Warnings: hypnokink, not entirely good praxis of hypnosis, humiliation, implied infidelity, praise, smut, unprotected piv, D/s dynamic, dom dave, literal mind fucking so like a bit of body horror get into it
Notes: For @iamasaddie kinky May writing challenge. Prompt was hypnosis + Dave York. I found a lot of inspiration for this from a post in r/EroticHypnosis about mindfucking (can find again if anyone wants the link - lemme know!). Posting this in a hurry bc I am late to a thing so hopefully not tooooo many missed mistakes. OK THANK YOU FOR READING!!!
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All your life you wished you could turn off your thoughts at will.
Growing up, on those nights where your crowded head wouldn’t let you sleep, you would imagine twisting off the top of your skull like a jar lid and plopping your brain on the nightstand. It even worked sometimes, too, if you tried hard to convince yourself. When reminders of an upcoming math test or images of that cute boy in class crept into your purview, they had nowhere to go. They evaporated, and you slept.
Dave says you’re too smart for your own good. Sometimes when you’re lost in thought, he tells you he wants to empty that pretty little head of yours. Not in a condescending way, although you can see how someone might interpret it like that.
What he means is that he wants you to be with him when you’re with him. What he means is that he wants you to be present. Not thinking about the past or the future. Not reminding yourself of deadlines or analyzing the data stored in your brain or wondering what you mean to him exactly.
The first time he suggested hypnosis, you balked. Even after he explained how it worked, you were hesitant enough for him to drop the subject.
When he brought it up again, though, your skepticism swayed. You asked him for more details, so he dispensed the pros and cons and the step process. He could do it for you, he said. He knew how. He said he could rattle the bees from your buzzing honeycomb brain. All you had to do was trust him with this power.
So you did.
And you do.
Your valiant beekeeper meets you at this hotel every other Tuesday night, except on holidays. This isn’t the only one-on-one time he dedicates to you, but it’s by far the most reliable. He doesn’t always hypnotize you, either.
Regardless of whether he puts you in a trance or not, this standing date always starts the same. He slips you the keycard at some point throughout the day, only after he’s adorned it with a vase full of seasonal blooms and laid out something for you to wear.
Tonight he left you lilacs and matching lingerie. Intricate floral appliqués embellish the pastel nightie he laid out on the bed.
Opulence becomes you when you slip it on and pour a glass of champagne from the bottle Dave left to chill on ice. You mosey around the spacious high-end suite, sipping frosty bubbles as you admire the birds-eye view of downtown, the tall buildings and bustling city life all drenched in golden light from the setting sun.
As the time nears eight o’clock, you empty your champagne flute and make yourself comfortable on the plush bed. Crystals hanging from the chandelier fragment soft white light into dazzling tiny spectrums, sparkling rainbow when the door to the suite opens, then closes.
Dave enters the room with an air of authority that makes you straighten your spine and draw back your shoulders. After chucking off his jacket, he empties his pockets on the dresser and loosens his tie, then turns around to meet your gaze.
His stern expression melts as he looks you over, seeming to appraise how your body fills out the lilac nightie. Heat sparks in the middle of you when he greets you, “Hey beautiful.”
“Hi.”
He approaches your side and takes a seat at the edge of the bed, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt, “Comfortable?”
Nodding, you sit up to pull him in for a kiss. His plush lips respond without hesitation, firm but generous as he slips a wide palm around your body and brings you even closer.
When he pulls back, he asks, “Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
He cradles your jaw, searching your face with blatant admiration before separating his body from yours. You lay back into the soft embrace of the pillows and wiggle around until you find the sweet spot of comfort while Dave drags an armchair to your bedside and sits down. Once you’re both settled and still, he begins.
“Close your eyes.”
You close them.
“Take a deep breath in…”
You take in air until you can’t.
“…and slowly release it.”
You exhale, rationing your metered breath through a straw-sized ‘o’ formed by your lips.
“Good. Take a deep breath in… two three four… and slowly release it. Deep breath in… two three four… now slowly release it.”
Behind closed lids, you concentrate on the rhythmic ebb and flow of your lungs contracting and expanding. His warm voice surrounds you. Envelops you.
“That’s it. Keep breathing just like this. Each time you inhale, draw the life from your breath, and exhale the rest. Notice how cleansing it feels to let it go. How the tension melts from your muscles every time you take a deep breath in…”
You inhale.
“…two three four…”
Hold it.
“…and slowly release it.”
Then exhale.
“Perfect. Keep doing that. Now imagine that every time you take a deep breath in, a warm wave washes over you… and as you slowly release it, the tide carries away tension, allowing your muscles to soften and relax…”
Each big lungful heats the tar holding your body together. You dissolve into the mattress as Dave’s deep, honeyed voice resonates through you.
“Again, take a deep breath in as the warm wave of relaxation washes over you, two three four… and slowly release it as the tide carries away your tension, allowing your muscles to soften and relax. Concentrate on my voice. Recognize it as a touchstone. If your mind starts to wander, have it return to the touchstone, return to my voice, and relax even deeper.”
Trees tower above you, stretching high into the pale blue sky. The moss-covered rock before you glows as he speaks.
“Notice how relaxed you feel. Notice that every time the warm wave of relaxation washes over you, two three four… tension melts from your body as you allow yourself to sink deeper and deeper into the sensation. Allow the relaxation to seep from your muscles into your bloodstream… to course through your veins and calm every cell in your body.
“Focus on your face. All those tiny little muscles in your forehead and around your eyes, notice how relaxed they are. Notice how the relaxation melts the muscles in your cheeks and jaw, letting your mouth go slack. You might feel as though you want to speak, but find yourself so relaxed that you can’t. That’s ok, because it feels good and safe to let the words dissolve on your tongue. Doesn’t it?”
When you try to respond, your lips don’t move. This fact doesn’t bother you. It feels good and safe in the forest, staring up at the treetops.
You realize you’re floating in a pond. You hear birds peacefully chirping and know it’s just you and them and the touchstone for a million miles.
Everything feels profound, but simple. You are small and big like a speck of dust or a galaxy. You are safe. You are at peace.
“Doesn’t it feel so good to relax, darling?”
Your fingertips rest against the soft moss of the touchstone.
“Yes, it does,” you tell it.
It glows with a satisfactory hum that vibrates through you.
“Perfect. Continue to focus on my voice. Soon, I will ask you to open your eyes, then close them. When you close your eyes, you’ll notice a warm wave of relaxation washing over you, turning knots into snarls and snarls into strands, every muscle in your body gently untangling as you allow them to go limp and heavy…”
You understand and follow his instructions.
“Open your eyes and take a deep breath in, two three four… and slowly release it, closing your eyes, letting the warm wave wash over you and pull you in deeper.
