pairing - joel miller x female reader
warnings - infidelity, jealousy, angst, unpleasant!joel, pinv, oral, more warnings on specific acts
ratings - 18+
SUMMARY: watching joel be with someone other than you has you reeling, what happens when you wear down the stoic man's loyalty?
or
don't let your girlfriend stop you from finding your wife
series playlist - by the wonderful @lovers-liability
act i - vertigo
(a tense confrontation with joel leaves you wanting more. you manipulate your way into joel's s/o patrol, and get the exact reaction you wanted.)
act ii - there's been a glitch
(joel doesn't want to acknowledge what happened. when he does acknowledge it, you don't like his decision. maybe you need to get over this. or maybe you need to show him you're something worth missing.)
intermission - you're scared of love, well, aren't we all?
19th hour - (you're scared of love, well, aren't we all?) JOEL POV
act iii - grey november
(you and joel speak about what you saw, and you’ve decided you need time. needing time being you running and hiding from joel every chance you get. that is…until he catches you at thanksgiving. can you forgive him for what you think he’s done? joel sure hopes so.)
Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 3. I Was a Child Once, I'm Not Any Longer
Series Masterlist ; Part 1. ; Part 2.
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Slow Burn; Soft!Dom Joel; Sexual Inexperience; Small booby worship; FLUIDS — like lot’s of fluids forreal omg; Tummy Bulge; Heat Sex; Knotting; Biting; Mating; Blood Mention; Loss of Virginity; Squirting; Pussy Slapping; Breeding Kink; Size Difference; Size Kink; Power Dynamics; Creampie; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Older and Experience Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap
A/N: It's raining here right now and feels really like a perfect morning to post this, I hope you like it.
Word Count: 12.4K
Read on AO3
Tip Jar
3. I Was a Child Once, I'm Not Any Longer
When you make your way into the kitchen a while later – he’d left you with clear instructions of bathroom and teeth, thinking to give you some privacy to adjust to yourself once again after what you’d done together this morning – you’re nothing more than a little omegan mess. Hair a birds nest, his too big t-shirt sliding over one naked shoulder, and worst of all, almost bringing him to his goddamn knees, in the bright morning light shining in through the big bay windows, he can see the glossy mess of your slick smeared all down and along your pretty thighs, almost reaching your knees.
Jesus fuck, but he’s in trouble. His teeth hurt, his gut aches, his cock – a mind of its own. It’s all starting, and he’s afraid and unprepared and too desperate to put into words. He wants it all now, he realizes, despite his fear, he can’t help himself but want it all.
You step into the room primly, nose turning up in the air to sniff curiously at the smell of what he’s making you for breakfast, and when your eyes swing around the room to him, shy. Shy as if you’re remembering your modesty only after you’d let him finger your cunt and slicked his cock. The look makes him want to be gentle, a thing he often is not. And when his eyes move further down, something goes soft and shy within him as well: two of his too big socks, mismatched and sagging around your ankles.
There’s something about you that’s impeccably vulnerable and honest, something he needs to guard fiercely.
He blinks away, looking back at the cooking sausages he’s got sizzling in the pan. No one had ever cared for you before, not in any real and true way, and he’d received you here with nothing but promises of more uncaring gestures, threats to send you packing. The wrong foot indeed. He’s such an asshole. And he’d not seen to his responsibility properly last night, hadn’t made sure you’d had a rich and filling dinner, left you in bed alone and cold and without him, entirely unequipped for this little life that had suddenly been placed in his hands. But you’d also scared him last night, out on the cliff, more scared than he’d been at the simple notion of you, that of losing you, like with the letter, the bidding pool and the threat of you being given away, there was something wrongly terrifying about it all, the sudden possibility of you not being with him. Scared into want, into wakefulness, perhaps.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches you tip toe into the living room, making your slow exploration around, to the big window where you pause to watch the outside world for a long moment, palm splayed against the glass as if you could reach out and touch it all, pluck the world into the cup of your hand. Then to the fireplace, bending in half to peer into the hearth and watch the flames pop, the sofa next, where he’d brought out another stack of blankets. You’d start nesting soon, and he needs to make sure you have the things you’ll want.
He watches as you bring the corner of one of the quilts to your nose, smelling the scent of him that lingers there, rubbing it against your face, and then moving to the stack of his sweaters he’d left beside, you bend to bury your face in the soft, worn wool. His heart thumps and thumps and thumps within him. You pull one blanket first, laying it before the warm hearth in the spot of rug he’d cleared for just this. And then another and another, some pillows on either side, sweaters tucked and stuffed between, starting to build your nest. He’s hard, knot tight and hot and ready, and he has to take a few steadying breaths, force himself to look away and pull the biscuits he’d made from the oven, flipping the gas on the stove off and pulling the eggs and sausages from the heat, grabbing the bowl of oatmeal he’d readied for you as he moves towards the bar.
“I made you some oatmeal, c’mere,” he calls, voice graveled with strangling want, but he appreciates the look of bright curiosity you swing his way. He’s coming to realize he finds everything about you, everything you do, devastatingly arousing, even just a simple look, the shift of your jaw. He pulses beneath his jeans as you approach, remembering the leak of your cunt against the throb of his cock from earlier and wanting more of it already.
He hoists you onto the bar stool when you reach him, he’d draped a folded throw over the hard curve so you’d have something soft to sit your sore little cunt on, and turning you to face him, he slots you between his spread thighs on his own stool, close as he can get you. You stretch towards the spread of food, and give a little sniff, scrunching your nose at him in distaste.
“Don’t gimme that face. Look, whatever you want–” He shows you the eggs and sausages and the oatmeal. He’d wanted to give you options. “I put honey and milk and cinnamon in it. Berries–” He pulls the bowl of blackberries closer. “You’re gonna be a good girl and eat all of it, and I’m gonna sit here and watch you do just that. C’mon, sweet thing, do as I say.” You look at him suspiciously, but with those words, as if your obedience were a foregone conclusion when he asks the right way, you start to eat. Slow little kitten licks and sips from the spoon of honey milked oats, and he has to force himself to turn and not burn you with the intensity of his gaze, piling his own plate high with biscuits and gravy and eggs and sausages, gut roiling with hunger not for food, he forces himself to eat, one palm still gripped at the back of your stool right up against your ass. He needs to feel you, to keep you close, it’s all starting now.
“Do you eat meat?” He asks, taking a bite of the savory and fatty sausage. You scrunch your nose again, nothing but wide eyes and a bout of sweet timidity now that your greedy cunt had gotten what it needed. “No? You wanna try?” You shake your head no, shrug that bare and tempting shoulder, end on a nod, leaning forward to take a small nibble of the meat from his own fork. Plush blossom mouth opening to slick itself against the metal where his own mouth had just been – his cock leaks. You chew slowly, thinking, come back for more. He pulls you even closer, tugging the stool loudly against the hardwood floor, feeding you from his own plate and hand, watching the shift of your jaw, the bright of your eyes as you enjoy all the food he’s made just for you, until his plate is clear, and he’s so fucking hard he feels faint – all the blood that’s supposed to be in his brain pooling at his groin.
He could feed you forever. He will.
Picking at the blackberries now, carefully choosing the fattest and shiniest one first, he presents it to you, watching your eyes shift from the berry to his eyes back and forth until you finally decide to humor him, plucking at his wrist with two tiny fingers, only a quarter of him in your grasp to pull him towards you, and opening your mouth so that he can place it on the dip of your tongue. Your mouth purses around it, they're sweet and tangy this time of year, and your nose scrunches again at the sour zing, and you’re so– he can’t help himself. Joel feels like a fucking animal, wholly himself. He yanks you towards him, up into his lap, head wrenched back and fucking eats at you, licking into you, tasting the fruit on your tongue, swallowing it down his own throat along with your spit. It’s disgusting only because it’s not enough, only because he wants more. And you– you respond to him immediately, little warbling song of a different sort of hunger in your throat, hitching higher in his lap, pressing closer, tugging and clawing at him.
He feels insane. He feels insane.
It’s a difficult thing to want so much, to be so confronted by the depth of your desire, your nature, to hold it within the palm of your hand as he is now.
You climb over him, moving to straddle his lap, to rub that needy cunt over his lap, ravenous huffs as you push and pull him this way and that, kissing his face, his ears, his neck, smelling his hair. He has to plant his bare feet wide, steadying himself to hold the two of you upright as you lose control a little bit. It’s almost time, it’s so near.
He lets you do as you need, grinding against him, marking him with your scent; your inexperience obvious in your desperation. For the life of him, he can’t fathom what his excuse is.
His hands slide over your knees, “Look’t what you’ve done,” he tuts, passing a ghosting thumb over the skinned little cap, adventure wound from last night, up your thighs, beneath the hem of the t-shrit, no fucking panties, fuck, his fingers slip against your slick covered thighs to grip the meat of your ass, slippery, pulling your ass cheeks apart to feel all that glorious wet sliding everywhere. He needs to calm down, but he pulls you tight against the pulse of his cock, grinds and grinds and pants up into your own open mouth.
You’re staring down at him now, wide eyed, and your frantic movements slow, hands on either side of his face, fingers clutching at the curls that wrap around his ears. He slides one hand lower to cup your sex, the smooth and bare little palm-full of it, the other sliding up your back, over your shoulder and down your arm to grip and squeeze your wrist tight, your eyes flash, and then he moves to cup your little tit, pinching and twisting the soft puffiness of your nipple, smiling up at your little gasp, and tucks the tip of his index finger inside of you, just a crook of the first knuckle, just to feel you tremble around him. You gasp, oh, and he wants to tie you up in strings and play with you, make you whatever he wants at that moment. Yeah? Just like that? He whispers up at you, and he wants you to give him so many things and everything, and suddenly, the possibilities of him are endless, so much potential to be born from you. He wants to fuck you full and breed you and keep you forever, and he feels insane and finally soothed.
It’s the rut starting, he knows, and it should be considered a cruelty to want something so much, but you only feel like a gift.
You sigh a shaky little exhale that makes his stomach clench with how sweet it sounds, lashes fluttering shut at the feel of him breaching you just this little bit. He bends his head to bite at your nipple over the worn cotton of his shirt, keeping his eyes on yours, on the shocked look you’re wearing. He gives one sharp tug with his mouth, and then shoots back up to press one more swift, hard kiss to your open mouth. When he pulls his finger from your leaking hole, he gives your pussy a gentle pat, right on the clit.
“We gotta calm down,” he says slow, can hear the sticky splash of your cunt against his patting fingers. You nod your head, but shift your hips side to side, trying to find friction. “Told you we gotta time it right – take our time. Didn’t I?” But his hand provokes you still, looking up at you with all the wonder of a man coming across something he’d searched for all his life and yet, at the final moment of discovery, is still shocked.
“You need to eat too,” you say shyly, fingers still twined around his ears, one single tip laid flat against his right gland, applying soft pressure, pulling away, tapping twice, applying pressure again. Your shared want in a clicking language.
You slide off his lap, back to your own stool, but keep your knees hooked over one of his own thighs, two little feet pressed against the other, fingers still shifting in his hair, petting him while he piles his plate again and digs in. You touch him everywhere you can reach, tugging on his ears, hand smoothing over the muscles in his arms, poking the soft of his belly, gripping his jaw on either side to count his chews, and then palm cupping his throat to feel his swallows.
He feels suddenly, desperately impatient for the heat to start in full, to spread you wide on the ground and fuck into your slicked, open cunt, to pump it full of his semen and tie you to him with his knot. To own you in a way that only the thing you are and the thing he is would allow.
You stare at him intently, focused concentration, like you’re reading his mind, brows furrowed and chin tipped.
“Can I help you?” He crooks a brow at you.
You shake your head, staring him down, chin to sternum. “No– You eat so much.”
“M’hungry,” he mumbles around a forkful of eggs, desperate to fill that hollow concaved feeling in his gut he knows is ravenous for something other than just food. But you nod solemnly, as if it were a thing of the utmost importance.
“I understand,” you say very seriously, still nodding.
He swallows, tipping his head to look at you. And he realizes you’re right, in the obvious way of all such designated things, that you do understand him, and perhaps, for reasons other than just that mere designation. And on the tail end of that realization, another: he feels suddenly, starkly, like a victim. A victim in the same way you were, are, would have been, would no longer be. That same white box, that same perilous ledge, both of you trapped between precarious truth and free will. Both of you the same, and sitting here, side by side, now free, as well. Even despite your ties to each other. Of course you understand each other, you’re the same.
“How ‘bout we go down to the beach?” And your eyes go bright as that glowing comet, immediately throwing your arms around his neck and taking a bite at his ear, excited as a puppy.
Oh, please, please, please, yes. Yes, let’s go, you squeal and strangle him, almost rip his hair out of his head, but it feels good. It makes him feel real.
-
He’d dressed you in too many stupid, stifling layers, buttoned to the chin. Long thermals beneath your jeans, a sweater, a large puffer jacket, two pairs of socks, ridiculous, scarf wrapped around your throat you’re sure he’d use as a leash to stop you from galloping so far ahead of him across the wet sand if you gave him the chance.
You want to run naked and reckless and free down the cold, battered shoreline.
Everything is gray, everything is dark and cold and wet and so very unlike you. But you feel like it all allowed you to shed that blanket of shyness you’d donned at breakfast, after the kiss. All this: vast and endless and huge in a way you’ll never be. It makes you feel, for some reason, very steadfast in your smallness. Like, look how large the world is, look how unending, look how the sea crashes and prepares to strangle anything that would fall into it. What does it matter, my size in the world, my significance, when faced with all this? I might as well just be.
You turn back to look at where he meanders slowly in the imprinted path of your bootprints, laughter in your throat you can’t help, holding the pail he’d brought down for you to collect treasures out of the sand. The sky is angry, and from this distance, lashed by the wind as he is, he looks as small as you feel. This is comforting; the two of you are the same.
You are the same.
Standing still, you wait patiently for him to reach you, rolling the laugh like a stone over the surface of your tongue, enjoying the hurt of the saltspray, the biting wind that penetrates all the layers he’d insisted on. Soon there’ll be no part of you left unpierced.
And when he finally reaches you, he pauses but two steps away, and God, he has eyes like mirrors, staring down at you from his great height, and silently puts the pail out for you to drop the new additions for your hoard, a sparkling shard of blue green sea glass, a two halved clamshell, the inside: a star hued lavender, cream and silver glow. Surely what the flesh of a dream must look like were it to come alive.
Your thoughts turn suddenly, you spit the laugh out into the world and watch as it jars him, remembering how you’d read once, in all the many things you’d read in your many years of not life, that when a chest is split open during a traumatic emergency, that the procedure of splitting both halves of the sternum and ribs is called a clamshell thoracotomy. The process allows for access to both sides of the thoracic cavity – full exposure.
And you can’t, for the life of you, explain why the thought comes into your mind now, staring at that little purple dream as you watch it fall from your sand wet fingertips into the pail he holds poised for you, but you’re sure that whatever the connection might be, it lies only with the idea that you’re prepared for him to do the same to you, that you’re ready for anything when it comes to him. A splitting, a keeping – what more could be done to a creature used to only half measures? Half life, not life, half omega – not mated, full omega – mated. The intricacies of it all no longer matter, only the yes or no.
“Will you still send me away?” He’d said he’d changed his mind, but you still ask anyways, voice sliding over the screaming of the sea, throwing him off kilter. You want to hear the words. It’ll storm soon, the waves tell of this by the way they throw themselves against the sea stacks. Poor things, you think, nothing but beaten.
But you’re not like that. Let him say what he will, you feel buoyant and helpless and completely uncaring.
And he’s very silent for a long moment, chewing on the possible rejection that you’ll spit right back at him if need be. But then: “Don’t you want your own life?” He asks, and his tone makes you pause, the look in his eyes makes you pause for the fear in it all, for the trepidation it’s made up of. You tilt your head at him this way and that, inspecting him very closely, reading him for all he’s worth. You wonder if he realizes how transparent he’s suddenly become to you. All his hurts, faults, strengths, nature, revealed to you with one question.
Choice.
He’s asking you what you want.
“Can’t I make a life here with you?” You counter.
“Wouldn’t you like to see the world as only yourself?”
Further clarity – the marrow of all he is: afraid.
You go very soft on the inside, all you are in light of all he is. “I already am myself, Joel.” The sea lashes and howls, his name off your tongue does the same. “Can’t you understand that? This is me, this is what I am.”
He frowns so darkly at that, “I do understand, but I–”
And you step to him, reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, size dwarfing you, fear not: “No. You don’t. But it’s okay, I’m going to show you,” and you turn to continue your path along the water, secure in your certainty now that he’ll follow regardless of anything else.
Joel wants you to have choices. You’d failed to realize this before, you’d seen only his withholding.
He moves alongside you after a while, after you’ve allowed him a moment of consideration, idling patiently while you dig through the sand, crouching down to hunt for shells and rocks and glass, fingers wriggling deep beneath the freezing cold sand to feel the burn of it. And after a distance longer, and with much bravery, you clasp two of his too big fingers in your sand crusted fist and hold his hand as you walk together, gently leading him down the path you choose, and he’s so grumpy, and you can’t help but be endeared.
“I think that's the end of the world out there,” you say, pointing to that stopping point where your eyes won’t go any further.
He looks out at the sea, eyes stopping as far as the world allows, swings back to your face. And you clutch at his arm, pressing your cheek against his bicep, taking in his scent which has deepened and swelled and grown a body within the last hours – the musked cardamom of him – staring out at all that immensity, personification of all you feel for him, this want that is violent and grown teeth, that exists as nature exists. This want that, yes, perhaps you did not choose, but is still what you want, is still what’s right.
“The sea is so beautiful, and I’m so happy to be here.” No, you don’t want to go out and find another life. You want to find life here.
You already have.
When you turn your face up to his again, he’s staring down at you with that strange look from before, but changed now too. Devouring. No one has ever looked at you like this, and you don’t think anyone else besides him ever will. It’s only him, you see, with eyes like mirrors that reflect back your shared sameness.
“Is that what you came out here for? To find the end of the world? To hide?” You don’t care if you shouldn't ask, you don’t care about any of the things you shouldn’t do, only about what you want in this moment here and now.
Selfish, selfish, selfish. Yes.
“What does it matter?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “But it does.” It means everything.
He doesn’t respond, only more of that unfathomable look. You don’t care about this either, let him have his silence like a weapon or a punishment.
“How old are you?” You ask now, realizing that no one had ever told you, that you’d never even cared to ask – bad of you. But not that it would have mattered or made a difference.
“Too old. Old enough to be your father.” And this makes you angry, sparking angry. Your father – you’d had a father. A stranger father, but still yours. Joel is not that. So, this is anger like Leo’s. Anger at his offhandedness, anger at your own want, despite his words that sit like rust over your skin, anger at the violence of your own want.
