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motherofagony · 3 months

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i know it when i see it - part 7

series masterlist | ao3

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8.4k

warnings: attempted rape/non-con, non-consensual drug use, main character is roofied, hurt/comfort, descriptions of vomiting, finally some feelings talk, victim-blaming by the victim

summary: a bad night brings you and joel closer than expected.

a/n: this chapter contains the graphic description of an attempted assault against the main character. if you believe this content may be triggering for you, there is an abridged version of the chapter posted here. please be responsible and protect your peace. resources are included at the end of the chapter.

The sunlight is brutal the next morning.

Slipping through the half-drawn blinds, burning red behind your eyelids. The sheets are warm and smell heavily of your roommate’s perfume, the lavender oil she puts on her wrists to fall asleep. Your head is heavy with hangover, mouth cottoned and dry. You’re achy and sore and so fucking embarrassed you want to die.

God, Joel must think you’re pathetic. Trailing after him like that, picking a fight when it was clear he wanted to leave. Grabbing his dick through his jeans — fucking hell, basically begging him to fuck you.

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle a groan, trying to cringe away from the memory.

What the hell is wrong with you? What is it about him that makes it impossible for you to keep your shit together? You told Tess that you were a big girl, that you could handle this. A fucking lie, clearly, since you can’t keep your cool for a single evening in his presence.

You are so soft for him, so easy. Just some cock-addled idiot willing to take whatever crumb he’ll give you, and then somehow hurt when that’s all you get. Of course he left. He always leaves. It’s like getting surprised when the sun starts to set.

Even if, for a second, you felt like things were different this time. That quiet moment when you were caught together, the way you felt him laugh, the scrape of his smile against your cheek. When your heart stilled and you were sure, so fucking sure that he felt it too.

Fuck.

You groan again, cringing away from the memory, the oil-slick shame of it that clings to your skin.

A gentle hand rests on the crown of your head, stroking your hair. Your roommate shifts in the sheets beside you.

“Baby, you’re spiraling,” she says, “Go take a shower.”

You do, because you are a little bit disgusting. The stale sweat from the club, from the sex. Glitter and mascara smudged around your eyes. Joel’s dry semen flaking between your thighs. You let the hot water scald your skin and think, unwillingly, of baptism. At this point, you doubt even the holiest of water could wash away your sins.

You stare at the grout, the little specks of mold that live there.

It’s just sex.

That’s what you had said to him, the lie that spilled out of you when you realized he was leaving.

Because that’s how it is with everyone else, the revolving door of co-stars that spend a few hours with your cunt. You fuck strangers the same way that you file taxes or wait in line at the bank. Efficiently, without anything resembling real want, no jagged edge of feeling. Sweaty and soulless, all gaping mouths and shuddering gasps. Checking your nail beds and chatting about the weather between takes, coming so hard you can’t see straight and never speaking to them again.

It’s just always just sex.

It shouldn't be different just because it’s Joel.

You’re tired of smoking until your fingers burn, tired of staring at the scrawl of his phone number, tired of waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop.

You’ve survived bigger disappointments. You won’t let yourself be wasted by it, won’t shrink into some softer shape, cannibalized by your own bastard affection. You tell the gnawing ache in your belly to fuck off, let it go, maybe chew on your ribs for a while.

The phone rings just as you’re stepping out of the shower, the sound muffled through the walls. You wrap a towel around your waist and crack open the small window to let out a spill of steam. The mirror is too fogged to see your own reflection, and it feels like a small mercy. You’re not sure you can look yourself in the eye right now.

Silly, shameless girl.

The voice in your head sounds like your mother’s.

You’re slightly more human when you shuffle out into the kitchen. Your roommate is at the stove, nudging a pat of butter around a sizzling pan.

“Someone called for you,” she says, nodding at the phone.

Only one of the other girls has resurrected, sitting cross-legged on one of the mismatched dining chairs, staring bleary-eyed into a soggy bowl of cereal. You ruffle her hair as you make a bee-line for the coffee pot, and she preens like a cat.

You see Tess’s number scrawled on the pad of paper by the phone, and wince at the idea of talking to her right now. You’ll need to ask her not to book another scene with Joel, explain some version of what happened last night. That was a conversation for later, once you had some food lining your stomach, a steady drip of caffeine in your veins.

The Hustlers cover is taped to the fridge, and your own face stares at you as you take out the cream.

Well, not your face, really.

It’s all Lucky, her heavy-lidded eyes, her please come fuck me smile. The girl in the magazines, the thing you came here to become. A better version of yourself in so many ways. Radiant and unrepentant.

She watches you take a sip of your coffee. Hair still dripping around your shoulders, so hungover you can barely stand upright. The lovesick, wet rat version of the nation’s newest sex symbol.

It’s just sex.

That’s all it was. A cruel biological trick, the inconvenient compatibility of your bodies. Some fucked up animal magnetism making you think any of it meant more than it did.

You’re not heartbroken.

Obviously.

Porn stars don’t put their heads in the oven.

x x x x x

When you tell Tess that you don’t want to work with Joel again, she doesn’t argue.

