Summary: you’re trouble in red lipstick and skimpy dresses. He’s restraint wrapped in flannel and grumpiness. One patrol, one dare, and a tension that hums beneath every glance, every silence, every step through the woods. You always push. He always resists. But even restraint has its limits—especially when temptation bends over rocks, leaves kisses on paper, and asks to be taken while they’re forced to sit in silence in a small room.
Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, pinv, unprotected sex, age gap! (20s and 60s), oral f!receiving, slight overstimulation, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, fingering, slight daddy kink, forced proximity, outbreak, ellie doesn’t exist, slight mean!joel, but he is a softie, reader is incredibly bold and unhinged, praise kink, size kink, riding, probably incorrect way of describing patrols, not proofread
A/N: hi babes. this is an unfinished draft from not too long ago. life’s been a bit heavy lately, so I haven’t been able to work on fics or finish His to Keep. this is just a little something to ease myself back into writing, and hopefully I’ll be able to share more soon. I hope y’all enjoy this <33
Joel miller was one man of a kind.
Big, gruff, grumpy. The kind of man who knew how to handle things—with broad hands and a furrowed, concentrated face. His voice was a deep grumble, a dream to hear even when he was cussing you out. His age showed in the silver streaks through his hair and the salt-and-pepper beard he refused to tame.
And beneath that flannel—God help you—were arms that strained the fabric, biceps that flexed with every movement, every lift, every quiet command. He stood tall, towering, like the world bent around him. Two heads above you, easily. And when he looked down on you with eyebrows furrowed, anger in his face—you felt your insides warming.
He was unkempt. Unbothered. Unreachable.
And yet, somehow, exactly what you wanted.
Since the first day you walked into Jackson and saw him barking orders with his hands on his hips, you were done for. He stood like he owned that damn place—broad, steady, carved from something older than the rest of them. That flannel stretched across his chest, the sun catching in the silver of his hair, and you just… stopped.
No wife on his arm. No kid trailing behind.
He lived alone, tucked away in that big house at the edge of the town like a ghost that refused to leave. People said he liked it that way. Said he didn’t want company. Said he was dangerous.
You didn’t care.
You saw the way his jaw clenched when someone talked back. The way his eyes narrowed when things didn’t go his way. You saw the power in him—and you wanted it. Wanted him. Even if he never looked at you.
Even if he only ever called you “girl” like it was a warning.
Still, you made sure he looked.
It started with a skimpy dress—the first time you spoke to him. Too short for everyday life, red like you wanted every eye on you. You bent over when you didn’t need to. Smiled when he grunted. Called him ‘sir’ just to watch his ears turn red.
And the first time he adressed it, was after you dropped your knife in front of him. You bent to pick it up slowly, deliberately. He cleared his throat. You looked up at him from the ground, lips parted, eyes wide. And he said it—low, rough, like gravel: “Don’t play games with me, girl.”
Somewhere between bending over and his sighs, you grew frustrated. You wanted him. So your boldness began—and it all began with cupcakes you baked for him.
“Hi, Mr. Miller,” you said, voice sweet, as you stepped into his house the second he opened his door for you.
Joel turned towards you, brows already furrowed. “The hell are you doin’?”
But you didn’t flinch. Just walked straight past him, hips swaying a little more than necessary, and placed the tray of cupcakes on his kitchen counter like it was your own. His house was nice. Not something you would’ve expected from a man like him.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” you said, turning to face him, fingers brushing the edge of the tray. “For helping me fix the light in my room.”
Joel walked towards you, slow steps. Then he stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You could’ve just said thank you.”
“I could’ve,” you echoed, tilting your head. “But I figured you deserved something sweet.”
Joel swallowed and his eyes dropped—first to the cupcakes, then to your shirt. It clung to you in all the right places, neckline just low enough to make him look twice. You saw it. You felt it.
“I ain’t fond of sugar,” he muttered, voice low, eyes narrowing.
You leaned against the counter, one hip cocked, lips pursed like you were thinking hard. “That’s a shame,” you said slowly. “I’ve got a lot of it.”
Fucking bold.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at you like you were a problem he didn’t know how to solve. You picked up one of the cupcakes, peeled the wrapper back with deliberate fingers, and took a slow bite. Crumbs clung to your lips. You licked them off, eyes never leaving his.
“Besides,” you added, voice dropping just a little, “I’ve heard sugar’s better when it’s…licked off.”
Joel’s jaw clenched.
You smiled.
He didn’t say a word, but you saw the way his fingers twitched at his side. The way his eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your shirt, then to the tray like it might explode. You placed the half eaten cupcake back down, walked towards him and looked at him with big eyes.
“Anyway,” you said. “thanks again, Mr. Miller.”
Then you turned and walked out, leaving the scent of sugar and something heavier behind.
You knew what people would say. Of course.
That he was too old. That you were too reckless. That it was wrong, or desperate, or pathetic. That Joel Miller didn’t need trouble in red lipstick and tight dresses showing up at his door with cupcakes and a smile.
But you didn’t care.
You wanted him.
Not the way girls your age wanted boys. Not for attention. Not for fun. You wanted him like a secret. Like a craving. Like something you weren’t supposed to touch but just couldn’t stop thinking about. You wanted the way his jaw clenched when he was annoyed. The way his voice dropped when he was tired. The way he looked at you like you were a problem—and you wanted to be his favorite one.
It wasn’t just lust. It was need. You wanted to crack him open. You wanted to see what he sounded like when he broke.
And maybe that made you foolish.
But it also made you bold.
Even when he once told you that he didn’t want you.
It was at Tipsy Bison, late enough for the lights to feel too dim and the air to feel too heavy. Joel was sitting alone at the bar, just after his patrol, hunched over a glass of something dark, something strong. He wanted peace, maybe a little numbness, maybe just silence.
But you didn’t give him any of that.
You stumbled in, not drunk, just reckless. Sat down besides him without a word, rested your head against your hand, and stared at the bottles lined up behind the counter.
He didn’t look at you right away. Just sighed. Deep. Tired.
“I could be your goddamn grandfather,” he grumbled, voice low and rough, finally turning towards you.
His eyes flicked to your mouth first—red lipstick, freshly reapplied. Then down to the dress you were wearing. It wasn’t subtle. You hadn’t meant it to be.
“The hell you want from me, girl?” he asked.
You turned your head slowly, met his gaze without flinching. “You,” you said simply.
Joel scoffed, looked away like the word offended him. “There’s a dozen boys your age who’d give you what you want,” he muttered. “You don’t need to be botherin’ me.”
He sighed again, deeper this time, like the weight of your words settled somewhere in his chest. “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
You leaned in, just a little. “I do.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled around the glass. “You think this is a game?” he asked. “You think you can walk in here with that dress and that big mouth and—”
You laid your head on his shoulder.
He froze. “I think you like it,” you whispered.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you felt the tension in him, the way his body went rigid beneath you, the way his breath slowed like he was trying to keep control. And you stayed there for a moment, just long enough to make it linger. Then you pulled back, stood up and smoothed your dress.
“Goodnight, Mr. Miller,” you said, voice light but teasing.
You turned to leave, and as you did, a small piece of tissue fluttered from your pocket and landed on the bar besides him.
Two lipstick kiss marks. Red. Bold. Yours.
He stared at it for a long moment, rubbing his temples with a hand. Then, slowly, carefully, while nobody looked, he reached out and picked it up. Folded it once. Then again. Pressed it flat between his fingers like it was something fragile.
And then he slipped it into his pocket.
The one closest to his heart.
—
“The hell are you wearin’?” His first question when he sees you. His eyes drag up and down—pausing at the hem of your dress, lingering on your chest, and finally landing on your face, where sleep still clings and a smug smile tugs at your lips.
“S’warm, Joel,” you answer, slowly walking towards him.
“How did not Tommy see you in—“ he stretches his palm, pointing against your dress, trying to find the right words. “—in whatever that is.”
“It’s a dress. And a pretty one,” you shrug. “Tommy saw me with a Jacket.”
That was the truth. He saw you wearing a jacket, and after that, you stashed it under a tree before walking quickly to Joel by the gates. Getting paired with him for patrol was something you’d dreamed of every single day. Every time you were assigned, you wished it was Joel. And today? You got lucky.
So of course, you wore a dress. Even if it was wildly impractical—tall grass, dirt everywhere. But you could look past all that, if it meant poking the bear a few more times than you probably should.
Joel’s jaw tightens. He’s not amused. As usual.
“You wear that on patrol?” he asks, voice low and sharp. You stop just short of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of his body. This time he was wearing a black shirt, something that made your mouth water just by looking at it.
You could see it all—the veins in his arms, the muscles and the tightness of his shirt just clinging on his chest.
“It’s comfortable,” you answer, tilting your head. And then add cocky: “And it gets your attention.”
Joel scoffs, eyes flicking towards the gate like he’s trying to look anywhere but at you. “This ain’t no fuckin’ fashion show.”
You smile. “I know, but you have to admit that I look good, right?”
He mutters under his breath, something close to ‘jesus christ’, while shaking his head. Then his eyes narrow again, this time with suspicion.
“Where’s your weapon?”
You lift the hem of your dress just enough to reveal the sleek black strap hugging your upper thigh. The pistol sits snug in the holster, gleaming faintly in the morning light. “Right where I need it,” you say, voice like honey.
Joel stares for a beat too long. Then he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed” Joel steps back, eyebrows pinched now. “And I ain’t the one who saves your ass. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Joel.”
He turns towards the patrol route, boots crunching against gravel. You follow, dress swaying, steps light and deliberate.
The gates creak close behind you, and the town fades slowly into the distance. Joel doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightens around his rifle.
The sun hangs low, warm and steady, casting a golden glow over the trail ahead. It’s not scorching—just enough to kiss the skim, to make the air feel soft and slow.
And eventually, you speak. Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just enough to poke at him, to test the edge of his patience like you always do. You can’t help it. It’s in your blood—this need to stir something in him, to break the silence before it swallows you whole.
“You know,” you start, voice soft and teasing, “You’re even hotter when you’re mad.”
Joel doesn’t stop walking, his steps big and his head hanging low, as if he is trying himself from not responding. But his jaw clenches, sharp and unforgiving, his muscle twitching like it’s trying to speak for him. You know that look. You’ve seen it before—when he’s biting down words he doesn’t trust himself to say. When he’s one breath away from snapping, but still gripping the edge of control with white knuckled fingers.
Then, you walk a little ahead, just enough to finally make him look. “You always this grumpy, or is it just me?”
Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just mutters, “It’s mostly you.”