You fight to swallow it, roll your eyes at him. Insist: “How old?”
“Forty eight.” And he says it like an admission of guilt, which you snort at blithely.
You flash two held up fingers at him twice, mouthing the words, twenty two.
His gaze is sad again, and you rub his arm gently, soothing. “I know.”
And yes, you think, he surely knows so much, but not everything. “I’m not anything else but what I am, you know? What I want to be.”
“Too young–”
You ignore him, voice insistent, “And neither are you.” You turn to face him full on now, taking two steps away so you’re not forced to crane your neck up at him, he cants towards you as if he can’t bear the distance. Nature: he surges toward it hungrily, and just as quickly, surges away. The wind buffets his scent against you, washes you in it. “You can’t make me any of these things you’d thought I’d be. I’m only what I am, and you’re only what you are. Whatever the rest of it is you want to force, or the world wants to force, or the white box says I should be– I don't give a fig for any of that.” You swipe your hand in a cutting gesture through the salted air, and he looks like he might smile first, lands on a flinch instead. “I am not ornamental, Joel.”
And he flinches again, jarred by his name, but then seems to remember himself, to be reminded of himself by the sound of it, and musters his strength, tightens his seams and says, “‘Nd I’m not here for you to impose yourself on. I’m going to make my own choices.”
“So will I,” you say slowly, and you suddenly want to cry. “So do I. This,” you, “Is my choice because I’m also an omega.” You suck in a tremulous breath. That truth, like a sea between the two of you. You’d thought he’d seen, understood, that he wouldn't have touched you as he had this morning, as no one else ever had, if he didn’t understand the gravity of that. “And if I’m not scared of that, you shouldn't be either.”
He swallows once, twice, devastated mask in place. He looks so forlorn, bearing a weight beyond his years on his shoulders. He turns out to face the water and asks it, “But what about what I want?” Not what he needs.
You close the two steps of distance, pressing against his side, circling his thick wrist in both of your hands, feeling the weight and strength of the bone beneath fevered skin. His sweater is thick, cable knit, soft and worn, a tiny fray at the edge of the sleeve, and a deep navy color, layered over a blue green flannel. No jacket again, he’d donned the colors of the sea instead, but you know now that he isn’t cold. It’s almost time.
You’d felt so shy after this morning, as you’d walked out to face him in the light of day, sat in his lap and kissed him, newly made, newly minted. Now, you feel as if you know everything you could ever need to know about everything there is to know about you and him.
“What about what you want? What do you want? Tell me,” you beg. “Say it out loud so we can both hear the truth of it no matter what it costs you.”
“Sweetheart, please,” he begs for mercy, looking down at you again, standing within the confines of your shackle, something further than devastation on his face now. Something like shedding years against your will, going back in time, stepping within a vehicle that would take you to the worst of it all, that point at the end of the world which he already stands on.
The two of you feel, very much, like two unexploded bombs, existing with great care beside each other.
The highs of his cheekbones and the tip of his nose are cold reddened, wind lashed, curls damp from the spray of the waves, burning with that dogged nature he fights and fights and fights. And he’s such a part of the world, standing here like this, tall and broad and vital. You want to be like that too, you think, large in a changing way. And he’s strong, strong in a way other creatures aren’t, strong in a way you aren’t.
But weak in others.
You release his wrist, forgo the shackle, remain in place. There’s a desperate plea coming from either of you, which though, you’re not entirely sure.
And then suddenly, and you can’t even be sure from where it comes from because really, if you’re the most honest you can be, you know nothing of this thing. “Have you ever been in love?”
He goes so still that the sea seems to grow more violent in comparison, an offset to his freeze. “Yes. I have.”
“Will you–” swallow your fear, be the brave girl, “Will you ever love me?” You must ask. There’s no other recourse for you in this, you want all of it or nothing.
He bends to you suddenly, getting right in your face, cold nose to cold nose, teeth bared, animal. “I am selfish and jealous and cruel. And I will keep you in a strangle. Do you understand that? Can you even understand what it’ll mean to belong to me? To belong to a thing like this? Yes, I will love you.” So then there’s nothing else to care about. He spins away from you, paces, paces, “I’ve– I… fuck–” fights the dog fight – you wonder how long he’s waged it for, maybe his whole life – turns back to face you, and there’s the look of a boy now too, like Leo, lost and angry and faced with what he is in an insurmountable, unwinnable way. We are what we are, truth impossible to ignore.
And then finally, fight lost, his face does a funny thing, a strange fracture and decision happening across the canvas of it, all at once. “I used to be a father. I used to have a daughter,” he tells you.
Entirely unexpected. Entirely terrifying. “Used to?” You take an urgent step toward him, use an urgent tone, the memory of your aunt and of would-be parents flashes in your mind. You don’t want him to say what you know he’s about to say. “Where is she?” You aren’t so naive.
“Sarah,” and he says her name with so much love. “She died.”
You shake your head no, tears swept away with the wind, freezing salted on your lashes. “No,” you say again, louder.
“When the outbreak happened – in the confusion. We were attacked ‘cause of what I was,” and he shakes his head once, hard and fast as if trying to jostle the confusion out of his mind, or perhaps knock it back into coherence, “Am,” voice limp at the end.
And then he’s the one coming to you, taking you up into his hold, cradling you more gently than the world could ever imagine a thing like him capable of. He finally understands what you are, you can feel it in the way he holds you. “Oh, no, Joel,” you cry into his neck, hugging him to yourself, pulling his head down to rest on your shoulder. “Oh, no. Oh, no.” Your poor alpha. Your poor alpha, he’d been so alone, so hurt and so afraid, and you realize now that you’ll have to be strong for the both of you, that you need to help him in ways only you can, that you need to be strong when he can't. And there’s only sameness here, of the most important sort. Both of you together, equal. When one could not, the other would.
It’s obvious the way all truths are.
“If I care for another thing…”
“I understand,” you tell him. It’s obvious the way all truths are: he’s afraid.
You kiss his face, cup his ears to warm them, bring one of his too big, rough hands to your mouth, pressing your lips to his knuckles, letting him know you’re here now to protect him in the ways he’d never been and had always needed and would never want for again.
-
He pulls you against himself in a hurt lock, tight enough he lifts you straight off your feet, face buried in your hair, teeth at your neck, biting hard enough you let out a bay of hurt. He can’t explain it, but there is so much care in the words you choose to wield against him, so much wisdom despite the innocent naivety, a clarity about the way you see him and all the rest of the world that sends him into such existential vertigo, makes him want to take a bite out of you so that he might swallow some of that innocence, some of that wisdom down for himself. An honesty about you that gives him no choice but to choose that which he knows he’s always wanted but has never let himself need.
“I understand,” you’re whispering, letting him savage your throat as he needs. “But everything is going to be okay now–” a moan of pain, “–that we have each other, don’t you see that? We’ll take care of each other.”
He digs his teeth deeper at the fine tendon in your neck, and then slides his tongue up and over your gland, tasting the leak of pheromones there. It’s time now, he can feel it pulse and beat, glowing bright within you. He had been stupid and carelessly blind. He’d been a liar. “I see now – I see. It’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t cry. I’m alright now.” But you wrap your arms around his head, comfort and cradle him, and he has to have you with a desperation that brandishes teeth and boils.
He shoves you back by your hips, keeping his grip on you steady, and turns to push you back down the beach the way in which you’d come. “Home. Now.” But you push back against him, rubbing your ass against the heft of his cock, presenting him with that cunt that belongs to him.
“No. Here.” It’s a demand, you have an instinct for this.
“Absolutely not,” but he’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise anyways, grinding against you, tension vibrating his too big body, as if he were actually considering it, taking you here and now.
Please.
“You’d let me knot you right here on the beach with the whole ocean and God watchin’?”
“Yes. Yes, I don’t care.” You try and turn in his arms, head craning back, hungry mouth seeking his own lips.
The insanity of the fever. Now, omega, he rumbles, and there’s no mistake in the burr of his tone, his nature on display, loud and clear – an alpha ordering his omega back to her nest so that he might have her there. He shoves you forward gently, setting you on your way, and picks up your pail full of treasures to stalk after his own. He takes in the sparkle of seaspray like gems in your hair as he follows, the shiver of your frame beneath the too many ridiculous layers he’d forced you into, the stumbling of your feet as you turn back to spy him hunting after you. There’s wet on your face, and he doesn’t know if it’s the salt of your tears or the salt of the sea, and he wonders if when he drags his tongue across it he’ll be able to tell the difference. He’s sure he will.
Your scent like a leash leads him, stronger and fuller and warm enough to burn. His gut is tight and aching, cock so hard he feels he can barely stand up straight. He’s sure he can smell the pouring of your slick from your finally readied cunt, the bloom of it obvious in the air around you, juniper berries everywhere – something warmer, spiced vanilla, earth. It’s so good he wants to swallow it down like liquid, drink from your well.
He follows and follows, and if you weren’t already at the end of the world, he’d follow you there too. Up the stone steps etched into the cliffside, the steep incline sending you to huff and puff in strain. He’d feed you more, make you strong, feed you his cock and fill your belly with his come like honey. His breaths are bullish, bursting out in white clouds of steam, his neck hot and damp, skin boiling beneath his clothes.
You keep turning back nervously, your left hand stretching back as if to reach for him, and then speeding up again in agitation, going as fast as your much shorter legs can take you compared to his. But he measures himself, lets you get there in your own moment, and eventually, he’s pushing open the cabin’s front door and shoving you inside, forgetting to measure his strength, lost in his delirium as he is, so that you’re stumbling, being snapped back like a rubber band with his fist wrapped in the back of your jacket.
He rips it down your arms, uncoils the scarf, pulls the sweater over your head, hair a mess, all disoriented and malleable, and yanks you back and into his chest, heaving you up into his arms so that he can clamp his teeth at your throat again, laving his tongue over your gland, slicking you in his spit, sucking hard at the patch of skin, the burst of flavor on his tongue now, bubbling, carbonated almost, so strong his knees buckle and his cock is surely leaking a stream of precum down his leg. So fucking sweet, he’s growling, murmuring like a madman, grinding his erection into the lush of your ass, fingers sneaking under your shirt to squeeze hard and tight at your little tits. Your belly is a ball of embering fire, like you’d swallowed a comet, and he presses down on it gently, hand low on your pelvis over where your little womb is, this place he’s about to fuck full of his spend.
“The way you smell – your scent – I’ll go fucking crazy, I swear I will.” His voice sounds not his – coming from some source outside of his body, ringing hollowly in his head empty of everything else except you.
It’s started, it’s started, it’s started.
You’re full of glorious heat, and he soothes at the soft swell of your belly with gentle circles, hand sliding down to cup the little palm-full of your cunt, rubbing back and forth over your jeans, and then goes to his knees behind you, pawing at the button, ripping them down your legs along with the leggings he’d forced you into beneath them, panties and all; the popping of seams – his or the clothes he can’t be sure. He traps you in the tangle, leaving them around your ankles, boots still on and takes a too sharp, too aggressive bite of your ass cheek, leaving teeth marks, leaving Joel marks, enjoys the sound of your baying that ends on a shocked little squeak, a little ah, ah, ah. He grips your asscheeks too tightly and spreads them wide, watching the delicious little wink of your holes provoking him, and licks the broad flat of his tongue from cunt to asshole, finally, fucking finally tasting you.
He’s entirely lost to his madness from that moment forward.
He licks your ass again, again, pushes you forward to deepen the arch of your spine to eat at you better, and you mewl, whine, Joel, I’ll fall, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Fall,” he tells you, “I’ll catch you.” But he spins you in his hands, fast and stumbling, trapped as you are, to face him on his knees before you as he is, as he should be, and you’re so small, morsel sized, perfect for swallowing whole, and open mouthed, he inhales at the mound of your cunt, tongue swiping out to find your clit swollen already.
You smell like nothing he can describe, too delicious to allow him the choice of clear thought. He pulls you down to the ground, rips your boots and pants the rest of the way off, and right there on the floor by the front door, he spreads your legs wide and eats your cunt.
Eats it.
Nothing gentle or restrained about it as he probably should, this being your first time a man licks your pussy, small and innocent as it is, he fucks his tongue inside your shaky hole, sucks hard and sharp on yor clit, your first orgasm, sensitive as you are, trembling through you already. More, more, more, he wants more. He hunches over you like the beast he is, tiny thing, pulls you up, palm cupping your bottom, one knee knocking against his ear, the other leg splayed wide, sliding down his arm, so he can suck, suck, lick at your clit, a gentle kiss as a prize for taking it so well, and then his tongue is back into your cunt to taste the river of slick you’re spilling just for him. Your flavor, so musk heavy, sweet and thick like honey; he feels full and set to burst, no more hollow pit. And he wants more, to gorge and gorge like a glutton. You come again, a splash against his tongue, so wet you’re slipping and sliding in his grip. He can hear your high pitched cries and whines, your Joel, Joel, Joel’s he shushes, soothes with his tongue, little kiss to your little clit that pulses against his mouth.
“Y’taste so fuckin’ good, baby.” He lets you down, crawling over you, pushing your shirt up to get at your tits, sucking and biting hard enough to hurt. He wants you to feel it all for days after the heat’s over, to leave marks, to make sure he’s left in your skin forever. Forcing your jaw wide, he slicks his tongue along yours, feeds you the taste of your own cunt, salty, sweet, his, and you take it so well, half limp and yet still clinging to him weakly, two orgasms forced on your virgin pussy back to back.
He scoops you up, belly to belly, spider limbs around his neck and waist, grabby hands yanking at his hair like you’re angry he’s not put you on his knot yet. His knees pop, his back aches something fierce as he heaves the two of you up, muscles in his thighs bulging to support you – he’s fucking old – and walks you over to your nest, setting you down on your back, spreading your knees wide, cunt ripe and blooming, so red, a wound of all the world says you’re meant to be.
Slicking his thumb over the soaked curve of it there’s a sticky string of omega drool that leaves him connected to you when he pulls back. He presses again at your swollen clit, thinks he can almost see the pulse of your rushing blood beat here at your spread cunt, slides down to the tiny winking hole and circles his finger there, giving you the slightest pressure, pressing in a tiny bit, up again to tease your clit.
“I’m gonna fuck this soft little hole until it’s so full of my come I don’t fit inside no more. Would you like that, sweet baby?” He asks so gently, don’t spook the fawn, don’t spook the beast.
Your eyes are fevered, face covered in a shine of sweat, your belly glows with heat, and you nod slowly, little smile playing tricks with him whispering across your face. His hands slide up, circle your waist, squeeze and squeeze and squeeze as if he could watch you burst, witness all that heat explode like a comet, then further up to your chest, two big hands covering two little tits.
“You’re so pretty, little omega.” And you preen, you glow, suffused with such vulnerable, honest pleasure. Joel has to be so careful, he has to be so good for you. He will be. You circle one of his wrists, tender little hand, fingers of vapor, he has to be so good for you, he has to be so careful. Again, remember, remember. He bends to press a soft kiss to the pretty tip of each nipple.
“They’re too small,” you whisper in an even smaller voice.
“No. No, baby, no.” He presses another kiss, drags his teeth over a peak, sucks on the other, switching back and forth. “They’re fucking perfect, so pretty and so soft. I love them– I’m fuckin’ obsessed with you.” He opens his jaw wide and takes the whole soft mound of it into his mouth, sucking on the whole thing of it. He probably shouldn’t say such things, he doesn’t give a fuck. “Look–” he says around the little globe, “Whole thing fits in my mouth.” He bites some more, kisses some more, sucks on them until you’re whining and pushing him away, until they’re sore and stinging and still he doesn't stop. He shows you just how obsessed he is.
He kisses you all over, your belly, your waist, the soft spot beneath your ribs, your thighs, and the pulse between your collarbones. Slow, slow. He has to be slow and gentle and patient for as long as his looming rut allows, he needs to ease you into this. Taking an ankle first in one hand, he presses a kiss to the gland just there on the inside of it, suckles a little, then the other, and watches as your cunt becomes more and more needy and swollen, red as a bloom, until you’re so desperate for it you’re writhing around wantonly in the nest of blankets, almost entirely lost to your fevered delirium, but not just yet, not just yet.
“Will you– will you put your big thing inside me now?” You slur innocently.
And he laughs gently, a tenderness pinching his heart which if he was less lost to himself, he might cry for. “My big thing?”
Oh, please. “Please, I– I think– please, I think I really need it now.” You twist this way and that, pulling the blankets up to your face to hide yourself away.
“Almost, sweetheart. Almost.” But he feeds you two of his fingers then, playing in your slick, the sticky wound of softness, and crooks his fingers to wedge them just inside of you. “Like that– oh, isn’t that nice?” He croons, pressing a little further in, feeling the stretch of you around him. Your eyes go wide and shocked, your back arching in a taught curve, hips opening for him to sink deeper until he’s palm to cunt. He leans over you, watching the place where his hand disappears inside and hooks his fingers, petting at the textured little place at the front of you, so, so sensitive. You keen loudly, a warbled sound that’s all fucking his. His control is so close to snapping.
He pulls his fingers from your cunt suddenly, watches how it shudders while you screech at the loss, looking up to search for him with bleary eyes as he rips his shirt and sweater up over his head, and then he’s pressing his two fingers back inside, thrusting into you a little harder, the splash and slap of your cunt as he fucks in and out of your tight hole. “Perfect little thing that's all mine.” He has nothing but praise for you, his good girl, taking him so well.
He pets and pets at that soft spot, molten heat pouring from your cunt, and when he starts to shake his hand, a little jiggle to knock your next orgasm loose inside of you, you give it up so, so nicely. Pussy going tight as a fucking fist, strangling his fingers, and then spilling loose and soaked, flooding his hand. When the contractions of your little womb have abated he stuffs a third finger in, forgoes some of that gentleness, and pressing a hand low on your pelvis, he shakes his hand hard and fast inside of you. “Want’cha to fuckin’ soak me,” he grits through clenched teeth, head slightly dizzy, slightly faint with want. And with pressure both from the inside and out, you do. Gush of come following your high pitched moan, tears soaking your hairline as much as your pussy just soaked the lap of his jeans. He pulls his fingers from your gaping hole, bends to lick through all that glorious omega slick and swipes his fingers through it from side to side, tapping on your clit harshly, slapping it a little, sucking on it again, fast, fast his fingers from side to side, forcing you into just one more little climax before he lets you rest.
You’re all twisted in the blankets, face turned and buried in the pillows. He crawls up over you, contorted as you are, cunt splayed wide and pulsing, and unbuttons his jeans as he goes, finally, fucking finally letting his raging cock free. It hurts, it needs you so fucking badly, leaving a sloppy trail of drool slicked along the already wet curve of your belly as it drags heavily against you, bobbing obscenely from his open zipper. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and licking up the taste of you, sucking on your gland.