She gives you a long look, her gray eyes searching. And for a second it looks like she’s going to say something else, raise some other, elusive point. But then she just shrugs.

“Whatever you want, kid.”

And you’re grateful that she doesn’t ask you to explain, that you don’t have to fess up to your stupid feelings. You’re desperate to feel less in general, to tamp down on that part of you that wants so many things you can’t have.

So instead, you focus on the shit you can control.

The work, the sex — the tangle of the two together. Business meetings and gang bangs, contract negotiations and nipple clamps. The most lurid moments of your life parsed out in frank, unfeeling conversations. Signing on the dotted line to spread your legs and smile pretty for the camera.

You sink into it, let yourself be submerged in the endless stream of smut. Every day a new set, a new scene. You’re a waitress, a dancer, a nanny, a prison warden. The ever-changing, eternally fuckable girl. So many skins you can slip into and shed the messy, inconvenient parts of yourself, just for a little while.

You avoid anything with even a whiff of cowboy in it. No more beard scruff or calloused hands, no low rolling voice, no Texas twang. Instead, only smooth-bodied bull types, oiled and hairless, who greet you with broad, dopey grins. Beautiful, lithe-limbed women, all coy smiles and conspiratory laughter, a breathless whisper in your ear before each take.

You’re not as picky when it comes to the projects. You do the rougher stuff, the longer days. Resetting over and over so the camera can get a better angle, catch the edge of a cock in your throat. Take after take after take. You leave sets sore, but usually satisfied, and so exhausted that you can't do much more than climb into bed.

Less time for thinking. For pining, God forbid.

You’re a pledge, the oh-so-reluctant prey of an older girl in some sorority flick. Knees chafing against plush carpet, your skirt hiked high on your hips as you recite the Greek alphabet. You get a playful spank for every mistaken letter, tripping over the tau and upsilon, forgetting chi altogether.

You bring your co-star off once with your hand, once with your mouth, and then again with the handle of a hairbrush. It’s a little crass, a porn cliche infecting the girlish room, but the cameras love it. After, she presses you back against the flowery bedsheets to return the favor. It’s not scripted but she coos in your ear that you’ve earned it.

When the director calls cut, you lay there for a long moment, staring up at the high rafters of the soundstage. Settling back into yourself, feeling out your body. The burn of your knees, the slight ache in your neck. But there’s a warmth low in your belly, the slow-burning embers of your arousal, a sleepy sort of satisfaction in your limbs.

Your co-star’s face appears over yours. Cheeks still flushed, eyes shining. Her hair a golden halo, blocking the too-bright light of the overheads.

“You good?” she asks.

The sheets stick to the sweat of your back, the drip of release still cooling on your thighs. You huff out a sigh.

“You fucked my brains out.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Please, that was nothing,” she says, “Imagine what I could do with a few hours.”

She winks and you laugh, finally forcing yourself up off the damp bed.

Around you, the crew has already started striking the set: taking down the frames with their posed pictures, the stray textbooks and candy bars, the pennant for a college that doesn’t exist. Echoes of a life so obviously un-lived, the man-spun fantasy of a dorm room.

The dressing room is cramped, tucked in the back corner of the sound stage and wallpapered pink to disguise its past life as a storage closet.

The mirror is fogged over with hairspray, your reflection cloudy at the edges. You look well-fucked. The blur of mascara beneath your eyes, hair frizzed from her fingers. The tacky shine of her arousal is still damp on your hairline, and you wipe it away with the edge of your robe.

Your co-star is still mostly naked, the robe draped open around her shoulders. Her breasts sway as she leans closer to the mirror, dabbing at a smudge of lipstick with her pinky finger.

“Scoot over,” she teases, bumping your elbow as she reaches for the crumpled heap of her carpet bag.

There’s an easy familiarity in your movements, your comfortable closeness. The kind of de-facto friendship you earn after an hour between her legs.

She cuts a neat line of coke on the vanity, nudging aside the bottles of cheap perfume and for her pleasure lube left out by production. She sweeps her hair to the back of her neck, gathering it at the base of her skull as she lowers her head. It’s gone on a long inhale, the excess caught on a fingertip and tucked into her gums.

She straightens and meets your gaze in the mirror.

“Come out with us tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow at her reflection, “Out?”

“There’s a party in the hills,” she says with a shrug, “A bunch of us are going.”

It takes only another half a second of hesitation to decide fuck it. The quiet ache in your hips, the tired pinch behind your eyes, the dizzying cost of the taxi you’ll have to take home at the end of the night.

It’ll be good to get out. Healthy, probably.

Lately your brain has started to eat itself if you spend too much time in the empty apartment. Something to do with the weather, probably. Or your diet, the long days of black coffees and crafty croissants. Or maybe it’s guilt, so many Catholic ghosts catching up with you.

You smile at her in the mirror and catch a glimpse of your shiny, shimmering self.

x x x x x

The taxi crawls through the winding roads towards Mulholland, the windows rolled down so your breath, that blur of backseat conversation, doesn’t fog the windshield.

