Joel has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friendâs daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when heâs forced to share a motel room with you.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
One shots for the Waiting Game âverse
Homemade: While your dadâs watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.
Diehard: Joel tries Viagra for the very first time.
Ruined!: Joel is an old man who struggles to cum sometimes. Youâve got time to kill and a tight hole to fill.
Raw: Joel begs to cum inside you.
And drabblesâŚ
Different: Water makes everything more slippery.
Make It Stick
Joel never thought heâd need a vasectomy. Then, one night, he accidentally finishes inside you.
Stiff: At fifty-nine, Joel isnât sure his dick can keep up with every day itâs going to take to get you pregnant. He seeks help from Jacksonâs local apothecary and gets more than bargained for when that little blue pill kicks in.
Stuck: Joel gets nominated to play Santa Claus for Jacksonâs holiday festivities. Of course, youâre into that.
Stubborn: Joel sees your baby bump for the first time.
Stutter: Your daughter says her first word.
Sticky: Joel canât get it up. You lick frosting off his flaccid cock to help increase the bloodflow a little bit.
Cabin Fever (Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader) [DEAD DOVE]
Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.
Confines: Joel locks you up in a subterranean bunker.
Finders Keepers (bfd!Joel)
When you find an old shirt of Mr. Millerâs lying around, you canât resist. When he finds you humping a pillow and moaning his name, neither can he.
Cry, Baby
Joel fucks you to the point of tears. Thatâs all.
Just Peachy [anal]
Joelâs got a jealous streak and a bold idea.
Wingman (himbo!Joel crackfic)
Your bestie braves the tampon aisle for you.
Watch Your Mouth
Joel teaches you to keep quiet during sex.
Love Tap (dad!Joel)
Old habits die hard with your husbandâtouching you at inappropriate times is one of them.
If You Like PiĂąa Coladas (neighbor!Joel)
You secretly make Joel a profile on Hinge. Then he shows you exactly why he doesnât need one.
My Body, His Choice [freeuse]
After a long day, Joel just needs some relief.
Whoâs Your Daddy? (stepdad!Joel)
You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.
Cowboy Killers
On a mission to findâand fightâyour best friendâs lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.
Seeing Pink [DD/LG]
Joel steals more of your innocence every day. Fortunately, you love to give as much as he loves to take.
Easy to Please (sleazy landlord!Joel)
Months pass, and you canât make rentâagain. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.
Wants and Needs (sugar daddy!Joel)
Bills are high; your dadâs boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and himâfor now.
Bigger in Texas
Joel wonât fit.
Trashed (trailer park!Joel)
You fuck Joel in his filthy double-wide.
Too Close for Comfort
Youâve been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, youâre surfing the web on her dadâs computer, and you find someâŚunusual things in his search history.
Brighter Times (dark!Joel)
Youâve always been Joelâs favorite. Always.
Older, Bolder (GILF!Joel)
Joel canât get it up.
Heavy Hitter (Little League Coach!Joel)
A kick in the dick is a strange way to get a manâs attention, but Coach Miller doesnât mind at all.
Like Father, Like Son (bfd!Joel)
When your boyfriend wonât, his father will.
Birds & Bees (sex ed!Joel)
Joel explains how babies are made.
Stepford, Texas [Stepford Wives AU]
For his birthday, Joel wants a son.
Taste [fuckbuddy!Joel]
When Joel learns youâre going on a date, he decides to make his feelings known his own special way.
The Dismal Tide [No Country for Old Men AU]
A favor for a stranger takes a violent turn.
Smaller Inside
You regret giving Joel your virginity.
In Your Dreams
Your husband fucks you awake.
Marcus Acacius
Bloodline
The General needs an heir.
To Wed, To Bed
The âbedding ceremonyâ is a tradition as old as time. Frankly, you would rather die than have the consummation of your marriage put on full display.
Bucky Barnes
Wedded Bliss (Mob!Bucky) - Completed Series
The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets heâs meant to be faking this whole thingâand hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Baelor Targaryen
Well-Bred
Your husband finishes inside you.
Daryl Dixon
Dead Ringer
Weeks of separation and sexual frustration come to a head when Daryl pays you a visit in the middle of the night. Whether it's the product of your own sex-deprived subconscious or reality, you can't be sureâand couldn't care less. Daryl wants to fulfill the fantasy any way he can.
Easy Street
You steal a cop car and almost run Daryl over en route to the Sanctuary. You canât decide if you want to fight him, fuck him, or bring him back to Negan. Lucky for you, Daryl is game for all three.
Nighthawk
You decide to bring Spencer to the neighborhood Halloween bash to take your mind off your breakup with Daryl. Your ex isn't so easily convinced of your intentions and decides there's no better place than his motorcycle to show you just how much he misses you.
Cherry Pie
You know virtually nothing about sex, and Darylâs done it all. Together, you take on an impromptu anatomy lesson, and you learn that Daryl has a lot more to teach you than whatâs covered in the textbooks.