“Please, please now. Please, now,” you keep mumbling into the blankets where you’re hiding. Please, now. Begging for his cock and his knot, so ready to take your first fucking like the perfect omega you are.
“Not yet,” he soothes, petting your hair back from your steaming face, pressing a kiss to your sweaty hairline. Please, you whine high, and he lets his cock rest heavily against the curve of your red cunt, slicking it there, dragging it back and forth, giving you both the weight of what you’ll have so soon. You kick one leg out weakly. “Not yet, it’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart,” he pitches his voice low, soothing, gathers you to himself. “Let’s rest a little. No, no – just for a little bit,” he says over your whines and cries. You cling to him weakly, hips rocking against him. “I know, baby. I know,” he hums, letting you rub your sticky, sore cunt against the wide head of his cock, nothing but a boneless little mass of omega, stuck to him with tears and slick and sweat.
He rolls over with you on top of him, the brand of your cunt enveloping his erection between swollen lips, and his knot is ready to pop, it fucking hurts, his rut is near too. But he can tell you just need a little more time – a few more hours to soften and ripen just that little bit more, to lose yourself a little bit more so that he might fit himself inside of you, his too big body in your too little one.
He gets up eventually, shucking his jeans, and getting a glass of water to force you to take, and leaves the large, cold glass near for when you’ll need it again with all the slick you’re producing. So much that it runs down your thighs, slides up your back and all over him and the blankets and everywhere; everything sticky and heady with your scent. This is, he thinks, right before he succumbs to sleep too, head and balls throbbing from not having come yet, the most singular way an omega claims ownership over an alpha. That scent like a shackle that would keep them together at all times, that scent that after long enough, is impossible to be without. He buries his face in your hair and breathes deep, letting your smell move through him like a tangible thing, a kaleidoscope through his mind until he finally falls asleep.
-
Your hips move in a slow rocking swing over his belly, slicking the curve of it, making the hair covering him here clump sticky and soaked in this stuff that will not stop coming out of you. There’s so much, and you feel so empty, your head, your head is full of nothing but heat and bubbles and a throb that glows, and you don’t know why, but– oh, finally, he’s waking up. Yes, yes, alpha, wake up now.
He shifts and rumbles deep in his chest, and you feel his big thing poke you in the butt; it’s so heavy and so thick and it smells so good. You’d sniffed it, and you’d tasted it a little too when you’d first woken up, but you need to make sure to remember to taste it more later again because it had been so yummy, and long too. You can’t understand how it’ll fit, but you’re sure you’ll make it somehow. And it has a funny soft bit of skin at the end, and thick veins that pulse under the warm, incredible softness that covers it.
His left arm stretches out and over his head, he’s thick here too, big muscles under his skin that’s so burning hot it hurts to touch and feels good all at the same time. He has a dark vein that runs from his shoulder over the bulging muscle, and you’d tasted that too, then pressed your face into his hairy armpit to sniff him there also; gone all drunk and light headed at the scent. You rock harder; the little nub at the front of your cunt – it belongs to him – it hurts and it’s swollen and when you press your fingers to it, it has a little tiny heartbeat that you’re sure beats to the sound of his name, Joel, alpha, Joel, alpha, and everything is so, so hot.
You whine that sound you know he likes, the one that you know provokes him, rubbing your slippery cunt all over his stomach, grinding and sliding against him, trying to make the throb go deep and hard again like he’d made you do with his mouth. And oh, he’s so– he makes you so upset, and you feel big and little all at once, and that stretched soreness of your cunt, it’s all his fault, and the bruising around your nipples too, and he needs to put it inside.
He stretches again, blinks open slowly, long lashes, dimple beside the corner of his mouth, and you dig your nails into the hard muscles of his chest, dragging your blunt edged fingernails down his skin as you slide lower, over his big cock – that’s what it’s called, and you love the sound of the word, think it sounds how you imagine it’ll feel, cock – and try to put it inside, shifting and rolling over it, trying to impale yourself on it. It’s so heavy, and you know the heaviness will make the hurt inside you, the bruised feeling inside you, go away, if only he’d just do it.
You huff at him, cry a little, whine a lot, try and make it go inside again, slipping and sliding in all the slick that won’t stop coming out of you all while he blinks slow and patient at you, a little smile on his face, and he’s so pretty he makes you so, so upset. You bend forward suddenly and bite his nipple hard, yank on the hairs on his chest and thighs. Hard enough to hurt. He grunts, but lets you, only twinning his fingers in your hair tightly, letting you chew on him until you’ve released his skin on your own.
“You upset with me ‘cause I haven’t fucked you yet? You gettin’ impatient with me?” You huff at him. “Think you’re ready, sweet thing?” Oh, please, please, please.
You know that you’ve never been more ready for anything in your entire life.
He rolls you over, spreading you wide to play with your cunt again, and you start crying for real. “It hurts, alpha, please. It hurts, and I glow.'' It's so hot everywhere.
“You’re full in your heat now, baby. Don’t worry – knot’s gonna make you feel all better. You’re gonna be so full.” And his voice is so soft and deep and hard too, all at once. It floats away and it comes back, and he sounds like all the things and all the sounds that can have ever existed in the whole world, and also, just right enough to let you remember, only for a second, very calmly and in a moment of bright clarity, that you’d always known he’d come to fix it all. This is only the last part of that at last.
“My brave girl,” and he pauses a beat above you, between your spread thighs, his cock hanging heavy, tip-slicked between his thighs, giving you a sticky kiss every time it bobs against your tummy. He drags the pad of his thumb at the hollow beneath your eye, catching fallen salt water there, only of desire, not the sad sort, you know the difference so very well by now. And his own eyes, they’re so dark, so full of all that heat that’s so chock full inside you too, but also different, something like cool and serene and full of knowing, full of patience. Eyes like mirrors. The two of you are the same.
He wraps his big hand around his ever bigger cock, and smears the tip against your swollen, needy sex, pressing hard at the aching nub, sliding down and pressing hard at the bruised little hole. You growl an impatient quipping noise at him, but he returns it in kind, deeper, scarier, full of an order to settle.
“We have to go slow,” he says, “It won’t fit just like that.”
But you rock your hips in hitching jerks anyways. “No, I’ll make it fit,” you promise, clawing at his chest to achor yourself, find the right angle, find relief.
He shakes his head, continues to smear and press against you, and then oh, oh, oh, he’s just there, first a big stretch like from the morning, and it hurts, it burns, but not as bad as being without, and you make a sound like you’ve never made before, feeling a feeling you’ve never felt before and had waited your whole life and a year for. Inside, please, please, inside, alpha. He feeds you himself, makes the heat brighter, fans the flames and soothes them all at once, and oh, it really does hurt and feel so good.
He’s panting like a bull above you, sweating and groaning, and the sounds he makes, the sounds he makes, rough and wounded, like you’re wounding him, like you have the power to wound a great thing like him. “Ain’t that so fucking good?” He coos and croons and pets at you, feeds you and feeds you and feeds you. It’s so big and it splits you, cleaves you wide and forces you into the place and thing you’d lived your whole life waiting to be. “Look at my girl,” he’s saying, “Look how well my little girl takes my big cock in her tiny cunt.”
He pushes a little more, touches a thing inside of you that is swollen and bruised and so sensitive, and, “Oh, you’re in my belly,” you gasp when he finally stops pushing in. You cup your hand over your tummy, pressing down. “I can feel you,” there are tears slipping form the corners of your eyes, and your cunt feels so full it’ll burst or swallow him whole or a little of both, “I can feel you from outside.” You press down harder, rub over the bulge of him inside you; a cock in your belly under your palm.
So good, just like that, he’s murmuring and you close your eyes to better listen to the dip and hum of his voice. “I am. I am – gonna fill your little womb. And we’re gonna do it just like this for now,” he starts to move, “Just half so you’ll let me in all the way.”
“There’s so much,” you hitch, breath quivering, chin trembling, tears leaking, cunt leaking even more.
I know, I know, he rubs your belly, soothes you so well, rocks and rocks and rocks, a cock rocking inside of you. He kisses your jaw and your shoulder and your breast, and then changes something, and you finally open your eyes. He touches something so raw inside of you, something that screams and sings and throbs, and there’s something going swollen inside. He’s so beautiful, silver streaked, creased, lines over his forehead, alongside his eyes, his whole life painted in roadmaps and metallic patterns across him. Other places slicked and wet, red and flushed and sun touched, and you make him look like this, and then he presses the swollen thing again, and it bursts. Your cunt flutters, goes so tight it hurts, forces more tears out of your eyes, you claw at him, your body feels not your own, only his. Oh, fuck yes. Good girl. Fucking come for me. For him, for him, for him.
You shiver and shiver, there’s only hot air and the rocking cock in your belly, the heartbeat inside of you everywhere, and when he finally presses once more, finds the end of the world inside you, he’s all the way in, making a sound that you’ll have to force out of him for the rest of forever; a perfect sound. He tugs you up onto his thighs, sits up, belly to belly and heart to heart and glow to glow, and he fucks you like he said he would. Hard. You finally understand what it means. His cock punches the bruised thing that lives inside, that has you keening a wounded sort of noise, clawing at him, mouth searching for his gland, sliding across his clavicle, up his neck until it’s there, swollen and throbbing and it tastes so, so good you can’t help it when you sink your teeth into the softness of it, the salted rust of his blood sliding over your tongue, down your throat and into your belly like a promise. He makes that glorious sound again, and he fucks you so rough it hurts in only the way fucking a man so much larger than you can hurt. He splits your cunt wide and ruts into you like a beast, and you take it because you want it, because you were made for it, because it’s so right. And you suck on the pierced gland, swallow the taste of him and when a pressure worse than what you could have ever imagined starts to swell within your battered and bruised opening, he pulses and pulses and spills inside of you, filling your womb like he’d said he was going to also.
Then there is his knot, finally, within you. “Again, baby. Come on my knot, sweetheart. You’ll feel so much better if you do.” And he’s right, as you shiver into it once more with only his command to prompt you, his knot swollen like a lock, connecting you together, it soothes the bruise and the heat from the inside out. He rips your teeth from his neck by your hair, swallows your protests, tasting his own blood on your tongue as he comes inside of you, fills you with a heat more potent than anything the glow had ever made you feel.
When you fall together like felled weeds, knot tugging gently, mewl falling from your lips, he soothes you so patiently while he continues to spill inside of you, all plugged up as you are, belly set to burst full of semen. He suckles at your nipples, bites and pinches and makes them hurt, and you can do nothing but let him do as he pleases. And you don’t sleep this time, for the throbbing is so strong inside of you, his soft groans sometimes turned to whimpers so wonderful you need to be awake to listen to them forever.
There’s nothing of the not life anymore, there’s only him here with you.
He does sleep though, after a while, or he goes very still and very quiet. His lashes quiver and his eyes move beneath their lids as if he were watching a dream, and his body steams and shudders, but eventually, the knot softens enough that you can shift and wiggle over him, and his eyes flash open, predator gaze zeroing on the little omega trying to leave her trap, he presses a big hand down on your tailbone, grinding your cunt that feels raw and full and bruised and right against his pelvic bone. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” Voice a deep burr.
You give him a shy, appeasing look, nuzzling his belly, his thick pectoral and shift and shimmy up towards his face, feeling the heavy weight of him fall wetly from your bruised sex. It stings and flutters madly, clenching around the too large space he’d made inside you. Shuffling up on your knees, you peck at his chin, his mouth, suck on his lip. And when you look down between the two of you, there’s a puddle of thick white semen slowly drooling from between your legs onto his belly.
You shuffle down now, licking up the mixture of slick and sweat and come, tasting the crease between his thigh and pelvis. You move lower, and resting your head on his thigh, you mouth at his cock, wet and slobbering, pressing a kiss, tasting the flavor of your cunt.
“I feel so lovely,” you sigh dreamily, pressing another kiss.
He groans low, “A little more tongue– there you go. Oh, fuck– omega, that’s so good.” He threads his fingers through your hair. “It’s because you’re full of everything I just gave you. You’ll need more soon.”
You open your mouth wider, try to swallow him down, enjoying how his come slips out of you, making the tops of your thighs, your ankles you’re sitting on, all sticky wet. All mine, you mumble around his thick length, and his answering laugh is so vital, oh, everything really is so wonderful. He tugs you up by the roots of your hair, jaw hanging wide and spit slick so he can stick two big fingers in there and rub at the slimy surface of your tongue, grunts a hungry sound.
-
He pushes you back, hand still fisted in your hair to spread you wide and inspect the wreckage he’d left between your thighs. “Lemme see–” he murmurs. “Look at how red and swollen you are, baby. Little cunt’s all fucked open.” He gently scoops his come back inside, smearing it along your cunt.
Ah– Ah– You protest when he presses his fingers inside to feel the slip of his semen along your walls. Poor, baby, he coos. His cock stirs at your little sounds of hurt, soaked as it is, streaked with come and slick and a little pink tinge of blood. The sight makes him fully hard again. “You did so well, first time taking a knot. It’ll be easier next one.” You writhe and arch as he pets your cunt, spreading your legs wider despite your limp sounds of protest. Head rolling back against the blankets, you grip your tits in both hands and squeeze, whimpering at that too.
When you lift your head to look down at them, lifting the two little handfuls in your palms to take in the sight of your chafed, swollen nipples your eyes go wide. “Look’t what you did to them – they hurt now.” And although he’s sure you intend to sound like you’re cross, the moan you end on, the way you’ve begun to rock your hips, tells of different things.
“My poor girl, lemme kiss ‘em.” He stretches over you, taking your hands away to press a barely there kiss to the tip of each breast. “Poor little tits – poor little pussy too, all split open.” And he bends to kiss your blood tinged cunt, the flavor of lost innocence and come on his lips.
He kisses you again, nibbles on your thighs, and your eyes are hazy, fever full, and you sigh a fluttering sound of oh, “Everything’s so lovely,” you say again. “And you’re so beautiful, alpha. We should eat green apples. I love green apples so much.” Delirious, a little nonsensical.
“We will. We will– whatever you want,” he says, but he’s already mounting you again, wedging his fat cock into your tiny, battered hole, enjoying the sound of your half pleasure, half pained keen. And he doesn’t give you the grace of going slow, the rut is full on now – he fucks you into your nest hard, fucks against your womb until he’s filling it again. Only gentles once when you mumble into his ear, slurred and almost drooling, I want to watch it go in and out of me.
And despite his ferocity, the way he uses and abuses your cunt, he knows you need it from the way you open that little blossom mouth and try to swallow him whole, hungry thing. You yank at his beard and pull on his hair and scratch at his skin, bite his gland again and again, and he shocks himself by being nothing like afraid, nothing like uncertain. No, he only feels settled now. Joel only feels himself.
He realizes that he had always needed this, but now, he wants it too. The distinction is stark and important beyond measure like some sort of primordial state of consciousness. He is only himself, dog fight lost and left victorious for it.
You pass the days of your heat and his rut locked on his swollen knot, a steady stream of his come being pumped into you constantly. There’s no way he hasn’t bred you by now, and it makes something pleased and terrifyingly savage swell within him.
He’s forced to shove an ice pack between your legs on the third day, between bouts on his knot, during a moment of clarity for the both of you while he feeds and waters you. But then later, after he’s given you one of the strawberry cream popsicles he’d made and frozen for you the day before you’d arrived, you sit, swollen cock buried deep, slowly rocking back and forth while he watches with an almost sick sort of rapt fascination as you eat the popsicle in little kitten licks, leaning back on his lap ever so often to bare your cunt to his gaze, slick and split wide, red as the strawberries in your sweet treat.
“How is it?” He doesn’t specify which, the popsicle or the cock rocking inside of you, but you peer at him with the brightest and keenest sort of gaze, a look that tells him all he needs to know about himself, all that you see within him which is everything. You flash him a huge, cheesy grin, all the answer he’s getting, and you’ve got a tiny gap between your two front teeth that he finds so, so endearing, and his answering laugh is so vital, so alive, it’s like he steps into himself again after twelve years of vacancy.
And with that bright light of clarity, a blink, blink, you seem to come fully awake for a moment. “Tell me of the things you like,” you order, taking a large bite of the iced treat and pressing your cold mouth to his, passing the flavor of strawberries onto his tongue.
He takes the moment and tastes it, pulls you close, “I like how the fire plays over your skin,” a palm ghosting down the slope of your naked back to the place where you’re connected. “How it makes shadows and shows me that glow inside.”
And as the fever fades, he switches to handling you with carefulness, gently stroking at your sensitive, come-filled pussy, careful of the stretched soreness of your little hole and the bruising around your nipples. With more awareness you remind him that he’s a big, stupid alpha with a big, stupid knot and that you hurt and want more.
But there’s still time and heat to take advantage of, and on the day he knows will be the last day of this animal lust, he stretches you out flat on your belly, his weight completely over your back, and he fucks you prone and immobilized, caged in by his bulging arms, telling you of how you own him now, how he belongs to you, how he’s going to keep you full and happy forever. “Make me come. Clench – good girl. Again,” he orders, and when his knot swells for what he knows will be the last time of this rut, relishing in the last whispers of your heat filled belly, he sniffs through the curtain of your hair and finding the still swollen gland at the nape of your neck, he slowly sinks his teeth into the vulnerable patch, binding your mating.
-
Dawn peeks over the horizon like a faint suggestion, and you’re married on the cliffside one bitingly cold winter morning, the sea as your witness. Ellie and Dina are there, and they’re your friends now. You have friends, real friends, no more half life, no more half friend.You have friends, and you are important and significant and as vital and alive as Joel is. You’re real, and he helped make you so, yes, but really, you always had been.
You wear flowers in your hair and a dress the color of the sky, and he has mirrors in his eyes, and the two of you are the same. Equal and only yourselves, and you love each other more than anything in only a very true way, nothing soft about it.
When you know you’ll have a baby, he swallows your fear and your worry, marks your gland again as a reminder of all he is, all you are. And when you ask, for you can’t not share with him, “Will they come one day, to check if we did what we were supposed to? To see if we had a baby?”
He tells you, “Yes, they might,” very solemnly.
“What if–” a difficult thing to say out loud, now that you understand the thing you are and the way of the world so well, now that he’s shown you all there is to be shown, “What if they’re an omega like me – will they take them?” Give them their own white box and a not life to be nurtured by instead of a mother.
But like all obvious things, he shares with you, always, only truths. “Never.” And the look in his eyes is so serious, eyes like mirrors, that you know his words are fact. “I’d never let that happen, I swear to you.”