There are four of you crammed together, a flask passed between you, an elbow digging into your ribs at every sharp turn. You don’t know the others well — another actress and one of the girls from wardrobe — but your co-star’s arms are wrapped around your waist in lieu of a seatbelt, and you can feel her laughter in your ribs. It’s easy to melt, lean into the warmth, listen eagerly to a story about people you’ve never met.

One of the other girls pulls out a little baggie, digs into it with the edge of her house key. She notices your gaze and offers it out to you.

“Want some?”

It’s only a little bump, but it burns at the back of your throat, that awful chemical drip.

The taxi turns into the driveway of some sprawling behemoth of a house, perched high at the top of the valley. The windows glow, all glass, and you watch the shift of silhouettes against the dark sky.

You feel light, giddy, as you make your way up the drive. Gravel crunching underneath your heels, the other girls bumping into you, their laughter carried away on the cool night air.

Someone presses a glass of champagne into your hand the second you step over the threshold, and the bubbles fizz down your throat as you take it all in. The crowd, the dizzying masses, all sequin and leather and lace. A chandelier glitters above it all, concentric circles that seem to spin if you stare at it for too long.

Your co-star keeps her elbow locked with yours, tugging you through the house, pausing occasionally to accept an air kiss or make a vague promise to catch up soon. As soon as you move on, she leans in to whisper some scrap of gossip in your ear.

Terrible flirt, never keeps his hands to himself.

Worst actress I’ve ever seen, chews the scenery like you wouldn’t believe.

Shame about the divorce, but he should have seen it coming.

You melt from one circle to the next, an endless tide of introductions. You call yourself Lucky before you have a chance to correct it, to rethink the nickname, the endless blur of brand and body. But it doesn’t matter, not really.

You can be Lucky tonight.

These days, you’re her more often than you are you.

You wander through the house, taking it all in. The ugly, expensive art. Little statues tucked away on high shelves. No family photos, no shoes by the door. Only the icy veneer of impressive, impersonal wealth. There’s music playing, but it’s shapeless, meant to be heard rather than listened to. Just sounds, really. A bloated bassline, some sluggish synth.

You think that you prefer the kinds of parties that your friends throw. Casual, comfortable. People sprawled out on the carpet, passing around a joint, or crowded together in the kitchen, trying to dance without bumping elbows. You’d kill for a night that was just dancing.

Here, it was hard not to feel watched. Observed.

Industry types lean in doorways and against railings, cool and impassive, polished in a sheen of self-importance. Around them: the aspirational drift moonish and eager, desperate to be swept into someone’s orbit. An artful hand on the hip, a precisely positioned chin. Hoping desperately to be seen, scouted.

You turn a corner and collide with someone. Champagne jumps from your glass, spilling over your fingers. A soft hand closes over your elbow, catching you before you can stumble.

“Shit, sorry about that.”

You blink up at the man attached to the hand, the apology written across his expression.

And you recognize him. At least, you think you do.

He has a face like so many men in this city. Handsome enough, half-sculpted. The better-looking boys in their high schools, bolstered by some small-town ego, buoyed by visions of distant stardom. Inevitably disappointed when their egg whites and lean cuts of protein did not grant them entry into some secret world. Chiseled but unfinished. Forgotten marble. They pour coffee, they wait tables. Their good looks became window-dressing for someone else’s story.

He offers his hand with a warm, friendly smile and says, “It’s good to see you again.”

And you think maybe you do remember him. Standing at the edge of a set, a forgettable face from some past project. A producer, you think, like most of the men here.

You smile up at him the way that you’re good at and say you too.

It’s mostly a lie. You’re trying very hard to remember his name, conjure it up from the blank spaces of your memory. Patrick, maybe. No, Patrick was the AD on the last film you shot. He must be Richard. Robert? You can’t figure out how to ask without insulting him.

“Do you know many people here?” he asks, maybe mistaking your expression for interest, romantic or otherwise.

“Only a few,” you shrug, “It’s not really my scene.”

His smile widens as he shakes his head.

“I don’t believe that,” he says, “I bet you fit in anywhere.”

He’s flirting. Leaning in the way that men tend to, like he might catch a bit of your shine if he stands close enough.

Your co-star reappears, breathless and grinning.

“Everyone is jumping in the pool!” she says, taking your hand in hers and pulling you towards the back of the house.

The man watches you go with a wistful sort of look on his face.

“Maybe I’ll see you later,” he calls after you.

It’s hopeful, almost charming.

You let your gaze linger for a moment. Let him indulge in the fantasy, however briefly. And maybe you will find him later, circle back as the night ebbs and make good on the promise of your smile.

But probably not.

It’s been less than an hour, and you already want to leave. You miss Joan Baez. You miss your bottle of wine. You miss the sound of your own name, the way it’s said without any innuendo or smirk.

But the night has barely been worth the price of a taxi, so you swallow down the rest of your champagne and try to find the fun in it. The excitement. People would kill for an invitation to a party like this, to be in a beautiful house surrounded by such beautiful things. You search for any of that in yourself, some wide-eyed awe that could gloss over the evening.

Instead, you only find the beginnings of a headache, a low throb in the base of your skull.

