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion. 

You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you. 

“Lie down,” he says. 

You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication. 

He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black. 

“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs. 

Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel. 

He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze. 

He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons. 

He shakes his head. Your fingers still. 

“Don’t,” he says, gently. 

So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides. 

And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench. 

He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands. 

He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand. 

He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt. 

And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he. 

Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket. 

Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter. 

“What’re you…?” 

He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers. 

He looks up at you. 

“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says. 

He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm. 

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little. 

He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other. 

“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls. 

And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”

“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite. 

“Y’move too much,” he murmurs. 

“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but — 

“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.” 

Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.” 

You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to. 

But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied. 

“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand. 

“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”

You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination. 

 And you always — always — think of Joel. 

So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands — 

It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along. 

So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue. 

“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.” 

You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still. 

He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat. 

He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks. 

Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller. 

You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do. 

He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh. 

You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth. 

He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading. 

“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”

His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more. 

He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher. 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.” 

You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt. 

His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.

“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.” 

“We’ll see about the belt?” 

He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb. 

“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” 

You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles. You can feel it. 

“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.” 

He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.

“Fuck you,” you pant. 

He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head. 

“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says. 

He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks. 

His brow lifts. 

“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” 

You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you. 

“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.” 

You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers. 

But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.

“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.” 

He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly — 

“—please.” 

He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.” 

That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true. 

“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.” 

He swallows. His jaw flexes. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.” 

He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze. 

“I know where you can start,” you mumble. 

And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher. 

“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.” 

It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too. 

But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm. 

You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach. 

And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator. 

He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.

It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands. 

And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again. 

He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight. 

“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.” 

By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself. 

Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now. 

So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you. 

You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less. 

But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back. 

You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him. 

And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers. 

You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do. 

He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.” 

His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest. 

He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there. 

And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name. 

He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone. 

You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes. 

Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now. 

“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.” 

He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.” 

You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace. 

You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him — 

“—Wait—” 

—in a shallow, breathless voice. 

He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”

You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess. 

“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”

You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his. 

The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you. 

Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again. 

“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls. 

You swallow. 

“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly. 

You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him. 

“Flip over,” he says. 

You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants. 

And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back. 

“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile. 

“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?” 

You hear his huff. 

“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know. 

“No?” he drawls. 

It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you. 

You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head. 

You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp. 

“F—”

He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet. 

You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you. 

Probably the last one. Definitely the last one. 

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says. 

His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made. 

“You gonna hold still?” 

This time you nod. As best you can. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He squeezes your ass. 

“‘Atta girl,” he says. 

Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name. 

The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and — 

“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.” 

He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for. 

He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.  

“This what you needed, baby girl?” 

You say something. You’re not sure what. 

He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further. 

“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.” 

He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.” 

He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric. 

His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there. 

You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move. 

There’s a beat. You take a breath. 

“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking. 

You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no. 

“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.” 

“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.” 

“Don’t sound too sure.” 

“No, I am, I’ve just never—”  

There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek. 

“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. 

“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—

“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.” 

You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets. 

You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine. 

It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel. 

So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers. 

“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow. 

He’s quiet. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.” 

Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”

“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace. 

“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—” 

You whimper. Mumble around his shirt. 

“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.” 

That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild. 

It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him. 

His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful. 

You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.

“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.

“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.

“What?” he grumbles. 

“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.” 

He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns. 

“Go get ’n the shower,” he says. 

“But—”

“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says. 

You look hesitantly at the towel. At him. 

“I can do it,” you say. 

“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees. 

“But—”

“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.” 

You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there. 

The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.” 

He shrugs. 

“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you. 

You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him. 

“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair. 

He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you. 

He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another. 

“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.” 

He pauses, mid-towel dry. 

“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him. 

“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.” 

—

You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright. 

After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out. 

But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again. 

“Favorite color,” you say. 

He tips his head to the ceiling. 