And the glow still comes, and the heat still takes you, but he’s always there now and nature is still an inescapable thing, but the perilous edge is no longer such a danger when you’re protecting each other.
now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.
pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader
summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.
warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :)
DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.
word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)
pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵
December.
The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.
You hate every fucking minute of it.
“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”
You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”
He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –
Never mind.
“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”
“Tommy.”
Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.
His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”
Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.
“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”
Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.
They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.
Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.
A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.
What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.
Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.
She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.
He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.
Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.
Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.
This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.
Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”
Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”
“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”
Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.
“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”
Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”
“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”
You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.
Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.
You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.
Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”
You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”
“What’s yours look like?”
“Mine?”
“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”
You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”
He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”
“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”
Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”
“How am I holding up?”
“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.
You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”
Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”
“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.
Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”
You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”
Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”
Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”
He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”
Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”
A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”
Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”
“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.
Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”
Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”
You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”
“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”
The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.
“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.
He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”
You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”
“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”
“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”
You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.
“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”
“The year,” Joel agrees.
“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”
He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”
“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”
He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”
You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”
“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”
“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.
The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.
And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.
Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.
But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.
Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.
She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.
Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.
“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”
The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.
“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”
Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.
You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.
He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.
Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.
“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.
“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”
“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”
He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”
Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”
Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.
And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –
Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.
Walk me home.
You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.
“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”
Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.
You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.
You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.
A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.
And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.
It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)
No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?
He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.
Are you sure?
I’m sure, kid. Promise.
‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.
He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.
You don’t?
No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?
Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.
But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.
Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.
He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.
And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.
But he didn’t.
Which is fine.
Right?
“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.
Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”
“’n whose fault is that?”
You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”
He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”
A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”
“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”
Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”
Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.
You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.
“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.
He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”
And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”
“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”
“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”
“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.
“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.
“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”
Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.
You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”
Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.
The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”
Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.
The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”
And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”
“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.
The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.
None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.
It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.
But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.
Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.
“You know what I’m craving?”
Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”
“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.
He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”
A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”
The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”
You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”
And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.
So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.
It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.
He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.
Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”
“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”
“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”
She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”
“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”
“…Bolognese.”
He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”
You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”
“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”
But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”
Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”
“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.
“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”
Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.
“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”
Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”
He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.
He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.
“Mhm?”
“Are you okay?”
Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”
“That a lie?”
“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”
He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”
“Is she mad at us?”
Another second. “Just me. Not you.”
You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”
Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”
“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”
“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”
You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”
“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”
Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”
The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.
So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”
Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”
“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”
“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”
“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”
“How about a water?”
“I got some here. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”
You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”
Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.
And I mean anything. OK?
Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–
The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.
Boredom counts as anything, by the way.
And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.
Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.
Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?
You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.
And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.
Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.
Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.
He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.
You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.
You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.
There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.
But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.
Mom.
It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.
Mom. Mom and Dad.
You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.
And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.
“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”
And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.
Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.
Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.
A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.
Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.
Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.
You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.
It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.
Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.
Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?
Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.
Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.
Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?
Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.
Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?
The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.
“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.
Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.
Another moan. Louder. Sharper.
Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.
Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.
Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –
Fuck me, Joel, I’m –
Good girl.
– fuck me.
Atta fuckin’ girl.
She’s good but I do it so much better.
We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.
She’s not as good as me.
Again? Again.
She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.
Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.
“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”
Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.
Let go.
Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.
And then he’s gone.
And you’re just alone in your bedroom.
Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.
Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.
Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.
“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.
“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.
His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.
You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”
He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.
“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”
“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”
“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”
Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”
You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.
You’re trying not to think too much about it.
“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”
Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”
“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.
He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.
“How was dinner?”
“Good,” Joel lies.
“Vanessa okay?”
“Good,” again.
“Sorry.”
Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”
You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”
“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”
“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.
He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.
“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”
“Better.”
You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.
“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”
Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.
Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.
But right then –
There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.
Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.
“Did you – did you feel –?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
“Uhuh. Was that –?”
“I don’t know. Was it?”
He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.
“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”
“Maybe it was just –”
“Wait! Did you feel that?”
A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.
Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”
“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”
“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”
Your head shakes.
When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.
But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”
“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”
You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.
And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.
Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.
“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.
“So fucking weird,” you tell him.
“Does it hurt?”
“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”
Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”
You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”
“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”
You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.
It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.
At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.
“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”
“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”
“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”
You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”
“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”
“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.
“Me ‘n Vanessa.”
“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”
Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”
Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.
“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”
He sighs.
The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.
“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”
The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.
“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.
“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”
He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.
You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”
Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”
You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”
He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”
“Joel.”
He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.
“You have to go.”
He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”
You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”
Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”
He leaves on Saturday morning.
You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.
“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.
And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”
“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”
He scoffs, glancing across the street.
“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”
Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”
“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”
“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”
“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”
“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.
“Hm. Now go.”
His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.
“Joel –”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t –”
“I know.”
But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.
You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.
A one-night stand.
A one-night stand.
A one-night –
He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”
Your arm loosens, letting him go.
Just – letting him go.
Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.
You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.
A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.
You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.
“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”
Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.
You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.
From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.
You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.
You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.
Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”
The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.
“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”
You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.
Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.
Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.
The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.
You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.
And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.
Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.
We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.
Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.
And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.
Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.
And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.
He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.
You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.
“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”
At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.
The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.
“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”
A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.
“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”
Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you.
She'll still come for you.
-OR-
the A/B/O outbreak AU
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink
A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.
Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.
Word Count: 6.3K
Read on AO3
Tip Jar
Genus : Tragedy
To a one Mr. Joel Miller,
500 Sheahan Road
Clallam Bay, WA 98326
United States
We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her.
The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer.
Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature.
Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:
Dear sir,
I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do.
And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear.
At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people.
Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega.
It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates.
Joel had been one of these people.
The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.
It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom.
It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity.
Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand.
Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too.
With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either.
The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit.
He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.
He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite.
Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was.
He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father.
He did not want to be an alpha.
He did not want an omega.
He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures.
The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever.
He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized.
He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately.
That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do.
And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever.
-
“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all.
“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.”
Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby.
White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside.
A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet.
When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are.
He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”
He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want.
He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you.
Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear.
He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence.
Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like.
Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same.
Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched.
He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop.
You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”
He could never have forgotten.
A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?”
He could never have forgotten.
-
The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely.
He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled.
“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting.
“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding.
And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him.
It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older, sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.
After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday.
It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky.
You want to see the sky every single day.
His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him.
You want to know things. You want to know him.
He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement.
You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him.
He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him.
The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet.
He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.
Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for.
“I’m fine,” he says.
You don’t believe him.
He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen.
He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well.
There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long.
He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big.
Joel.
You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations.
He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even.
Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate.
He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness.
“How do you feel?”
“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping.
He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely.
“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”
And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of.
It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.
You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you.
“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.
Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you.
She'll still come for you.
-OR-
the A/B/O outbreak AU
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Knotting; Heat Sex; Mating Rituals; Very Soft Joel; Enthusiastic Consent; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink; Breeding Kink; Brat Taming; Additional Tags to be Added
pairing - joel miller x female reader
word count - 4.1k
warnings - angst, pinv, meanish joel, tommy being a golden retriever, kissing, joel is stupid as always but he redeems himself, also fluffy joel
a/n: hello all! hope you like this chapter! it proved to be difficult, since i hate writing fluff but lowkey it's there. let me know how you like it, and if you have any ideas for what you want to see next..i may or may not heed that advice ;)
SUMMARY: you and joel speak about what you saw, and you've decided you need time. needing time being you running and hiding from joel every chance you get. that is...until he catches you at thanksgiving. can you forgive him for what you think he's done? joel sure hopes so.
previous chapter - series masterlist
series playlist by the wonderful @lovers-liability
"Didn't expect to find you here," Joel muttered, crossing his arms.
You turned off the faucet, swallowing hard before meeting his gaze. "I needed a moment," you replied, your voice steady but laced with unease.
"A moment, huh?" Joel scoffed, his tone cutting through the air.
"Funny how you seem to need a moment every time we're in the same room lately."
You averted your eyes, the memories of your last conversation with Joel resurfacing.
"What are you even doing here, anyway?" Joel continued, his frustration palpable.
"Tommy invited me."
You had fallen for Joel Miller, and now you had to deal with that. You had to deal with the suffering only someone who had power over you could cause. Your body aches as you’ve spent countless nights awake, wondering what this suffering was supposed to mean. Does it make you stronger? Does it thicken your skin? Is suffering always meant to be brushed aside as a means of growth? Suffering has no glorious purpose. It only hurts.
It takes courage to lift your bones from your bed, to face the same pain you’ve been feeling through every simmering sun, and every crested moon. A man can do this to a person? You think to yourself. You want to ask him why, you want to shout at him, and beat at his chest. You want to hug him and kiss him all at the same time. Fall to the feet of the one who broke you and look for the healing you desperately needed. You feel yourself changing as the leaves start to change outside…is it November already? Are we bound to repeat the same cycles until even after the end of times?
Your body on autopilot as you walk to your shower, making sure the heat of the water burns to the touch. You need to boil your skin clean. Need to wash away any piece of skin that he once touched. Scrubbing yourself clean of him physically.
You hear cells take 7 years to regenerate.
Would it take that long to be a body Joel has never known?
—
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across a quiet jackson, you found yourself perched on the edge of your steps. Feeling the cool air hit your cheeks as you try to breathe through your heavy chest. Grappling with a tangle of emotions.
Soft footsteps echoed a few feet from you, your body stilled, and when you lifted your head, there stood Joel, the man who had left a trail of heartache in his wake.
Joel’s eyes reflected a mixture of remorse and determination as he began to speak. The wind seemed to hold its breath as you waited for him to start, too confused and numb to begin to hold the weight of what this conversation meant.
“Hi,” Joel clenched his fists, guilt etched on his face.
You scoffed
“Hey.”
Joel shifted uncomfortably, his gaze unable to meet yours. The air felt charged with tension as you faced Joel, your eyes reflecting the storm within.
“I-I don’t know where to start,”
“Try starting with why the hell you’re at my doorstep. And then end it with you getting the fuck off my doorstep.” your teeth clenched, spitting attitude at Joel.
You began to walk away from him, trying to go back inside. You’re upset. Upset Joel didn’t stay away longer. You needed time to forget this, you needed to tell yourself he wasn’t real. You made him up, and now you’re back to the real world.
Joel stood there, frustration apparent on his face as he tried to reach out to you, who was briskly walking away. Joel grabbed your elbow, pulling you back to him, looking down at you with his eyebrows furrowed,
“Please, just hear me out. I'm trying to apologize."
You glanced up at him, eyes cold, but stopped reluctantly. Pulling your arm from him and crossing them.
"You can't just apologize your way out of this mess."
"I get it, I messed up. But walking away won't solve anything. Can we at least talk about it?"
You sighed, patience wearing thin.
“What is there to say?”, you shook your head in defeat
Joel ran a hand through his disheveled hair, finally not avoiding your gaze.
"I don’t know why she was there. I threw her out as soon as you left." his voice was strained, pleading to you.
A heavy silence settled between you two, until you spoke again, tone cold.
"I need time to think. Leave."
Joel nodded, sighing heavily, and turned to leave. As he reached the bottom step, an unexpected surge of anger consumed him. The weight of his guilt transformed into the Joel who destroys, and he turned back to face you.
"I'm sorry, alright? But you don't get to play the victim here. You have your faults too," he spat.
“Excuse me?” your nostrils flared, eyes flashed with indignation. "My faults?”
You both were about to put on a show for anyone who dared come near you two.
“Don’t act like it’s not normal for her to possibly be in my house. Remember what we did to her. Remember what you asked me for.”
Tears welled in your eyes, not believing what you’re hearing, you raised your hand to Joel, watching his head swing sideways as your palm landed hard across his face.
“Fuck you.”
It happened fast. He rushed your body back into your house, slamming the door shut behind him before he took his place back in your face. Holding both your wrists against the wall behind you, caging you into his body as his nose was practically against yours, looking deeply in your eyes as you’re both panting.
“You were the one that started this.” he picks your wrists up and slams them back against the wall, earning a whimper from you, raising his voice a little louder, “You don’t get to act like a brat when your actions have consequences.”
He lets go of your hands, and you begin to rub them furiously to try and dissipate the pain.
“Listen,” his demeanor is calm again, but you shrivel up against the wall to make yourself as small as possible. Feeling yourself begin to sink to the floor, you remain silent.
You sat on the floor, eyes downcast and silent. The weight of the argument lingered, suffocating the room. Joel took a deep breath, the gravity of his words settling on him like an anchor. He approached you cautiously.
He said your name, his voice low and remorseful, "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."
You remained silent, gaze fixed on your hands. Joel sighed, a mix of frustration and guilt gnawing at him.
“I hate that we're both feeling like this," he pleaded.
You nodded slowly, and he lifted you up from the floor, both of you retreating to a quieter corner of the room, away from the remnants of your argument near your front door.
“I’ve been an asshole. Feels like I've said this all before to you,” he breathes out an airy laugh, you don’t budge.
He noticed your unease, your quiet demeanor signaling a vulnerability he had never intended to expose.
“How ‘bout we take a break from all this.”
You yearned for him even after it all. You desire things patterned to always destroy you in the end.
“Yeah, I-, I don’t think I'm ready to talk about us.” you stuttered out, afraid to make eye contact with him. Afraid if you did all your wishes from early to fall at the feet of the thing responsible for the collapse might come true.
Joel nodded, sucking in a breathe,
“Okay.”
—
There was a warm glow casted over the horse stables as you worked diligently, pitchfork in hand, cleaning out the stalls. The familiar sounds of horses neighing and hooves against straw filled the air. Your focus was on Sparkle, a gentle black mare with a shimmering coat that seemed to live up to her name.
As you worked, the rhythmic scraping of the pitchfork against the straw was interrupted by a light voice behind you. "Hey there! How's it going?"
Turning around, you were met with the smiling face of Maria, one of the many important people on Jacksons committee. "Hey, Maria! Just another day in the stables, you know," you replied, wiping a bit of sweat from your brow.
She leaned against the stall door, eyeing Sparkle with admiration. "Sparkle's looking as beautiful as ever. You really have a way with her."
You grinned, patting Sparkle's side gently. "Yeah, she's a sweetheart. Just needs a little extra care, don't you, girl?"
Maria chuckled, then her expression turned curious. "By the way, I haven't seen you at the bar lately. Everything okay?"
You paused, glancing at the pitchfork in your hand. "Oh, you know, just been here. Busy."
Maria tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Busy, or avoiding the usual crowd?"
You chuckled, feeling a hint of embarrassment. "Maybe a bit of both. Sometimes, I think I'm too old to still be working there."
She nodded, understanding. "Fair enough. But you can't escape the social scene forever, you know. We miss having you around."
You sighed, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "I'll make an appearance soon, I promise. Just got a lot on my plate right now."
"Well, whenever you're ready, we'll be at the bar, waiting for you," Maria said with a friendly wink.
She leaves, and you’re left alone. The chatter is constantly getting old for you, you want to be left to your own devices. You want people to stop caring about where you are, where you’ve been, and where you’re going. You need to be invisible. You need to make yourself something Joel forgets.
You were finishing up your early morning stable duties, and a gentle breeze carried the familiar scent of hay and warm animal fur. You found yourself behind the sturdy door of one of the stalls, placing your tools in a bucket filled with lukewarm water. The horses startle when they hear the opening of stable doors before you, and you froze. Turning quickly to see him.
fuck. Shit.
You duck, hoping he hadn’t caught your eye behind the thin door of the stall.
As Joel approached, you couldn't resist the urge to observe him unnoticed. His confident stride and the set of his jaw spoke of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. You crouched down slightly, peering through a small gap in the door, attempting to stay hidden.
Joel, engrossed in the routine of preparing his horse, seemed to sense your presence. His gaze flickered in your direction, and for a moment, you held your breath. However, his expression remained unreadable, and he continued his tasks as if he hadn't noticed.
The rhythmic sounds of grooming and the soft noises of the horses filled the air. You couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and nervous energy.
After a few moments, Joel finished tending to his horse and turned to leave the stable. As he passed your hiding spot, his eyes met yours for the briefest moment. There was a subtle acknowledgment in his gaze, one of hurt and one of anger.
Joel walked away without a word, and you emerged from your hiding spot, feeling a mix of embarrassment and anguish. If this is how you would now have to live your days in Jackson, you don’t know how much longer you would survive.
—
It’s been 21 days.
The warm aroma of roasted turkey filled the air, and the laughter of friends and miller family fun echoed through the spacious dining room. However, for you, the atmosphere was anything but festive. Being at the miller’s thanksgiving was anything but relaxing.
It’s been 21 days since you’ve had to endure Joel Miller.
You’ve done your best to avoid him, not seeing him at all, wondering if he knew better than to show up. Knowing you had Tommy to protect you, knowing everyone heard what he did to Vanessa, the whole town talked. And Tommy invited everyone to his thanksgiving. Joel would be brave to show his face, but you’ve always known him as anything but someone who’s scared to cause a little bit of trouble.
It’s been 21 days since you’ve been avoiding Joel Miller.
You stopped working at the bar, not for him, but because you knew he’d try and find you there. Knew it wasn’t something you wanted to do long term, and this just gave you an excuse to try something else. Now, you clean the stables bright and early, lucky to also avoid Joel when he picks up his horse every now and again for patrols. Your walks home are filled with a deep set regret for everything. Should you have heard him out? No. You knew better. You knew what kind of man he was, and would continue to be. You fight with yourself on it everyday, and your heart stops as you hear it,
It’s been 21 days since you heard his laugh. You won’t get to call it 22 days, and when you realize it’s him, you don’t look back. Pacing past the living room and to Tommy’s small bathroom. Your eyes bloodshot from too much shitty pinot noir.
—
The sound of the Thanksgiving celebration echoed through the Miller residence, but in the quiet refuge of the bathroom.
You were just splashing some water on your face, attempting to compose yourself amidst the chaos, when the door creaked open, revealing Joel Miller, his eyes narrowing as they met yours in the mirror.
"Didn't expect to find you here," Joel muttered, crossing his arms.
You turned off the faucet, swallowing hard before meeting his gaze. "I needed a moment," you replied, your voice steady but laced with unease.
"A moment, huh?" Joel scoffed, his tone cutting through the air.
"Funny how you seem to need a moment every time we're in the same room lately."
You averted your eyes, the memories of your last conversation with Joel resurfacing. The heated words, the accusations, and the unresolved tension had left a bitter taste that lingered.
"What are you even doing here, anyway?" Joel continued, his frustration palpable.
"Tommy invited me," you said, attempting to keep your voice level. "I'm not here to ruin your family dinner, Joel."
He took a step closer, his gaze intense. "Ruining it? You already did that weeks ago."
You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. "Joel, can we not do this right now? It's Thanksgiving, for God's sake."
"Thanksgiving?" he scoffed again. "A lot to be thankful for, right? Like the way you disappeared without a word."