“Soon, I’ll ask you to open your eyes again. When you close them, you’ll notice the warm wave of relaxation wash over you even stronger than before, pulling you even deeper.
“Open your eyes, two three four… and close your eyes, sinking deeper and deeper. Good job. We’ll do it one more time, and when you close your eyes and relax, sink as deep as you can, all the way to the bottom. Open your eyes, two three four… and close your eyes.”
You’re lying in a meadow of wildflowers outside the forest, looking up at the serene blue sky. The earth beneath you is solid and brings you an immense sense of comfort.
“I want you to think about desire. Think about that warm, lush longing inside you. Concentrate on how good this sensation feels in your body, pleasure swelling thick at the center of you.”
His voice surrounds you, but you don’t see its source. The soothing timbre resonates from the wildflowers and the earth and the sky, from everywhere and nowhere all at once like how you imagine God sounded to Old Testament prophets.
You bring your focus to desire. It does feel good. Amazing, actually. Tangible like a glowing ball of heat between your thighs that throbs with each syllable he speaks.
“Allow the sensation to grow. Let it stretch and pulse and heat your skin. Let your mind empty of everything except this arousal. When thoughts arise, you let them fall away and arousal fills the empty space. You’ll let this happen over and over again until your head is empty of everything but arousal. Do you understand? You can speak now, darling, go ahead and answer.”
“Yes.”
“Try it for me.”
You acknowledge the cognitions that populate your mind. When you think about how you need to put gas in your car, you imagine the reminder dropping away, then imagine the warm wanting glow of desire branching up through your body to take its place. You think about a work project, but it loosens and falls into an abyss. Desire floods the space in its wake, a thick hot liquid that glows with light like lava, spreading to each new vacancy with ease as the thoughts drop from your consciousness.
“How does it feel?”
“Good,” you breathe, voice faint on your tingling tongue.
“Do you like how it feels, being horny and mindless?”
Your husband’s face appears, taking up your whole mind, then falls away. Rich, bubbling pleasure surges through you to fill the gap. You have to suppress a moan to respond.
“I like it,” you nod, “Fuck, it feels amazing.”
“Good girl. Now, you might notice something interesting happen when I ask you a question. You might notice that when I ask you a question, you’ll try to form a thought to answer. When you do this, you’ll feel my cock enter your mind. It’s bigger and harder than you’ve ever seen it, swollen and thick and so fucking ready for you, darling. When you try to form a thought, it pushes forward into the wet hot folds of your brain, severing the connections that typically allow you to think, preventing a response from forming. My cock pulls out, and slowly thrusts forward again, pushing out the thoughts, over and over for as long as you consider a response to my question. It becomes impossible to focus. You might notice that this penetration feels like it would in your pussy. My hard cock rutting in and out, sending waves of arousal through your body, fucking the thoughts from your head. Every time my cock moves, you’ll try to respond but cannot make yourself focus. It feels amazing. You give in to the sensation, allowing it to overtake you completely. When you’re fully saturated with arousal and nothing else, my cock pulls out of your mind.”
Your skin feels static and warm when you imagine him pushing his smooth, throbbing length into your brain. A shaky whimper croaks in your throat. Your heart thuds heavy within your chest, circulating desire, warm and wet, to every cell in your body.
“You might notice that when I ask you another question, any attempts at thought or sensations that come up except arousal will be fucked from your head until you surrender to the arousal. It feels good to be dominated in this way. To let pleasure consume your entire being.”
Licking your lips, you nod to show you understand.
“Now when I ask you a question, you’ll allow your subconscious to follow my instructions. Are you ready, darling?”
“Yes.”
“How was your day?”
When you try to recall your day and formulate an answer, the tip of his cock pierces the equator of your brain, splitting the hemispheres. He drives forward slowly, steadily, making you moan as he stretches you apart and tears all those delicate tissues that generate thought. Still, you try.
My day, how was my day…
He drags his cock out, then drives it deeper inside you.
Day… how was…
Your nerve endings buzz as he pulls out, gooey arousal shines on the shaft of his thick cock. He plunges forward into the hot center of you. You work your hips and whine. You can’t remember what he asked. It doesn’t seem as important as the pleasure clinging to your insides as he fucks you, so you give up.
His cock pulls out of your mind completely.
“What’s the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?”
You consider the question. The tip of him breaches your brain, forcing out forecasts and clouds and sunshine. Fragments return as you attempt to answer again.
The weather tomorrow…
He pumps in and out of you, obliterating whatever it was he wanted to know. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the insatiable pleasure thrumming through you as he rubs against all your hungry nerves, giving them what they want.
“Oh my god,” you hear yourself gasp.
“How often do you think about fucking me?”
Seeds of embarrassment sprout the tender beginnings of thought, then he fucks them out of your head until you’re rolling your hips, moaning and nodding for more.
“Do you make yourself come when you think about fucking me?”
Only a loading screen appears before he’s inside you again. His perfect, thick cock pumps you full of this throbbing heat. You wish it would never end. You want to feel this and only this forever.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl. So horny and mindless for me. Letting my cock push deep and hard into the folds of your brain, fucking out all your thoughts, leaving your head empty to stuff you with arousal until you’re swollen and ripe, nothing else left but how fucking horny you are.”
“Sssooooo fucking gooood,” you slur.
“How would your husband feel if he saw you like this? In this hotel room, all dressed up in lingerie I bought for you, moaning and writhing on the bed?”
A thought starts, and he pounds it out of you, merciless in its rhythm as each thrust pushes you higher and higher. Horny and mindless, that’s all you are. Nothing matters except this.
“Do you really think we’ll run away together? Do you really think I’d leave my wife for you?”
A rotten sensation tingles in your chest before you feel him enter you from both ends, the cock in your mind working in tandem with the cock in your pussy. You choke out a moan and nod, body vibrating with a thick, hot sensation you can’t find the beginning or end of.
“Fuck fuck fuck, holy fuck—”
He groans, rolling his hips faster, fucking your entire being so hard and fast that you become pleasure itself. It’s everything and everywhere for eternity and you gladly accept this fact, wanting to forever exist in this moment.
“That’s so good, darling. So fucking good. You want me to let you come, don’t you?”
You nod frantically as the edges of you start to fray.
“Go ahead, come for me.”
His permission completely unravels you, ripping away the last delicate thread holding you together. You sob as you fall apart into a thousand pieces. His hips stutter and he moans, giving you a few deep thrusts before pulling out.
Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. You float in the peaceful pond, staring up at the towering treetops that kiss the sky.
“Now in a minute, I’ll bring you back to your normal state. When I count to four and tell you to wake up, you’ll come out of the trance relaxed and refreshed. Your mind will feel spotless. You’ll know that I adore you and hold you close to my heart.”