You grin over your shoulder. “Good. I’d hate to think you were this charming with everyone.”
He exhales, sharp and tired.
“You think this is charm?” He asks, and regrets is quickly.
“I think it’s foreplay.” You shrug.
He stops walking, hands on his hips now. You know he is pissed. You know you’re getting on his last nerve.
“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble,” he says, voice low—though he’s not even sure what trouble would look like. Talk to Tommy about it? Make you work a month in the stinking cafeteria? Joel didn’t know.
“That’s the plan.” You flash a smile, swaying your hips slightly. “You gonna punish me, Mr. Miller?”
He groans—low and guttural, a sound caught somewhere between frustration and helpless disbelief. Not because he’s angry…not exactly. More because he’s at a complete loss. Because no matter how many miles you walk or how many times he tells himself to tune you out, you always find a way under his skin.
And he’s trying to focus on anything but you. If he just keeps his eyes forward, keeps his hands busy, he won’t notice the way your dress rides up with every step, catching the breeze, clinging to your thighs like it’s trying to get his attention too.
Later, when you’re crouched beside him, looking out for infected, and clearing the space, you whisper: “You look handsome today.”
Joel doesn’t flinch, but you see the way his fingers twitch on the grip of his rifle.
“Ain’t the time for that,” he mutters.
You hum, searching for his eyes but he doesn’t look at you. “You always say something snappy. Starting to think you just don’t know how to take a compliment.”
He exhales through his nose, now finally looking into your eyes. “Starting to think you don’t know how to shut up.”
“Starting to think you like it when I don’t.”
Joel eyes stay on you, stern and unfazed. He looks at you angry, trying to make you feel small, but the only thing you can feel is the throbbing in your cunt.
After clearing the place, and start walking again, you get curious. “What kind of women did you like? Before all this?”
Joel doesn’t answer. He keeps on walking.
“Let me guess. Quiet. Sweet. Obedient.” You smirk. “Bet they didn’t tease you like I do.”
He finally turns, eyes dark.
“They didn’t have a death wish.”
You lean in, voice soft. “Maybe I do. Maybe I just want to die in your arms.”
Joel groans, walks off faster—like distance will fix the heat crawling up his spine. All you do is follow, smile blooming. Knowing he’s unraveling.
After a long while of walking in silence, you get another Idea. So you step silently off the trail, just a little, just enough, and lean over the mossy rock that sits there besides bushes. You arch your back, stretching across the rock like your life depends on it, knowing that underneath that dress, are the small panties you’re wearing, soaked and waiting just for the right touch.
Joel’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
“The hell are ya doin’ now?”
You glance back over your shoulder, eyes gleaming. “You like the view?” A beat. Then, lower—filthier: “You could take me like this right now, Joel. Nobody would know.”
Silence.
Then footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
Before you can blink, his hand is on your arm—tight, painful—and he yanks you upright with a force that makes your breath catch. He’s in your face now, eyes dark and furious.
“Enough with that bullshit.” His voice is a growl, low and dangerous.
“I’ll leave you right here.” A snarl, low and venomous “And then you can see if the infected like the view enough to stop from eatin’ you alive and fuck you instead.”
You freeze.
Joel’s grip doesn’t loosen.
“One more word,” he growls, “and I swear to God, girl—“ his grip just tightens before taking a deep breath, and leaving your arm again.
You stare at him, heart pounding lips parted—but you say nothing. Not a flirt, not some filth. Because for the first time, you realize:
You didn’t just poke the bear.
You concerned him.
—
You haven’t said a word since Joel snapped at you.
Not because you’re sulking. Not because you’re sorry. But because something in his voice—the venom, the finality, cut deeper than you expected. You walk behind him now, quieter, slower, dress clinging to your legs while the wind picks up.
Joel keeps glancing at the sky. Because he notices that the clouds are suddenly thickening fast, rolling in like bruises across the horizon. The air’s gone heavy, electric, you feel it on your hair and your skin.
Then he stops.
Eyes scanning the treeline, jaw tight.
“Storm’s comin’,” he mutters. You look up. The light’s gone strange—greenish, grey.
And before you can speak, Joel grabs your hand. Not gently. Just rough enough to make you move faster towards a direction that‘s not used for patrols.
“C’mon.” He pulls you off the trail, boots crunching fast through the underbrush. You stumble once, but he doesn’t slow down. His grip is firm, his pace relentless. The wind is picking up, swaying your hair from left to right now.
“Where are we going, Joel?” you ask, breathless.
“Outpost cabin,” he says. “Used it just last winter. Roof’s solid. Door locks.”
The wind howls louder, whipping your hair across your face again. Thunder rumbles in the distance—low and long, that sounds close to a monsters roar.
Then you see it.
A small little cabin, half swallowed by trees and moss. The porch is completely crooked, the windows boarded, like it hasn’t been used for a long time, but it’s standing. So it’s safe. Joel doesn’t hesitate. He yanks you forward, both of you breaking into a run as the first fat drops of rain slap against your skin.
By the time you reach the porch, the sky splits open with a crack of thunder so loud it rattles your bones, making your breath hitch.
He kicks the door in and you two stumble inside together, soaked, breathless, and still buzzing from everything that came before.
Joel doesn’t say a word when he shuts the door behind you. Just moves fast, like routine—dragging a broken chair across the floor, wedging it under the knob, stacking a few crates against the frame. The wind howls outside just louder, rain slamming against the wood like fists.
And while thunder after thunder cracks outside, you glance around the cabin. It’s small. One room. A single mattress in the center, stained and crooked. Cardboard and paper scattered across the floor. The air smells like dust and old wood.
Joel finally speaks, voice low and rough. “S’not been used for a long time.”
You turn towards him, eyes catching the way his shoulders are still tense, his jaw locked tight. He’s angry. Still simmering from earlier. Still trying to pretend he’s unaffected.
Then he doesn’t say another word.
He sits down on the floor, back against the wall, rifle laid across his lap like a barrier. His movements are slow, calm as if he’s done this a hundred times before. Next, he pulls out a small lantern from his pack, flicks it on. The room glows dim and yellow, casting long shadows across the warped floorboards and the single mattress in the center. It suddenly feels more atmispheric.
Without breaking his slow movements, he unwraps a sandwich. He takes a bite, chewing, and looking at one point of the room that is not you.
You stand there for a while, watching him. While the wind howls outside, rain slamming against the cabin. Thunder rolls again, deep and distant, but inside it’s quiet. Still.
You don’t speak. You just feel it.
The weight of what he said. The way he looked at you. The line you crossed—and the wall he built in response.
So, you start slowly walking towards him. Not with anticipation. And definitely not with a smirk.
Just quiet steps across the creaking floor.
You sit down opposite him, legs folded, hands resting in your lap. The mattress sits behind you like a question neither of you want to answer.
Joel doesn’t look up. Just keeps eating. Calmly.
You lean back on your hands, realising this is the perfect timing to poke the bear just once more.
“Funny, isn’t it?” You glance around the cabin, voice soft, almost dreamy. “Storm rolls in. We end up here. One room. One mattress. No one around.”
Joel doesn’t respond. His eyes flicking on your face, watching you, chewing like he’s trying to drown out with silence.
But you smile.
“Almost feels like fate. Like the world wanted us locked up together. Just us. No distractions. No rules.”
His jaw tightens slightly. You notice it.
So you keep going.
“I mean, look at this place. It’s practically begging for something to happen.” You drag a finger across the edge of the mattress behind you. “You and me. Trapped. Wet. Tense.”
Your eyes lock into his. Seeing them get darker after each word coming out of your mouth. As if they are trying to warn you to stop speaking and to shut up.
“You know, we could work with that bed.” You say, teasing. “S’would be a little uncomfortable but… we’ll manage.”
He still doesn’t respond. Just takes another bite of his sandwich, slow and deliberate. His eyes not leaving you. Not even once looking somewhere else. Just into your eyes.
You lean forward slightly, elbows resting on your knees.
“Bet you’d make it work. Bet you’d pin me down, make me forget how thin it is.” You pause, watching his jaw tighten now for real. “Wouldn’t even care if the springs dug into my back. Not if you were on top of me.”
The wind howls outside again, the rain now slapping and falling stronger than ever.
And then Joel finishes chewing, he wipes his fingers on his jeans. Still silent. Still eyes locked to yours.
You smile, voice dropping.
“You’d be rough, wouldn’t you?” You tilt your head. “Not gentle. Not sweet. Just angry. Needy. Like you’ve been holding it in for too long.”
Joel’s eyes flick down to the mattress, then back to you.
Still nothing.
But his breathing’s changed—slower, heavier.
So you keep going.
“I’d let you. I’d take it. I’d beg for it.” You lean in just a little more. “You could ruin me on that mattress, Joel. And I’d thank you for it.”
“You could have me any way you want. Rough. Slow. Doesn’t matter. I’d take it. I’d take you.” You add, your voice becoming more serious. There is no tease anymore behind those words. It’s need. Desperation.
“You ever jerk off thinking about me?” You tilt your head, voice lower. “Bet you do. Bet you grip yourself hard, thinking about how tight I’d feel around you.”
He finally moves— sets the crumpled paper of his sandwich down besides himr. The storm outside roars louder, thunder cracking close enough to shake the walls.
And then—
He stands up.
No warning. No words. Just movement. Just his heavy boots on the floorboards, a stern concentrated face on yours. He crosses the room in three long strides, and before you can react, his hands are on you—rough, certain—gripping your arms and lifting you clean off the ground.
You gasp, but it’s swallowed by the sound of rain hammering the roof.
Then he throws you.
You land on the mattress with a thud, dress riding up, breath knocked out of you for half a second, looking at him with a gaping mouth, from underneath.
Joel kneels besides you, still nothing coming from his mouth, and grips you by your ankles —pulling you downwards. Your breath hitches when he suddenly flips you over—so easy, as if you weigh absolutely nothing. You are unsure what he does. The fabric of the mattress already burns on your skin, when Joel slides both of your legs forward and stabilises you with one hand between your shoulderblades.
He has you on all fours for him, your head down, ass up and the dress slowly sliding upwards, revealing your panties and bare skin to him.
“Joel—“ it comes as a strained whine, still surprised, but also anticipating something that you have been waiting for so long.
He doesn’t say anything. Only then, you notice two fingers hooking the waistband of your panties and pulling them down with one swift move. The cold catches your cunt, so much so that another whimper escapes your throat.
“Shut the fuck up,” Joel growls into the room, making your breath hitch. “Heard enough of that big mouth of yours.”
Your heart thuds in your chest, unsure what his next move is.