Walker Bait
An unforeseen foray into a sex shop leaves you and Daryl trapped between a plastic cock and a hard place as a herd of walkers closes in. Angry sex ensues.
Grow a Uterus and Weâll Talk
Daryl has a bad case of baby fever, to put it lightly. Youâre practically terrified of children. Rick lends you his kid for the night, and together, you come to learn that parenthood might not be the worst thing in the world. Even easier than baking muffins, one might say.
Honey Trap
Youâve been tasked with two simple jobs: infiltrate Alexandriaâs community and bring intel back to your boss by any means necessary. When your entry point into the group takes the form of a familiar blue-eyed archer, you expect this to be your easiest gig yetâthat is, until your prey decides to hunt you back.
Pregnant Pause
Babymaking is a bit trickier than anticipated, and months have passed with no sign of pregnancy. When your period finally doesnât show up on time, you and Daryl act fast and head straight for the pharmacyâand get a little caught up along the way.
Mr. Dixon
Your efforts to seduce the DILF next door have all failed spectacularly, so you decide a wet hot car wash in front of his house is in order. Mr. Dixon is less than impressed with your antics and plans to teach you a lesson in good manners and âneighborliness.â
Iâm a Good Girl, Officer!
Apparently flashing your tits to truckers on the freeway is frowned upon in small towns like yours. When three familiar King County cops take charge of the case, you learn they punish bad girls a little differently.
Playing Dangerous
Working undercover in a seedy part of town, homicide detective Daryl sees you in your skimpy club attire and mistakes you for a hooker. A wrongful arrest makes for a funny way to foreplay, but youâre still game.
Fake It Til You Make It (Or Drown)
Daryl finds out you faked an orgasm. Instead of getting mad, he decides to get even.
Best Served Cold
Since your fiancĂŠ canât seem to keep his hands off of Lori, you decide Daryl is the perfect way to make him pay. Revenge sex has never felt so good.
Coming Soon:
Bite the Bullet
Back at the prison, new recruits have been showering you with gifts. One of these presents doesnât sit quite right with Daryl, and he decides itâs time to let the men know just how he feelsâand who you belong to.
Atlantic City
A very drunk Daryl meets a stripper in Jersey and wastes no time putting a ring on her finger. With the late, great Elvis Presley presiding, the two get hitched in a slipshod ceremony a couple weeks before the world descends into chaos. This marriage may be short-lived, but damn if the honeymoon wonât be one to remember.
I cannot die without reading a Javi fic by you. I just cannot. I do not care how many hating ass haters wanna say shit I do not care. That character is sexy as fuck and you'd do an amazing job. How have I not read your take on DEA secretary reader who Javi always flirts with at happy hours and holiday parties FINALLY getting railed over his desk when he they have to work a late night to meet some absurd stressful deadline?! And at some point Steve calls from some late night stakeout to say he thinks they've got a tip, but Javi's like, need to finish what's on my desk but will be there stat. How have I not read your version of Javi insisting you stop seeing other clients and getting mad when you push back and tell him you can take care of yourself and admitting it is because he wants you for himself??????? HOWWWWWW? Anyway, I have basically zero interest in living past like 95, so while you do have a lot of time, I respectfully ask you do not make me until I'm graying and the arthritis makes it hard to hold the bullet vibe for this shit. Love you a lot though.
âAND THE ARTHRITIS MAKES IT HARD TO HOLD THE BULLET VIBE FOR THIS SHITKDJFJDLâ STOP ILYSM đđđđđđ
you are SOOOO right, it needs to be written!!!!!!
and i love your ideas, i love Javier, i WILL write for him eventually, and iâve had this random ass snippet rotting in my draft for close to two years at this point but iâd totally continue it!! are we feeling the coworker enemies-to-lovers vibe or like đ¤đ¤đ¤đ¤
Idk if this is freaky enough but Iâve always been interested in seeing you write a âreader stuck in something and Joel takes advantage of the situationâ I feel like with your writing skills it would be *mwah* chefs kiss! đ
eeeeee iâve written this too!!
may i present to youâŚ..Joel fucking you when youâre stuck in the washing machine đŤĄđŠđŤśđŤ§đ
this has been on my mind for soo long, I need to see Joel fucking sorority girl reader in the sorority house or at some college dive bathroom. That or a parents weekend fuckfest!!!