You hear birds peacefully chirping. You know it’s just you and them and Dave for a million miles. You are small and big like a speck of dust or a galaxy. You are safe. You are at peace.
Warnings: DDDNE, literally just a fucked up stepdad/mom's bf fantasy, could read "mom" as tess but I don't name her or assign physical features to her or reader, post-outbreak, reader is def over 18 but not by much so yeah age gap, NON-CONSENSUAL, power imbalance, unethical d/s dynamic, slapping, spanking, punishment, orgasm delay/denial, humiliation, degradation, face fucking, anal sex, little to no aftercare
A/N: Category is "That old man would fucking never... but if he did..." Please be mindful of the warnings and don't read if it might trigger you. Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.
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Within the secluded world of your big noise-canceling headphones, you scan through silence on the CB radio, pausing for a few seconds on each channel before moving on to the next.
Channel 11: Nothing.
Channel 12: Zilch.
Channel 13: Nada.
When you turn the dial to channel 14, though, you pick up chatter and start transcribing.
Channel 14 7/17/22 19:56
—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew? Over.
Got enough for the kids? Over.
And leftovers. Over.
I’ll be at Margie’s around supper time. Over and out.
The air goes silent.
After a minute goes by with no follow up transmissions, you glance at the clock. 7:58. Almost time for check-in.
You tune the radio to channel 32 and review your transcription.
Many people speak in code, encrypting their messages in seemingly benign conversations. To the untrained ear, they’re normal exchanges, people making small talk about jobs and rations and kids. Goodnight calls and check-ins that use predictable inquiries to convey messages.
—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew?
Most of it you can translate from memory. The drug traffickers that use channel 14 have frequented the same lingo for years. Likely because of the high turnover rate of personnel. There’s less confusion that way. Confusion in communication raises more alarm bells for eavesdroppers than using the same code words across the board.
You flip through your cipher for channel 14, searching for budaydas, but find nothing. Scrunching your nose up, you say the word out loud, “Budaydas. Buh-day-das.”
Carrots, onions, budaydas in a stew.
“Oh,” you nod in understanding, then jot down your translation, muttering under your breath, “Fucking Boston accents.”
(Someone) picked up tranquilizers, benzos (budaydas = potatoes), and opioids. The caller wants to meet up and trade as previously agreed.
The rest of it is easy enough to interpret without the use of a cipher. You probably don’t need to write down the translation, but do it in case your mom or Joel need to reference the notes at a later date.
There’s enough to distribute product across their network of dealers in Boston QZ, plus more to stockpile. They’ll meet at their hub in Area 1, Margaret St, at midnight.
You exhale through slack lips, glancing at the clock as it ticks over to 8:00, then pick up the microphone and hold down the speak button.
“Radio check.”
A few seconds go by before you hear a familiar gruff voice crackle over the radio waves into your ears, “Loud and clear. Over.”
Your nostrils flare when you hear him. Joel Miller. The bane of your existence. Your de facto stepfather, only because you don’t really remember life without him by your mom’s side.
This isn’t to say he’s a father figure to you by any means. The two of you never shared the kind of heartwarming paternal bonding moments you read about in books. That would require warmth and vulnerability, which he distinctly lacks.
Once, when you were maybe 11 or 12, you made the mistake of calling him Dad. The way he looked at you made you feel like dirt. Fire burning behind his dark eyes, he corrected you with one stern syllable that taught you your place: “Joel.”
You sit up straighter and take a moment to gather yourself before responding.
“Did you get your message from Uncle Paul? Over.”
“I did. Over.”
“How’s the weather in Kansas City? Over.”
“Cloudy. Over.”
Fuck.
You swallow around nothing, then clear your throat and ask, “And Grandma, how’s she? Over.”
“Fine, just busy is all.”
You exhale a sigh of relief that melts the tension between your shoulders. Joel continues.
“Anything new with you? Over.”
Tapping your fingers on your notes, you answer, “Rumor has it the market is gonna be busy tomorrow. Harvesting time, I guess. Other than that, same old same old. What about you? Staying out of trouble? Over.”
It feels strange, having a casual conversation with him like this. Even if it’s just a data exchange dressed up as a casual conversation.
There’s a long pause, then he says, “Fine, yeah. Well. See you soon. Over ‘n’ out.”
Stiff as a board. Cold as ice. Joel Miller, everyone. Round of applause.
You snort, rolling your eyes as you unplug the headphones and toss them on the table. It takes a moment for you to re-acclimate to your surroundings.
The dingy two-bedroom apartment is quiet and still. Outside, the setting sun casts the world in a dark golden haze. A FEDRA patrol vehicle roars down the street, broadcasting the curfew alert from a loudspeaker. Faint shouting from a few units down momentarily piques your curiosity before you decide it’s none of your business.
You stand from the chair and reach your hands above your head, lungs expanding in a powerful yawn, then take a lap around the apartment to stretch your legs.
Something catches your eye when you walk by the entry. A note slipped under the doorframe. On the outer fold, your name is written in a familiar scrawl.
Your heart skips a beat.
You pick it up and unfold the paper, revealing an invitation.
I miss you. Come over when you’re done surfing the airwaves. XO, Bert.
Warmth trickles down between your thighs. A smile spreads across your face. You glance up at the door, then to the CB radio and scanner on the desk.
Indecision churns in your belly.
You are explicitly forbidden from leaving the apartment while your mom and Joel are out on runs. A safety precaution you’ve protested dozens of times to no avail. They expect you to stay put and warn them if you notice any signs of potential danger. In return, you receive a cut of the profit and a roof over your head. Security, in short. Which is more than most could say.
That being said… You break this rule from time to time, when the circumstances allow.
Like when the Fireflies and FEDRA have been quiet for weeks and there are no smoke signals in sight. Like when you’re five nights into a seven day seclusion and think you might die of boredom if you don’t get the fuck out of here. Like when your boyfriend slips a note under the door and asks you to come over.
You look down at the paper in your hands, re-reading the words I miss you.
Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?
—
Just before midnight, you wander down the hallway to your unit, jelly knees wobbling with each step. As you absentmindedly trace your tingling lips, still puffy from kissing, you unlock the door and push it open, then frown.
The lights are on.
They were off when you left, you’re sure of it. When you step further into the apartment, your foot catches on something. A backpack. This faint buzzing starts behind your ears as you blink at it, wishing it would go away.
Motherfu—
“Where the fuck have you been?”
Your stomach plummets to the floor when you hear his voice. A thick knot of panic tightens around your windpipe as you look up to find Joel standing just a few paces away in the living room.
He stares you down, dark eyes glowing with fury, and questions you again, “Where were you?”
“N-nowhere.”
The blatant lie sits sour on your tongue. His lips purse, so you fumble out another, “I went for a walk.”