“Ought to teach you some damn manners,” he murmurs under his breath. “But first, let’s see if you’re as sweet as you keep sayin’ you are.”
Then you feel it.
Something soft and wet dragging over your cunt in one big stripe. Your knees immediately buckle, your body going weak against his tongue in your pussy, exploring, licking the neediness.
“Mhm, sweet as honey, baby girl,” he murmurs into your pussy, the vibrations of his voice pulsing against your hole.
His hand holds you deeper, making your back arch downward more, and your cunt closer to his face. You can feel his nose bumping against your backside hole. His tongue dives deeper into your pussy, thrusting in and out, with deliberate strokes while squelching noises are echoing, plangent against the quiet room.
“Joel—please,” you don’t know what you’re saying please for. You don’t know if you’re close, you don’t know if you want him deeper. The only thing that swirls around your mind is Joeljoeljoel.
“Please,” he mocks. “S’the only thing you can say now, huh?” Then, he stops licking you, pulling away from your cunt and landing a sharp, stinging spank on your left ass cheek.
You cry out, eyes widening at the unexpected roughness.
“Made me almost deaf at how much you were begging to be fucked, girl.” He shakes his head, his middle finger nudging against your opening and pushing only the tip in. You clench down on it immediately, hip desperately moving backwards to get him deeper.
“S’your fault,” you start, breathless. “You should’ve picked the hints that I was throwing at you wayyy sooner, Mr. Miller.”
Then you turn your head to face him, and add: “But apparently old men don’t pick up on things anymore.”
He chuckles. “Think I’m slow? You were the one trailing behind me like a lost dog, making a damn fool of yourself in front of everyone.” His finger pushes deeper, making you hold your breath. “Everybody in that god damn town knows what kind of whore you are.”
And you know he doesn’t mean it. If it was someone else, another man saying things like that to you—it would look way different. A slap on the face and a kick to the balls. Joel was just playing a game.
“Ain’t you the 60 year old man whose tongue was just in my cunt now?” You clap back, earning a huff from him.
“Damn right I am,” His finger starts to move inside of you. “Don’t speak to me as if you ain’t the one who got me to this point.”
“You’re welcome, daddy.” You smile back at him.
“Jesus christ, girl.” He growls against your cunt, finger speeding up and stroking your walls with precision. “You got no shame, do you?” And then slower, he kisses the edge of your hole and murmurs: “Sixty years old and still letting you wreck me like this,” before diving into your cunt, his tongue lapping against your folds.
Your spine arches, fingers curling against the edge of the mattress, while Joel spread your cunt with his hands—his tongue fixated on your hole, thrusting In and out.
A gasp leaves your lips when you feel your orgasm already building. It was quick, the ache he left in you, for months, could finally release. The one you waited for patiently, the one where your mind painted your fingers as his, your dildo as his cock and in your mind his voice, repeating the same thing over and over again.
“That’s a good girl. Press ya pussy into my face, c’mon,” he growled against your cunt, earning a high pitched moan from you. You did as he said, pressing your pussy further onto his face, feeling his big nose nudge against your squelching folds.
Joel was eating your pussy like it was his last meal on earth. As if he was starved of that sweet, dripping honey for so long. You feel it. The vibrations of his groaning voice against your folds, the twitching of his tongue in you while his hands grip your hips like he is scared that you’ll run away from him.
And when his lips wrap around your twitching clit, you feel your legs buckle. His firm hand comes around your waist and stabilises you, his mouth never leaving your cunt.
“M’cumming, please—“ you whine, pressing your forehead against the dirty mattress under you.
And then he stops. Just right where your body spasms and clenches, just right at the sweet relief you wanted for so long from him.
Joel licks his lips, sitting back on his knees with a low grumble from his throat. He admires his work. Your pussy, open for him twitching in need and pulsing with the orgasm that he denied you. Slick dripping down your thighs, and your ass red from the spank he gave you.
“That just proves how obsessed you‘re with me.“ you mumble under your breath, trying to come down from the edge. Joel just hears it barely, but he can make out what you just said.
“Yea? How so?” He asks, a smug smile forming on his face.
You gently lay down on the mattress, turning around and looking down to Joel, who just watches you with a flushed face, his beard glistening in your slick.
“Well, if you really just wanted to get over with it, you wouldn’t even take the time to edge me,”
His eyes follow, as you slowly put your hand between your legs, spreading them and teasingly touch your lips. “You would just fuck me. So, that means you care for me. And that you actually want this so badly.”
His eyebrows pinch together, looking at your hand that plays with your clit, circling around your hole.
Joel doesn’t think twice before going between them and laying his body on top of yours. Your breath hitches for a moment, seeing his face so close to yours, feeling his torso against your pussy and the rough fabric of his flannel creating a friction against your already hardened nipples.
He is so big, so heavy on top of your body. Feeling like a weighted blanket, just like you wanted him to feel.
“I’m teaching you a god damn lesson,” he says, sternly. Your eyes trace the wrinkles on his face, the age spots he has and lastly, land on his dark eyes, that are concentrated on yours.
“So you don’t go around asking to be dicked down by old men anymore.” You feel his breath against your lips. Oh, how much you just wanted to kiss him.
“No old men,” you answer, voice soft. “Only you. Didn’t ask anyone else. They can’t even compare to you.”
You see it. His eyes going soft at the response you gave him. Cheeks flushing red, while suddenly the rough, stern demeanour he had is gone. It’s like you cracked him open, finally looking inside to see what hides underneath all that gruff and grumpiness.
Joel doesn’t know how to answer, his dick hard and twitching inside his pants, the amount of need he was feeling was scaring him. What also scared him was you. The fragile little thing, that just wants to get fucked. Just wants to be taken care of, by someone who is three times older than her. There was guilt in his head, but in his heart he wanted to give you what you wanted.
“Baby,” he begins, voice just above a whispers. “What the hell do ya even see in me, hm?” He asks, genuine.
You don’t wait long before you respond:
“Everything,” your hand comes to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “I see you—the man who acts tough but still knows how to love. I see the wreckage, the weight, the fight. I see everything you’re trying to hide. And I want all of that.”
Joel looks away, his heart thudding against his chest.
“You’re something else, you know that?” A smile forms on your lips, nodding your head to him.
“I ain’t good at his. Never been. I would ruin you.”
His eyes find yours again. Concerned, soft, full of need but still trying to hold back.
“You already have, Joel.” Your fingers run through his hair. “Can’t stop thinking about anything else than you.”
And you don’t even realise when your hips start to move against his torso. His bulge directly laying on top of your mound, the rough fabric creates a friction that satisfies the throbbing in your cunt.
Joel grunts as a response, eyes looking down where you two meet and starting to grind his hips also against you.
“Guess I did a pretty good job, then?” He murmurs, mouth hanging open as he precisely guides his bulge onto your cunt. “You’re too needy for your own damn good.”
You don’t answer this time. Instead, you lean in, letting your lips find his—soft at first. He responds instantly, his mouth crashing into yours the kiss deepening with urgency, with heat, with everything that’s still left unsaid.
You moan against him, the sound swallowed between you, tongues meeting in a rhythm that’s less about technique and more about need.
It’s messy. Desperate. Beautiful. Like two people trying to memorize each other before the moment slips away.
“Look how hard you are,” you break the kiss, breathless only to tease him. “Bet you’re aching, Joel.”
He grunts in response, hips speeding up between your legs, meeting your clit over and over again. You moan, hips bucking in desperation.
“S’been a while since someone really wanted me,” Joel admits, and quickly regrets it again, looking away. You shake your head, pinching his chin between your pointer finger and thumb.
“Then let me show you what wanted feels like. How I clench on your cock, how I cum on it…”
“God damn, sweetheart.” Joel flushes again, hips slowing down and looking into your eyes. “You do got a big mouth on ya.” He smiles.
And you smile back, nodding your head.
He doesn’t think long before sitting up between your legs, one hand starting to thumb on your clit, the other unzipping his pants and letting his cock out.
You whimper as you finally see him. Big, red, pulsing. Bigger than you imagined when you touched yourself. Bigger than what you saw when you looked at his bulge. Joel wrapped his hand around his shaft, squeezing from the bottom and letting out a strained sigh.
“So big,” you say, squirming against the thumb on your clit. “Aching to be in my cunt.”
Joel chuckles, hand leaving your nub, only to spread your legs further on the small mattress. Anticipation runs through your veins, wetness dripping down to the curve of your ass. Your eyes locked with his cock as Joel jerks himself up and down, teeth gritted together.
And then—he comes closer, holding his tip to meet your pussy. His big tip nudges against your clit, then to your hole, slowly starting to push inside.
You hold your breath as you feel his head stretching you, instinctively clenching around it like you’re scared that he pulls out.
“God dammit, girl,” Joel brushes his thumb along your clit. “Relax for me. I’m givin’ you what you want, so be good.”
His stern demeanour is back at it again. With firm hands, rough voice and pinched eyebrows. You immediately do as he tells you, unclenching your hole and trying to relax your body, wanting him to push himself further inside.
“Atta girl,” he murmurs under his breath, slowly inching his cock into you again. You whimper at the stretch, at the way he feels inside of you. Opening you up further than you actually used to, and the sting that comes with it makes you bite your lips until they’re stained red with blood.
“Tight as a fuckin’ vise,” he grunts, and with one swift move he punches his whole length into your cunt, making you gasp and moan at the same time.
Joel moves deliberately, your bum lands on top of his thighs, while your upper body still lies on the mattress. Your legs are dangling in the air and Joel holds your hips against his cock, beginning to move your body.
“Joel, please,” you whimper out, your body moving up and down against his quick thrusts.
“All that mouth, all that beggin’ and now you’re falling apart,” he says, hips moving with precision, eyes locked on your squelching pussy—almost milking him dry at how much you were clenching around him. “Didn’t you say you could handle me? Hm?”
“That’s what ya said, sweetheart.”
And he was right, you know it. But you couldn’t clap back, you couldn’t open your mouth and answer him with a clever comeback to make that smugness in him disappear. In fact, you couldn’t think about anything else than his cock thrusting in and out of your pussy, nudging against that spongy spot inside of you, over and over again.
“Joel…” you whine, lulling your head from left to right, already feeling yourself getting close.
“M’right here, baby. M’right here.” He murmurs, finding it adorable that your face twists with pleasure, your hips moving against his cock—in his rhythm, and chasing that sweet orgasm he took from you.
And when he pinches your clit between his fingers, you can’t help but to cum all around his cock. A big cry leaves your lips, while you arch your back and hold onto the edges of the mattress—knuckles white, breath quick and hard. Your hips buck against Joel, the waves of pleasure settling in your bones.