There’s a crowd gathering at the edge of the enormous pool, watching amused as a group of drunken guests splash around in the shallow end. Clothes on, still holding cocktails that must be half-chlorine. Lost in their own revelry, trying to playfully drown each other as the rest of the party watches.

You sip your champagne, waiting for the buzz to take hold, to soften the cold and the ache of your heels.

Guest after guest kicks off their shoes and jumps in the pool to a giddy wave of oohs and aahs. The occasional cannonball or backflip earns a scattering of applause. Suit jackets are stripped away, abandoned on deck chairs. Women’s dresses billow underwater, strange jellyfish that float up above their waists.

There’s a shout as a young actress is scooped into someone’s arms and thrown into the pool. The splash arcs high, water raining down on the skirts and shoes of those standing closest. The actress emerges after a beat, drenched and beaming, swiping her hair back from her pretty face.

That starts something. Men grabbing their dates, their girlfriends, and tossing them into the water. There are indignant cries, playful laughter. A few of them get pulled in, toppled over by their own gravity.

A hand reaches from out of nowhere, grazes along your lower back, and you shrink away instinctively.

You’re not going in the fucking pool.

Actually, you think that maybe you need to go home. The headache is getting worse, and you’re starting to feel a little dizzy. Something in the music is setting your teeth on edge, the occasional shrieks striking an uneasy nerve.

A girl standing too close to the edge loses her balance and falls in. She comes up spluttering and scared, floundering for the edge. There’s a cheer when she finds it, a few glasses raised. Her white dress has gone sheer, exposing the pink pebble of her breast to the onlookers. When she smiles, her teeth are chattering.

Your stomach twinges uncomfortably.

Shit.

You might actually be sick.

Not here. Not in front of all these people.

“I’ll be right back.”

Your co-star catches your eye, raises an eyebrow. Need company? But you shake your head and lift your glass. Just getting another drink.

You slip back into the main house, away from the noise and bodies, down a quiet hallway that stretches into the rest of the house. More terrible art lines the walls. Brutalist and obscure, void of any warmth. You pause between paintings, waiting for your stomach to settle, for the headache to recede.

But it doesn’t.

You’re not drunk — you can’t be drunk.

You’re only a few sips into your second drink. And sure, maybe you’re a bit of a lightweight, but never like this. Maybe the hit in the car was laced with something, or it’s reacting badly with the wine, or there was something —

Your gaze slides to the champagne flute in your hand, the soft ripples on the surface.

Did you set it down? Just for a second? To shake a hand, maybe, or refasten the strap on your heel. You didn’t notice, you weren’t paying attention.

But you can feel it now.

The slow creeping fog in your head, a haze of dilution. The lights a little too bright, the music a little too loud. Your skin feels heated and buzzing, something boiling beneath.

There was something in your drink.

The realization sinks through you like a stone, a buzz of panic rising in your veins. You press your fingertips to your throat and feel your fluttering, unsteady pulse. Slower than it should be.

Not good. Probably very bad, but you try not to panic.

You double back to the pool area, the mess of bodies, so many strangers. The music is so fucking loud, God, how does anyone think? You search for your co-star, or any of the girls from the car, but they could be any one of the many wet heads in the pool. It’s impossible to tell, impossible to get anyone’s attention amidst the chaos.

Someone bumps into you and your heel slips against the wet cement. You manage to catch yourself, but only just. Your balance is all wrong, off-center, some new gravity taking hold.

Whatever this is, it’s working fast.

And you can’t keep looking for the others, can’t wait for this to get any worse.

You turn back to the house, but find a man in front of you, his broad face twisted in a leer. The front of his shirt is soaked through, clinging to the stretch of his stomach.

“Want to go for a swim?”

You force a smile, even as your insides revolt, as your skin stretches too tight.

“Not right now, thanks.”

You try to step around him, but he moves with you, blocking your way. His pupils are blown wide, expression hungry as he takes in your dress, the bare skin of your legs.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “The water’s warm.”

You don’t have time for this, for him. You let the mask drop, Lucky sliding away to leave only you. Angry, frightened, slightly feral you. No more smiling, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Fuck off,” you snap.

His expression sours, curdling like milk.

“Bitch,” he mutters, but doesn’t try to stop you again as you shoulder past.

You try to keep your breathing steady, weaving through the crowd gathered at the window, watching the spectacle outside. The house has half-emptied, everyone else spilling out into the night air. There’s a couple tangled together on one of the sofas, all legs and arms, apparently oblivious to their surroundings.

It takes a few wrong turns, a few locked doors, before you find a phone down one of the empty hallways.

Your hand is shaking as you dial Tess’s number, the receiver held so tightly you can hear the plastic creaking against your ear.

It rings.

And rings.

And goes straight to Tess's voicemail.

Fuck.

You try the apartment next, but it rings right through. And of course it does. It’s a Saturday night, the girls are almost never home on the weekend. And they’re too far anyways, all the way on the west side. You’re not sure you could even stay conscious for the hour it would take them to get here.