WAITTTT FUNNILY ENOUGH IâVE ALREADY WRITTEN TWO FICS WITH THESE EXACT PREMISES HAHAHA
Father Figure - parents weekend fuckfest đđđ (joel and reader also hook up in the bathroom at pike house rip)
Just Peachy - joel fucks reader in a bar bathroom after some frat boy hits on her đââď¸
summary: Daisy, the most spoiled sheep in Texas, who also happens to be your daddy's undisputed favourite, chooses the worst possible time to give birth. And out of all the things in the world, she only seems to want to eat Joel Millerâs corn. With your mama sleeping soundly and your daddy out playing poker with Joel, you figure itâs safe to sneak into your neighbour's field to get some corn for DaisyâŚexcept Joel isnât as absent as you thought.
warnings: no outbreak AU, rural setting, implied age gap, smut, fingering, spanking, clit rubbing, spitting, unprotected piv, public sex, getting your back blown out in a cornfield, mild profanity, mentions of alcohol and gambling, mentions of failed marriage/absent wife, domestic farm life, use of weapons, brief violence, societal pressure around marriage, nosy southern family behavior, livestock birth, reader wears a nightgown and has her hair braided (no other description of reader's appearance), no use of y/n.
word count: 6.2k
a/n: i don't know what demon possessed me but i wrote this in 3 days (don't tell my one month old drafts this). anyways, i hope y'all will like it!!
Pampered little shit, that's what Daisy is.
The most spoiled sheep in all of Texas, you can be sure of that. Refuses to eat the grass around the barn like every other animal. So you have to haul her four miles up a hill before sheâll even consider opening her mouth. And don't even think about giving her hay if you don't want a hoof hitting you square in the knee. You even have to sing her a song when you're crouched down trying to milk her. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, it's true. You've hummed so many Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash songs to Daisy that you can't stand to listen to their voices anymore whenever you go out to a dance in town.
And all of it is your daddy's doing.
If that man didn't treat Daisy like his own child you're sure she'd quit being such a snob.
Well, guess what? The prissy cotton ball got knocked up in March and your daddy's fussing over her like she's about to have his grand baby.
Can you believe that?
You can swear on your life that she only enjoyed that high pasture because the neighbour's ram was getting sweet on her.
Now itâs late July and sheâs round as a barrel, waddling around the barn like a freaking duck. Her sides sway when she walks, her udderâs all tight and shiny, "bagging up," as your daddy keeps proudly announcing. She canât seem to get comfortable, lies down, grunts, hauls herself back up with the kind of suffering sigh usually reserved for when your dad loses at poker to your neighbour.
You would almost feel pity for her. Almost. If she didn't turn into an aggressive little bitch.
You try to give her the grass by the barn because she's too pregnant to walk up the hill where her baby daddy's probably waiting? She snorts, stamps a hoof like sheâs declaring war.
You offer the expensive hay your mama bought especially for her? Yeah, that hay that cost more than your truck payment. Same reaction, only louder, as if you personally insulted her.
You crouch to milk her, and she leans back on her haunches, hooves braced, glaring like she's preparing to kill you.
And maybe she is.
Sometimes she tries to shove you with her head. Not playful, definitely not gentle. Full-on "get out of my way" because she is pregnant and dramatic and convinced the world exists solely to serve her cravings. If she misses, sheâll stomp her front hooves, ears pinned, eyes wide, just to make the point. And when you think she's done? She bleats. High-pitched and commanding, the kind of bleat that could summon cows from the next ranch over if they werenât too afraid of her.
Speaking of the next ranch, she seems to have developed a certain fondness for it. For what your darling neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing.
Corn.
Over the crooked fence line and across property you absolutely should not be crossing, stands a tall, golden field that might as well be calling her name.
And your daddy? The only craving of his sweet fluffy angel that he can't satisfy is this. Why? Because he doesnât plant corn. Says itâs too much work, too much water, too much risk.
Joel apparently disagrees. Has about 150 acres of land dedicated to it.
You think you've had enough of her diva attitude and you're about to slaughter her with your bare hands? She suddenly becomes docile when the wind shifts just right and carries that sweet green smell from Joelâs fields.
She just stands there, calm as anything now, like she hasnât been making your life hell all day. Nose lifted, ears twitching, breathing it in like itâs the finest thing sheâs ever smelled.
You follow her gaze out toward the fence without meaning to.
Ripe. Golden.
Not yours.
You click your tongue and turn away.
"Don't even think about it, Daisy. That corn ain't ours."
Not that the fucking sheep understands a word you're saying, but you can swear that she rolled her eyes behind your back.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
You donât think much of it after that. Just another one of Daisyâs moods. The Lord knows sheâs had plenty.
Your daddy heads out not long after supper, already halfway into his boots while heâs still talking, hopping a little on one foot as he tries to shove the other on properly. Heâs got that look on his face too, like heâs been thinking about this game all day.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him fumble around like heâs in a hurry for once in his life.
"Whereâs your hat?" you ask.
He glances around, pats his head like it might magically be there, then spots it on the table and grabs it. "Right there, see? I knew where it was."
"Mmhm."
He jams it onto his head anyway, a little crooked, and only fixes it when he catches you looking.
"Donât start," he mutters, but thereâs no bite to it.
You let out a quiet snort.
He steps closer then, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of your hair back before leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek, his stubble scratching just enough to be annoying.
"Donât wait up," he says. "Game might run long."
You already know the drill. His poker games always drag well past midnight. Especially if thereâs booze involved.
And thereâs always booze involved.