Joel groans, your cunt now impossibly tight around his dick. He lets you ride out your orgasm, his thrusts slowing down while his hand leaves your clit. And before you can register what’s happening, Joel’s hands find yours—rough—and with a firm pull, he draws you up from the mattress. Your body follows, hips still perched on his thighs, legs curled around him, until you’re sitting fully in his lap, cock still in you, curling your arms around his neck and stabilising yourself from the sudden movement.
Then, without letting you go, he shifts, with a groan, knees lowering, thighs folding beneath him—until he’s seated on the mattress, and you’re still straddling him, held in that place like you were meant to be there.
The last waves of your orgasm dry out and you look at him with a tired, fucked out face.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your ear. “Little thing just needed to be used.”
And while your breath still comes out strained, he starts thrusting into you, from underneath.
You shake your head. “Too much, Joel—please,” you look into his face with a pleading look but he won’t have any of it. He keeps going.
“Ain’t even halfway there, baby. Thought my age would slow me down?” He asks, finding your hips and making you slowly move against his cock. “Nah. All that stamina I’ve built over the years—you’re about to feel every damn second of it.”
You whine out, shaking your head but your body betrays you. Your hips start moving without even the help of Joel. You grind against his cock like your life depends on it. Even while you’re overstimulated, stretched and sensitive in all places.
“Too much?” He asks, and when you nod your head, he chuckles. “Then you’re feelin’ it just right.”
You feel the pleasure building in your tummy, like a balloon that’s being inflated, ready to pop in any moment. And Joel doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t give you time to breathe. Because that’s what you asked for. You asked for him to take you, to ruin you, to make a wreck of yourself.
“Joeljoeljoel—feels so good,” you moan out.
“I know, baby.” He cradles the back of your head, stroking your hair up and down. “I got you. Just feel it. That’s what you wanted for so long.”
And you nod, quickly, looking into his eyes—knowing Joel was finally giving you what you wanted.
His hips start to thrust into you in a quicker speed, hands gripping your ass tightly again and moving you up and down, as if you weighed nothing. His cock hitting all the right places inside of you and the silent cabin fills with your cries and whimpers, close to cumming one more time for him.
“You’re close, babygirl.” He says, his lips finding your neck, biting down on your skin, marking it as his. “Just a little bit more. C’mon now.”
Joel fucks you harder, precisely hitting that spot inside of you, while his eyes are focused on your face—mouth open, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks flushed pink.
“Don’t fight it now, girl,” he demands, feeling your hips slowing down. “You want it to last? Then you better rest up—’cause once we’re back in Jackson, I ain’t lettin’ you outta my lap.”
“You promise?” Your voice cracks, holding away your orgasm with all you got.
“On my life.”
And that’s all it takes for you to come undone on top of him. Your eyes open, mouth gasping for air and your body twitching against Joel like it’s too much to handle. Joel holds you tightly, thrusting up to make you ride out your orgasm—and it may be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his god damn life.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he groans out before following right after you, his cock erupting with big spurts of cum, filling you slowly up and marking you as his.
You’re still in his lap, legs draped around him, bodies slick with sweat and breathless silence. The room is quiet, but your heartbeat is loud in your ears. His arms are still around you, grounding you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Your foreheads press together now , skin warm and damp, eyes locked…tired, dazed, and full of something that doesn’t need words.
You breathe in, shaky and slow. And he breathes out, steady and deep.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and rough, cupping your cheek with his hand.
You nod, barely. “Yeah… just really wrecked.”
Joel chuckles, nuzzling his forehead against your neck. He holds you there like you’re something sacred, making you feel taken care of.
“Careful what ya ask for next time, baby.”
I didn’t proofread this sooo…Just a little something to ease back into writing again. Hope y’all enjoyed this. I hope the next fic is going to be His to Keep
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Summary: Joel sits downstairs, reading by the stove, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the footsteps of his son’s girlfriend. Trying to pretend he doesn’t remember what the two of you have done and feel. But when you appear in the dark—barefoot, wide-eyed, floaty-headed and call him Daddy like you still mean something by it, he knows you’re about to break the rules again.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, slight angst, age gap! (60s and 20s), fingering, praise kink, slight mean!joel, daddy kink, ddlg undertones, subspace, infidelity, power imbalance, taboo relationship dynamics, needy!reader, no outbreak,
A/N: i’m not feeling very well lately. this is just an unfinished draft that I never finished, but I wrapped it up now to kinda ease myself back into writing. I also want to finally get to some requests that have been sitting in my inbox. Things might move a little slower for now, I’m sorry about that! But i hope yall enjoy this one in the meantime: filthy, taboo nonsense that just hits right when you’re horny hehe😋
The fire crackled low in the stove, its orange glow flickering across the old wooden floorboards. The room was dim, lit only by the firelight that danced around Joel’s chair. He sat still, legs stretched out, reading glasses perched low on his nose, the spine of a thick book resting in one hand.
Outside, the wind knocked against the windows, but inside it was warm and real quiet. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and makes you forget the day.
Joel turns a page slowly, his eyes moving steady across the lines, but he wasn’t really reading anymore. Not with the fire murmuring besides him. Not with the weight of the day finally easing off his shoulders.
And then—
a sound.
Soft and unmistakable. Footsteps.
He stilled.
The book lowered an inch. His jaw tightens just slightly. He didn’t look up, not yet. Just listened. One step. Then another. A pause. Then the creak of the top stair.
Joel closed the book gently, thumb marking the page.
He didn’t need to look to know it was you.
His eyes flicked towards your figure in the hallway, dressed in white like a ghost. The room was dark, but Joel could still make out the tremble of your lips, the flush blooming across your cheeks.
He doesn’t want to know what you did upstairs with his son, he didn’t even want to think of it.
And more than anything, he didn’t want you coming to him—disturbing the only ounce of peace he ever feels, that quiet hour when the house is asleep, and it’s just him, a book, and the soft crackle of the fire.
You slip into the room without a word, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you move gently to the couch besides him. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Swallows. His jaw tightens. And you can already see his knuckles going white from gripping the book too hard.
With a quiet sigh, legs are drawn up as you settle besides him, eyes fixed on the way he turns the page—his hands broad and steady, the book looking small in his palm.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, thoughts wrapped in cotton. Everything feels soft, distant—like the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment is Joel.
He clears his throat, making you look up to him.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and hoarse, the sound of it rumbling deep in your chest.
You shake your head. “No, it’s too quiet up there.”
“You’re not used to country,” he answers with a hum.
He was right. Staying at Joel’s farmhouse—just because your boyfriend insisted that spending the holidays at his dad’s place would help you relax—was a mistake. Instead of peace, you were face to face with the very thing you’d been trying to avoid for years.
And now you can’t keep it together anymore. Joel knows it.
He saw it already on your glassy eyes on the breakfast table. Or on the way you gently touched him when you tried to slip past him.
“Do you always read in the dark?” You ask.
“Sometimes. When my eyes get used to it. Helps me wind down, you know?”
You nod, and you feel it in your chest—knowing that once, you knew everything about him. That he once told you everything. Every little quirk he had and has.
Silence stretches between you. Joel’s head dips, trying to make something of the words he is reading, but the only thing his mind allows is to hear your little breaths and your voice looping inside his mind.
He can feel you staring.
“You should go back to bed.” He says, finally.
Your heart thuds in your chest. You tilt your head, eyes glassy looking at him.
“Doesn’t feel right,” you murmur. “Up there. Without you.”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching, hands closing the book.
“We’ve talked about this.”
You nod.
“Remember?”
“I remember.” Your voice is just above a whisper.
“And?” His eyebrows go up, reading glasses moving with them. His voice makes your skin crawl; it makes you want to curl yourself further into the couch and disappear. You just needed him.
“I-i’m not trying to start anything.” A lie.
“Bullshit.” His voice cuts through the warm atmosphere of the room—sharp, hitting right into your heart. Your bottom lip wobbles as you look at him, breath picking up.
“Look at you.” His hand sways in your direction, eyes scanning you up and down. “You look like a mess.”
“I—I don’t mean to be.” Your voice is breathy, almost like a whimper. “I just…I don’t feel right.”
Joel scoffs, his heart breaking a little too—from being so mean. He doesn’t want to be. But you two were never meant to be. What happened between you has to stay in the past, forgotten. That was the deal: to never talk about it again. To never seek each other out. To never ask for more.
“You should go,” Joel says again, quieter this time. “Ain’t right, you sittin’ here like this.”
You don’t move. Just look at him, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
“That ain’t my problem.” You flinch. “You have your boyfriend right upstairs, you don’t need me.”
Silence falls again.
Neither of you move or say anything. Joel doesn’t look at you—his eyes are focused on the way the fire plays shadows on the walls and the way it lights up the place.
You, on the other hand…are almost on the verge of crying. Not because of sadness, but because you’re locked in a headspace that won’t let you think straight. One that just wants to be cradled, to be held, and to be told that everything is going to be okay.
And that should be from Joel.
Because your boyfriend doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand your headspace, your needs. He doesn’t listen, and when he does he misinterprets what you say.
Joel doesn’t. He never did.
After a while Joel releases a big breath, and rubs his forehead.
And then he hears it:
“daddy, i’m sorry.”
It lands like match on dry grass.
Joel freezes. That word hangs in the air—thick, trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mind already drifting to the past, to when you laid underneath him and called him that word like he was your anchor.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. But they’re not angry. Not anymore. They’re wrecked. He knows he has been fighting this way too long, and he knows that a single word can break him. And that happened now.
“Jesus,” he mutters, just under his breath.
Your cheeks flush, embarrassment runs through your body.
He drags a hand down his face, then looks at you—really looks. At the way you’re still curled in on yourself, flushed and trembling, eyes wide, lips swollen, wet and waiting for something.
“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” breathes out.
But he’s already moving. The book slides from his lap to the floor with a soft thud. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and opens his arms.
“C’mere,” he says, voice gentler now. “Come here.”
You move fast. You climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before—knees on either side of his thighs, arms already reaching to curl around his neck, face nuzzling toward the warm space beneath his jaw.
But his hand comes up, firm against your shoulder.
“Hey.”
You pause, blinking up at him, dazed and soft. Sou try again, leaning in, seeking the comfort of his chest, but his voice sharpens.
“Hey…hey. Hey.” He catches your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his. His eyes focused on your lips.
“You know we can’t keep doin’ this,” he starts, voice low. “We said last time was the last time.”
You whimper, barely a sound, but it’s enough to make his grip falter for a second. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentler now.