You’re halfway gone already. The slow creep of fever along your spine, the fuzzing edges of your vision. It’s an effort to stay upright, to stay focused. You can’t stay here, in this house full of strangers.

There’s only one other number that you know.

One you memorized, girlish and hopeful, but never called. The numbers scrawled on a receipt, tucked into a book by your bed, read over and over until they burned on the back of your eyelids.

Your hands are shaking as you dial, slipping twice so you have to start over. And you realize it’s late, too late to call, and he doesn’t even like you very much. But there’s no one else.

Joel answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

His voice is low, scratched up with sleep.

“Joel?”

He says your name, and you think, inanely, how much you like the way he says it. The deep gravel of his voice, all the things you’ve been trying to forget.

“Everything okay?” he asks. He sounds — surprised, maybe. Confused. But not annoyed, not angry that you called. At least he hasn’t hung up on you yet.

“I’m sorry, it’s so late. I tried to call Tess. First, I called her first. And my friends. But no one’s answering and — and —”

You shake your head as a wave of dizziness threatens to overtake you.

“Hey, slow down,” Joel says, “What’s going on?”

“I think —” you swallow, “I think there was something in my drink.”

You hear his sharp intake of breath.

“Where are you?”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. An urgency.

You try to scrape through the fog of your memory. You can’t keep your thoughts straight, they keep spilling and tripping together. Someone had said, had told the driver the name as you slid into the back of the car.

“In the hills. At a house. Some producer guy’s — Rich something?”

“Matthews?”

Fuck. Maybe. Names really are not your strong suit tonight.

“I think so?”

“I’m coming to get you.”

Relief surges through you, though with it comes another wave of dizziness, the black-blue blur at the edge of your vision. It takes a second to realize that you haven’t answered, that Joel is still talking to you.

“Just stay put, alright? I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Okay,” you tell him.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead.

You let the phone slip from your hand, skittering back against the wall as the coil contracts.

He’s coming. Joel is coming. Twenty minutes.

You’re not sure how much time you have, how much further you have to fall. You dig your nails into the skin of your arm, focusing on the bite of pain, the sharp sting. Something to keep you awake. Present.

There’s a burst of laughter, the dance of footsteps, and a couple stumbles into the hall. Faces flushed, hands entwined. They stop short when they see you, their shameless apology tripping out through laughter.

You force something like a smile onto your face, straightening as they make their way past you, disappearing through a doorway down the hall.

Shit. Your head aches. You need quiet, need to be alone. You really need to not fall apart in the middle of this party, where anyone could see you and shape your current state into some seedy tabloid story.

You press your hands over your eyes, digging the heel into your socket, trying to relieve some of the pressure there.

“Lucky?”

You look up.

It's him again. The producer, the one whose name you can’t fucking remember. Patrick-Richard-whatever.

You try to straighten, but your knees buckle and you fall back against the wall. Stars burst in front of your vision, obscuring his face, distorting his mostly handsome features.

“Woah, hey,” he frowns, “You okay?”

“Not feeling great,” you mutter, swallowing down the bile at the back of your throat.

He chuckles, “The bartender’s a pretty stiff pour.”

You smile weakly. You really don’t want to throw up on him. But his shoes don’t look that expensive. You could probably replace them.

You must be a little green, because he asks, “Want to get some air?”

Yeah. Yeah, air might be good. Might clear some of the fever in your head, defibrillate you back into sobriety. At the very least, there will probably be fewer witnesses if you puke.

You nod, and he offers his arm out for you to take. Which is good, because it’s starting to feel like the ground is slipping out from beneath you.

“There’s a great balcony,” he’s saying, “You can see the whole valley.”

You’re staring at the floor, focusing on every step as you take it. The rich brocade of the hall carpet, the threshold of the room, the dark hardwood of wherever the fuck you are now. You blink up at the dark room, the French doors and the balcony beyond.

Then you hear the soft click of the lock behind you.

And your stomach drops.

Hands reach out from behind you, sliding around your waist, pulling you close. A sweaty grip at the back of your dress, a gin-soaked breath at your ear.

“Thought we could use a little more privacy.”

You freeze. Breath catching in your throat, every joint and muscle locking in place. A fear like poison, like disease, slithers through your veins.

He put something in your drink.

Somewhere between shaking your hand and making you smile, he slipped something in your fucking champagne. You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t registered him as a threat. His banal, lukewarm smile. His easy flirtation. Not asking too much, barely even pushing.

Because he didn’t need to push.

He planned this.

Nausea twists in your stomach and now you wish you would puke. Ruin the moment, spoil whatever fucked up fantasy he wants to play out. But you can’t even think against the ache in your head, the thrum of your own pulse.

He presses his face into your neck, tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hand slides over your hip, down to the hem of your dress. He gathers it in a fist, the fabric bunching beneath his grip.

“Such a tease,” he murmurs, “This dress was driving me crazy.”

His grip is tight, holding you firmly to his chest. Every touch is hungry, consuming. You can feel him hard against you, pressing against your ass, threatening every awful thing that he wants to do to you.

You feel surrounded, smothered. The heavy spice of his cologne, the bitter taint of sour sweat beneath. He’s everywhere, hands moving over your body, scraping across your skin.