You clenched your fists, the guilt and frustration mounting. "It wasn't like that, Joel. You know it's complicated."
"Complicated? You think I don't get it?" he snapped, his voice rising. "But that doesn't excuse shutting me out completely."
Silence hung between you like a heavy fog, the distance growing even in the confined space of the bathroom. The distant laughter and chatter from the dinner table seemed a world away.
The two of you stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the distant laughter and music from inside. Joel broke the quiet, his voice softer than before.
"I didn't want things to end like this, you know?" he admitted, running a hand through his hair.
"Me neither," you replied, avoiding eye contact.
Joel's jaw clenched, and he looked away, frustration etched across his face. The distance between you felt insurmountable,
He stepped closer, his hand finding yours. "I've been a jerk, haven't I?" he took his olive branch moment, hoping you would extend a white flag as well.
And in that moment, his dark eyes caught yours, and your heart dropped. You wanted your Joel back, you wanted to collapse and give up whatever game you were playing. You needed him, you wanted him.
It’s been 21 days too long without Joel Miller,
A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Maybe a little."
Joel chuckled, a hint of relief in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let things get this far."
"And I should have communicated better," you admitted, squeezing his hand.
He nodded, a sincerity in his gaze. "Can we start over? Forget the fights and just... be us again?"
You smiled, feeling the weight lifting. "I'd like that."
"So, what now?" Joel asked, a playful glint in his eyes.
You smirked. "Well, I was thinking we could be lovey-dovey in the bathroom."
He laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet room. "Lovey-dovey, huh?"
"Yeah," you teased, "like in the good old days."
Joel tilted his head, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I wouldn’t call what we do in bathrooms lovey-dovey, darlin’.” his hand wraps in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, gently suckling a bruise there,
“But I’ll warn you,” his warm and wet breath spread throughout your neck as he smiles against your skin,
“I think I need to make this filthy mouth of yours beg, and never talk back to me again.”
You hummed in approval, moaning silently, “Impossible.” you teased,
Joel let go of your hair, hands now sliding down your body and giving your hips a bruising grip to remember,
“Always so mouthy, baby girl. Can’t be now with the town downstairs cutting the stuffing,” he bites his bottom lip, quickly swatting at your ass, a loud smack echoing off the walls as you squeal in surprise,
You shot him a quick glance, your usual sarcastic retort momentarily absent. Instead, you shrugged, feigning innocence.
"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" Joel chuckled,
You shot him a mock glare, finally finding your voice. "Very funny, Joel. I can be quiet if I want to."
He raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in his eyes. "Sure, but that requires a well-behaved version of yourself."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing the back of Joel’s head, your hands locked in his hair–
"I can be well-behaved when I want to be."
Joel smirked, pushing your bodies closer. "And do you want to be right now?"
You giggle slightly, nodding your head “no” slowly,
—
You both have to be really, really quiet. Moving from the bathroom into a room that looks alot like..shit. This is Tommy’s bedroom.
“Really..” you squint, not having much time to speak as Joel is already pushing you back onto the queen sized bed behind you,
“Fucking me in your brothers bed?” you smile into the kisses Joel has been smothering you with, sucking your bottom lip as he pulls away from you, lifting his shirt up and off of his toned body.
“Someones gotta get some in here.” he jokes, smirking down at you as he takes his belt off quickly,
Joel goes back to devouring you, pulling your brown dress up to lay at your waist, exposing your clothed cunt to him. His eyes go darker as he pulls your legs apart so easily, sucking in air as he tilts his head to look at you. His permanent scowl plastered on his face as he focused in on your pussy.
“Baby,” he puts one of your legs down as he uses his thumb to rub against where your clit is beneath your underwear. His palm against your mound as he does so.
You moan out, squirming in his grasp, “Joel, I missed you,” you whine,
Joel leaned over, his bulge met your core as he began kissing you against. Both your moans being captured by each other's mouths. Dry humping each other in the process,
Confidence suddenly burst inside of you, holding his shoulders as you pushed your hips up as hard as you could, moving them in circular motion, hearing a small groan escape from Joel’s lips,
“Fuck” he groans in your ear,
“Gonna take this fuckin’ i give you?” he questioned rhetorically, because you didn’t get a say on whether you were taking it or not.
Pushing himself off of you, he now towered over you. Leaving you on your back with your legs spread open,
“Take these off, now” Joel pulled at the top of your panties, snapping them against your skin harshly.
You obeyed quickly, while watching him release himself, a long thick cock hanging out of his pants, warranting a gasp from you, feeling your own juices flow from you, staining the bedding beneath you,
Your reaction seemed to satisfy Joel, who was watching you as if you were prey,
“I want you. I want you right now.” his voice deep, dripping with lust as he walked back to you, grabbing your legs and dragging you to the edge of the bed, hearing you squeak as he did so.
He flipped you over, and your ass was up in the air, your entrance glistening for him, he couldn’t help himself, and that’s when you jumped forward screaming loudly as you felt a stinging sensation on your cunt. Joel’s hand vibrating off of the skin there,
“Not so quiet after all, honey?” he mocked you, rubbing anything that leaked from you back on your clit, you moaned lowly, soon turning it into a loud moan as you felt the thick head of his cock rub against you, teasing your entrance, dipping the tip in, causing you to grip the navy blue sheets beneath you, moving up with each tease.
“Don’t run from me.” he stated gruffly, and you turned to look at him, his wavy locks falling beside his face, his eyes caught yours, winking as he pushed inside of you, stretching you far enough to feel as if your insides were burning. “F-fuckOH” he was enjoying the way your cunt spazzed around him, feeling his cock enlarge even more at the way you pulsed for him,
Joel began thrusting harder, pushing your body forward with every hard snap of his hips, causing you to cry out in pleasure. Your body was on fire, feeling your heart sink as he bottomed out inside of you. With every thrust he tore into you further. Your body invites him in more as you feel yourself drown him with your cum, his cock becoming adjusted to you, taking advantage of every shake and squeeze.
“Joel–, fuck, faster,--” you felt your feet levitate off he ground, him holding your hold bottom half up as he obeyed your request, laughing at your whimpers. Your feet now dangling as he manhandles your body, fucking down into you as he grunts, his balls hitting against your clit and causing you to spasm even harder around him.
“Take it, baby.” his hips snapped harder into you, the room filled with panting and the loud clapping of your skin against his, moaning into the bed as you felt your release coming closer as he reached around you to rub your clit, moaning with you as you began letting go for him, feeling something inside of you begin to snap, you tried grabbing behind you, but he pulled your hand against your back, pushing your body further into the cushion as your pussy convulsed, and you came on him, shaking as he walked you through you orgasm,
“Cum around me just like that.”
“Darlin’ you feel so good, you’re doing so well.”
“Your cunts meant to take it like this.”
Joel’s low voice barely noticed as your ears rang from how hard you had cum. Joel following after shortly,
“Shit. Shit.”
“S–Shit, so, fucking good.” Screaming your name as he produced enough cum to cover your cunt and your ass entirely.
You were panting heavy as he fell on top of you, completely fucked out as his limp dick sat against your back. Joel is still in bliss, moving your hair away from the back of your neck and kissing along it, slightly humming into your glistening skin.
His lips only leave your skin to whisper to you in his daze,
“ s’ gonna be pissed if he finds out what happened here.”
You both laugh at the uncomfortable reality of this. You both will eventually have to get up and face the crowd. But for just a few more moments, you let yourself feel the comfort of being smothered under Joel’s body.
—
It’s been 21 minutes.
The door creaked open, and you and Joel stepped out of the bedroom, both wearing wide grins that couldn't be contained. The sound of Thanksgiving chatter from downstairs seemed muffled in comparison to the joy that radiated between you two.
As you descended the stairs, hand in hand, Tommy looked up from the crowded living room. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight of your shared happiness.
"What's got you two looking so... giddy?" Tommy asked, a curious smile playing on his lips.
Joel chuckled, exchanging a knowing glance with you. "Oh, you know, just enjoying some quiet time away from Bill's stories."
Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's all?"
You couldn't help but giggle, feeling the need to share your newfound joy. "Well, we might've had a little heart-to-heart. It's Thanksgiving, after all."
Tommy's eyes widened, a sly grin forming. "A heart-to-heart, huh?”
Joel laughed, playfully nudging you.
Tommy continued to scrutinize you both, but his teasing demeanor softened. "Well, as long as you're happy." you both smiled at him,
“And as long as it wasn’t in my room.”
You exchanged a glance with Joel, your smiles widening.
Below is a wee little snippet from The Surprise - the upcoming part 3 of my Serial Killer Joel series (Sanity is a Cozy Lie). Warning: It's rated VasF - for Violent as Fuck. Previously posted snippet HERE.
He has one hand clutched at his neck, trying but failing to hold in all of the blood spurting out of his body. His eyes meet yours, wide and panicked, as his blood continues to spray all over the cabinets and the floor. You hear wet gurgles, and the scrabbling of his feet.
He’s kicking his feet slowly, trails in the blood indicating that he’s been attempting to get up but most likely slipping back down. Bloody, smeared handprints mark the bottom half of the cabinets where he pawed at them. There’s blood spattered on the oven door, sprayed across photos pinned with magnets to the fridge, and pooling on the linoleum floor underneath him.
He’s stopped moving now, his eyes still open but his gaze no longer piercing. You’re still standing in the doorway, mouth agape and staring down at his now-lifeless body. The floor creaks behind you slightly and you turn around slowly.
I did it all for love
I did it, all of this on no drugs
I did all of this sober
Don't you know I did it all for us?
👀😜🔪🩸
2.8k, raider!Joel (dark) x f!reader | Raider Master
SUMMARY: You look hot but get punished for acting up.
WARNINGS: I8+ dubcon unsafe P in V, possessive Joel, creampie, manhandling, angst, joel makes you cry, rough, spanking, choking. He's a bad guy, not a kink practitioner: no rules. He cares, and you enjoy the dique, but you're captive.
A/N: HYPOTHETICAL. In raider canon, this mall may not even exist. Set vaguely in the past. This is for a lingerie ask as well as readers who have requested feral/mad Joel or sweet pea being bad. @javier-penas-wifexx420 @arcanefox207
IMMERSABILITY: Reader has hair that can be held/pulled. Joel can lift reader. Reader has no height/size, so fill in the blanks for whether he has to bend his knees to enter you, etc.
[[[[[[ Hypothetical one shot ]]]]]
Joel lets it slip how close the abandoned mall is, and you can't stop thinking about going there. You want to get something for him. He always brings you things and you never have anything to give him other than food you've foraged and flowers for the trailer. One day, you insist it would be fine with Joel if you go to the mall. You make it sound like you've discussed it. Carter is skeptical, but he feels bad for you. He finally breaks down and agrees to take you.
When you're there, you're walking through the mall and notice Carter's head turn all the way toward a particular storefront as you walk by. You wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. He keeps the same stride, but you slow down to look.
It's a lingerie store. Most of the mannequins are bare or have clothes hanging off them, but there are huge, fading posters with women of all shapes and sizes sporting lace teddies, babydolls, bralettes, strappy garters, and the floor is littered with them.
Carter sighs when he realizes you've stopped at the store.
As he slowly walks back to you, scratching the back of his neck, you ask, “Do you think Joel would like it if I had something from here?” The question feels almost rhetorical, but there's that bit of insecurity, too.
“Uh, I dunno. Sure, I guess.” Carter doesn't seem comfortable. He agrees to let you go in for just a minute to see if you find something, but you have to stay in view. And you think you do. It's a two piece with a sheer, strappy top. The bottom is more modest than a thong, but it has a slit in the crotch that makes you clench your thighs together thinking about Joel.
—-
When you get home, you put it on in the bathroom so you can look at yourself in the mirror. You think it looks good, but it's not a full-length view. And you're not quite sure if it's fitting right. How much tit is supposed to be showing? How tight should it be? You put the flannel back on, but leave it open when you come out. You feel a little more covered than you are, since the nature of the fabric shows a lot.
Carter's sitting at the kitchen table casually shuffling a deck of cards. He looks at you for only a split second before his face hardens, and he abruptly looks away. “Jesus,” he drops the cards on the table, and the chair groans against the floor as he stands up. “The hell are ya doin’?” he awkwardly turns around, pulling up on his pants a little.
“I just wanna know if it looks-”
“--'m sure it looks great,” Carter runs his hands through his hair in distress as he looks out the window. Then, he tightly crosses his arms, and they stretch his sleeves even more. “Now get outta here,” he tells you. He rocks forward onto his toes, then back, waiting for you to leave.
Is he mad? You step further into the kitchen and try to meet his eyes in the reflection.
His voice is stern. “Go put some goddamn clothes on.”
“Sorry, I wasn't–”
“Now.” He means it. You stand there stunned for a moment with your lip quivering. He's never been angry at you before.
“NOW.” He points toward Joel's room, veins bulging on his hand and arm. He doesn't turn around to look at you, but you see the flush from his cheeks creeping onto his neck and ears.
You go to your room and sniffle as you button the flannel. Then you put on a pair of shorts, curl up on the bed, and cry.
–
After a few minutes, there's a soft knock on the bedroom door. “Ya’okay?”
You only sniffle, “I'm sorry,” in response.
Carter sighs. “I shouldn'ta snapped at ya, darlin’. But ya just – can't do that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Shit, you're a pretty girl, okay? But it ain't my business how ya look. . .in somethin’ like that.”
“. . .I know, I wasn't thinking.”
“Now, if you're dressed and wanna play rummy, I’ll deal. . .”
You smile to yourself through your tears.
—--
You dry your eyes and come out to the kitchen, but something in the air is different as you pull out a chair and sit down.
“Carter, please forget it,” you plead and try to get him to look at you. It feels like you broke something.
He finally makes eye contact and forces a little smile. Then he concentrates on the cards as he deals. “Two, two, three, three,” he counts the cards out loud for each of you as he deals. He finishes, and while you're studying the hand you’re dealt, it's quiet. In the corner of your eye, Carter's gaze falls to your now fully-covered chest, but he quickly pulls his eyes away and looks straight down, fidgeting with his cards. You feel awful. What if he can’t look at you the same? It was stupid to try to show him. Of course it would look good to Joel, he likes everything on (and off) you.
______
When Joel gets home, you're in the bedroom alone, sitting on the bed in the lingerie and flannel. As he enters through the kitchen, his boots are heavy on the linoleum. Your heart races with a moment of doubt - how are you going to explain this? But he bursts in the room grumbling, “goddamn Harold, tryin’ to get us all killed.” He takes his shirt off over his back, tosses it to the laundry, and looks at you. He pauses and devours the view for a few seconds before he slowly approaches, chest heaving.
He looms over you as you sit on the bed. He uses both hands to nudge the flannel off your shoulders, and it pools behind you. You take your arms out of it. He grabs a tit and rests his other hand on the nape of your neck, thumb brushing the curve of your skull. His chest lets out a low growl as he feels you. Then his fingers trail up the strap on one shoulder. He plucks it and it snaps against your skin.
Joel’s face darkens as he asks, “Where’d it come from?” When you don’t answer fast enough, his hand traces up your throat. A chill spreads across your chest. His thumb brushes the side of your neck, then slides over to lift your chin and make you look at him. “Where.”
“I wanted to do something you’d like.”
“Where,” he repeats, then clenches his jaw, waiting.
“You said the mall wasn’t far, so–”
He raises his voice. “You went to the mall? Where was Carter?”
“It’s okay, he was there, even found a part for the van in the parking lot.”
Joel’s nostrils flare, and he grips your jaw. “Carter took you to the mall.”
Your eyes water with panic. “No, it wasn’t his idea--”
“To buy somethin’ like this.”
“I wanted to get you something. I didn’t know they had this stuff —”
“He's got no business takin’ ya anywhere. And sure as hell not somewhere sexy.”
You're worried for Carter and grateful he’s not around. “I swore the mall was okay, that you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t know there was somewhere sexy,” your voice trails off.
Joel shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “You don't say what's okay. You don't KNOW what's okay. Get up.”
He forces you to your feet then turns you around.
“I thought you'd like it,” you sniffle. “You always do things for me.”
“He grabs your ass, lifting your butt cheek and lets it drop. He clicks his tongue. “well, I sure don't like how ya got it.”
“I'm sorry”
“Think ya need a reminder who's in charge here.”
“I know,” you sniffle in agreement, sensing what's coming. He sits down on the bed and manhandles you into lying face down over his knees. You feel a twinge of arousal even before he shifts your position and your hip brushes the hard shape in his jeans.
You hold your breath as he brings his hand back, then it lands with a sting and you yelp at the force. You bury your mouth in your arm as he brings his hand back again. He repeats it on the other cheek and you let out a muffled whimper that sounds more aroused than you should be.
“Like bein’ bad?” He asks, then spanks you again.
“No.”
His hand lands with a sting one more time and stays on your skin to grab the plush of your burning skin. “Ya like this?”
“. . .I dunno,” you whimper, unsure of the right answer.
He feels between your legs, his thick finger finding a damp slit in the cotton crotch of the lacy underwear. He slips a finger inside the garment, giving you a shock of need when his knuckle nudges your dripping hole. “Ya do, don't ya? Get up.” He grabs your arm and stands up, forcing you to your feet. He holds your hair and stares you down sternly. “This ain't for fun, baby, it's your safety” He lets go of your hair and looms closer. “Understand?”
You nod and reflexively back up. Something tells you it's not just about your safety.
“AND Carter's. You tryin' to make me hurt’m?” He asks. Joel gets closer and you keep backing up toward the wall.
“No,” you sob. “Please don't. He’s good, so good, he wouldn't even look at me. He respects you so much”
A new rage flashes across Joel's face and he lowers his voice. “He wouldn't . . .even . . .look at ya,” he mutters too calmly for your comfort. He takes a deep breath, looks you up and down again, puts his hand on your chest, fingers spread wide, and walks you harshly into the wall. His bare chest heaves. ”But ya gave him the chance, didn't ya,” Joel nods. You've dug your hole so much deeper.
“I was only thinking about–” Joel’s hand comes to your neck as you croak out, “--you.” You don't know what you were thinking. Joel doesn't either. He slowly shakes his head, nostrils flaring.
He pins you with his hips, and his hard cock digs into your front, making you gush.
“Forget who ya belong to?”
“No,” you whimper. “I’m yours.”
He pulls his hips back and quickly unfastens his pants. You bite your lip to keep from moaning at the sight of his cock. It nudges under the bottom hem of the lingerie top to reach your body. You feel his skin hit your lower belly, and it makes you weak with desire. “Only wanna be yours.”
He kicks your feet apart to spread your legs, and he brings his lips to your hair. “Then ya do what I say. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” you whisper, then he shoves his hand between your legs, using two fingers to spread the slit in the fabric of the crotch.