“Last time,” he says again, quieter. “You hear me?”
You nod, slow.
“Promise?” he asks.
You nod again, eager. But he doesn’t let go.
“No,” he says, firmer. “Words.”
“Promise.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose. His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you in.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, you curl into him, breath soft against his neck, while he can feel how far you’ve gone—how quiet, how warm, how gone. Your body’s heavy in his lap, boneless, like you’re melting into him inch by inch. And Joel knows what that means.
His hand moves slowly over your back, steady and grounding, trying to soothe you.
“You’re real quiet now,” he murmurs. “That little motor of yours finally ran outta steam, huh?”
You don’t answer. Just nuzzle closer, your lips brushing the side of his neck, barely there.
“You’re deep in it, ain’t you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even see it happen.”
He shifts slightly, adjusting you in his lap, cradling you closer. His voice drops to a whisper.
“You always do this to me,” he says. “Come in here all soft, all sweet…and I try so damn hard to be good.”
You let out a tiny sound—half sigh, half whimper—and it breaks something in him.
“Shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple. “I know, baby. I know.”
His hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “Daddy’s got you.”
You feel soft in his lap, breath already hitching, hips starting to shift just enough to make him feel it. You need him.
Joel’s hand tightens on your hip, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to hold something back.
You nod, whimpering softly, and he exhales like it hurts.
“Can you tell me what you need?” he asks, brushing your hair back. “Just wanna make sure you’re still with me.”
“Want you,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy.”
He closes his eyes for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. You want Daddy to help you come back down.”
His hand slides lower, slow and steady.
“S’okay,” he murmurs. “I got you.”
And just as he shifts you in his lap, his mouth close to your ear, you hear it—barely a breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud: “This the last time.”
But his hands don’t stop.
“Y’stay real quiet, yeah? Don’t want him hearin’ that his dad’s takin’ care of his girlfriend better.”
It’s not a threat. It never is. It’s resentment, but not at you—god, never at you. It’s at the boy, his own son, who gets to have you in the daylight, while Joel only gets the dark.
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard while looking into your hazy eyes. You whine again, signalling that you’re ready. Ready for him to take you. He chuckles under his breath in response.
So, Joels hand slides down, slow and warm, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, then lower. He cups you over your panties, real gentle, but firm—and lets out a quiet breath when he feels the dampness.
“Messy girl.” he coos.
You whimper, hips pressing desperately into his palm.
“Shh,” he soothes, lips brushing your temple. “I know. Daddy’s here.”
He quickly hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside with care, while your head rests on his chest—breathing in his wooden scent. His fingers find you, slick, soft, sticky and he strokes through the wetness, slow and teasing. His fingertip brushes over your clit gently, and you gasp.
“Just like that,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.”
After letting you settle, he eases one finger inside—only one, because he knows you need time to adjust in this headspace. His finger settles into your cunt, and you breathe out, clinging to him, as he holds you tighter.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy.”
He waits for yuou, lets you adjust, then begins to move—gentle, curling thrusts, deep and slow, while his other hand cradles your back.
You were already feeling sensitive—like your body knew Joel was near, like your cunt could sense the weight of his big, steady hands cradling you. And you were always extra needy when you started to float.
He shifts just enough to see your face, brushing your hair back with the hand not inside you. Your eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. You look dazed, dreamy, like you’re floating somewhere only he can reach.
Joel swears under his breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All gone, huh?”
You hum, barely even able to nod, and he smiles: absolutely wrecked by how beautiful you are like this.
His fingers keep moving, slow and sure, coaxing you through it, fingertip curling into that one spot that only Joel can reach. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“You stay with me, babygirl. Don’t drift too far.”
You move softly in his lap, breath hitching, but hips shifting just a little more desperately—like you’re chasing something just out of reach.
Joel notices. Of course he does.
“Still restless, huh?” he murmurs, voice still against your ear. “One ain’t enough for you, baby?”
You shake your head, your body answering before your mouth can.
He smiles knowing. “S’okay,” he whispers. “I got you.”
He eases his hand back, just enough to press a second finger to your entrance. He waits—feels the way your body flutters, how you cling to him tighter.
“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Let me in.”
And when you do—when he slides that second finger in, slow and careful—you sigh, your cunt fluttering around him. The stretch is deeper, fuller, and your whole body melts around him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s what you needed, huh?”
Joel starts with his thrusts again. Slow, deep and grinding. Every thrust now pressing into you more fully, brushing against that sweet, aching spot inside you. You can already feel the stickiness between your thighs, the way your slick clings to him, to you, to everything. It’s warm, messy, perfect.
“Daddy…” you sigh, burying your face into his chest.
“Yea? Like that?” He asks, placing a kiss on your temple. “Daddy’s filling you up nice and slow?”
You nod your head softly, coming closer to his chin, pressing a peck on his lips and then a faint one on his stubbles.
The chair under you two groans as your hips shift, chasing the rhythm of his hand. You’re trying to stay quiet, but every slow thrust makes you tremble, makes you cling to him tighter.
His fingers continue to move slow and deep inside you, while the room is quiet, so quiet that you can hear it. That soft, wet sound each time he thrusts in. It’s intimate.
A slick little whisper between your thighs, hidden in the space where your bodies meet.
He presses in deeper, and the squelch is louder now—squelching, needy. You feel it in your belly, on your skin.
The slick sounds between you grow wetter, messier, and your breath comes in soft, broken gasps. Joel feels it—the way you’re clenching tighter, the way your body’s starting to shake.
“You’re close, yea?” he murmurs, voice thick with warmth. “I can feel it, baby.”
You can’t answer. You just whimper, pressing your face into his neck, trying to hold on.
And then you feel it—his thumb, warm and steady, sliding down to circle your clit. Gentle at first, just enough to make you gasp.
“There we go. So puffy for daddy, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Let Daddy help you.”
His fingers keep moving inside you, while his thumb works soft, perfect circles over that aching spot. The rhythm is steady and grounding.
“That’s it, babygirl. Just come for me. I’ve got you.”
His fingers find that tender spot inside you again—just as his thumb circles your clit just right, and his voice drops low in your ear. “Yes, that’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then you do.
Your whole body tenses, then breaks. You cry out, soft and wrecked and he holds you tighter as your release rushes through you. He feels it immediately—the way your walls flutter around his fingers, the way your slick gushes over his hand, warm, wet and so desperate.
It runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, dripping onto his wrist and soaking into the fabric of his jeans. But he doesn’t care. He loves it.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “Let it all out. I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his fingers inside you, gentle now, nestled deep, cradling the soft, fluttering squeeze of your walls as you come down. The chair creaks beneath you, the room still thick with heat and breath and the soft, wet sounds of your release.
“You’re making such a big mess, baby girl…” he murmurs. “Daddy has to clean ya up, hm?”
His other hand strokes your back, grounding you, while his lips press soft kisses to your temple.
“Still flutterin’,” he whispers, almost in awe. “So sweet. So soft.”
You whine, your body coming down from your release—still overwhelmed, and he hushes you gently.
“I know, baby. I know. You gave me everything, didn’t you?”
He stays there with you, fingers still inside, until your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling. Even then, he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, full and warm and safe in his arms.
“You’re okay,” he says softly.
You hum, content. His scent is everywhere—smoke, leather, wood. You feel like you could stay here forever.
“You feel better, babygirl?” he asks sweetly.
You nod, slow and lazy. “Mhm. Thank you, Daddy.”
You’re curl into his lap, limp and trembling, your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers slip from you now, but his arms don’t move. One hand strokes your back in slow, grounding circles. The other rests on your thigh, warm and steady.
The chair creaks softly beneath you both again, but neither of you moves. You’re still slick between your legs, the mess of your release soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t care. He just presses a kiss to your hairline—gentle, lingering.
“You were so good,” he says softly. “So damn sweet.”
There’s a pause. Like he wants to say more. Like there’s something sitting heavy in his chest. But instead, he just holds you tighter.
“Let’s just stay like this a while.”
“Just let me have this,” he says, barely audible. “Just for a little longer.”
And you do. Because right now, in this hush, in his arms—you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Okey i’m gonna be honest…i don’t like this but i also missed writing for daddy Joel sooo…I hope you guys enjoyed it! Also this is not proofread🫣 please let’s just ignore all the mistakes and things that don’t make sense
Now i’m gonna concentrate on some requests, and then i’ll probably post ex hitman!joel! He is miserable, bleeding but still soft for her <3
Summary: In a camp where survival depends on silence and obedience, you hide in the supplies tent, trying to outrun the shadow of the man who once pulled you out of the woods and claimed you as his own. But when a cruel voice cuts too deep and old wounds split open, you retreat to the only place you can fall apart unseen—only to find Joel stepping into the dark after you, his presence a reminder of the bond you shouldn’t want, and the one you can’t seem to break.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, fauxcest, taboo dynamics, daddy kink, reader calls Joel dad, ddlg themes, age gap (20s and 60s), dom!daddy!joel, praise kink, pinv, nipple pinching/rubbing, clit rubbing, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex, squirting (once), finger sucking, pet names, joel calls reader bambi, little fawn and little one, kinda icky, insecure!reader, sub!reader, outbreak
A/N: Okey… if you don’t like things like this, I gently encourage you to just scroll or block me. This isn’t even the most taboo or ‘icky’ thing out there, but fandoms are really falling apart right now because of censorship and people’s inability to differentiate fiction from reality. So many writers are deactivating or taking their fics down, and it’s honestly really sad. If you enjoy this, the best way to support fic writers is by leaving a comment or a reblog—it helps to keep the fandom alive while everything feels like it’s crumbling. Anyways...I really hope yall enjoy this pookies!! <3
It was all a big, fucking mess.
Missing clothes darped haphazardly over boxes like ghosts of forgotten wardrobes—socks unpaired and with holes in them, jackets with messy hems spilling from open bags, and shirts crumpled into balls that might have once shielded someone from the biting chill.
You searched through the mess, fingers numb where the cold slipped through your thin gloves, trying to bring some order to it.
Across the tent, weapons laid scattered in a mockery of readiness—a rifle slumped against a stack of boxes, knives strewn like fallen leaves over the workbench, a pistol halfly buried under belts, its grip worn smooth from fear‑tightened hands.
The supplies tent was a tangled symphony of neglect that you inherited by your own choice.
You, were the one to volunteer for this job, the endless counting, packing, arranging and preparing that no one else dared to even touch.
And all because it kept you hidden, buried in the grit and grime, far from the piercing gaze of the man who had become your unwilling anchor.