“Stop,” you try to say, but your voice is a weak, shattered thing.

It’s taking everything in you to cling to that last scrap of consciousness. Even if you weren’t drugged, you doubt you could fight him off. He’s twice your size, all lean muscle. The hand that flexes at your waist is a threat, a warning.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Don’t be like that.”

And maybe you should just give in.

Let go, slip into the waiting black. Submit to sharper teeth, let yourself become easy prey. It might be less painful that way. You probably wouldn’t even feel anything. You would wake up tomorrow, sore and aching, with the shadow of this awful thing, but no real memory of it.

Lips brush your cheek, searching for your mouth. Tasting of smoke and gin and the worst night of your life.

He’s too close, his grip too tight. The hand at your waist slides down, finding your bare thighs beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath hitches, catching on a sob, as his fingers brush against your center.

“Let me in.”

Something base and animal comes to life inside you. A clawing, gnashing fear that rips through you.

You twist in his grasp. Twist and writhe and wrench away from his hands, the suffocating press of his body against yours. His hands scrape against you, nails breaking skin, but you break free.

Just for a second. Just for a breath.

Long enough to turn to face him on your shaky legs, to stare into the eyes of this man whose name you don’t even fucking know. The warmth is gone from his gaze. His friendly, forgettable face is now twisted, turned ugly with frustration. His hands twitch at his side — the hands he put on you, the fingers he tried to press inside.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he sneers.

And then lunges for you.

You see him coming, the hands reaching out for you, and try to move out of the way.

But your legs don’t work. Your reactions are slow, stuck in the mind-numbing molasses of whatever was in your drink. You take a single, stumbling step and your heel snags on the carpet.

Your head hits something on the way down. The sharp edge of a table. You didn’t see it, didn’t realize it was there.

You land hard, wrong. All the air punches out of your lungs from the force of the fall, the pain splitting through your skull. You can taste blood in your mouth, the bite of metal behind your teeth. It’s thick and bitter when you try to swallow.

It’s too much. The ache in your head, the heavy weight in your limbs. You want to sleep, to stop fighting, to sink into the soft darkness waiting just at the edge of your vision.

There are hands on you again. Dragging you back, turning you over. A weight settles over your legs, pinning you down.

“You like it rough, huh?” he hisses.

You can barely see, vision spotting and smeared with color. His face is a blur above you. Your dress is shoved up over your stomach. You hear the clink of his belt coming undone.

Things are slipping, gone hazy and hard to understand. You can’t think over the pounding in your head.

Or maybe it’s not in your head.

There’s a heavy thud, a muffled shout, and then the crack of splintering wood as the door is forced open.

You can’t see, can’t breathe. It’s all colors and sounds, shuffling and swearing, until suddenly the weight is off you.

You twitch away, curling in on yourself, knees tucking up to your chest. A black film swims over your vision, threatening to overwhelm you. Your nails bite into your legs, and the sharp sting brings you back, keeps you teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Blinking hard, the blackness ebbs away. The room settles into soft-focus.

The man is crumpled on the floor a few feet away from you, clutching at his nose. Blood seeps between his fingers, dribbles down his chin. You didn’t hear bone but you hope to fuck it’s broken. His expression is stained with fear, eyes wide as he watches —

Joel.

It’s Joel.

He’s here. He came for you. He’s here.

His steps are heavy as he crosses the room and drags the other man up by the collar of his shirt, lifting him so they’re eye level. His expression is stony, severe. Ice-cold fury.

“What the fuck did you give her?” Joel demands.

The other man struggles against him, but it doesn’t matter. Joel is bigger, stronger. When the answer doesn’t come immediately, he tightens his grip.

“Ow, shit, man,” the guy winces, “Fucking rohypnol. It’s just supposed to loosen them up.”

Joel’s jaw tenses, and you think maybe he’s going to hit him again. Break some more bones. Damage some vital organs, if you’re lucky.

Instead, he lets go. Shoves him back towards the door, sniffling and still bleeding.

“Get out,” Joel snarls.

The guy doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t spare you so much as a glance before he stumbles out of the door.

When Joel turns to you, all the anger is gone from his expression. His brow drawn, concern etched in every line on his face. He approaches you slowly, warily. Easing down to crouch beside you.

You swallow hard, trying to find words in the slur of your head, the blood in your mouth.

“He — he —”

You realize you’re shaking, the cold of shock settling in.

“Hey,” Joel says gently, “You’re okay.”

He smooths his hand over your skirt, pulling your dress back down to cover your legs. You ease a little under his familiar touch, the careful way he pieces you back together. Sliding the strap back onto your shoulder. Thumbing the blood on your chin.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“I think so.”

You just want to go, to get out of this house. You’ll crawl if you have to.

He lifts you up carefully, helps you settle on shaky legs. You try to straighten, to stand on your own stupid heels, but the world tips sideways, a sudden lurch that has stars dancing across your vision again.

But Joel is there. His hand at your hip, his arm wrapping around your waist. Steadying you.

“Easy,” he murmurs, tucking you into his side, “I’ve got you.”