“A walk,” he repeats, tone disbelieving, “You went on a walk after curfew wearing that?”
You look down at your clothing. A short skirt and tank top. Your throat bobs in a guilty gulp, then you meet his eyes again and nod.
“And when did you leave on this ‘walk?’”
Your mind whirs as you try to come up with an answer. It feels like a trap. You try to calculate an answer that will provide minimal blowback.
“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago?”
“Try again.”
The electricity humming through you takes on a red, frustrated edge, and you snip, “I don’t fucking know, dude. It was a while ago, I wasn’t paying attention. Where’s my mom?”
“Your mom sent me here to make sure you were alive,” he says pointedly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards you, “We’ve been tryin’a reach you for three hours. I got here an hour ago. That’s a helluva lot longer than twenty minutes, ain’t it?”
Shrinking into yourself, you search his face. Jaw set, eyes boring into yours. Waves of anger roll off him as he approaches, and you remember all those rumors you heard about him on the radio. The fear you heard in grown men’s voices when they recounted run-ins with that bitch and her guard dog.
You remember what Bert said about him: He’s fucking ruthless.
“You aren’t supposed to leave the apartment when we’re outside the QZ.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
Your heart thuds against your ribcage.
Joel has never directed this kind of outright anger towards you. Sternness, sure. Contempt, maybe. But this is different. You’re in fucking trouble.
There has to be a way out of this conversation.
You drop your gaze to the floor and ask, “Is my mom ok? Did something happen to her?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Righteous indignation straightens your spine and wills you to meet his eyes again, “I’m not saying shit until you tell me what happened to her.”
“She sprained her ankle, but she’s fine. She’s safe,” he tells you, then takes another step forward, “Why did you leave?”
You respond by rolling your eyes.
“Answer the question.”
With an irritated sigh, you search his face, then tell him, “You don’t know what it’s like to be here. Isolated for days or weeks at a time. I fucking hate it. It’s so lonely and boring, I feel like I’m losing my mind—”
“Oh, cry me a goddamn river.”
You scowl at him, staring him down, “Fuck you.”
“Watch your fucking mouth, you disrespectful little shit.”
Red flashes through your field of vision, hot and angry and defiant. You gather the moisture in your mouth on your tongue and spit at him. It splats on his cheek.
His face twists up with fury for one second before he charges, closing the distance between you. The impact pushes your back to the door with a thud.
He grabs your jaw, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of your cheeks. His eyes are hot coals, burning into you. The muscles in his jaw twitch, nostrils flaring, breath shaky.
When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, “You don’t know what it’s like out there.”
“No, because you won’t let me fucking leave—”
“You should be fucking grateful, you know that? Being here is a fucking cake walk. Your mom ‘n’ I have seen things, done things—horrible things you couldn’t even imagine,” he husks, searching your face, grip tightening so hard it makes you whine. “We keep you safe, and all we ask is that you stay put and keep a lookout for us when we’re gone.”
Even if you wanted to respond, you can’t. The vice grip he has on your face renders your mouth immobile.
All you can do is stare back at him, studying his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Full lips pinched thin as he glowers at you.
You notice how close his broad body is to yours. The heat radiating off his tightly-wound muscles onto your skin. His ragged breath scatters across your face and wafts into your open mouth. You taste the bootleg whiskey on his breath and your pulse jumps.
Warmth drips down your spine and pools at the center of you, a horrifying sensation that makes you squirm.
“Were you with your little boyfriend? Hmm?” he asks, eyes darting around your face, trailing down to your body for a moment before returning, “That boy downstairs? Figure you musta been, on account of how you’re dressed.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not really a question.
“Abandoning your post to go out and get fucked, is that it?”
A whimper slips from your throat as heat swells beneath your skin.
He wouldn’t be treating you like this if your mom was here. He wouldn’t say these things or be this close to you. Knowing this, you understand that whatever is happening right now is wrong.
You also understand that you like it.
You hate that you like it, and hate him for making you like it, but you like it all the same.
Letting go of your face, he demands, “Answer me.”
“Fuck you.”
Before you even realize what’s happening, you feel a sharp, hot sting on your cheek and yelp.
He fucking slapped you.
“Wrong answer.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you retort, bringing your hand to the welt forming on your cheek, “I’m gonna tell her.”
“Yeah? You gonna tell her I found you sneaking in at midnight, too? That you compromised our safety to go out ‘n’ get dicked down?”
You harden your gaze on him, lips pressing together with disdain.
“She wouldn’t like that, would she?” he asks, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “She’d probably kick you out on your ass.”
“She wouldn’t. You guys need me.”
“And you need us,” he counters, searching your face, “So what do we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again? Hmm?”
A dozen inappropriate images flash through your head, each more lurid than the last. An electric, tingling feeling shoots out from the base of your spine and works through your extremities.
You swallow hard and shake your head, “I won’t do it again.”
“If I don’t punish you, you will. You’re fucking disrespectful. Selfish. You need discipline.”
Again, a flash of frustration taints the world red. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scoff, “Just because you’re fucking my mom doesn’t mean you’re my dad. I am an adult and you are not the boss of me.”
He sighs and takes a step back, planting his hands on his hips. His gaze drifts around the empty apartment, jaw gnashing back and forth for a moment before he returns to twist the deadbolt closed and grab your arm.
“What the f—” you swat at him and dig your heels into the floor, but it does nothing as he drags you by his steel grip, pulling you stumbling along behind him into the living room.
He sits on the couch and forces you to lay over his bent knees, one big hand securing your wrists behind your back while the other flattens against the swell of your ass cheek. As soon his touch leaves, it returns, a sharp snap tingling across your skin.
Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe the chaos throbbing through you.
“You’re right, you’re an adult. And I’m not your dad,” he asserts, lifting his hand. Your whole body clenches in anticipation. “But as long as you live here, I am the fucking boss of you,” he slaps your ass again, “Do you understand me?”
It surprises you when you hear yourself sob, “I’m sorry—”
He does it again and again, hissing, “Yeah, you’re fucking sorry now, aren’t you?”
Each firm slap he lays down is firm, unflinching. Ruthless.
It overwhelms your senses and becomes the only thing you feel. The universe world narrows down to just his palm on your skin. The reliable and exquisite pain ringing through you. Smack. Smack. Smack.
Every time he draws his hand back, you don’t think you can handle it again. But you do.
Soon, you start to crave the impact. His skin on your skin. You can’t feel the start or end of it. It’s just him and you. Pain and pleasure. Sobs and moans, all blended together.
Far away, you hear him chide you for not wearing underwear beneath your skirt. Then he asks, “Are you fucking enjoying this?”
Too ashamed to admit it, all you do is whimper in response.
Smack.