Joel, the leader of this ragged group of survivors, was the one who had stumbled upon you in the frozen wasteland, your body curled in a fragile knot against the merciless cold, breath shallow as a whisper on the wind. He had pulled you from death's numb embrace, wrapped you in his coat that smelled of earth, and carried you back to this fragile resemblance of life. From that moment on, he treated you like the daughter fate had stolen from him, his rough hands gentle in their guidance, his voice a low rumble that insisted purpose where despair already has taken root.
But purpose came laced with something deeper, rumours that twisted in your chest like vines overtaking a crumbling wall, and so you fled into the shadows of this tent, avoiding the warmth of his presence that both soothed and cared.
The canned goods were cluttered in the lower shelves, their labels peeling, revealing dents and bulges that spoke about expiration dates long past. You lifted one after another, the weight heavy in your palms, peering at the faded ink that marked them as relics of a world that no longer existed.
A voice sliced through the quiet like a blade through fog then.
"This place is a disaster," he snarled, "No wonder we can't find anything. Look at this—half the ammo's scattered like fuckin' confetti, and these cans? Christ, they're older than the damn outbreak."
It belonged to Leon, one of the newer men of the group, his face weathered by the apocalypse but twisted now with frustration as he stormed into your space, boots kicking aside a stray boot in his haste.
You opened your mouth, but only a stutter escaped—a soft, halting: "I-I'm... trying to—" before it died on your lips.
Defense was a foreign language to you, vulnerability had been your shield and your curse, for a long, long time.
You shrank back, eyes dropping to the floor as if dirt could swallow you whole.
And he didn't stop, his anger swelling on. "Only reason you're still here is 'cause Joel dragged you in like some stray," he growled, the words dripping with disdain, painting you as a burden. "Half frozen mutt he pitied. Without him, you'd be buzzard food by now. So maybe stop fuckin' up and earn your keep."
The insult hit you deep, twisting the knife of your insecurities, and you just stood there, silent and small, your throat tight with the unshed tears and the weight of his judgment.
But Leon didn't notice the shift in the air, the subtle thickening as a presence entered the room. He didn't see Joel standing by the tent flap, entered silently, drawn by some instinct that always seemed to pull him towards you, his girl.
He watched, his jaw set and tight, eyes narrowing as the man's tirade unfolded, each word fuelling the quiet storm brewing within him.
When Leon turned around, his confidence evaporated like mist under the sun. There was no mistaking the aura that radiated from Joel: stern, unyielding, a force that filled the tent like smoke from a fire.
He was the leader, the authority etched into every survivor's bone in this group; the man whose word was law in this godforsaken lawless world.
Cross him, especially on his girl, and you were cast out into the wilds, where mercy was nonexistent.
Joel's gaze pinned Leon in place, dark and unblinking, the lines of his face carved deeper by the weight of command and the raw possessiveness that surged for you.
"What the hell do'ya think you doin'?" Joels voice was low at first, that gradually became a loud roar. "You don't talk to her like that. Not ever. She's worth ten of you and if you forget that again, you're gone—out there with the infected and the dead."
The yell was possessive, a statement that echoed his claim on you, the daughter he had taken from ice and hopelessness, the one whose every stutter, every tremble, multiplied his protective fury. His chest heaved quickly, veins standing out on his neck, the air crackling with the intensity of a father defending his own—or something dangerously close to even more?
Joel turned to you then, his expression softening just for a tiny moment: "Go on to your tent, honey'," he said.
You nodded quickly, legs unsteady as you gathered your coat, slipping past him with a brush of shoulders that sent a forbidden spark through you, his scent drifting into your awareness before you can stop it.
As you vanished, Joel came closer to Leon, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "If you even dare to raise your voice against her again, it'll be the last damn time you ever speak."
He nodded jerkily, face pale as snow, and backed out of the tent without another word, the flap swinging shut behind him loudly.
Alone now, Joel exhaled a long, deep sigh, his shoulders slumping as the tension bled from his frame. He never wanted to raise his voice like that, ever. Not with you nearby, not when every yell took away this fragile peace he tried to build just for you, his girl, the new-found light he had pulled from the frozen dark.
But that's who Joel was...for you, he would roar down the heavens if it kept the shadows at bay.
The rain already eased into a small drizzles as Joel stepped out of the supplies tent, his camp sprawled before him: a cluster of weathered tents, wet by the rain and surrounded by leafless trees. Smoke curled lazily from a central fire pit, where a few survivors stirred a pot of thin stew, their faces marked by the things they had endured.
Joel's boots sank into the mud with each stride, the cold seeping through the leather, but he paid it no mind; the chill in his bones was nothing compared to the one gnawing at his heart.
"Tim!" he barked, his voice cutting through the murmur of the camp. "Patrol's leavin' in ten. You, Leon, and Livia—check the perimeter east of the ridge. Infected tracks reported last night; don't get sloppy."
The younger scavenger poked his head out from behind a stack of firewood, his hair damp and clinging to his neck.
Leon, still pale from the earlier confrontation, nodded mutely, avoiding Joel's gaze as he slunk towards the armory tent to gear up. Joel watched him go, a flicker of satisfaction run through him—no one touched his girl, not with words, not with anything else.
Turning to the others, Joel continued his demands, calloused hands resting on his hips.
"Billy, you reinforce the watchtower—those boards are rotted through. And Clint, you and the kid handle the traps; reset 'em along the water. We need fresh meat if this rain don't let up."
His hands moved with practiced efficiency—clapping a shoulder here, pointing emphatically there—his presence a stronghold against the spreading despair that threatened to swallow them all once. The group responded to him instinctively, their movements quickening under his check, the camp starting to awake again.
Yet beneath it all, in the shadowed place of his mind, you lingered like a faint melody, pulling at him with an ache that no amount of barked commands could drown.
His girl.
The thought of you wrapped around him, warm but tormenting, as he walked towards the map tent to plot the next supply raid. He had sent you to your tent like some kind of mutt, dismissed with a gruff exterior that masked the tenderness he yearned to unleash. 'Honey', he called you, the word slipping out like a confession, but you slipped away just as quickly, your eyes downcast, body tense with that avoidance that you wore like your armor.
If you weren't dodging him at every turn, at every god damned path, he would have followed you right then—pushed aside the flap of your shelter, knelt besides you, and pulled you into his arms until the world's cruelties melted away.
But you were a ghost to him now, haunting the edges of his vision, and the distance you enforced carved deeper than any infected could bite.
The memory tugged at him then, pulling him back through the veil of time to that frozen eve when he'd first claimed you from winters ruthless grips.
It was a night etched in ice and desperation, the world blanketed in snow, muffling the distant howls of the infected nearby.
Joel had been scavenging alone, his back-pack light, but his rifle heavy across his back, when he spotted you—a huddled form against the base of a snow-laden cliff, your body curled into itself like a wild fawn seeking safety and shelter.
Half-frozen to death; your lips blue tinted, breath a faint mist that barely stirred in the air, clothes ragged and already crusted with frost. You were a vision of fragility in this unforgiving realm, and in that moment something primal stirred in Joels chest—a fierce, paternal urge to shield what the apocalypse had nearly shattered.
He dropped to his knees besides you, gloved hands gentle as they brushed snow from your face, the touch coaxing a shiver from your chilled frame.
"Hey, hey now," he murmured, his voice sweet and coaxing like honey laced with gravel. "Ain't leavin' you out here to freeze. C'mon, let's get you all warm."
With effortless strength, he scooped you up, arms strong, protected around you and carried you to a sheltered hollow where he quickly set up a small, but efficient camp—a trap strung between trees, a fire pit in the middle, and something soft to sleep on.
The flames he coaxed to life danced shadows across your almost colourless skin as he stripped away your sodden layers with careful hands, wrapping you in his own coat, thick and smelling of pine smoke and his warmth. You trembled in his arms, teeth chattering and Joel drew you close, his body a furnace against yours, you cuddled into the curve of his chest until the shivers turned into quiet breaths.
One hand stroked your hair in rhythmic passes, the other rubbed slow circles on your back.
"That's it," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear, calming as a lullaby in the storm. "I've got you. Just breathe, sweetheart. Where you come from? Lost out here all alone, hm?'"
Your voice was a fragile thread when it once came, stuttering and faint, spilling the fragments of a shattered past, settling the last pieces of hope you have on this gruff stranger.
You talked, and talked. A family torn by the outbreak, days of wandering through blizzards alone and at one point the days blurred in line between living and surrender.
Joel listened without judgment, his nods steady, eyes full of empathy that held your gaze without flinching. And when hunger clawed at you, he didn't hand you the rations; instead, he broke off pieces of jerky with his fingers, feeding you gently from his hand, one by one, the salt melting on your lips.
"Open up," he coaxed, his thumb brushing your chin, the intimacy of the act weaving an invisible bond.
Then water followed from his old bottle, tilted carefully so you could sip without spilling, his free hand supporting your head, murmuring encouragements until color returned to your cheeks.
Winter days started to blur into an each one another of shared survival and comfort. The two of you holed up in that makeshift haven as snow piled high outside. Joel hunted in the mean time, strengthened the shelter around you, and tended to you with a devotion that surprised even him...a man only hollowed by loss, now filling the void with your quiet, genlte presence.
He watched you closely, noting in his head the way overwhelm shadowed in your eyes when the wind howled too fiercely, how viulnerability clung to you. You were a delicate bloom in this hopeless wasteland, oh how easily you were crushed by the weight of existence. It steered something deep in Joel, a need to be your shelter; your steady hand.
One evening, as the sun set, you sat by the fire, knees drawn to your chest, and admitted something: "I can't do this by myself. Everything's just too big, too much. I need...I need someone to look after me." And "Like the cold out there, it grabbed me and wouldn't let go, and now even this warmth feels overwhelming, like I might melt away or something...I need...I need someone to look after me. Someone to tell me it's okay when my head spins and I can't breathe right. What if I freeze again? Or what if the noises outside get louder? I just...I don't know how to make it stop being so much."
The words hung between you that day, raw and revealing, and when you looked up at him, eyes wide with unspoken plea, you whispered, 'Dad.' The title landed like match on dry grass, but catching Joels attention more than ever.
He couldn't resist; pulling you into his lap, he cradled you close, his chin resting on your head, promising silently to be that for you—the father fate had denied him once over, your guardian against the dark.
But the nights deepened the bond into something more tangled, more forbidden.
One such evening, in the closeness of the small tent, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and the chill, you turned to him in the shared bedroll.
Bodies pressed together for warmth, your form molding to his like clay on the potter's wheel, and in that quiet intimacy, you kissed him—a small brush of lips that slowly but surely bloomed into hunger.