You nod, half listening, your mind already drifting somewhere else entirely, running through the list of things you might have forgotten to do before coming inside. The chickens... the latch on the coop.. whether that one stubborn hen finally went in or decided to sleep out like sheâs got a death wish.
Meh.
Itâs been a while since youâve had to chase a fox off with a rifle. Could be entertaining.
Your mama doesnât even look up from her chair, too busy picking at something in her lap. "Donât lose too much," she calls out, like sheâs said it a hundred times before.
He laughs, already turning toward the door. "No promises if Joelâs there."
That gets your attention for half a second.
Of course he is.
When isnât he?
You lean your shoulder a little harder into the frame, watching your daddy step out onto the porch, boots thudding against the wood. "Try not to bet anything we actually need this time," you call after him.
He waves you off without turning around. "That was one time."
"One time too many."
You still sometimes bring up the time your dad didnât have enough cash and decided, like an idiot, to bet a few acres of land instead.
And lost. To Joel fucking Miller.
You remember that fight. Hard not to.
Your mama near tore the house down, your daddy swearing up and down heâd win it back next time.
He didn't.
Joel won it fair and square, as everyone kept saying.
The great Joel Miller. God of poker games to your dad. Asshole land thief to your mom. Keeper of Daisyâs latest obsession. And the fantasy of all the girls in town. Maybe even some of the married ladies too, if church gossip is to be believed.
Scandalous.
From what your aunts have told you when they visit, it seems that he's always been the center of attention for women. Even when he was married a long time ago. Even more so when his wife left him.
"You shouldâve seen him back in high school, sugar. Prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on."
"If I hadnât already been promised to your uncle Peter, I wouldâve snatched him up myself."
"Mhm, that manâs always had women trailinâ after him."
"Still does. Donât think he donât notice neither."
"Speakinâ of that⌠whenâre you gonna let someone put a ring on that finger, darlinâ?"
"Lord, you might be the only unmarried gal left 'round here."
"Ainât natural, a pretty thing like you, still runninâ around with no husband."
"I know this real sweet boy over at my church. Works with his hands, good family, donât drink muchâŚ"
"Donât listen to her, that boyâs mama is a nightmare. But sheâs right about one thing. You oughta settle down soon."
"You don't wanna end up like aunt Petunia."
Oh, yeah. Aunt Petunia. Jilted at the altar and never even looked at another man again.
Turned to religion instead. Properly turned, too. Church every Sunday, every Wednesday, and any other day her arthritis doesn't act up. Talks about sin and damnation every chance she gets.
The only unmarried woman in your family. And, naturally, the favorite subject of town gossip.
Somehow, every conversation with these women ends up circling right back to the same thing. A ring on your finger. Preferably sooner rather than later.
And how, at your very grown age, itâs practically a tragedy there isnât one already.
The screen door creaks as you pull it shut behind you, and a second later the truck engine turns over, loud in the quiet of the evening. Headlights sweep across the yard, catching the fence line, the barn, the edge of the field before swinging away as he backs out.
You watch until the red of the taillights disappears down the road.
For a moment, itâs quiet again.
Just the hum of insects, the distant rustle of something in the grass, the kind of stillness that settles in once the dayâs properly done.
You push off the doorframe with a small sigh, stretching your arms over your head until your back cracks.
"Well," you mutter to yourself, "there goes the evening."
Your mama shifts in her chair but still doesnât look up, already halfway to falling asleep where she sits.
You glance between her and the dark window, then out toward where the barn sits just barely visible in the distance.
Everything seems fine.
No foxes, no whining from one particular sheep, no stray chickens running around the coop. Just peace and quiet.
You shrug it off and go to bed.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
If there truly is a hell where people burn at the stake, as your aunt Petunia so often reminds you, then youâre certain their screams sound better than whatever the woolly demon in your barn is making.
Somewhere between a dream and waking, something feels off. Too quiet, then not quiet enough. A sound that doesnât belong, threading its way into your head until you canât ignore it anymore.
You frown, shifting under the covers.
There it is again.
Your eyes snap open. You lie there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, listening.
"That fuckin' sheep's gonna be the death of me," you mutter, already pushing yourself up.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, barely awake, shoving your feet into your slippers while rubbing at your eyes. Your nightgown clings to your skin in the heat, an uncomfortable reminder that sleeping with the window open in the middle of summer was a mistake.
"Mama," you call as you step into the hallway, voice still thick with sleep.
No answer.
You head for your parents' room and push the door open. You're not sure how late it actually is, but your dad's side of the bed is empty.
Probably still out playing poker with Joel and God knows who else.
"Mama, wake up."
She groans, shifting under the covers but not opening her eyes. "What?"
"Daisyâs actin' up. She sounds-" you hesitate, listening for another noise from outside. "She sounds wrong."
"Sheâs fine," your mama mumbles, already turning onto her side. "They do that."
"I donât think sheâs fine."
You stare at her, waiting for her to sit up, to tell you what you're supposed to do.
She doesnât.
Just pulls the covers higher and settles right back in like you didnât just wake her up.