He sucks in breath through his teeth, then grabs the meat of your ass and rumbles, “You do, don’t you?”
When his grasp on your wrists releases, you pull your elbows beneath you and look over your shoulder at him, watching as he spreads your cheeks apart and stares down between your legs. You’re probably shiny and wet with the evidence of your desire.
His lips form an ‘o’ when he kneads you back together and spreads you apart again. The motion teases all your hungry nerves and makes you moan. It feels so fucking good.
You realize then that he’s grown stiff against your belly, hard cock leaving no mistake.
“You fucking like it, too, don’t you?” you ask him, your voice breathy and amused, “I can feel how turned on you are.”
Slipping a hand between your bodies, you press against his strained zipper. His cock jumps at the contact, and he groans, dragging his fingers through your slick lips.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you nod in approval. He works your clit in steady, firm circles while you smooth your hand along the big bulge in his pants, letting out a string of whines at the bubbling pleasure inside you.
You lose yourselves here, both of you squirming and panting and petting the other. So wrapped up with how fucking good it feels that you forget to feel ashamed.
When he smacks your ass now, you croak through clenched teeth, “Fuck yes.”
He likes that you like it. You can tell by the way he groans and throbs beneath you. This knowledge inspires your pulse to pound and your muscles to tense.
“Joel,“ you whimper, opening your eyes to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, “I’m gonna fucking come, don’t stop—”
“Did I give you permission to do that?” he asks, slowing his touch to a torturous rhythm, “Did I say you could come?”
You shake your head and whine, “Please, Joel, please—”
“Are you sorry for what you did?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Are you gonna do it again?”
“No no no, I won’t, I promise, I’ll be a good girl—”
He groans, tossing his head back as you frantically rub at the bulge in his pants. Your palm chafes against the stiff denim, but you don’t stop. You would do this for eternity if it meant he’d let you find your release.
“Oh yeah, you’ll be a good fucking girl for me?” he asks, touching you just soft and slow enough to twist your nerves ragged, but keep your orgasm out of reach.
“I will, I promise. Please, Joel,” you whisper, holding his gaze as your face gets all hot, “Please make me come, please please—”
“Show me you mean it.”
He doesn’t need to explain what he means. While he takes off his jeans, you scramble off his lap and kneel between his spread knees. His eyes stay glued to yours as you slide your hands up his thighs.
Batting your lashes at him, you wrap your lips around his swollen cock. He fills your mouth. He feels smooth but hard against your tongue. He tastes salty and heady and when you inhale the musk of him, you moan around his girth.
Nodding, he anchors his grip behind your head and bucks his hips, forcing his dick down your throat. When you gag, he doesn’t let up, but thrusts into the sensation, grunting, “Fuck. Yes,” before letting you pull off, gasping for air.
You wrap your hands around him, all shiny and slick with drool, and pump his length for a moment while you catch your breath, then take him in your mouth again.
This time, you sit up taller. You relish the stretch of your lips as you bob up and down. Savor the tug of his fingers curled tight in your hair. Memorize the sound of his huffs and grunts as he fucks your face. The wet squelching gurgle of his cock squeezing down your windpipe.
“Look at me,” he orders, so you do.
He’s all blurred from your watering eyes, but you can make out the dark irises and stay locked onto them while relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him easier. When you make an enthusiastic humming noise, he groans. It’s wanton and lusty and lights a fire in your belly.
Joel has never treated you this hard or soft. His regard for you has always been callous. Closed-off. Indifferent. With your assistance on the radio, he treated you like a tool for survival. Before that, or even in-between smuggling runs, he treated you like some kind of a household pet he had little regard for. Your mom’s responsibility, never his.
For years and years, you ached for more.
When you were younger, you used to sit up nights and wonder if he’d ever consider you his daughter. He wouldn’t, though. He won’t.
But this is something.
Distinctly, you want to please him. Be the best he ever had. You want to sink your claws into his brain and leave your mark for years to come. You want him to look at you after this and feel a flicker of desire and self-loathing. You want him to think of you when he fucks your mom. You want him to hate how you made him feel.
When you pull off him and start to work his soaked length with your hands, you pant, “Does that feel good? Am I doing a good job sucking your cock?”
“It’s good,” he nods, lets out a groan that pinches his eyes shut, then meets your gaze again, “So fucking good, Jesus Christ. Is this what you were out doing tonight? Sucking cock?”
“Not tonight.”
“But he fucked you, didn’t he? That boy?”
You nod, stroking him slower. His eyelids flutter.
“Did he fuck your pussy or your ass?”
The question sends a jolt through your middle. You recall the sex you had with Bert. Barely an hour has gone by since he pulled out of your cunt to shoot his load on the mattress, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
“My pussy,” you answer, then gather a thick, hot wad of saliva on your tongue and spit on his cock. You spread it with a slow churning motion, watching Joel’s face twist up with pleasure.
“Were you bein’ smart about it at least?” he asks, studying you, “We don’t need you getting knocked up.”
“He pulled out,” you shrug.
He grunts in acknowledgment, then sits up and pulls on your arm to join him on the couch, “C’mere.”
You follow his guidance, lying back on the cushions as he strips off his shirt.
The only times you’ve seen him shirtless were accidental and slightly embarrassing for both of you. But now, you notice how his smooth chest glows in the dim light. Now, when you drink in the sight of his big arms and broad shoulders, heat bubbles up your spine.
While you pull your tank top off over your head, he tugs your skirt down your thighs, asking, “You ever taken it up the ass?”
You shake your head.
His eyebrows jump a little like he’s surprised. A sadistic kind of smirk plays across his lips as he pushes your knees up to your chest, then spreads you apart, the head of him nudging at your backdoor.
He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t ask if you want it this way, or if you want him to be the first. He doesn’t even warn you about the initial shock and pain you experience when he rocks his hips forward and breaches the tight hole.
You yelp and try to lurch away from the sharp pain, but he grabs you and holds you there.
Sitting up on your elbows, you cry, “That fucking hurts, Joel.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t hurt a little, would it?” he murmurs, disinterested, watching your asshole stretch to accommodate the head of his cock.
The sensation is overwhelming. Like being stabbed or split open. At first, you hate it. You sputter and gasp and shake your head as he pushes himself in further and further.
Then he pauses the invasion, releasing his steel grip on you to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze, “Just relax.”
His eyes burn into yours, making your pulse jump. You bear witness to his heaving chest and parted lips and feel him twitch inside you. Sparks sizzle across your body, but you still scowl at him.
“It hurts, I don’t like it.“
“It’ll get better, you just gotta relax,” he coaches.
“Why can’t we just have normal sex?”
He grunts, thinks about it for a moment, then tells you, “First off, this is not normal sex,” he points between your chest and his, “This will not be a normal thing, you understand?”