"Daddy," you breathed against his mouth, the word a velvet plea, followed by 'Dad' laced with sweet longing.
Joel's restraint fractured like thin ice; his hands roamed your curves with hunger, he hadn't felt for years—peeling away layers until skin met skin, his cock hardening against your thigh as desire overrode the lines of propriety.
He entered you slowly, inch by deliberate inch, his thick, girthy length stretching your warmth with a gentleness that calmed the storm within you.
"Shh, baby girl," he cooed, voice husky and commanding, hips rocking in a measured rhythm that built slowly over time. You clung to him, nails digging into his back, moans spilling as he fucked you deep and thorough, each thrust an erasure of the shadows haunting your mind: the infected, the losses, the loneliness and the cold.
His pace quickened, possessive and unrelenting, pounding into your sticky pussy until your cries echoed his name in variations of devotion, cum flooding you in hot pulses as ecstasy shattered every bad thought.
In that night, Joel learned your truths: you needed a steady hand to guide you, someone to call 'Dad' that anchored your soul, a cock to fuck you senseless until the world faded to irrelevance, leaving only the pulse of shared release.
Days turned into a haze, tents pitched in hidden groves where he'd take you against cold walls, caring for you with meals fed from his fingers and nights blurred by sweat-slicked skin and cum filled cunt.
And when you two finally returned into his small camp after endless miles of this intimate journey—your body marked by his touch, heart entwined with his—he envisioned a life where you did no labor, simply waited in his tent, legs spread in welcome, his to protect and possess.
"Stay with me, darlin'," he murmured, tracing patterns on your thigh. "Let me handle it all."
But rumours started to spread like wildfire
on dry bushes, untrue whispers that poisoned this fragile relationship that you have built.
Someone overheard your breathy 'Dad' in a moment of overwhelm, twisting it into a scandal.
Another caught the sounds of your shared tent, moans misconstrued as depravity. Whispers evolved: "She's got him wrapped around her finger, that stray he dragged in."
The words reached to you, burrowing like thorns, making you feel small, misunderstood—a weirdo in a world that already judged harshly.
So...the ache in your heart swelled until it bursted: you ended it, pulling away with tear-streaked face, declaring it over to spare him the shame.
Joel was absolutely heartbroken, the pain in his chest an ache that echoed with your absence, but he didn't let you go. He checked on you regularly—slipping rations to your tent, watching you from afar as you navigated the camp, ensuring your safety with a stubbornness that bordered on obsession.
Yet he couldn't bear it longer: your avoidance, the careful dance of distance, the sidelong glances from the group, their murmurs like knives, your belief that you are weird, tainted, when to him you were this salvation incarnate.
As his thoughts faded, Joel found himself adrift in the present, his orders trailing off as he stared at the map spread before him. The camp still buzzed around him, patrols forming, tasks underway, but his mind was a whirlwind of you—vulnerable, evasive, his girl who needed him more than she knew.
He couldn't take the separation anymore; tonight, he'll connect the gap, pull you back into the fold where you belonged, forbidden pull be damned, rumors silenced by the strength of his claim.
-
As the sun dipped low beneath the horizon, painting the camp in bruised purples and fading golds, Joel felt the weight of the day slowly settle into his bones.
He couldn't bear the silence any longer, the way you'd retreated into your shell after the supplies tent moment, your avoidance a blade twisting deeper and deeper with every passing hour.
His feet carried him unerringly through the mud slicked paths, past the murmurs of the group settling in for the night, until he stood before your tent—larger than the cramped quarters of the men, a sanctuary he'd insisted on crafting for you, and only you, alone.
He poured his callused hands into making it a haven, didn't he?
The frame reinforced with scavenged wood, the canvas walls doubled for insulation against the relentless chill. Inside, he built the bed himself—a sturdy frame of rough wood, topped with a mattress stuffed with whatever soft fibers he could forage, layered with blankets pilfered from forgotten homes.
Cushions and pillows, sewn from scraps of fabric, scattered for your comfort. A small table he made from a fallen log, wobbly but earnest. Shelves cobbled together for your few treasure—an old book, a carved wooden fawn he shaped in quiet moments—all of it born from his desire to wrap you in coziness, to shield your fragile spirit from the world's jagged edges.
Oh, how grateful you've been once, your eyes lighting with a warmth that melted the ice in his chest.
Now, as evening deepened, Joel hesitated at the flap, his broad fist hovering, a rare feeling of fear coiling in his gut.
What if you turned him away?
What if the chasm you'd carved between you had grown too wide to bridge?
He was Joel Miller, the unbreakable leader of this ragged band, yet here he was, scared like a little boy before confession.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, he knocked three times on the wooden part, soft enough not to startle, firm enough to announce his presence.
"Darlin'?" he called out, voice threaded with caution. "It's me. Joel."
The flap parted after a long moment, and there you stood, framed in the warm lantern light that spilled from within, your brows furrowed in a frown that tugged at his heartstrings.
Your eyes—those sweet, doe eyes that had first drawn him in—were rimmed red, lashes clumped with the remains of tears. The sight hit him like a gut punch; rage surged hot and immediate, a visceral urge to hunt down Leon and drive his fist into that sneering face until the man tasted the blood of his own regret.
How dare anyone reduce you to this—his girl, curled in on herself, wounded by words sharper than any blade in this merciless world?
"Can I come in?" Joel asked, his tone gentle, eyes searching yours with a plea he couldn't voice.
You nodded, a small, reluctant dip of your chin, stepping aside to let him pass.
The tent was a cocoon of warmth, cozy and sweet, mirroring the tender heart you hid away from everyone. The lantern light bathed the space in a golden haze, softening the edges of the handmade furniture, the pillows plump and inviting on the bed where you so often curled like a fawn seeking shelter.
Joel knew your habits intimately—how you drew your knees to your chest, burrowing into the nest of blankets, your form small and vulnerable, evoking those pet names he'd whispered in quieter times: Little Fawn, Bambi, fragments that captured your innocence amid the brutality.
"You didn't need to defend me there," you said. "I could've just done it myself."
Even as the words left your lips, you knew they were hollow; Leons yelling had left you stammering, small and exposed.
He turned to you, his dark eyes steady, holding yours with an intensity that peeled away your defenses layer by layer.
"I know," he replied. "But ain't gonna leave you alone like that. Not ever."
You scoffed, the whispers of the camp echoing in your mind again, their side glances branding you as the weird one, the stray with the leader wrapped around her finger.
Crossing your arms, you sank onto the bed, curling your frame, knees tucked close, gaze fixated on a spot in the corner. Tears started to well anew, hot and insistent, blurring the edges of the room as vulnerability crashed over you like a relentless wave.
"Oh, little fawn..." Joel murmured, the petname that was meant to soothe the hurt he saw etched in every line of your body.
"Don't," you whispered, voice cracking, turning your face away as the first tears traced down your cheeks. "Don't call me that."
The plea was raw, laced with the ache of the loss for the intimacy those words once evoked, now tainted by the misunderstanding, by the fear that you were too weird, too needy in a world that devoured the weak.
Undeterred, Joel lowered himself besides you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, while his presence was a grounding force amid your unraveling. You curled up tighter, a defensive coil, but he didn't press...instead, he sat close enough that the heat of him radiated through the space between, a silent promise of shelter.
"You remember the first time you called me Dad?" he asked, his voice a gentle murmur.
You flinched at the word, an involuntary shiver rippling through you, the title stirring a hollow ache in your chest—an echo of warmth now soured by shame.
"I didn't think much of it," Joel continued softly, his hand rising with slowness to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the strands. Each pass was measured, calming, tracing the curve of your scalp as if it was to unravel the knots of your turmoil. "But I knew that your little heart calmed down after you called me that. Like the world's weight lifted, just a tiny bit."
His touch was poetry in motion, rough palms gentle by intent, evoking memories of winter nights when his care had been your lifeline.
You sniffled, the sound small, peeking at him through your wet eyelashes. His eyes held no judgment, only a deep, unwavering understanding—of how you needed to be taken care of, how the chaos overwhelmed you until you felt little, drifting into a headspace where distractions pulled you like a dream.
He saw that now in your hazy gaze, the faraway drift, your mind retreating to that vulnerable place where the world's edges softened into safety.
"I didn't find it weird," he pressed on, voice dropping to a husky whisper. "God—that's the least forsaken thing in this damned world I would find weird. In a place where the dead's walk and trust is a luxury we can't afford anymore, y'callin' me Dad? That's just...you needin' what we all crave deep down. Someone that holsd the pieces together."
"Are you sure?" you whispered, the question fragile as breath itself, seeking absolution in his gaze, your tears slowing to a quiet trickle as his words pierced the fog of self doubt.
"Course, baby," Joel nodded, his affirmation steady. "Nothing weird about wanting to be taken care of. Hell, we've all got our fractures; yours just call for a steady hand, that's all."
He paused, his hand stilling in your hair, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek.
"You think I wouldn't have cared for you if I didn't? I wouldn't have built this bed, poured sweat into these cushions and shelves, made you all these things, hm? Every nail, every stitch—it was for you, darlin'. To give you a corner of peace in this madness."
You shrugged, a small, uncertain lift of your shoulders, the gesture speaking volumes of the doubt that lingered and lingered, but Joel leaned in then, closing the distance with a tenderness. His lips pressed to your forehead, warm, a kiss like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, sealing his words with an unspoken promise.
"My little fawn," he breathed against your skin, the endearment a balm, wrapping around your heart.
Something in you yielded at last, the walls crumbling under the weight of his care. You snuggled into him, your body unfolding from its curl to press against his chest, burying your head into the crook of his neck where the scent of him enveloped you like a homecoming. A soft sigh escaped you, tears soaking into his flannel as the tension disappeared, replaced by the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat.
"That's right," Joel cooed, his arms encircling you fully now, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles along your back. "Come to Dad. I've got you, little one. Always will."
His voice was like a lullaby in the dark, where the world's cruelties faded to whispers, leaving only the profound poetry of two souls intertwining once more.
You nestled even deeper into him, the tears slowly drying, but a deeper ache stirred within, a pull towards that hazy headspace that tugged you into the depths where only his touch could anchor you.
With a soft, instinctive motion, you reached for one of his hands—those rough, capable hands of his that built your world—and guided it towards your lips, your mouth parting to draw his thumb inside, sucking gently at first, the salt of his skin a familiar comfort blooming on your tongue.
Joel's breath hitched at that, followed by a low rumble vibrating through his chest as he watched you, his dark eyes softening with a mix of adoration and understanding.