"You know daddy's gonna kill us if somethin' happens to Daisy-"
Snoring. She's fucking snoring.
You let out a slow breath through your nose. "Unbelievable."
Fine.
You turn on your heel and head for the door, trying to reach for your boots in the dark hallway.
The night air hits you warm and heavy as soon as you step outside, thick with dust that makes you cough. You donât hesitate, heading straight for the barn, boots kicking up stray pebbles with every step.
Halfway there, you stop short, squinting into the dark.
"Shit."
You turn back toward the porch, grabbing the old flashlight hanging by the door, thumping it once against your palm until the beam flickers to life.
"Better not die on me now," you mutter, already heading back out.
Another strained sound reaches you before you even get the door open.
"Yeah, yeah, Iâm coming," you mutter, pushing inside.
You hook the flashlight between your shoulder and cheek for a second, fumbling along the wall until your fingers find the old oil lamp.
"Hold on, hold on..."
It takes a second. Longer than it should. Your hands arenât as steady as youâd like.
The wick finally catches, flame flickering weak at first before steadying, casting a warm, uneven glow across the barn.
Shadows stretch and shift along the walls, softer than the harsh electric light but no less unsettling.
You grab the lamp, turning back toward her.
Daisyâs pacing.
Or trying to.
She takes a few stiff, uneven steps, then stops, shifting her weight like she doesnât know where to put it. Her sides heave, and when she sees you, she lets out another one of those low, strained sounds that twists something in your chest.
Daisy tenses, and the flame trembles with the motion, throwing her shape into something uneven and sharp for a second before settling again.
"Alright," you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else. "Easy."
Your shadow moves when you do, stretching long across the straw, then snapping back in as you lean closer.
"Hey- hey, easy," you say, moving toward her slower this time, hands out.
"Yeah... yeah, thatâs it. Calm down," you say quietly.
The barn feels too quiet otherwise.
Too still outside of her breathing, the soft rustle of straw, the occasional creak of wood shifting somewhere above.
Daisy sways again, a strained sound leaving her as she tries to settle. Her sides rise and fall too fast, breath uneven, and for once she doesnât look at you like sheâs about to take your knee out.
"Don't you dare bite me now, girl," you murmur, crouching down beside her.
She just looks tired.
As close as you were to turning her into lamb chops just a few hours ago, the sight does something unpleasant to your conscious.
"Okay," you say, more to yourself than her. "Okay, Iâve seen this. I know this."
You havenât. Not really.
Not like this. Not alone.
Youâve helped once when your cousin gave birth, but youâre certain itâs a whole different thing when itâs a sheep.
You reach out anyway, resting a hand against her side, feeling the tension there, the way her muscles tighten under your palm. The lamplight flickers with the movement, soft and uneven, catching on your hands and the curve of her body.
"Easy," you murmur. "Câmon, girl."
She lets out another sound, sharper this time, and you wince. "Yeah, I know. I know."
You glance back toward the open barn door for a second, half expecting your mama to suddenly appear, maybe your daddy too, like this is something you donât have to handle by yourself.
Nothing.
Just the dark yard and the sound of insects humming like nothingâs wrong.
"Great," you mutter. "Love that for me."
Daisy shifts again, and this time she goes down, legs folding under her awkwardly before she settles into the straw. She doesnât stay still long, though, moving, adjusting, like she canât get comfortable no matter what she does.
"Alright, alright," you say quickly, moving with her. "Thatâs fine. Thatâs⌠thatâs normal, I think."
You drag a hand over your face, trying to remember anything your daddy ever said about this that you actually paid attention to.
Youâve never been one to love the countryside life, even though you were born into it. Always wanting more, always planning on leaving as soon as you could.
Maybe thatâs why you pushed back every time your family tried to marry you off to some farmer.
Is it so wrong to want more? Is it so wrong that you donât want to end up like the other women in your town?
They all seem to think so.
Another strained sound from Daisy pulls your focus right back.
You lean in a little, squinting. "Okay. Okay, I see it."
Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like talking softer might make it easier.
"Yeah, yeah, thatâs it," you say quickly. "Youâre fine. Youâre fine."
You donât know if she is.
But saying it feels necessary.
Time stretches after that.
You lose track of it somewhere between talking to her like she understands you and trying to keep your hands steady when things get messy.
It takes longer than you expect, longer than youâre comfortable with. You second guess yourself more than once, wondering if you shouldâve dragged your mama out of bed anyway or waited for your daddy to get back home.
But somehow, you managed on your own.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
You didn't think the most evil creature in all of Texas was able to create such a delicate little thing.
Daisy shifts beside you, low and restless now that the worst of it is over. The lamb presses close to her side, unsteady but trying to stand on its legs.
You push yourself up slowly, joints stiff, brushing straw off your nightgown without really thinking about it. Your legs feel heavy when you stand, boots scraping through the hay as you move closer to the feed.
You scoop some up without thinking, more out of habit than hope, and hold it out toward her.
"Here," you say. "Eat something."