“‘s’for your own good,” he adds.
He nudges the slit with his cockhead. The fabric doesn’t open wide enough, so he rips the slit more, then you feel his tip at your wet little hole. He holds his cock in line, then grabs your ass and shoves up into you all at once, bottoming out. The force makes your back and shoulders drag up the wall. With your feet now off the ground, your knees bend, cradling his hips. He holds you by your ass, adjusts your weight, and your back is against the wall. You balance your arms around his neck. His thick cock retreats then punches into you again.
He's so thick, each time he pushes in, it feels like he’s taking up your whole body. He’s not looking at you; he’s looking past you. The grip of his fingers hurts enough to feel good, to feel his desperation, how much he has to have you–for him and only him.
He grunts and growls and breathes heavily, stomach heaving against you. “You're mine, sweet pea.”
“I am,” you agree.
“No one else can have ya.” His words get broken with the force of his thrusts into you. “No one else can see ya.”
“I know.”
You moan as he buries his length in you roughly, and he mutters “goddamn,” tightening his grip on your ass. You’re overwhelmed by the fullness of his cock, his skin against yours, his breath in your hair, his body pinning you there. All of it makes your insides swell with mounting pleasure.
“I love being yours,” you pant.
He fucks you in relative silence for about two minutes, the room filled only with the sounds of his brutish grunts and unbridled sighs, your little moans and whimpers, and the squelch of his stiff cock pumping in and out of your dripping cunt.
He adjusts your weight and looks down at your body from time to time, letting your upper back rest against the wall as he rails into you. You’re reassured that he likes the fit, at least. Your legs wrap loosely around him.
The pressure in your lower belly builds with each grunt, each thrust of his cock. Soon, his breath becomes shaky and the drag of his cock quickens. Then he bottoms out sharply with a groan, drawing a sigh from you as he begins to pulse. He thrusts into you slower, more controlled, and you rock slowly against the wall. The rhythmic swell of his shaft within your walls and the warm seed spilling from his tip make you clench around him. You moan his name, tighten your legs, and he sighs as your cunt chokes his cock.
When his balls are empty, he slides out, and the fabric pulls with his cock as he withdraws and lets you down to the floor.
—-
Joel sighs, crams his wet cock into his pants, and fastens them again.
“You okay?” He asks, catching his breath.
“Yeah,” you mutter. “Where are you going?”
“Gonna pay Carter a visit, down at the house.”
“Please, Joel, it was all my fault,” you beg. “Don’t do it.”
“Ain’t gonna kill’m. This time.” You still don’t like the look on his face.
You follow him across the room, reach for his arm, and your fingers land lightly on his inner elbow. He pauses, still without his shirt on, and looks down at your hand on his elbow. He turns around, reads your face, then goes over to the bed without a word. He sits and manspreads. “I was desperate to make you happy,” you plead, fidgeting with the hem of your top.
Joel scrunches his face. “Ya do make me happy, sweet pea.”
“He didn't even wanna take me,” you insist.
“Then he’s gotta learn to say no.”
You hesitantly come closer, unsure if he’ll turn you away, but he lets you between his legs, then you sit on his thigh and keep fidgeting with the hem of your top.
“He says no all the time,” you assure Joel.
“Does he,” Joel mutters skeptically.
“I made it like he would've been saying no to you.”
Joel shakes his head, looking at your mouth. “That ain't right, but he knows better, baby.”
“He yelled at me,” you offer, hoping it doesn't make things worse.
Joel's brow furrows and his tone sharpens. “Ya gotta stop lyin’, now. It's pissin’ me off.”
“I'm not! He was mad.”
“Oh yeah? What'd he yell?”
“Told me to go away and put on some clothes.”
Joel’s chin lifts to look at the ceiling and he takes a deep breath, then looks at you. “What the hell got into ya, huh?”
“I dunno,” you mumble. “Feel like I'm going crazy, stuck here all day.” Joel looks at you. “But you take good care of me,” you clarify, “and I love it here.”
But that’s not what Joel’s thinking about.
“Wanna fuck him? Suck his dick?”
“No!” You're on the verge of tears again. “God, Joel, please don't talk like that.” Your face is scrunched up in pain.
“Then don't act like it.”
“I was–okay, I get it.”
Joel is quiet for a few seconds, then asks, “What if I told ya to suck his dick?”
“No!”
“You'd say no to me?”
“I’d ask if I really have to.”
Joel's face slowly softens, like you found the only acceptable answer. “And why’s that?”
“Cause I only want yours.”
“Hm,” Joel nods.
“Please, Joel. Stay here, don't go to him. . .you can talk to him tomorrow.”
You put your arms around Joel's neck and study his pensive face. Then you bury your head in his neck and whisper “Sorry.” His hand slowly comes to your back. You dip your head and lightly brush your lips against his collar bone, then return your face under his jaw, and he nestles his head over yours. Your wet lashes blink against his skin, and his hand slowly slides on your back. Somehow, it feels like more comfort than you deserve.
“Ok, baby,” he whispers and wraps both arms around you.
----------
if you wanna know whether Carter sees sweet pea that way, check out he's only human.
----------
Their present-day story will continue, but I don't have an ETA, sorry. Unless the next one gets split up, it'll have fluff, two moods of smut, angst.
I appreciate all your comments that let me know what you enjoy and what curiosities you have. Thank you so much for reading, and thanks for your support. Love you all.
Damn, what a year right? As I’m sitting here stuffing my face with Christmas chocolate, I’m thinking about some of the bad stuff, but also all the good things. I joined the fandom at the the beginning of this year and in the middle of that I lost my account and hand to repost everything 😱😭
I know. SHITTY. But!!!! I’m taking some time to thank you all for making this one of the best fandom experiences I’ve had. Thank you for your interactions with cherub. Your love, support, re blogs, comments, all of it. It means the utter world to me and I cannot stress that enough. You are all such wonderful people.
There are loads of you out there who I want to thank but I’m going to stick to a few that have been my rock through the shitstorm of 2023.
First, @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin. Ange. You are one of the kindest most genuine people I know. Being your mutual is an honour. You’re so generous and always there for me to rant and rave or obsess with. For that I cannot be more grateful to you. Your fics are beautiful and so is your mind. The love you show me and cherub is more than I could ever ask for. So thank you. Xx
@chaotic-mystery and @tightjeansjavi I know we don’t talk as much as we used to when I first joined the fandom. But just know I think of you two often. I love love love!!! your work and if I’m having a bad day I always pop back to it to make myself smile. I hope you two are doing better and that the new year shines in your favour.
@planet-marz1 mari!! Where do I even start? Your mari mail makes me giggle every time I see hbo Joel and pixel daddy Joel in a tutu or a tiara, or even as a snail. I’d love them as a worm, and I’d love you as a worm. I’m so excited to see what more you have in store for us with your writing because from what I’ve seen so far you are insanely talented!
@joelslegalwhre Em, you’re so sweet. You really are! And I’m so happy that we’re mutuals. I can’t wait to obsess over more Joel with you and get to know you more too. I love seeing you pop up in my inbox every now and then.
@jenna-ortega OH MY GOD I don’t THINK YOU UNDERSTAND THE VERTIGO BRAINROT I STILL HAVE!!!!! I often re-read it as a bedtime story because the premise of that fic is just chef’s kiss! Can’t wait to read more in the new year of you choose to continue bby
@chloeangelic thank you so much for your kind words on cherub part one and two. It really means the work that you loved it so much. Your reblog made my Christmas. I was giggling and kicking my feet the whole time and read it over and over trying to let it sink in that such a great writer ENJOYED MY WORK!! So thank you again l, sending much love your way, chloe. Mwah!
A few more honourable mentions go out to @swiftispunk @netherfeildren @janaispunk @saradika @morning-star-joy @psychedelic-ink @persephone-girl @walkintotheriveranddisappear @worhols @pedrit0-pascalit0 @morallyinept @cupofjoel @cavillscurls @joelsgreys @joelsflannel @joelscruff @joelsversion @wannab-urs @notjustjavierpena @millerscoffee @beskarandblasters @dilfspitdrinker @bbyanarchist @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @reddedmiller @toxicanonymity @thetriumphantpanda @cool-iguana and so many more for their work and the interactions we’ve shared over the year.
I hope with all my fanfic writer heart that the new year inspires you and shows you love, warmth and happiness. Keep smiling cherubs! Xxxxxx
MY LOVEEE 🥹🥹❤️ thank you so much PLSSS I love your fics you are so freaking talented!!!
Also, I was supposed to have BOTH chapters out by today of vertigo 👀 but I had Covid all week and didn’t write anything just stayed in bed basically comatose 😭 they will be posted veryyyyyyy soon
Content Warnings: Angst; Lemme say it again for those in the back, ANGST; Hurt/Comfort; Din's kinda being an asshole but he's hot and his dick is 10 inches long and he's also sorry; Dark themes from previous chapters continue
A/N: Hello and surprise and I'm sorry. I promise one day *ONE DAY* they will be happy again!!!
Geryon is my favorite figure in Greek mythology :) He is a very special monster to me :)
Rating: Explicit 18+
Word Count: 8.1K
Read on AO3
CHAPTER X : GERYON
Who can a monster blame for being red?
Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red
“We have got to stop meeting like this.”
He’s been pacing back and forth across the hull of the Razor Crest, the metallic jilting song of his heavy gait, the clank, clank, clank, threatening to lull you back into unconsciousness. There should be no comfort to be found in this moment, and yet, just the sound of him is enough for a measure of peace. You can’t believe you’re here right now, lying in your pile of blankets as if no time had passed at all. His anxious pacing had stirred you back into wakefulness, your head all muddied and muffled, your ears seeming to pop into a pressurized silence and then ebb back into clarity.
You feel, suddenly, that you’re more tired than you’ve ever been in your entire life. A bone deep tiredness after a life that’s been too long and too heavy for someone who is, for all intents and purposes, so young.
He whips around at the sound of your voice, snapping forward to loom over you, voice deep with the intent to intimidate, maybe even hurt. “How did you know about him?” He demands without preamble, picking up right where the two of you had left off before you’d stupidly fainted from pain and exhaustion. You shiver and shrink back into the blankets, pressing the tips of your fingers against your mouth to stifle the too loud hiccup of your breathing. You’re not going to be afraid of him, he doesn’t deserve that.
You try to gather yourself, swallowing the bitter nausea that sits heavy on your tongue and push yourself up into a sitting position on shaky, weak arms as he falls with a heavy thud to kneel before you, spits your name, sharp and angry, quickly losing patience. “Who told you about him? What have you heard?” You hold out a warning palm as he leans forward, trying to bully you into compliance with the urgency of his tone.
“Don’t touch–” you warn, and then all soft, helpless hurt and accusation, “You have a son?” And you wish your voice didn’t sound as it does, like a child begging for the truth to not be what it already is, and you won’t cry, you’ve already promised yourself you wouldn’t, but your mind is so weary, your heart so vacant, it’s hard to remember the things you have and have not promised, the things you should and should not do.
“Who told you? You promised you wouldn’t ever rifle through my head, and I swear to the Maker–”
“I can sense him in you,” you snap. “I haven’t been rifling through anything! You’re so annoying. And get back–” you bare your teeth at him in a tiny snarl, nose scrunched with the exertion it takes to push a weak tendril of the Force against his chest and shove him back just barely. If there were a well within you, measured by the will of your strength and power, the Force, it would be bone barren dry right now.
He’d gone and had a child, a son, without you. He’d left you, or let you leave him, what did the details matter anymore – and he’d had a child with someone.
He snatches you up by the elbow, dragging you towards him, weak and shapeless as you are, barely any strength to hold yourself up, much less defend yourself, and his grip is tight enough, punishing enough, that you know it’s meant to cause pain. Harsher than he’d ever handled you before, on the verge of hurting you in a very real way. And after everything that’d been done to you… you’re like a raw, scalded nerve, nowhere left to touch that isn’t covered in hurt. Every inch of your skin screams in pain, and you swallow your moan of agony, trying to suppress your animal sounds. His other hand comes up to grip your jaw, stopping you from twisting away and squeezing the frame of your face so tight in his strong fingers, you feel your bones creak. “Explain. Now.”
“Please, Din,” Please, don’t touch me. “I can– I can sense him– inside you,” you gasp. “He’s strong. He – he has the Force?” You shake your head in his grip, brow folding in on itself, trying to make sense of what it is you’re feeling, the confusing amalgamation of Din and the Force and memories of something, someone young and innocent and pure beyond imagination. Like a well of the Force, of greater depth and strength than you’ve ever encountered before, but viewed, or felt through the veil of his memory, from afar. “You– you still carry him with you.” A child, his child. A little boy, the picture gains clarity in your mind, and then more confusion, as if there were a block in his mind, some protective encasement that keeps the truth of his precious secret safely guarded.
His hands tighten around the curve of your jaw, jerking your face up to force your eyes to look right at him, and he holds you trapped there for one breathless moment, his gaze like this is worse than any torture you’ve endured thus far, burning but hidden, and then the miniscule shift of the helmet, and you feel the light brush of a single finger against the gem of your earring, and you think: It’s so scary out there. Do you recognize me? We used to know each other.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“Look how strong you’ve become,” you say by way of an answer through your smooshed cheeks and clenched teeth Like an insult more than anything else. “Whatever it was that was done to me… something far worse has happened to you. The great Mandalorian, come to save the poor little Sith, huh?”
His fingers dig into the tender skin of your cheeks, your upper throat, harder, hard enough to squeeze a moan out of you before he’s shoving you back with a revolted scoff, pressing up to his feet to pace away from you again. You’d told him once you didn’t like it when he treated you like this, roughly, all that time ago, and he’d always remembered before now, had always measured himself, but it seemed that two years was long enough for him to forget this.
“You are not a Sith,” he reminds you without turning back, that reminder that he knows what you truly are, perhaps, even better than you yourself know, and you panic for one second that you’ll vomit. But then he gentles: “There’s blood on your earring,” and you sag forward, trying to breathe slowly through your mouth, stretching your eyes as wide open as they’ll go, forcing yourself not to blink so that the tears brimming there won’t fall. I hate you, you mouth the words silently down into the blankets, unsure who it is you’re directing them at.
“You’re going to tell me where the fuck you’ve been,” he says, turning back to pace towards you, hands on his hips, the snap of his cloak as he whips away again, as if he can only stand to look at you for so long. “And what in the Maker’s wrong with you?” He continues. “Did you get into a fight or something?”
You shake your head slowly down at the weave of the blankets. They’re the same ones from before, he’d kept them, and you are so sad and scared and terrible, and when you lift your head back up to look at him, standing just there looking so defeated and suddenly so singularly powerless… You can’t remember what the point of all this was supposed to have been.
“I’ve been here,” you say, for the truth is the only thing left to you now.
“On Corellia?”
“Yes.”
“And you… you can sense him on me?” And his voice has gone suddenly soft, suddenly quiet. A father speaking of his child with care, even in the tone used to address him. All the fight’s gone now, and that tiredness sets in deep where the spirit meets the bone.
You nod, full of so much grief, unbelief that the two of you are here again together, swallowing the gasp that wants to force its way out of you, but you surely can’t help the seeping of it, for there is so much held within your heart when you say up at him with those infernal tears so close to falling: “You had a son with someone?”
He whips back around, pacing finally come to a pause. “With someone? What? N– no. No.” He shakes his head furiously, rushing back towards you, falling back to his knees so that you’re pressing yourself back and away from him. “No, cyar’ika. No. He was a foundling. I– He was a bounty, but along the way he– he became…” He shakes his head again, and you watch the tightening of his fingers around the cap of his knee, the creak of the leather of his gloves as he wrangles his restraint into control, trying not to reach for you. Please, don’t touch. Please, don’t touch. If he takes you in hand, if he puts his hands on you in gentleness or care, you’ll lose. You don’t know how, but you know you’ll be lost. But perhaps the battle is already lost, for when he says, “I would never do that to you. Never with anyone else but you,” it doesn’t matter if he’s touched you or not, the hole in the ground, the two years, the endless, endless darkness and the pleas for something worse, for end or a quiet that doesn’t stop, none of that matters anymore because the battle is lost here and now in this moment.
Your breath comes in painful, sharp pants. The icy air gusting out of the ship's vents turns your breath to hurt in your lungs. You shake your head at him, trying to swallow the barren dryness in your throat away. “You should have.” And you don’t mean to hurt him worse than you already have when you say it. You don’t mean to hurt either one of you. These are words only of sincerity. “That’s what I left you for, so that you could have that.” But you miss the way they’d pulled your bones from your skin as you say it anyways. A terrible lie wrapped in the hopeful intention of truth.
“I would never.” You can imagine he’d used this same tone of voice when he’d sworn his Creed as a child. All staunch honor and unwavering conviction.
You whip your head away at that, unable to bear the sight of him, the sound of him. Even if you want to smell him more than anything. To bury your nose in the crevice between helmet and cowl and inhale deeply right there where the scent of his warmth and sweat and skin is the most concentrated. “Well that’s what I wanted. What couldn’t you understand about me leaving you? You should’ve made your own life. Forgotten me.” Snakelike and spitting and full of venom.
“Is that what you did? Forget? How? Tell me. Tell me so that I might remember for next time.” He stands to pace away again, slow measured steps now. Chewing on a thought, thinking, thinking, and then a death dealing sort of blow when he says, “I could have. I could’ve had all that, you know… There was a woman,” and his voice wavers.
So many terrible things in a terrible, terrible life. You close your eyes to it, accept, even now already, that this is how it should be. You think of your time in your beloved hole, all of your choices that lead you there to such a terrible fate, your time with him, so lovely and so full of light. To have been granted the opportunity to love and be loved, even if you’d never said it, it was the greatest gift the Maker had ever granted you. Such a recompense after everything you’d suffered. The death of your parents, a childhood alone and enslaved and abused, that moment when you’d finally put blade against the only terrible father you’d ever known, the creature who’d put you in chains and ensnared you to this dark fate, master and father and monster all in one, even that had been painful, the taking of your so fiercely desired freedom. And so this now… worse than all the rest, but you’ll accept it too. This is what he deserves. This is why you had let yourself be put away.
“There was a woman,” he says again, voice unsure, uncomfortable. Almost like he doesn't want to, but feels he must. “A time back– we were on Sorgan, and she wanted me… she wanted me.” And he says your name again, softly this time like an apology. “To be with her, to stay with her and her daughter. She wanted us to be a family and I– I considered it… for a moment. What that would be like, to have someone want me to stay with them. To want to make an end with me.” He shakes his head down at you again, from his great height and you break. Fuck acceptance. A condescending sigh and, “You ruined that for me too. You wouldn’t let me, your memory, you wouldn’t let me be with her.”