It’s a blur, mostly. The hardwood, then back onto the carpet of the hall. Joel supporting most of your weight, his voice low in your ear. Doing good. Just a little further. Through the crowd downstairs, the eyes that slide over you, drunk and disinterested.

When you finally reach the front door and step out into the night, you stop short. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, hoping the fresh air might settle something in you.

It doesn’t.

“Almost there, baby,” Joel says.

You force yourself to nod, to keep moving.

His truck is a reddish blur at the end of the driveway. He keeps you balanced as he unlocks the door and helps you inside, closing it carefully behind you. Your body sags into the worn leather seat, aching and exhausted, eyes already fluttering shut.

You’re distantly aware of the engine roaring to life beneath you, the crunch of gravel as Joel pulls out of the drive. The dark, twisting hills that sink into city streets. Asphalt and lilacs, the air cool on your feverish skin.

You come-to a few seconds before you realize that you’re going to be sick.

“Shit,” you mutter, “Joel, pull over.”

He does, easing the truck over to the side of the road.

The second it rolls to a stop, you’re fumbling for the door handle and throwing it open. You barely manage to lean over the side before you’re vomiting, spilling sour champagne into the street below.

You feel hands scraping up your hair. Soothing strokes down the length of your spine.

“You’re okay,” Joel says, “Get it all out.”

It takes a second. Shuddering and retching, your body finally revolting against the poison inside it. When you’re finally empty, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and lean back into the seat. Sweating. Shaking. The acid taste of bile sharp on your tongue.

Joel watches you. Wary. Worried. Waiting for your go-ahead.

“You good?”

No. Definitely not. But you think you’re done puking, so you nod.

“Alright,” he says, “Not much longer now.”

X x x x x

You come back to your body in a quiet, unfamiliar place – bathed in a deep blue darkness, the muddy warmth of a streetlight. Soft carpet beneath your bare feet, a blanket around your shoulders. Someone moving nearby, a low voice. Gentle, coaxing.

“Can you look at me?”

It takes a second to focus on Joel’s face in front of you. Everything is a little melty, the colors soft and smudged, blurring at the edges. Your head feels so impossibly heavy, an anvil on your shoulders.

“Where are we?” you ask, and the words come out slurred, the consonants gone soft and lazy.

Joel raises his hand to stroke your hair back from your face. His fingers feel warm and dry against your cheek.

“My place,” he tells you.

His place. The idea of it sits strange, doesn’t settle. You figured he would take you home, or to Tess. Leave you for someone else to deal with. You’re not his mess, not his problem.

You frown.

“Why?”

“You’re sick,” he says simply, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You blink again, trying to bring the blurred outline of him into focus. He’s crouched in front of the sofa, face level with yours. The tense set of his jaw, his brows drawn together in concern. He’s holding a glass of water, and he presses it carefully into your palm, curling your fingers for you.

“Can you drink this for me?” he asks, voice as gentle as his hands.

Your arm shakes as you bring the glass up to your lips, and it’s an effort to make your throat work the way it’s supposed to. It feels raw, wrong. But you manage, swallowing down a few mouthfuls, the water soothing some of the burn inside of you, washing away the metallic taint of vomit and blood.

“Good girl,” Joel murmurs, “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

You hum your assent, though your head is still too hazy to follow from one thought to the next. It snags on the good girl, the warmth in his voice that makes you want to cry.

But then Joel's arms are around you, lifting you easily and tucking you against his chest. You sink into the warmth of him, the sway of his step as he carries you upstairs. Eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. You wish your own would settle, even out. It’s still too slow, your blood too thick in your veins.

He eases you down onto the bathroom counter, cool granite under the bare skin of your thighs. His hand holds steady at your hip as he leans over to flip a switch. Soft light spills into the small room, and you wince against the brightness. Your head is still sore. Every inch of you aches.

Joel's gaze flickers over you. Steady, assessing. You think, absently, that you must be a mess. Mascara smudged from crying and puking, sick still clinging to your skin. Dress stained from the same, ripped in places you don’t want to think about, not when your stomach still feels so tender.

“Can we take this off, darlin’?” Joel asks.

You nod, lifting your arms. You want it off, gone. Burned, maybe. You doubt you could ever wear it again without feeling the grip of those hands, the snag and tear when he tried to take it off you.

Joel's hands are careful as he eases the dress over your head.

You shiver, goosebumps on your bare skin. But you don’t bother covering your breasts. It’s not like there’s anything to hide. Joel's seen it all before, knows every inch of your body better than anyone else.

There’s no heat in his gaze when he looks at you now, no hunger as he wipes a damp rag over your skin. Skin that he’s kissed and bit and come over. That he now strokes gently, carefully. Cleaning away the remnants of the night.

You should really shower, but you’d probably drown.

He tugs a worn t-shirt over your head. Pulls your hair free from the collar, smooths it over your skin. You blink up at him, and his brow furrows in concern. Dark eyes lingering on your split lip, all the places you’ll probably bruise.

“That hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“S’not bad.”

He hums, but still looks. Tilting your head towards the light, touching the swollen skin.