Of course she doesn't listen to you and won't eat anything you're offering. Not the grass, not the hay, won't even drink some water.
She might've just given birth but she's still a stubborn cunt.
You let out a slow breath through your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. "So what, you gonna starve now?"
She looks past you instead. Towards the open barn door. You follow her gaze before you can stop yourself.
Out beyond the yard, past the shining creek and the fence line where dark fields stretch out under the night sky.
And there it is. Corn.
Joel's corn.
You close your eyes for a second.
"No," you say immediately.
Daisy shifts forward like she didnât hear you, nudging the back of your leg with her head.
You open your eyes again. "Absolutely not."
Behind you, the lamb lets out a small sound, pressing closer to her side.
If she doesn't eat, then her baby doesn't eat.
Darn it.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Since when does a sheep tell you what to do?
Daddy would get angry if he found out that his precious baby gave birth and didn't have anything to eat.
Stupidest reasoning you've ever concocted.
But you've done worse than steal from your neighbor's cornfield. Much worse, if you're being honest. And with no reasoning at all, so does it really matter now?
You find a weak point faster than you should.
Of course you do.
One of the fence posts leans just enough, wire sagging where time and weather have already done half the work for you. You step closer, testing it with your hands first. The wood shifts slightly under your grip, old and tired.
You plant your boot on the lower wire, gripping the post with one hand while the other keeps the flashlight angled awkwardly between your fingers. The wood digs into your fingers as you haul yourself up, nightgown catching on the wire for a second before you yank it free.
"Ow, shit," you hiss quietly, not stopping.
You swing one leg over, then the other, balancing there for a breathless second at the top.
Then you lower yourself down on the other side, boots hitting the ground with a soft, uneven thud. Your knees bend to take the weight, and the flashlight jerks hard in your hand, beam skittering across the rows of corn before you steady it again.
Your boots sink slightly into the softer ground beyond the yard, grass brushing your legs as you move faster than you probably should. The flashlight beam cuts a narrow path ahead of you, bouncing with every step, catching on fence posts and patches of uneven earth.
The corn moves slightly in the night wind, tall and dark around you, swallowing the edges of the light.
One step in and the world changes. The fence is gone behind you, the barn somewhere farther than it should feel, and all thatâs left is rows of tall stalks shifting softly in the wind.
You lift the flashlight, sweeping it ahead.
Light catches on leaves, gold-green and sharp at the edges, throwing shadows that move when you move. It feels like the field is watching you back, which is ridiculous, but so is everything else about tonight.
The stalks brush your arms as you push through them, dry leaves scratching at your skin, whispering every time you pass. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud, so you focus on the light instead.
You shift the flashlight, biting down on it so it rests between your teeth, freeing your hands. The beam tilts upwards now, illuminating more sky than ground, but it is enough. Just enough to see where your fingers are going.
"There," you mumble around it.
You reach out, grabbing one of the stalks.
It is thicker than you expect, rough under your palm. You pull a few ears free, stuffing them quickly into the crook of your arm before moving to the next. The corn husks crinkle loudly in your hands, every sound feeling bigger out here than it should.
"This is ridiculous," you mutter again, voice muffled.
The flashlight slips slightly between your teeth as you speak, and you tighten your jaw to hold it steady. Somewhere behind you, the field shifts with the wind, corn bending and straightening like it is breathing.
You hear a crunch of boots through dry stalks that is not yours.
You freeze so fast your whole body locks up, flashlight still clenched between your teeth, corn pressed tight against your chest.
Then light cuts through the rows.
A second beam.
Please let it not be Joel, please let it not be Joel, please-
Well, of course it's Joel. It's his goddamn field, isn't it?
You shift slightly, like moving will somehow make you less visible, but the moment you do, the corn in your arms slips. One ear hits the ground. Then another. The whole bundle follows in a soft, humiliating cascade of thuds and rustling husks.
"Shit-" you whisper around the flashlight.
The second beam adjusts immediately.
Now it finds your face properly.
You blink against it, raising a hand to shield your eyes, corn scattered all around your boots like evidence you cannot undo.
When your vision finally adjusts to the light, you see that it's not only a flashlight pointed at your face, but a rifle too.
Could this night get any more shitty than it already is?
You take the flashlight out of your mouth slowly, like that might somehow make this less embarrassing, and swallow.
"What the fuck are you doin'? Get that thing outta my face."
The light doesnât move.
"What am I doin'?" comes the reply, calm as anything. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night? I coulda shot ya."
What are you supposed to do? Thank him for not killing you?
You stare at him through your lashes, irritation rising quicker than any common sense you should have right now.
"Weren't you supposed to be out playing poker?"
A beat passes where neither of you really moves. The flashlight is still pointed at you, though it dips slightly now, enough that you can actually see him instead of just being blinded by it.
He looks down first, then past you, then at the ground like he is trying to understand what he is looking at. It takes him a second too long to say anything, which already makes this worse.