“I hate you,” you spit through clenched teeth. You wish you had the strength right now to get up and fight him.
“That’s fine. That’s your right. It doesn’t change the fact that she wanted me to be with her, and that I thought about it for one brief, delusional moment,” He sounds like he’s laughing through the modulator, “And then just… couldn’t. I couldn’t, cannot even fathom staying for anyone else that isn’t you.” And the laugh fizzles out into a crack. “How does that make you feel? Powerful?... Over me. Does it make you feel like you have power over me? Like you own me? Like I belong to you?” Now tears, perhaps, like he’d cry if you gave him the chance. Like you’ve hurt him enough to drive him to that. The nausea is back. The need for violence is back. The fucking fire in your back and your skin and all over… why, why did you let them do so much to you? You’d been so stupid. It’d all been such a terrible mistake. You should have never let him go.
“No.” You won’t cry. You won’t cry. “It doesn’t make me feel powerful.”
He suddenly seems to lose all strength. Falling back into a crouch, his knees folding in under him, the clash of the armor against the durasteel floor sharp as a cracking bone.
“Because you do– own me, that is. You do.” And he says it so simply. Like it’s the basest thing in the galaxy, as simple a thing as the birth of new life, the birth of a star, a black hole sucking an entire planet and all life into nothingness, death. Things that are really not simple or base at all.
So you shake your head, refute his truth. “I don’t. I don’t want to – I let you go.”
“But you didn’t. Don’t you fucking see that?” And his voice is gentle, but he slams his fist against the steel floor all incongruous rage, and it echoes and rings between the two of you, his violence. “You didn’t let me go, you only took yourself away from me– left me chained.”
“What was she like?” You cut him off, an envious, ravenous thing all tinged the hue of bile – something poisoned, churning within you. “Was she beautiful? Was she kind? Was she good? All the things you could ever want a woman to be? Would she have promised to stay forever?”
“She wasn’t you.” And oh, how you hate him in this moment. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. This is guilt, this is punishment, this is retribution of the cosmic sort. Something from the Maker sent to remind you that she who sins shall be made to atone. But haven’t I atoned enough? Haven’t I paid my pound of flesh? This man and that soft heart is your punishment for all you’ve done.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you tell him because there is nothing else to tell. Because it’s the truth, and you are, you’re so sorry that he couldn’t find someone else, someone better, kinder, more alive. And then, because if a thing’s going to hurt, it should hurt all the way, a glutton for punishment but a coward for consequences you ask: “Did you fuck her?”
“I didn’t kiss her.” Consequences. You bare your teeth at him, an approximation of a hiss and a snarl and a howl of grief so ragged it rips through your throat. Folding in on yourself like a dying star you turn your face away, trying to gather yourself and get away from the sight of him.
“I hate you,” you spit the lie again, again and again as many times as necessary until it becomes truth. “I fucking hate you. You should’ve stayed lost, you should’ve gotten sucked into a blackhole for all I care, you fucking asshole. You stupid metal beast! You should have died out there, left me to rot anything, anything but this,” you heave.
“I could’ve had a family.” And you want to ask him why he’s doing this to you. To tell him you don’t deserve such cruelty. But you know that isn’t true.
“Then you should’ve fucking stayed with her.”
“I wish I could have. Instead, I waited for you… I looked for you.”
Blow after blow, and perhaps, you think, this is not cruelty after all, but necessity. There had always been so much left unsaid between the two of you before. Perhaps, it’s finally time only for honesty. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me,” eyes cast down at your hand twisted in the blanket, voice small and pitiful. You have new scars there now, faint and glimmering like cobwebs beneath your skin. They’d wanted to see how much it’d take to leave a mark for good. They’d found their answer.
“You didn’t–” He scoffs, hands braced against his knees he shoves up again and turns in a directionless circle, all coiled tension and so much rage with nowhere to go but the pitiful sac of girl shaped tragedy littering the floor of his ship. He brings both hands up to clutch the curve of his helmet. “You didn’t ask me to? I didn’t fucking ask for this either.” He turns back to shout at you, a real shout this time. One so full of anger it makes you flinch. “You think this is what I wanted? To wait for someone who abandoned me out of pure selfish fear? No. No, it’s not what I wanted either. But how was I supposed to forget?” He asks. “Hm? Tell me. How was I supposed to let it all go? Tell me how you did it, and I’ll go and do the same since you’ve been so successful. Tell me how you did it and I’ll–”
You surge forward on your palms, teeth bared. “I trapped myself in a hole in the ground until I forgot my own name and still I wasn’t able to forget you.”
“What?”
“Oh?” You coo at him, eyes going all wide, you bat your lashes at him mockingly. Your shoulder suddenly feels like it’s about to pop out of its own socket with the way you’re bracing yourself on your arms. “What? You weren’t expecting that?” You sit back slowly, bones creaking. “To know while you were off fucking someone else, wishing for a family, I was trapped in a grave having my skin pulled from my body over and over and–”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m leaving.” You try and push yourself up, clawing at the walls to pull yourself to rights by your fingernails. “I hate you,” you say again, and again you don’t know which of the two of you it is you’re talking to.
He sneaks up behind you, taking you in hand by the elbow again, Maker, your shoulder, and whipping you around to face him, clutching your other bicep to pull you up onto your tip toes and to his level. “What are you talking about?”
You let your weight go heavy and sagging in his grip, head falling back on your neck to look up at him, and he plants his feet firmly apart, locking his arms so that he’s bearing your weight entirely. He gives you a tiny jostle. “You’re exactly as I am, you know? We’ve always been the same. A creature in a mask.”
He’s quiet for a second, confused. His chin tipping to one side and then the other. You know he’s reading you for what you’re worth in this moment, which you must admit is very little. “Is that what this was all about? The whole time? My face?” Your heart goes colder than ice, and you’re glad he’s bearing your weight for you. You think, suddenly, that you’d not have been able to remain upright on your own.
“N– no. No. I don’t care about that. I let it go years ago.”
“Let it go?”
“No. I mean–” Stupid. “Nothing.” Tongue muddled, caught. Terrible.
“But it was something? Then? Answer me.” He jerks you again, harder this time so that your teeth click together.
You shake your head no, but say, “Would you have been okay with it? If it had been you, the one kept in the dark.” Always the dark, again and again. “Would you have been okay never really knowing who I was?”
“You know me, cyar’ika.”
“Don't call me that.”
“You’re the only person in the entire galaxy who ever has.” And his touch is gentle and cradling now, supportive in a different way.
“Would you have been okay with it?” You ask again stubbornly.
“Do you think–”
“You say I’m the one that can’t ever give a straight answer, but you’re just as bad!”
“Do you think,” he repeats more forcefully, talking over you, “That your very first night on the Crest, when I gave you my name, when you told me you could see inside my mind, that I would have stayed had I not understood the reality of what it was we were getting into? What I was getting into? That there was that possibility. You told me, don’t you remember? That you could’ve looked any time. You’ve always had me in the palm of your hand, and I’ve always wanted to be just there.” His thumb starts to move gently up and down the inner slope of your bicep, it’s the first soft touch you’ve felt in two years.
And it was something you’d always known. Of course. The most obvious thing between the two of you, besides the love. You bring your hand up slowly, pinching the lip of the helmet between your thumb and forefinger, tremulous and terrified, you pull him down slowly so that the hard curve meets your forehead in a soft press. The two of you are so still for a moment, shivering, but still. Soaking up the proximity of something so necessary for survival after going so long without. “I should have never left, but a thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts. And I am more sorry than you will ever be able to know. For all of it.”
“Tell me what happened,” he whispers, voice smooth and deep, fathomless through the modulator. You close your eyes and think of the warm cave, the pool of water, the feel of this man that you love moving inside of you, using his body to translate all he’d felt for you with his touch. You think of the amazing ability people have to hurt those they love in ways no one else possesses. It is a cruel realization the business of loving someone brings about, the reality that to truly hurt someone, you must truly know them, and that to know is to love.
“I was taken. Put in a very dark place. Hurt. They tried to make me forget, and I could not help but remember. It was all such a terrible mistake, Din. I made a terrible mistake.”
“Taken? Taken where? By who?” Voice full of panic and urgency. Everything you never wanted him to know. He brings one hand to his mouth, pulling the glove away by the edge of his teeth, and you follow it with your eyes as he lets it fall away, slowly, the dull thud of leather hitting steel, and then his skin, his skin on your face. He cups your cheek in the palm of his hand, and it’s two years of heartache and a terrible noise coming from either one of you, an animal dying or coming to life, something painful and raw. He holds you so gently, and you let so many terrible things happen and now what will the two of you do? How will he ever look at you after he knows everything you’ve done?
Everything you’ve ever done. Your eyes shift upwards again, the black transparisteel T-visor. That last, eternal barrier. That haunting flash of beskar in your mind, buried deep, come to the surface.
“A grave. Zealots. Servants of the Dark side.” You bring your hand up, run a slow, gentle finger along the edge of dark protecting his eyes from you.
“Tell me,” he says gently.
But you shake your head, mouth pursed. Not that. Something else though… “I never looked, you know?”
He knows you mean his face. “Why not?”
“It wasn’t mine to take. Not mine to have. It wasn’t the right time.”
“If there was ever going to be anyone, it would’ve been you.”
“There is one more thing.” Your voice sounds very far away. One of those terrible moments when your life suddenly branches out before you again, and you always know how a thing will end and there was never any other recourse but for the two of you to end up exactly here in this moment from the very first time.
“I killed a Mandalorian once,” you finally, finally tell him. “Many, but there was one worse than all the rest.”
I’ve never met a Mandalorian before, a lie and a truth. You’d never met one you hadn’t killed in the end.
He goes shocked into stiffness, hands rigoring into cold shackles around your arms. They drop from where he grips you. He steps back, and in a way, it is such a relief. The truth you’ve held on the tip of your tongue, the thorn beneath your nail bed for so long, finally come into the light.
“What?”
“Have you– have you ever done something so– so terrible that you regretted instantly? Something you felt in the moment you had no other choice but, and then– and then suddenly clarity sets in, and you realize you could have done everything else but what you’d just done? Wished you could turn back time in that very instant, and go back and change everything?” You press forward to clutch at his cloak, fingers twisting in the coarse fabric to force him to stay with you, but he pulls you away with fingers wrapped around your wrists, steps back again and again.
“I’ve done terrible things–” you whisper, your eyes so wide, terrified of the thing you’re about to confess, of yourself, always, more than anything. “Things that you’d hate me for, if you knew the truth of them. To myself, to others.” You bring your hands up to your throat, wrapping your fingers around yourself there, feeling the patter of your thundering pulse against your palm.
“Tell me,” he says again, and this is the last moment, the last stretch. The end is so near. You will look for relief in this feeling of horror, you decide. Like all other times when you’d been so entrenched in the pain of it all, in fear or loneliness or violence, you’ll look for the relief this confession will grant. Perhaps, absolution will finally be possible by way of confession. Exile, too, surely, afterwards, for you know there’s no way he’ll ever stay with you, look at you, after you tell him of your killing of his people. And you think again, that you have always been a monster, red, but if you’d been given a chance, a choice, then perhaps, you could have served as mantle and protector for a family that had never been afforded to you. You know that he could have been that, that you’ve lost the chance now for good.
“After the fall of the Empire, the Dark and Vader, my master was weak, his acolytes dispersed and felled, their power waning. And for the first time in my life, I saw hope.” Your voice fluttering up with an airy note of that childlike wonder you’d felt in that moment of realization, when you’d recognized what it was you could become in that moment of freedom. “I took it, seized it. I killed him.” You walk backwards, blindly, needing the support of the wall to tell of this. “You know, my first memory is of my master. I can’t even remember my parents anymore. And he was never kind, surely. Never gentle, and caring only in a way that served him. But I belonged to him as any tool, weapon, belongs to a man, and there was something about that, that was meaningful. A child, alone, belonging to someone who would keep them no matter what. Sometimes, I try and remind myself of this, when I think too much on the things he had me do, the things I did for him, sometimes even gladly… I remind myself of this as a way of consolation. What else did I know? What other choice did I have? Death? Perhaps… But strangely, before… or,” You shake your head, your eyes falling closed as you search for the words or answers within yourself, “Strangely, I– I can’t remember when that changed, but it did because I didn’t always want to die. I– I wanted to live, even if it was for him. To please him or serve him or be useful in any way. They hoped to fill me with fear. But fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. And hate… leads to power. I was only ever the thing he wanted me to be in the moment I was powerful enough to defeat him. And you can’t know what that means, to live such a fruitless existence, to have no purpose… it’s terrible. But he finally gave me that in the most terrible and glorious of ways.” You open your eyes again to take him in, Din with the heart of a sun.
“I don’t mean it as an excuse, but– but I think it’s important to remember. That he was ever the only one… it feels that, before I met you, he was the only other person I ever really knew. Only ever him, but then I met you, and then I knew you. And can a girl ever be more animal than girl? I don’t know… but surely if it was possible, then that’s what I was. So when I escaped, when I killed the only father I’d ever known, who was also a monster, yes, but also all I’d ever known, I was more animal than girl in that moment. You understand, Din?” You ask, but he gives no hint that he does, more droid than man now, and so you continue on anyways. “I killed the remainder of his following. I was stronger than them, stronger than him sometimes, and I know he feared that. I escaped to Corellia. The chaos of the planet was easy to hide within, but you must remember, again, I was more animal than anything else at that moment.” You give a short laugh, “I don’t know why all of my tragedy always seems to start and end on that planet. Perhaps, it’s why I keep going back there. And he–” You want to turn away, but force yourself to remain facing him. “He ended up joining me in that tragedy. He tried to help me, the Mandalorian, found me broken and discarded, waiting to die in the gutter like a street rat, entirely unaware of what it was to survive without the guiding hand of someone else.” You’d been so terrified, delirious and confused and reborn again – like an infant, come straight from a hostile and poisoned womb, newly birthed unto the galaxy and left to fend for yourself. Mind and body, savaged, yes, but with a soul that sang and howled with victorious growing pains at your newfound freedom. It had been so long, trapped, so long you’d forgotten the sound of your mother’s voice, the feel of your father’s strong hand on your child softened cheek, but you’d been free then, and you’d thought that even if you were to die like that, in the slums of Corellia, on the street like a pauper, at least you’d die clutching freedom in your hand. And then he’d found you.
“But I had never known help, Din. Never. I couldn’t recognize such a thing. He led me to safety within the city, saw me for what I was, a broken, haggardly thing, perhaps, and he helped me. And once he was done showing me his kindness, I killed him. For no other reason except mistrust and habit. I– I didn’t know there was another recourse, that that wasn't what I had to do. I didn’t know I had other choices besides violence. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed him, Din. I’m sorry I never told you. I’m sorry I am the thing they made me. I’ve tried to be better, I’ve failed bitterly, and I’m sorry.”
You hope he understands that you hadn’t thought before you’d acted, more animal than girl, you’d performed on base instinct. And worse than anything else, he’d had a son, that Mandalorian, like Din does now, and you can still bring forth the memory of the child’s face in your mind even after all this time. You’d seen him as you’d ripped through his father’s mind, pilfered and savaged his memories and left him for dead in a filth strewn, back alleyway. An entire life torn apart in a single moment, and in the very millisecond before his soul had left him, the last thought you’d laid eyes on within his mind had been the image of his own face reflected back at him as he’d seen it earlier that day just before he’d hidden behind the protective helm of his Creed. You’d stolen his future, stolen a child’s father, and desecrated a life’s worth of dedication all in one single foul, unthinking instant. You’d not even given him the dignity of dying with his Creed intact.
After all this time, you still felt that was what made the sin all the worse. That unintentional theft, to openly spit in the face of his benevolence and generosity, an unforgivable thing.
And it would be easy to say that you hadn’t recognized that which he’d been offering – the sight of a merciful and helping hand extended to you without malintent or pretense. That you hadn’t recognized it, and perhaps, it was the truth, but you were sure it didn’t really matter at the end of it. A thing worse than all the death and destruction and pain you’d dolled out in the name of the dark side, that one act was singular in its unencumbered horror for you’d not had the farce of your master's orders to hide behind, the helm of the dark whispering in your ear, stealing you of your choice. This had been wholly your own action, entirely your doing.
The first thing that had ever belonged only to you in your entire life. And strange because during your time as a Sith, you’d undoubtedly killed any number of the beskar covered warriors, but this last one, it had been a kill without thought, without necessity, without influence. Only as yourself. Perhaps it had set the stage for all the rest. Perhaps it had set the stage for your own fall.
You aren’t aware you’re crying until you feel his mouth on your face, his throat vibrating with low growls as he licks at your tears, the hollow thud of the helmet hitting the floor finally registering in your ears. Stop, it’s okay. Please, don’t cry, little one. You squeeze your eyes shut tight as you can, trying to pull away, escape him again, but he pulls you close. The long, uncompromising line of him pressing all the way along your softness, inciting the chill of death inside of you back to life.
“Do you really think,” he starts low, the sound of his unmodulated voice for the first time in so long, “that there’s anything you could ever do, that I’ve not forgiven you for already a thousand times over?”
You begin to thrash in his grip, feral and wild and not wanting to be tamed this time, but he does not let you run, not again. His arms like bands of iron around your waist, stitching you to the cold steel of his chest and crushing your protests from your lungs. The two of you fold slowly to the ground. Huddling you between his crouched thighs, you try and push back, but he cages you between his knees and arms, and you turn your face away from him, trying to escape his wet mouth, the damp of his lips catching against your tear soaked lashes. “I never wanted to be this– this thing,” you gasp by way of another apology. “I never wanted to live like this – strange and violent and obscured in the shadow of something I was too young to ever understand until it was too late. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I lied or deceived you or made you feel something for someone that never really existed. Most of all, I’m sorry that it could not be true,” you gasp. “I’m sorry that I could not be true. That I couldn’t be something else.”
“You have nothing to apologize to me for. You think…” he says very slowly. Measured. “You think that I haven't done terrible things, as well? That I haven’t killed when I, perhaps, could have been merciful? That I’ve never been afraid or lost or weak? That I’ve never let violence overtake me? Worst of all, that sometimes I even liked it. We’ve all done things to be ashamed of. We will all, at one point, do things to be ashamed of. That is what it is to be human.” Human. You don’t know if you’ve ever truly been that. “What means more to me is honor and loyalty and character – these are things you’ve shown me.”
“I haven’t,” you cry.