Without hesitation, he shifted his hand, cupping your cheek with his palm, angling his thumb deeper into the wet warmth of your mouth so you could nurse on it more fully, the pad pressing against the soft roof as your lips sealed around it. He leaned down, his lips brushing the crown of your head in a feather-light kiss.
"There you go, baby," he murmured, his southern drawl a soothing balm, thick and warm like honey drizzled over wounds. "Suck a little deeper if it feels right...yeah, just like that."
His words were a gentle coo, laced with that paternal sweetness that made your heart flutter and your core clench in equal measure, his free arm tightening around your waist to rock you slowly from side to side, a rhythmic sway that mimicked the lullabies of forgotten cradles.
You whimpered around his thumb, the sound muffled and needy, your tongue swirling lazily and lazily as the subspace slowly deepened, pulling you further into that floaty haze where thoughts dissolved like mist under sun. The rocking motion lulled you, his body a cozy cocoon of flannel and muscle, but the whimpers grew insistent, threading with a whine that Joel knew all too well: you were craving the grounding force only he could provide.
His cock stirred in his jeans, thickening against your thigh, but he focused on you, sensing the urgency in your escalating sounds, the way your hips shifted restlessly.
He knew this dance like the back of his hand; your subspace made you far gone, adrift in a sea of need, and only the deep, claiming thrust of his cock—followed by the shattering release of orgasms—could reel you back, tethering you to the present with waves of pleasure that washed away the darkness.
"Oh, sweet thing," Joel whispered, his voice a velvet rumble as his hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers tracing the soft curve of your belly before finding the swell of your breasts.
He cupped one gently, thumb and forefinger rolling over your nipple, teasing it to a stiff peak with slow, deliberate circles that sent sparks down your spine. The touch was feather light at first, then firmer, pinching just enough to draw a gasp from you, your mouth releasing his thumb with a wet pop, a glistening string of saliva connecting your lips to his skin like a fragile bridge of intimacy.
"Shh, babygirl, Daddy's just gonna touch you here...nice and easy." He murmured at your whines.
You whimpered louder at that, the sound raw and pleading, your hazy eyes locking onto his.
"Take care of me, Daddy. Please," you breathed out, your voice small and fractured, laced with the desperate ache of your subspace.
Joel's heart swelled at the plea, his little fawn so needy, so beautifully lost in that vulnerable space he cherished and protected.
He wouldn't dream of denying you—never.
This was his purpose, to soothe and claim, to fill every hollow part of you with his devotion.
"Oh, I know, honey," he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, his beard scraping softly against your skin as he eased you back onto the bed, the pillows cradling your head like a nest woven for you alone.
The mattress dipped under your weight, the blankets rumpling invitingly as he positioned you, his body hovering protectively above you.
With tender care, he tucked his finger back into your mouth—this time his index finger, sliding it past your lips so you could suckle greedily, your tongue laving the length as if it were sustenance for your soul.
"There, suck on that for Dad, yea? Keeps you nice and calm while I take care of the rest."
His other hand trailed downwards, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants to find the slick heat of your cunt. You were already so soaked, your folds swollen and parting eagerly under his touch, the sticky evidence of your need coating his fingers as he traced your slit.
"God, look at you, Bambi...all wet and achin' for me," he cooed, his voice dripping with praise. "This for daddy, huh, honey? Dripping, achy pussy."
He pressed two fingers inside you without warning, stuffing your pussy full in one smooth glide, the stretch burning sweetly as your walls clenched around the intrusion, spasming with desperate hunger. You whined against his finger in your mouth, the vibration humming through him, your hips bucking instinctively to take him deeper.
"Biiig stretch, baby, yea?" his tone coaxing and babying, like an old man spinning tales to his most cherished kin.
"Big stretch..." you repeated messily around his finger.
Satisfied with your answer, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with expert precision, his thumb circling your clit in lazy loops that made your thighs tremble.
The wet sounds of his movements filled the tent: slick, obscene squelches that mingled with your muffled whimpers whike the air started growing thick with the musky scent of your arousal, sticky and intimate.
"Y'gonna rub your nipples for me? Pinch 'em, for Dad? Show me how good you can be while I finger this pretty little cunt, c'mon." His words were filthy yet laced with such profound sweetness.
Obediently, lost in the haze, you released his finger just enough to slide your hands under your shirt, fingers finding your nipples and pinching them hard, rolling the peaks between your thumbs and forefingers until they throbbed in time with the thrusts of his hand.
The dual sensation overwhelmed you—mouth full, pussy stuffed, breasts aching under your own touch—your mind traveling further into that blissful subspace.
Joel watched, absolutely mesmerised, his eyes full of love.
"That's it, Bambi." He murmurs. "Pinch a little more if it helps, yeah? make 'em ache like your cunny does for me."
The pace build as your juices start to leak down his knuckles, coating his palm in your sticky essence.
Overstimulated and lost in the velvet haze of your headspace, Joel's relentless fingers curled inside your gushing pussy one more time; stroking that swollen spot until pressure build like a storm in your core, your cries of "Dad, too much—m'gonna...oh..." fracturing into a needy sob as a sudden, tiny squirt escaped, warm fluid arcing in a delicate spray across his wrist and your quivering belly forming a filthy little puddle.
"Easy now, darlin', let it all out for Dad—juuuust like that, baby." he cooed.
Your mouth stilled around his finger, lips parting in a silent cry as your cunt pulsed wildly around his digits, gushing more slick that soaked the bed beneath you. Your hands fell from your nipples, trembling, as waves of ecstasy rippled through you, pulling a choked sob from your throat.
Joel slowed his movements then, drawing out the aftershocks with gentle strokes, his gaze drinking in the sight of you splayed out before him—cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glistening, eyes glazed in that beautiful, vulnerable haze.
Beautiful. Sweet. His little fawn, trembling and spent yet still yearning.
"Please," you whined, voice breathy and broken, rocking your hips against the hard bulge straining his jeans, the friction drawing a deep groan from his chest. "Your cock, Dad. Need it inside me."
"S'alright, honey," Joel soothed, his voice a tender rumble as he withdrew his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then from your pussy, leaving you clenching around emptiness.
He shifted, unbuckling his belt with practiced ease, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock— thick and veined, the head already beaded with pre-cum, curving upward in rigid need.
"Daddy's gonna give you what you need. Spread those pretty legs for me, darlin'."
You complied, thighs parting wide, exposing your dripping cunt to the cool air, the sticky mess of your release gleaming in the lantern light.
He knelt between them, gripping his shaft and nudging the blunt tip against your entrance, teasing with shallow dips—in just the head, then out, coating himself in your slick—each withdrawal pulling a breathless whine from you.
"Dad... please," you begged, hips going up, chasing the fullness.
He played a moment longer, savoring your desperation, the way your pussy fluttered against him, before sinking in fully with one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your welcoming heat. You moaned loudly, the sound echoing unchecked through the tent flaps, uncaring of the camp beyond—let them hear; you were his, and this was your healing.
Joel groaned low, his forehead pressing to yours, breath sharp as he bottomed out, your walls stretching around his girth, the icky squelch of your combined wetness filling the space.
"Fuck, baby girl...so tight."
He built a comfortable rhythm just for you then—slow, deep rolls of his hips that ground against your clit with every thrust, designed to unravel your thoughts, to flood your mind with nothing but sensation.
"Thaaat's it, honey, feel me stretchin' this sweet pussy," he whispered praises against your ear, "Dad's got you, gonna fuck all those bad thoughts away."
You whined 'Dad' and 'Daddy' endlessly, lips swollen from biting them, eyes rolling back as the pleasure built, your pussy gushing around him in sticky waves, the lewd slap of skin on skin growing wetter, messier with every drive.
"Did you miss me? Hm, baby?" He asked, softly pinching your chin between his fingers. "You're my everything, you know that? Gonna coax another cum outta this pretty hole, make you forget every damn whisper out there."
He babied you through it all, one hand stroking your hair, the other pinning your hip gently, his thrusts never faltering—filthy in their depth, yet so profoundly sweet in intent.
"Daddy...Dad, it's too much." You bucked your hips against him.
"Shh, I know, I know. My sweet little girl." he pressed a gentle kiss on your temple, breathing in your scent.
The pressure coiled tight, and when you shattered again, your cunt clamping down in rhythmic pulses, milking him relentlessly, Joel followed with a guttural groan, burying deep as he came inside you, hot ropes of cum flooding your pussy in a creamy creampie that overflowed, leaking out around his base in thick, icky trails.
"Yea, there we fuckin' go," he panted, still rocking shallowly to prolong the bliss, his voice husky with satisfaction. "All the thoughts fucked away now, huh? Look at you."
You nodded weakly, mind blissfully blank, body limp in the afterglow.
Joel eased his cock out with care, watching as his cum leaked from your well fucked pussy, pearly white mixing with your slick in a messy puddle on the sheets.
The sight stirred him anew, and before you could protest the sensitivity, he plunged two fingers back inside, stirring the creaminess, drawing a sharp whine from your oversensitive walls.
"Shh, hey. Easy now, easy. Just one more, honey," he hushed softly, his tone pure indulgence as he brought the other cum smeared fingers to your mouth. "Suck on 'em for Daddy, c'mon—taste how good we are together, focus on dad."
You latched on in instinctively, tongue swirling around the salty sweet tang of his release mixed with yours, the act so intimately, so cozy in its rawness. His fingers in your pussy worked gently, curling to hit that spot again, thumb rubbing your clit building you towards one final peak until you came with a muffled cry, your body shuddering as fresh slick coated his hand.
Satisfied at that, Joel withdrew his fingers, trailing sweet kisses across your body—forehead, cheeks, the curve of your neck, down to your breasts where he lingered, suckling on your nipple briefly before murmuring against your skin.
"You're my everything, darlin'. My whole world in this godforsaken place."
He then gathered you close, pulling the blankets over you both, his arms wrapping securely as he rocked you side to side once more, the motion lulling you into peace.
"I'm gonna take care of you, no matter what they say out there." He whispered. "Sleep now, little fawn. Dad's right here."
And as your eyes drifted shut, the tent a cocoon of sticky warmth and whispered devotion, you slipped into slumber, anchored fully in his love again.
Finally.
I don’t know if I like this or not… I tried a new writing style, making it a tad bit ‘poetic,’ but I think I failed at a few moments. A lot of paragraphs are translated from German because I didn’t know how else to write them, and I’m sorry if some of it feels a bit weird.
Anyways, I hope it met some expectations, and I’m really excited to see what y’all say. <3