He’s being so — soft. The tenderness in his touch, in the way he’s looking at you. It makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with the drugs.

You lean forward, tucking your face against his neck, breathing in the whiskey and oak smell of him. His hand rubs along your back, over the knobs of your spine. You feel the pinch of tears behind your eyes.

“I was really scared,” you whisper.

Joel tenses, his hold on you tightening a fraction.

And it strikes you how easy this is, how well you know each other's bodies. There’s familiarity in every touch, every inch of skin. You’re half-drugged, half-naked. And still you feel safe, despite his bigness, his rough edges.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, cradling the bowl of your skull in his heavy palm. His nose brushes against your temple, breath warm against your cheek. You’re alright, he murmurs.

You twist your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, nuzzling your face into his neck. Hoping he can feel the thank you, the gratitude fluttering at the base of your throat. He strokes your hair, and you think he understands.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s get you to bed.”

He steps back, and you try to slide off the counter.

Your knees give out the second your feet touch the floor, and stumble. Catching yourself on the edge of the counter, wincing as the room spins.

“Fuck,” you mutter. The pounding behind your eyes resumes, a steady throb.

“Careful,” Joel says, “That shit’s still in your system. Can't do any cartwheels.”

You mumble something about just trying to fucking walk, but then Joel’s arms are around you again, scooping you off the floor. And that’s fine too. Better, probably.

He deposits you gently onto a bed. His bed, you realize, dimly. The smell of him on soft gray sheets. Your bare legs slide beneath the blankets, the same space he sleeps every night. It twists inside you, a funny feeling blooming in your stomach.

The mattress shifts as he sits beside you, holding out the refilled glass.

“Drink some more for me.”

You do, and you don’t shake as much this time. You feel only slightly more human when you finish. Still drugged, but the room stops spinning. You can blink without seeing stars.

You grimace, setting the glass aside.

“I think men are bad.”

Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your hair.

“Real bad.”

You meet his gaze, the warmth in the deep brown of his eyes.

“Not you,” you murmur, “You’re okay.”

Even as you say it, you feel the weight of what’s happened hanging between you. The ugly way you’d left things. The anger, the uncertainty. There’s still so much shit you don’t understand, can’t make sense of. The way he is with you now — where was that when he left you standing in that fucking closet, hurt and confused.

Joel’s brow furrows, and he drops his gaze.

“‘M sorry about the other night,” he says, “I shouldn’t’ve left like that.”

Something nervous and vulnerable flutters in your stomach, but you figure you’ve done plenty to embarrass yourself tonight. It can’t get any worse, really.

“Did I —” you swallow, “Did I do something wrong?”

Joel looks up sharply, shaking his head.

“No. No, ‘course not,” he frowns, “It ain’t that. It’s, well — it’s complicated.”

You tilt your head, studying him in the half-light. There’s that nerve that ticks in his jaw. You used to think it meant he was angry, annoyed. Now you think it’s something else. All the things he won’t let himself say, swallowed down like glass.

“I’ve got time,” you say softly.

Joel looks up, lips twitching.

“What you’ve got is a bunch of fucking benzos messin’ with your head.”

You bite back a smile.

“Might as well tell me then,” you shrug, “I probably won’t remember in the morning.”

Joel huffs out a sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring down at a blank stretch of carpet. His profile silhouetted by the bedroom window, bathed in soft blue light.

“I, uh, kept tellin’ myself I’d keep my distance,” he says.

You blink.

“From me?”

He nods, still not meeting your eye.

“Why?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in every hard line of his body.

“Told you, lines get blurred,” he says, “Figured it’d be easier if I stayed away.”

You think of that first scene, the way he walked away without looking back, how it settled like lead in your stomach. The anger in his face when you’d shown up at the bar, the livewire of tension between you. How much it hurt every time he pulled away, shut you out.

You frown.

“I don’t want you to stay away.”

“I know, darlin’,” he sighs, gaze flicking up to meet yours, “And that makes it a helluva lot harder.”

Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach.

Stupid, infuriating man. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him, actually, but you’re pretty sure you still taste like puke. Still, you should try to argue. Plead your case. Explain all the reasons why staying away from you is a terrible idea.

You try to push yourself up, and spots immediately cloud your vision. A fresh wave of nausea threatens to overtake you and you wince, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Woah, easy,” Joel catches your arm before you can topple off the edge of the bed and eases you back down.

You can’t even argue as he tucks the blankets in around you, pulling the comforter up to your chin.

“Just gotta sleep it off, baby,” he says.

“What if — what if I — asphyxiate, or whatever,” you mumble.

You hear Joel’s low chuckle somewhere nearby, the shift of the mattress beneath him as he settles in.

“Not gonna let you,” he says, “I'll be right here.”

The darkness seeps in at the edges of your vision, and finally, you give in.

x x x x x x x x

author’s note: There is no situation, context, or flirtation that ever excuses sexual assault. It is never the victim’s fault.

If you need support, the resources below may be helpful:

RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline 800-656-4673 | Online Chat

Find a sexual assault service provider near you here. For international readers, you can find local providers here.