"Fuckin' thief," he says finally, like he is still processing it. Then his eyes come back to you. "What would your daddy say if he found out about what you're doin'?"
"Heâs not gonna find out," you say quickly.
Joel lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he has already heard enough.
"The hell he is," he mutters.
Before you can react, he steps forward, closing the distance in two long strides. His free hand wraps around your arm, not rough but not giving you much of a choice either. Close like this you can see the rifle in his other hand clearly, a reminder that you should probably behave.
"Hey-" you start, pulling back instinctively.
"Come on," he says, already turning you with him. "Youâre gonna tell him yourself what kinda thievin' kid he raised under his roof."
You stumble a step before catching your balance, forced into motion as he guides you back the way you came. The corn brushes against you again, louder now that you are not sneaking, the flashlight beam jerking in your hand as you try to keep up without tripping over uneven ground.
"The corn wasn't even for me, it was for Daisy-"
"Daisy?"
Yeah, playing the sheep card, that's totally gonna work.
"Yeah," you say, a little too defensive now, "My sheep."
He keeps walking, doesnât slow, doesnât let go of your arm.
"You broke into my field for a sheep," he says.
"I didnât break in," you shoot back. "And she just gave birth, for your information."
Not that he cares.
You reach the edge of the field, the fence coming back into view, and he finally slows. His grip loosens just enough that you can pull away. You yank your arm free, taking a few steps back.
"Daddy ain't even home," you add. "Thought he was out playin' poker with you."
"I didnât go tonight," he says.
You frown. "What?"
A little late to find out that he was home the entire time. Maybe if you knew from the start you wouldn't have snuck in his field.
You cross your arms anyway. "Well, he went. So heâs not here. Which means thereâs no reason for you to be dragginâ me back like Iâm five."
He looks at you for a second, then says, "You've always had such a mouth on you, sweetheart."
You donât answer him right away. That alone makes it worse, because now itâs just quiet. Too quiet.
What if he does tell your dad that you snuck on his property and tried to steal from him?
Then you'd be fucked.
The thought sits heavy in your chest longer than you want it to. Not enough to scare you straight, but enough to make you stop talking for a second.
Wait, what the fuck is that?
A sound cuts through the corn behind you. Growling..?
The rustling comes harder now, closer, moving through the rows in a way that doesnât sound like wind.
Something bursts through the edge of the corn a second later, low to the ground, fast enough that your brain doesnât fully register it at first.
Then it does.
Fucking fox. Probably on its way to kill your chickens.
You step back too quickly, boots catching on uneven dirt and broken stalks. Your heel slips, your balance goes before you can fix it.
"Shit-"
It happens fast. One second youâre upright, the next youâre going down hard into the dirt and scattered corn. The flashlight flies from your grip, beam jerking across the ground, cutting through stalks before it drops out completely. The batteries mustâve come loose.
For a second, everything is just noise. Your own breathing, the rustle of the corn, your heartbeat too loud in your ears.
A shot is fired. The loud noise startles you even more than it did the fox who crawled under the fence and ran off.
You donât move right away. Youâre still half on your side in the dirt, one hand braced under you, the other feeling blindly for the flashlight.
You donât even acknowledge Joel until his rifle lands on the dirt beside you, smoke still curling from the barrel. Not long after, his flashlight is thrown down too, the beam angled uselessly into the ground.
The light spills forward, cutting across the dirt and broken corn stalks, making it harder to see him properly when you turn your head. Just shape and shadow now. Close enough that you know heâs there.
Youâre still on your hands and knees, trying to get your footing back, palms pressed into the dirt while you push yourself up a little at a time. The ground shifts slightly under you as you move, uneven and stubborn.
Then a thought flashes through your mind, an undeniably bad one.
If trespassing and stealing werenât good enough reasons to get you reported to your father, you were about to give him something truly worth reporting.
You give him another look over your shoulder, even though you can't really see him you can tell he's kneeling or crouching behind you.
Perfect.
That was it. You snap your heel backward and upward, swinging your leg around in a pass meant to land squarely between Joelâs legs.
That's for scaring the shit out of you with that rifle of his.
Your aim isn't at its best in the pitch-black night, but what you lacked in precision you made up for in force, your foot drove in hard where you assumed his groin was.
From the way your heel drove into him and the sound that tore out of his throat, you figured youâd landed it well enough. But when you turned your head again, you saw his silhouette clutching his stomach.
A little lower next time, maybe.
You figure that this is a pretty good time to run away, so you try to sit upright and bolt straight for the fence.
But you don't get far. Something clamps around you ankle dragging you right back. You lose your balance mid trying to stand up and fall straight to your face.
What you don't expect is a sudden retaliatory strike.
You feel his hand gripping a fistful of your nightgown, hauling it up until you can feel a gentle breeze grazing the skin of your hips.
A sharp, abrupt slap lands against the curve of your ass. Your mouth drops open in shock. You barely have time to react before another hit snaps across your cheek.
"Fuckin' hell.. your daddy should've done this to ya a long time ago, sweetie," he muses through his teeth.