It stings a little, if you’re being honest. But you nod, “I understand.”
Nodding, he licks his lips. He throbs inside you, hips jerking a little in reaction. This time, the friction feels good enough to make you whimper.
“Second, we don’t need another mouth to feed around here,” he says, searching your face, “We’re stretched thin enough as is. You know what I mean?”
“But if you—”
“Pulling out can still stick. This way’s tried and true, trust me.”
“Trust you,” you scoff under your breath and roll your eyes.
“What’s that?”
You meet his hardened gaze, feeling emboldened enough to ask, “Do you fuck my mom in the ass?”
“That’s none of your business,” he warns.
“So, what, you can interrogate me about my sex life, but I can’t do the same?”
“That’s right,” he barks, “Know why?”
In response, you glare at him.
He takes this moment of bitter silence to drag his knuckles up your slick, swollen lips. The light touch branches out beneath your skin and makes your heart pound. You gasp a little, but try to hide it. He clocks it immediately.
“There we go,” he murmurs under his breath, almost as an aside, smoothing the pad of his thumb in soft circles on your clit. Pleasure churns beneath the touch, hot and hungry for more. When you whimper, Joel’s eyes go wild for a second, then he says, “I am the fucking boss of you, understand?”
You swallow a moan as he arches forward and starts to roll his hips. It feels better now. Good. Fucking amazing, almost. Electric and gooey. He fills you so completely with each thrust, you wonder how you can even breathe.
“So if I tell you to be home, that’s where you’ll be. If I ask you where you’ve been, who you were with, what you were doing—you tell me the truth. Understand?”
Nodding, you gasp, “I understand.”
“You don’t get to ask me about your mom. You don’t tell your mom. You don’t sneak out to go get fucked by some boy who doesn’t even know what to do with you—”
“Holy shit, Joel I’m gonna—” you gasp at the pressure building at the base of your spine, spreading thick and hot and delicious across your body.
“And you don’t come without my fucking permission. Understand?”
“I understand I understand,” you cry, literal tears burning behind your eyes at the ache of trying to keep the ecstasy at bay, “Please can I come, please please please—”
“Are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again—”
“That’s right, you’ll never fucking do it again. Why’s that?”
“You’re the boss,” you beg, your voice so raw and pleading it sounds foreign. He pounds into you now, a wet slap that echoes off the apartment walls. It takes all your concentration to keep your pleasure contained, to not spill over the edges, but you hear yourself babble somewhere far away.
“You’re the fucking boss. I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t disobey you again I’ll be a good girl I’ll do anything just please give me permission to come daddy please please please—”
When he moans, loud and depraved, it just about breaks you, but you manage to keep your resolve long enough for him to pant, “Go ahead, let it go.”
With a choked sob, you untether your pleasure and allow it to expand, growing hot and wide and unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Every muscle in your body tenses up as the sensation swallows you whole, then spits you back up, sending wave after wave across your body.
“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he grunts, taking his hand from your clit to hold your knees down and fuck your ass hard and fast and ruthless.
It surprises you when heat starts stretching out from the middle of you again. Your heart starts to race as the feeling grows.
“Ffffuuuuck,” you whimper, “That feels so fucking good—”
“I told you, didn’t I?”
“You did you did holy shit,” you meet his eyes and nod frantically, “I love it I love it—please can you come in my ass?”
“Is that what you want? Want me to come in your tight little asshole?”
A feral noise escapes you, and you sob, “Yes—”
“Do you wanna come too?”
“Yes—oh my god, yes, please please please daddy—”
“Come with me, baby.”
You let the feeling overtake you again, gasping out, “thank you thank you thank you,” as it takes you strong and fast. Pleasure pulses through your body, causing you to convulse and strain against Joel’s grip spreading you open. He releases a moan from his belly and gives you a hard, deep thrust that he holds for a shuddering moment. After emptying himself inside you, he pulls out, falling back to his seat on the couch.
Chest heaving, you prop yourself up on your elbows and study him. He pinches his eyes shut and catches his breath before meeting your gaze again.
His expression goes soft long enough for something dangerous to flicker between you.
Then he turns away and starts getting dressed.
“Get yourself together, I’m gonna go get your mom.”
As you sit up, you fold your legs into your body and watch him button his shirt.
“Joel—”
He looks at you, searching your face expectantly, but your brain goes static and you’re not even sure what you were going to say.
“This stays between us, understand?”
His tone is firm but gentle. You swallow hard and nod, “I understand.”
Nodding, he glances down at your lips, then back to your eyes. He rises to his feet to leave, but before he does, he leans down to press a kiss into your forehead.
summary: You often find that it's impossible to keep your hands off Joel. Especially when he comes home covered in blood and you're in the middle of taking a bath.
warnings: established relationship, smut, sexual tension, oral sex references (both male and female receiving), thigh riding, fingering, handjob, breast play, biting, domestic intimacy, slight carpenter!joel and his slutty arms, mentions of blood, reader has scars and body hair (other than that no description of reader's appearance), no use of y/n (if anything is missing or you have any questions please don't hesitate to dm me or send an ask!!)
word count: 3.2k
a/n: the fact that this was supposed to be just a bath sex fic but somehow a different snippet ended up there (for which i had to do an INSANE amount of research on woodworking) is crazy. anyways, i hope you'll enjoy it!! feedback is always appreciated <3
What is your purpose?
You thought you knew it. Everything used to be so clear, so defined. It all had an order, a hushed voice in the back of your mind that bid you what to do, what to say, how to act. A well defined shape called society, a distant memory that still lingers in your mind from time to time.
Simplicity.
It all used to be so plain, although you couldn't see it then. Nothing is simple anymore. You remember that your greatest troubles were finding a job, paying your mortgage, appealing to those around you.
You used to care about such frivolous things. Your appearance, most of all. Spent hours worrying about your clothes, your makeup, your hair. Inspected yourself in the mirror looking for pimples, stretch marks, wrinkles.
Now, standing naked in your bathroom you couldn't care less. The reflection looking back at you through the cracked mirror is a sight that would've terrified you a couple of decades ago.
Multiple strands of silver woven through your hair, ones that he enjoys tugging on when you're on your knees between his legs. Lines spread across your forehead and in the corner of your eyes that move and accentuate everytime you smile at him, everytime you shiver with pleasure underneath him. A scar on your lip that he enjoys feeling whenever you kiss him, whenever you wrap your lips around his cock. Hair on your arms and legs, curls between your thighs that tickle his nose whenever he eats you out.
Goosebumps bloom across your skin as you slowly lower yourself into the warm bath, easing through the soft foam that drifts and swirls along the surface.