“Brown.” 

“Oh my god. Brown?” 

“’S wrong with brown?” 

“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”

But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn. 

So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too. 

“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long. 

You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.” 

“Childhood pet,” you say. 

“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.” 

“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon. 

He makes a soft sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“And when did you start wood…working?” 

“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.” 

“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.” 

He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.” 

Your mouth snaps back shut. 

“What d’you mean, part of you?” 

“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.” 

“Sell them,” you amend.

“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.” 

“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.” 

He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish. 

“Okay,” you say. “One more question.” 

“Said that ten questions ago.” 

“I was lying. This is the last one.” 

“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go. 

“What’s his name?” 

“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?” 

“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?” 

He’s silent, for a moment. 

“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.” 

“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.” 

“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says. 

“So’s yours,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily. 

“Clyde,” you say, after a minute. 

“Clyde?” 

“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.” 

“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.” 

“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.” 

He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.

You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep. 

His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee. 

“Tired?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.” 

You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise. 

You want to stay right here. 

But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. 

You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth. 

He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side. 

He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest. 

“G’night,” you say, softly. 

He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair. 

“Night, angel,” he murmurs. 

You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it. 

And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him. 

— 

When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake. 

Great, you think. It’s the trifecta. 

And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom. 

You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest. 

You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake. 

Naturally. 

So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted. 

You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside. 

You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey. 

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.

You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars. 

Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch. 

You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up. 

“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  

He shrugs. 

“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.” 

You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.  

You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier. 

So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands. 

“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.

“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.” 

Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened. 

You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.” 

“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip. 

“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.” 

He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry. 

You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead. 

He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear. 

"Y'alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."

But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—

“Hey. Talk t'me."

The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.” 

He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go. 

“Your dad?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him. 

Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye. 

“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.” 

He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair. 

“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.” 

You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb. 

And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart. 

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.

He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky. 

“’S, uh — Orion, I think.” 

“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough. 

“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still. 

“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar. 

He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction. 

“There,” he mutters. “Now look.” 

And you actually do see it, this time. 

At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear. 

You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle. 

It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep. 

“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine. 

“Yeah.” 

You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin. 

You shake your head. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.

“I want—but I don’t want to—”

His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up. 

“S’okay,” he says, softly.

His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars. 

“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.” 

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𝘼𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝘼𝙉 𝘼𝙍𝙂𝙐𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏…

in which: you sleep on the couch after an argument !

ft: gojo, geto, choso, itadori, megumi

warnings: food in geto’s, (minimal) angst to fluff, hurt/comfort

a/n: this is my coping mechanism. i’m sorry if any characters are ooc / NOT EDITED

˚ ༘彡 𝗚𝗢𝗝𝗢: arguments with gojo are so very draining. he’s uncooperative and it’s like talking to a wall that isn’t afraid to insult you and aggravate you further. you bail out without communicating what you were trying to say, tired with the white-haired sorcerer’s behaviour. you fall asleep that evening on the couch with a scratchy throat, swollen eyes and a singular blanket that only just barely covers your whole body. regardless, you managed to fall asleep somehow, dreading the morning to come.

…only to question why there was an overgrown grandpa dangling off the couch- oh, that’s your overgrown grandpa. gojo’s arm is wrapped tightly around you, his head buried into your chest. it seems like gojo was the only thing preventing you from falling off the couch in your sleep.

but his harsh words from last night still float around in your mind; so with a shove, you roughly push your boyfriend off the bed, unimpressed. he wakes up with a grunt, probably because of how cold your floor is.

gojo notices your pointed stare and wants to start whining.

“why are you here, satoru?”

“i couldn’t sleep without you cause i missed you… a lot.”

you see the yearning and tiredness in his eyes and it’s enough for you to cave. although, he had yet to offer an apology, but it’s nothing a ‘little’ scolding can’t solve.

Keep reading

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skrch

a print of this is available!

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