It's not the first time you're being told that you need a good ol' spanking. You never actually got one, so maybe that's why you're so shocked to feel Joel, out of all people, do it.
"Spoiled little thing, ain't ya..? Thinkin' everything should go your way.."
Sounds familiar?
Maybe you and Daisy aren't that different after all.
You let out a short, breathless laugh despite yourself, more annoyed than intimidated and lift your ass up in the air, wiggling your hips at him.
He lets out a low grunt and moves in closer, clearly unamused by your teasing. The air around you thickens with the soft scent of worn leather, dry hay, and fresh wood shavings, all layered with the salty tang of skin thatâs spent the whole day beneath the sun.
Well, this is clearly one strange way to convince him not to tell your father what you've done tonight.
Your teeth clamp down so hard you almost bite clean through your lower lip, trying to hold back a reaction you can't quite control. The night around you feels even tighter somehow, the cornfield pressing in on all sides, the rustle of dry stalks shifting with every faint movement.
Then something shifts behind you and a new sensation cuts through everything. Warmth presses against you, sudden and intrusive, and you go completely still for a heartbeat, your thoughts stalling in the dark as a finger pushes your underwear to the side.
For a moment, you stay frozen, caught in the pitch-black field while the corn rustles around you and the silence stretches tight and uneasy.
He teases you lightly with the tips of his fingers, hovering at your entrance. A sharp, consuming need coils through you, tightening your thighs as you respond instinctively, your body betraying you and deepening the slick warmth that gathers against his hand.
Then, without much warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. The sensation pulls a sharp sound from you, your fingers burying into the dirt underneath you.
A mix of intensity and emotion overwhelms you, so strong it stings behind your eyes. You tremble as your body responds to him, sensitivity heightening everything he does. When he adds another finger, itâs slower this time and you gasp at the stretch and pressure, your breath catching as he works you carefully.
"Gonna hurt a little, baby," he murmurs behind you.
Your gaze is fixed forward, at the rifle laying on the ground next to you, at the flashlight that does absolutely nothing to help you see the man behind you. You almost extend an arm to grab it, but you stop yourself when Joel's hand leaves your cunt. You sigh at the loss, arching your back into him.
You hear the faint clink of his belt buckle, followed by the soft scrape of his zipper coming down. A moment later, thereâs the rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans down.
His hands slide around your back, holding you close as he draws you in. His pelvis is flush against yours, what you assume is his cock heavy against your thigh.
A sudden rush of emotion and intensity floods through you, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose and unfocused, leaving your mind suspended.
You feel the cold press of his belt against the back of your leg, the nudge of his cock between your thighs, hands groping over your hips, squeezing the soft flesh in his rough palms.
The head of his cock grazes your swollen clit, going up to nudge itself at your entrance. Then something warm and sticky lands between your folds.
"Did you just fuckin' spit on me?"
His cock slaps against your moist folds with a squelching sound, making you clench around nothing.
"Language, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth.
You should recoil from his touch and tell him that spitting is fucking gross, but before you can protest further he smears it up your slit. He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise, vision blurring further into the dark as he slams into you.
There is an ache as he pushes in, a stinging sensation that dulls with the warmth and pressure of him settling heavily inside you. Spreading you apart in his hands, he spits yet again, the glob of saliva landing at the base where he's buried to the hilt inside you.
"So fuckinâ tight, sweetie," he says. He reaches around to rub your puffy nub, a move that makes your entire body shiver.
Joel moves his other palm up your back, finding purchase in the braid resting on your back, tugging it until your back arches even more. He lets a low groan escape out of his throat while he rocks his hips back and forth.
For a moment he withdraws, gripping your hair even tighter, then he drives his cock to nestle inside your cunt again. The circles on your clit and harsh movements may as well set your whole body on fire.
You are filled to your limit, overwhelmed by heat and slick need, your body trembling as each sharp thrust draws another helpless sound from your throat. Already worn down, overstimulated, and desperate, youâre barely a second away from begging him to slow down.
A sharp slap echoes as your bodies meet, the sound punctuating the moment, and a muffled whimper slips past your clenched teeth as the sensation of your climax crests and pulls you under.
You let out a soft, broken sound, your back arching even as you instinctively pull away, caught between retreat and need. Your body wavers, unsure whether to escape the overwhelming sensation or press closer, chasing it instead.
Your fluttering walls push him over the edge. You feel him twitching inside you before he pulls out, his release spilling across the curve of your lower back.
The sound hits you both at the same time.
That low, familiar rumble of your daddy's truck engine rolling up the dirt road. You turn your head and there they are, behind Joel and the crooked fence, the headlights cutting across the yard like a warning.
You shove forward, scrambling out from under him, hands slipping in the dirt as you try to push yourself upright. Your nightgown is still bunched up, hair half pulled loose, breath uneven as you drag the fabric back down your legs, fingers clumsy, not working fast enough.
If Joel didnât shoot you tonight, your daddy sure as hell will if he sees you like this.