Steam rises in lazy spirals, curling towards the ceiling and clinging to the cool tiles, blurring their sharp edges into a soft haze. Tiny beads of moisture gather on the walls and mirror, glistening in the muted light before tracing delicate paths downward.
Your lips part slightly letting out a satisfied sigh. You think of your past, of how a warm bubble bath was just a part of your daily routine. Now, it's become a luxury you indulge in once in a blue moon when there's enough hot water you can spare for a moment of bliss.
There’s a small wooden stool tucked into the corner of the bathroom, its surface smooth and pale where careful hands have sanded it down. Joel carved it himself from an oak stump he hauled home from the forest.
The work took longer than it should have, though perhaps that had less to do with the wood and more to do with the distraction waiting at the window.
You hadn’t meant to make it easy for him.
Leaning in the sunlight in a skimpy see-through dress, you lingered just long enough for him to be distracted. Each swing of the axe sent a ripple through his sun-kissed arms, the sleeves of his flannel straining as muscle flexed beneath fabric.
Lift, swing, crack.
His sleeves rode up with the repetition, forearms tightening and releasing with every strike. The sight had you hypnotized, leaning more towards the window while rubbing your thighs together.
You told yourself you were only watching the rhythm of the work, but your smirk and the growing slick in your panties betrayed you.
You teased him from morning until dusk.
Brought him cool water when the heat grew too heavy, your fingers brushing his as you passed the glass. When the annoying ache between your legs became too hard to ignore and staying inside seemed impossible, you wandered out again.
When you stepped into the heat, the screen door sighing behind you, he didn’t look up immediately, but you saw the moment he felt you there. His next swing landed slightly off-center. You hid a smile and wandered closer, pretending to inspect the growing pile of woodchips.
You bent down to gather some stray branches slowly, aware of the way his gaze followed the curve of your ass, the faint twitch at the edge of his jaw beneath his beard when he noticed the damp spot forming on your panties when your dress rode up your thighs.
Once the stump had been roughly shaped, he traded the axe for a handsaw, trimming the top flat with careful strokes. Sawdust drifted through the air like golden smoke, clinging to his flannel, dusting his beard. You couldn't help but grab his jaw gently, brushing your hand through his scruff to remove the stray sawdust that clung to the coarse hair.
By nightfall, the stump had found its balance, legs roughly defined, the seat level but still raw with tool marks. He carried it inside and set it near his worktable, lamplight casting a warm halo over his features.
You stretched out on his side of the bed, a book open in your hands, the pages faded and soft from years of turning. You pretended to read, eyes moving across lines that refused to settle into meaning.
At his table, he leaned over the stool with his carving knife clenched firmly in his grip.
Thin ribbons of wood curled away from the blade and fell into his lap, gathering at his feet. Every so often he would stop and run his palm over the surface, a motion that sent shivers down your spine.
You shifted on the bed, crossing one leg over the other, clenching your thighs slightly. You wished that he would pay attention to you, forget about the stupid stool he was building and come crawl on top of you. You wished that those rough hands would stop their movements on the oak wood and instead would come and ravage you.
A page was turned without even reading it, letting it flutter louder than necessary in the quiet room, hoping that the sound would catch his attention.
It didn't.
When the carving was complete, he set the blade aside and reached for coarse sandpaper. The harsh scrape replaced the whisper of steel. Back and forth, steady and methodical, he erased the shallow ridges left by the knife. Fine dust coated his hands again, settled into the lines of his knuckles.
That was when you rose from the bed.
The book slipped closed in your hand, forgotten entirely. You crossed the room slowly and without asking you stepped between his knees.
His hands instinctively moved to make room, resting lightly at your hips as you turned and settled onto his lap. Wood shavings crinkled softly beneath you.
"You’re not done," you murmured, glancing at the unfinished surface beside you, shifting on his thigh in an attempt to get a bit of friction to your swollen bundle of nerves.
"I reckon I'd be, if someone wouldn't keep distractin' me," he replied, voice low.
You shifted on his thigh again, the rough denim of his jeans brushing perfectly against your covered clit. One of your hands drifted to his forearm, thumb brushing over the faint line of tension there.
"Distracting? I'm just.. trying to help," you bit your lip as your free hand fumbled with a chisel.
And help you did, rubbing yourself on his thigh as you clenched around nothing until your legs trembled and your breath caught in your throat. By the time you were done the stool still needed polishing, a step he forgot to do. Partially because his hands were busy rolling your hips further back on his leg until your ass grazed his crotch, leaving a damp stain on his jeans from where you previously sat.
Now, on top of the stool you 'helped' Joel build, sits an old record player. A song is playing, the vinyl rotating lazily under the needle dulled by time. The music keeps looping, certain segments repeating when the stylus gets stuck in a groove.
On a quiet summer night you told him you used to listen to music all the time. That you were so grateful for the few times you heard him play the guitar now.
The next morning you found him fixing the broken record player you found in a box in the garage.
You told him you enjoyed wearing expensive perfumes, that you'd drench yourself in your favourite fragrance from head to toe. Only when you'd been forced to go days, maybe weeks without even showering did you realize how precious that was.
You thought he paid no mind to your rambling, but one morning you found a chipped bottle of perfume on your nightstand. The cloudy, probably expired mixture smelled more like rubbing alcohol with faded floral notes. Your wrists stung when you sprayed it on your skin but you didn't care about the unpleasant sensation.
You understood then that this was his purpose. To provide, to take care of those around him.
You were often jealous of him, of the determination flowing through his veins, of the precision of his stance in every situation he was involved in.
Perhaps that's what drew you to Joel.
The need to be protected and to protect. The need to feel loved and to love in turn. The need to be needed by someone like him.
Desired.
The water laps softly against the porcelain as you shift, the warmth slowly seeping into your bones. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle. Then you hear the front door downstairs.
Joel is back.
You still for a second in the bath, listening.
There’s the low scrape of something heavy being set down near the door. Probably his pack. A second later the muted jingle of metal, maybe the rifle leaning against the wall. His boots drag slightly across the rug like they always do when he’s tired.
You imagine him there without even seeing him. Shoulders tense from the cold air outside, hair wind-tousled, the smell of forest and gunpowder clinging to his jacket.
"Darlin', you home?" his voice carries up the staircase, roughened from hours spent outdoors.
The term of endearment sends a small ripple of warmth through your core as you shift upright. Steam curls around you, dampening your hairline.
"In the bathroom," you call back.
Your voice echoes lightly off the tiled walls.
There’s a pause downstairs, then the slow, heavy rhythm of his boots climbing the steps.
You reach for the edge of the tub, absently trailing your fingers through the foam while you listen to him approach. The cracked mirror across the room has fogged over almost completely now, leaving only a faint ghost of your reflection behind the condensation.
The bathroom door creaks open a moment later. Cold air slips in with him, cutting through the steam.
Joel fills the doorway like he always does, broad shoulders blocking the hallway light. His jacket is still on, dusted with dirt and pine needles, beard darker where the cold has dampened it. There’s blood on him, dark smears on his hands and along the edge of his jaw where he must’ve wiped at his face without thinking.
Probably from dressing the deer.
Your eyes move over him slowly, taking in the details. The wind-roughed hair. The tired crease between his brows.
"You usin’ all the hot water again?" he mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
You sink a little deeper into the bath with a satisfied sigh.
"Maybe."
His gaze shifts past you first, landing on the stool.
The record player hums softly from its surface, the vinyl spinning lazily.
He lets out a quiet huff of amusement.
"That thing still runnin’?" he asks.
"Most of the time," you say. “Gets stuck.”
As if on cue, the needle skips again, the same short piece of melody repeating.
Joel steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him with his boot. His hand rests automatically on the stool as he passes it, steadying the record player without even looking.
His fingers leave a faint streak of blood across the polished oak.
He notices it a second later.
"Hell," he mutters quietly.
You watch him from the tub, chin resting against the edge while steam curls between you.
"Successful hunt?" you ask.
"Yeah," he says. "Got lucky."
You watch him approach, chin still resting on the edge of the bath.
"Joel," you warn lightly.
He ignores you, leaning down on the porcelain edge right next to where your head is resting. His hand brushes your cheek, smearing some of the blood on your skin. You lift your head shooting him an accusatory look.
"You're filthy," you scrunch your nose while rubbing your cheek with the back of your hand.
Joel huffs softly through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Been outside all day,” he says simply.
You lift a hand out of the bathwater as he leans closer, ready to push him away if he tries anything.
But before you can say another word, his hand comes up to cradle the side of your face again.
His palm is rough, still cool from the air outside. There’s dried blood along his knuckles, the faint smell of iron and pine clinging to him, but his touch is careful as he tilts your chin upward.
"Joel-" you start.
He shuts you up with a kiss. You shiver at the contact. His lips are cold against your scorching skin, you can taste some faint coffee you prepared for him in the morning and mint from the leafs he must've chewed.
His beard scratches lightly against your face, still carrying traces of the cold outside. You make a soft protesting sound against his lips, though it lacks any real conviction.
His hands land on your shoulders, his fingers dipping into your flesh.
Your body must be stained by now, tainted by the blood.
Marked.
You can't seem to care about it anymore, grabbing his belt buckle to drag him even closer when he pulls away to look into your eyes.
His thumb brushes along your cheek again, smearing a faint streak of bathwater where your skin is damp from the steam. Then he leans in again, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth this time, slower.
You sigh despite yourself, one wet hand coming up to grip the collar of his jacket before he can lean too far away.
The record beside you skips again, the same scratchy note looping before it bumps forward in the song.
Joel huffs a quiet laugh against your lips.
“Thought you said I was filthy.”
“You are,” you reply.
Your fingers tug lightly at his collar anyway, pulling him closer over the edge of the tub. The warm water sloshes softly as you shift beneath the foam.
Up close you can see the thin smear of blood along his jaw again.
With a small shake of your head, you reach up and wipe it away with the edge of your thumb.
"Why don't you join me?" you say quietly.
"Alright," he mutters.
You sink back against the porcelain, trying, and failing, to hide the small curve of satisfaction tugging at your mouth as he reaches for the zipper of his jacket. It lands in a loose heap on the floor with a dull thud after he takes it off. His flannel follows, tugged over his head and tossed aside without much care. The lamplight catches the pale lines of old scars across his shoulders.
Your gaze drifts over him without apology as a familiar tingly sensation settles between your legs.
"Enjoyin' the view?"
"Who wouldn't?"
Joel huffs at that, shaking his head as he crouches to tug his boots off. They hit the floor beside the door with two heavy thumps. His belt comes next, the buckle clinking softly before he shoves his jeans down his hips along with his underwear.
Joel braces one hand on the edge of the tub and lowers himself the rest of the way in. The water sloshes quietly against the bathtub as he settles behind you, the heat immediately chasing the cold from his skin.
You feel it the moment his chest comes to rest against your back, a quiet breath leaving his lips.
“Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
The steam curls around both of you now, clinging to his hair and beard. His legs stretch out along either side of yours beneath the water and you can't fight the urge to touch him.
You shift slightly so he can settle properly.
The movement sends small waves through the bath, foam drifting lazily toward the sides. Joel’s arms come to rest along the rim of the tub for a moment, the muscles in his shoulders slowly easing.
Then they slide down.
His forearms come to rest across your stomach under the water. You glance down at them. The dried blood cracks slightly as your fingers curl around his. Dark red unfurls through the bath like ink in slow motion, dissolving into pale spirals before disappearing completely.
You glance down at his hands again, the same hands that carved the stool beside you, that hauled wood from the forest, that killed whatever animal he brought home today so the two of you could eat.
Hands that come back stained with blood every time he leaves.
You need to feel them on your skin, bloody or not. Let him do whatever he wants: grab, caress, rub, slap. Dirty you up, defile your body as only he knows how.
His other hand rubs your side gently, coming up to caress your breast from time to time.
Joel exhales slowly behind you, his chin brushing the top of your shoulder. You lean back just a little, letting your head rest against him. The damp ends of your hair cling to his chest as the water laps quietly around you both.
Your hand drags his downwards. His fingertips drag across the soft hair nestled atop your pussy as you feel his head turn from where it's settled on your shoulder, his lips touching the sensitive skin on your neck.
Surely you must be cursed, otherwise why would you crave him constantly? Why are you plagued by this constant need to be around him? Why do you feel like drifting into madness whenever he's not by your side? Why does your body feel like it's on fire just from the press of his fingers inside your cunt?
Yes, you must be cursed. And you wouldn't want it any other way.
You wouldn't want anyone else's teeth sinking into your neck. Wouldn't want your skin bruised by someone who isn't Joel. Wouldn't want your hand reaching back to wrap around someone else's cock.
The water in the tub has long lost its warmth, but somehow your skin feels like it's boiling. His free hand is covering the peak of your breast, pinching the sensitive bud from time to time. You have to fight between the urge to throw your head back and the urge to continue staring down at his other hand. The image is distorted, the water making it hard to gaze at the way his fingers move inside you.
You feel him twitching in your hand, hear his breath stutter against your neck before something warm and sticky shoots on your lower back. Your own climax washes over you a few seconds later and you finally allow yourself to melt into his embrace.
The question rises again in your foggy mind. What is your purpose?
You used to think purpose had to be something grand. Something worthy of admiration.
Perhaps it doesn't even matter anymore. You realize that it's useless to try to find reason or purpose. You're content, happy even, whenever you're with him.
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