“You have,” he growls, and he takes you between his hands violently so that you’re crying out in pain from your wounds or shock or fear of what he’ll do to you now. Crushing you to him so fiercely you feel as though he’s trying to squeeze your very heart from your chest so that he might look upon it with his own two eyes. “You exist. You exist, and you are here and you are mine. You were never given a choice. You were a child, stolen and abused and turned into something you were never supposed to be. The Force within you is a gift, and they tried to corrupt it into something it should have never been, but they did not succeed.” You try and shake your head at him, push him away, scream and cry and tell him that he’s wrong, that you are bad and poisoned and that even he, the great warrior, cannot save you. But he grips your jaw in his long fingers, grinding your bones between his strength, and halts your disagreement. He snarls at you, so furious at what had been done to you. You realize, suddenly, that he is vibrating with barely restrained rage. For you. Not at you.
“They did not succeed. Your presence here, your regret, your wish for more, for better, your very escape, proves to me that they did not. You were too strong, too good.” I am not, you moan, starting to thrash and claw in his arms again. You don’t know, you’re wrong. “I know your true heart, I see you. As much as you hate it, as much as you wish it were otherwise, I know the true desires of your mind. As much as it pains you to be seen, to be known, I do. I always have, from that very first moment in the darkness, I saw you.” And his voice holds so much conviction, so much surety, you’re left with no other choice but to believe him, for Din is good and honest and true, and if he says it’s so, then it must be so.
You go loose and weak suddenly, eyes pressed together tightly, squeezing tears out through crinkled lashes. Din is good and honest and true, and if he says it’s so, then it must be so. Your entire body is trembling, fraught with nerves and a surging of truth inside of you so overwhelming your heart beats in your ears, behind the fragile membrane of your eyelids.
They’d done such terrible things to you, over and over again, and you were nothing but a single blip in the galaxy of stars, a singular pinpoint of terrible pain. That’s what they’d turned you into, but here, in his arms, you’re beginning to realize they’d failed at their goal.
He pulls your face into the space between his jaw and shoulder then, so tenderly, and you finally open your eyes to take in the skin of his throat, the growing stubble there. “Come here, sweetheart. It’s okay. We’re together now.”
“I’m not sweet, don’t call me that.” But there is no conviction behind your words, and you clutch at him more tightly. Your fingers twisting into the folds of his cape, clawing at the skin of his cheeks.
“You are for me,” he says. And it’s true. There’d always been something about him that’d made you fragile in the face of his strength, in a way you’d needed, in a way you’d never had before.
“No. No.” You try and push and pull at him weakly, fruitlessly. “I’m leaving soon. I just need to catch my breath, and then I’m going.”
And he clutches you tighter at that, fingers twisting through your hair to jerk your head back painfully. You snap your eyes shut, mouth falling open on a gasp. “You’re not going fucking anywhere, do you hear me?”
He’s being so careless with his face, dangling it before your closed-eyed face. “I won’t open my eyes. I don’t care what you do.”
He gives a rough sound of frustration, pressing his panting mouth to your cheek, growling against your skin, “Try to leave me again and see what fucking happens,” and there’s no doubt or wavering in his voice, only a great sort of conviction laced in terrible fury. “Go anywhere in the galaxy and see how long it takes me to find you again.”
“Please, Din– it hurts.” You can’t help it, he’s being too rough for the state you’re in now, barely holding yourself together at the seams. His hands leave you immediately, pulling back so that you’re sagging between his crouched thighs. You listen to the sound of him picking up the helmet, the hydraulics engaging once again as he fits it over his face.
The two of you are quiet for a moment, catching your breaths. Your lungs feel set to burst, your vision jumping from bright light to murky dark and your stomach twists a sharp, brutal pain. Everything hurts everywhere.
“How long?” And you know he’s asking about your time captured.
“I don’t know,” you say, bracing your hand against the hard strength of his thigh, barely able to keep yourself upright. “I lost track of time, but it was winter when they took me away.”
“It’s winter again now.”
“Yes.” And the truth sits like a heavy smog between the two of you, a very long time. “I don’t want you to forgive me,” you say then. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Which is why you won’t look at my face.” He pets your head so gently, and you lay your cheek against the beskar over his thigh, letting the coolness of the metal settle the flames running beneath your skin, and think it is terrible, sometimes, to be understood so deeply. Tears drip over the bridge of your nose and lose themselves in the weave of his pants.
He shifts, settling on a folded foot beneath himself, bringing you in closer to his chest, careful, careful, as if you’d been made of nothing but breakable hurt. Silence swells, fraught and unbearable, between the two of you, and your heart beats in rebounding thumps. You feel you know what he’s going to say before he even says it. “I told you that there’s nothing you could ever do I’d not forgive you for. I think… I think that love allows for forgiveness.”
You choke on your breath. “Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it,” you beg. He continues to pet your hair slowly.
“I love you. And you’re going to listen to me say it. If I have to live with it, then so do you.”
“This doesn’t feel like love, this feels like punishment,” you whisper, tears falling faster, soaking the duraweave beneath.
“How would you know? You’ve not had it before.”
Your eyes snap up to the face of his helmet, and you try and jerk away, but he holds you in place with a hand fisted in your hair. His voice is still gentle, not meant to hurt. “Fuck you,” you spit, hurt anyways.
“But neither have I, and yet, I know that’s what this is.” You shake your head in his grip, so full of confusion, listening to the wheezing whittling of your breaths pass in and out of you. You can’t understand. You don’t. Or you don’t want to.
There is something humiliating about the easiness of his forgiveness. He forgives you now, and so what was all that for? Where does the point of all your suffering go now that he’s so swiftly given you that which you’d craved for so long?
“I don’t give a damn what you’ve done. I’d let you stab a knife through my heart if it pleased you and die still loving you.” He cups the side of your tear soaked face, drags the warm, dry pads of his thumb gently beneath one swollen, aching eye. The callus of his trigger finger catches on the paper fragile skin, and there is a writhing, howling pain working inside of you, inside your heart.
I love you too, you mouth up at him, words made only of air, but no less true. “But I can’t look yet,” you tell him, “I’m not ready yet.” Not strong enough to grant myself that.
“I know.” And you’re grateful. Grateful for this, for his understanding, even if it is terrible. Grateful he’d not kissed you yet; you’re not ready for that yet either.
“How can you not be angry with me? How can you not hate me?”
“The only thing I’ve ever been angry at you about, is that you forced me to betray you.”
“I didn’t–”
“I should have never let you go.”
“I didn’t want you to,” your voice breaks. “I wanted you to fight.”
“I know, cyar’ika. I should have seen that.”
There is, with startling clarity, the realization that there was no point at all. That there is never any point, justification to suffering. It just is, and then it is not.
“Why did I do all of it?” You plead, cry.
“Why did you do all of it?” He asks you instead, for at the end, you’re the only one who can say.
And there is no justification, and no point, and it all just is. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
“You did what you had to. Or what you thought was right. I know. I see who you really are. I understand.” And absolution is a very specific sort of thing, and it lives here between the two of you. It always had
pairing: pre-TLOU! joel x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)
summary: on a particuarly wet night, you run across tess servopoulos and joel miller, and they help you out of a tight spot
chapter warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, depictions of death and decapitation (don't fucking ask), wound stitching (not sure this is a warning but for my queasy peeps), swearing, FEDRA is still an authoritarian regime, decent amount of POV-changing, the slowest slow-burn of slow burns (because I'm trash and like to make you all wait for it), a decent amount of angst
a/n: the way i giggled nervously when I realized it's been a month and a half since my last update......sorry you guys. also the sam tea is hot so please enjoy it. also this is officially the end of side a so the next time we see joel and reader will be closer to the TLOU canon timeline
The next day, you’re surprised to find Joel back in the coffee shop at the end of your shift.
“Need something else already? Or just coming to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped?” you ask him sarcastically, as he steps up to the counter, raising a single eyebrow.
“Just came for some coffee, thanks,” he says, and you sigh.
“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you tell him, peering around the shop, “I just sold my last cup.”
“Oh,” Joel lets out, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Joel seems awkward.
“I’ll make you a fresh cup,” you say after a second, giving him a tired smile, “I work here, after all.”
“Thanks,” he lets out, and you have to bite back a laugh at how woody he sounds.
Who knew coffee would stump Joel Miller.
“Did you hear what happened?” he asks you, and while his tone isn’t necessarily urgent, it’s clear the information he acquired is worth sharing as you get to work making an extra cup.
“I came home yesterday and crashed,” you inform him, “So no,”
“Really?” Joel’s eyes fall pointedly on something that looks suspiciously like a fresh hickey at the top of your collarbone, “You. . . crashed?”
You give him an unimpressed look. “60 years of life and no one’s ever told you it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?”
“60?” Joel asks, eyes widening and gruff expression melting from his features almost entirely for a second, “You think I’m sixty?”
Your cheeky smile gives you away as you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head before giving him an expectant eyebrow as his scowl returns. “What happened, then?”
“They found bodies this morning,”
“Bodies?” you ask with a frown, looking up at him, “Where?”
“Abandoned church on Salem," Joel says, and for a second, your eyes widen, before your frown sets deep again, "Two young guys, both carrying assault-rifle type weapons,"
"You don't think –"
"–that when your little soldier boyfriend said there was a good reason it had been boarded up, he was damn right? That's exactly what I think, sweetheart,"
Your mind is running too many miles per hour to pay any attention to the nickname or the much more comfortable tone Joel seems to take with you as your fingers absent-mindedly reach for the coffee tin.
"Infected?" you ask him, and he nods.
"Overheard a few of his guard buddies talking about it. They're pretty sure it was infected, bodies were so torn up they couldn't ID them,"
"Jesus," you mutter to yourself, your fingers absent-mindedly reaching for the coffee beans tin, only to find it empty, "Shit,"
"Still sure you got enough for a coffee?" he asks, undertone sarcastic, and you manage to roll your eyes.
"Yes," you say pointedly, before turning to peer upwards, where you spot one of the 5-kilo coffee bean bags, "But you're going to have to help take down the new bag,"
Joel nods, walking around and behind the counter to join you as your arms reach out, fingertips barely grasping the edges of the bag. Joel has an easier time reaching, and together, you manage to lug the thing down.
"But why would they stay in the church?" you wonder out loud as you set the bag down on the counter with a huff.
"Beats me," Joel says with a shrug, which only makes the gears in your head whirr harder, frown deepening.
"Doesn't make sense," you mutter to yourself as you use one of the scissors on the counter to open a corner of the bag, leaning it slightly over the edge so you can fill the tin easily.
"What are you thinking?" Joel asks as he observes your face, and you look up at him for a second as your hands go on autopilot, dropping a handful of beans in the grinder.
"I'm thinking–" you say pointedly, "That they had no business being in that church, no reason to be there. . . the whole place was boarded up, there's signs everywhere. . . they may have been thugs but I doubt they were stupid enough to stick around,"
"Maybe they were just waiting to move the barrel," Joel says with a shrug, and you grimace slightly, shaking your head.
"There were three of them," you point out, pouring the ground coffee into a clean pot, the kettle whistling to your left, "And the checkpoint had already been abandoned for the night. . . best window to do it would’ve been immediately,"
"I'm not sure I follow," Joel says eventually as he stands next to you behind the counter, and you shake your head, bringing your hand up to rub your forehead.
"Don't mind me," you say with a sigh, "Been a long shift,"
The rest of the process happens in silence, neither you or Joel saying a word to each other as you finish making the coffee. Joel can tell from your expression that you're still pretty deep in thought, and the expression only clears from your face when you've made two steaming cups of fresh coffee. You hand one to Joel, who reaches into his pocket for a ration card.
“Don’t be silly,” you say, shaking your head with a frown as you finally seem to be pulled fully out of your thoughts, “I don’t want to see a single ration card come out of your pocket, Miller.”
Joel’s hand freezes in his pocket, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught off guard by how friendly your tone is, and he’s silent for a minute before he clears his throat, his hands staying in his pockets.
“Alright.”
"Who was this job for, anyway?" you ask Joel as you take a sip of the coffee you've just made, and he shrugs.
"Dunno," he says, and you resist an urge to smile at the fact that he's talking to you now, "Some wiry fucker Tess knew. . . I think his name was Peter,"
You grimace. "Creepy name for a creepy dude,”
Joel makes an agreeing snort into his coffee.
“Fertilizer, huh?" you say, making a face, "What the fuck's he gonna do? Plant a garden?"
Joel lets out a hum as he swallows down his sip.
"And fuel oil, for some reason," Joel says, clearing his throat, "You put anything extra in this?"
"Wait, rewind–" you say, and suddenly your voice is serious as you set down your cup, "You never mentioned he wanted fuel oil."
Your mind is racing as you finally put together the pieces of the puzzle. The reason they asked for such specific items, staying in the church after, not wanting to be asked nosy questions–
Joel frowns as he turns to look at you, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "Shall I write you a full report? Or just the transcript of our negotiations?”
"Who was he?" you ask him, tone urgent as your eyes become wide, and Joel frowns deeper, “Joel, who was he?”
"Don't know, told you that already," Joel says, before his eyes flicker with mild concern, "What's wrong?"
You give him an alarmed look.
"Joel, ammonium nitrate is the main ingredient in fertilizer," you say, your voice low and filled with panic as your eyes flit around the half-empty coffeeshop, "And fuel oil––. . .they're making ANFO, Joel, it’s a goddamn–"
You don't know how Joel understands what you mean, but his eyes blow wide as he finally puts the pieces together
"-bomb," he breathes, and at that moment, there's a sound of crashing glass as something shatters the front window of the coffeeshop. Some people scream, those sitting by the window jumping away. It's a brick, and just as people gather to look at it, something else flies through the shattered window.
"Joel–" you yell, and you only just manage to turn your body, hand flying over Joel's shoulder as you push him down behind the counter, going to do the same–
BOOM.
The explosion is unlike anything you've ever heard, and if you hadn't had the good sense to press your hands over your ears as the sheer force of the explosives propelled you against the opposite wall, you're sure both your eardrums would have burst as sounds tear through the atmosphere around you.
When you open your eyes, you find yourself on your back, and everything hurts. Your gaze is directed at the ceiling of the building, your temples pulsing with pain, and all you can see above you is smoke, half burning embers floating through the air as you try to blink the dust out of your eyes. Plumes of dust and smoke obscure your vision, but you can still see the gaping holes in the ceiling from which pieces of stucco rain down. There’s a deafening silence in your head, filled only with a distant ringing, and your eyes blink several times as your vision becomes less blurry, bringing into focus the burning embers floating through the air as if dancing on the wind.
For a single moment, the silence is almost peaceful as you watch them flutter down around you, eyes still blinking as your mind seems to process what has just happened, before you feel your lungs expand with a breath, and the illusion of peace shatters.
The next breath you take is stifling, the dust scratching the inside of your throat as you try to breathe any kind of oxygen in your lungs. You’re vaguely aware of something entering your vision, a familiar face, but your eyes don’t immediately focus on Joel’s face until you feel his hands on either side of your arms, pulling you upright and propping you up against the wall. You're still dazed as your eyes roll over the scene. Most of the counter is still standing, but the front, near to where you’d been standing, has been blown to bits and everything once standing on it, is either in pieces, or strewn across the floor.
Your eyes are torn away from the scene as you feel a squeeze in your arms, and your gaze meets Joel’s. His face is dirty, covered in grime, but his eyes are alight like you’ve never seen them, more present and alert than ever as they inspect your face. He looks relatively unharmed, except for a few bleeding cuts and scratches on his face as his eyes search your face, and you see something in his eyes you'd not seen on him before. He looks worried.
You watch as he moves his mouth, and it looks like your name, but you still can’t hear anything except for that damn ringing. Your eyes try to make sense of the movement of his lips, but you’re too distracted by the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest. Joel seems to finally understand you can't hear him as his eyes look into yours. They’re wide with shell shock, continuously flitting between him and your surroundings in an effort to gain your bearings.
Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. You swallow hard, trying to clear your ears, but still the ringing doesn't subside. The only thing that seems to work is your nose, and the smell is horrible, a mix of acrid smoke, burning plastic and thick dust which oppresses your lungs. Joel gives your arms another squeeze, forcing you to look back at him, the shape of your name once again appearing on his lips. You shake your head at him, eyes wide with fear as they stare into his. You watch him as he swallows hard, eyes flitting around desperately, seeming to consider something. Then he moves beside you, taking your arm and slinging it over his shoulder. He says something else that you still can’t hear, but you nod as he looks at you, anticipating it as he pulls you up. You let him, trying to cooperate as much as possible, but your whole body hurts, screaming at you to lie back down again.
The minute your eyes focus on the full scene of the coffeeshop, your stomach turns and you wish you had never seen it.
Smoke and debris fills the air, casting an eerie haze over the scene; tables and chairs are strewn about like discarded toys, and the floor is a harrowing canvas of debris, bodies, body parts. . . you can see some people moving, crying, screaming. . . bending over others that lie face down and deathly still, blood smeared across the floors of the shop like morbid strokes of paint. The entire front of the coffee shop has been blown open, and the ground is littered in glass from the shattered windows which glitters dangerously in the fading daylight.
You can’t focus on it any longer as you feel Joel pull you towards the back door, keeping one arm around your waist to hold you up and using the other to push open the door. You quickly move past the backroom, before Joel is pushing against the heavy fire escape door, which sends you both stumbling into the alleyway as it gives way. You let go of Joel at that moment, and he helps you down on one of the upturned boxes against the wall of the alley.
Your hearing is slowly returning, the ringing becoming less and less as you can start to hear your own heavy breaths. It’s still muffled as you try and calm your thundering heartbeat, hand coming down to rest on your knees as your bow your head, shoulders shuddering. Your mind keeps flashing back to the images from inside, the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh still so present in your nostrils it makes you violently nauseous; the tears streaming down one woman’s grime-covered face, the man screaming in pain as his hands desperately the thigh from which his bone is protruding, a teddybear lying in a pool of blood, loosely clenched in the hand of its lifeless owner. . .
Your breathing is shallow as you register what you've just seen, trying hard to keep your breath under control, but your pants are ragged as you try to steady your shaking hands on your legs.
"Oh god,"
You bring a hand to your mouth, the feeling of wanting to throw up overcoming you suddenly, but you find that nothing comes out except for a hoarse cough.
A voice drifts through the fog, muffled at first, before it becomes clearer as it repeats your name. You look up at Joel as your hearing finally sharpens, so you can hear the blaring of sirens in the street as several trucks drive past the alleyway, the shouts from outside and the screams from inside.
“Those people. . .” you stammer, your eyes wide as they meet Joel’s, glittering with tears, “We have to–”
“There’s nothing we can do,” he says, a little breathless, but his voice solemn, “We have to get out of here. . . there could be more–”
“Joel!” you let out, your voice still tinged with horror and shock.
“We can’t!” he lets out, shaking his head as he looks down at you, “We can’t help them, okay? We have to go. . . if they decide to blow up another building, or god forbid, the fucking FEDRA army descending on this place right now, we’re in deep shit.”
After a second in which you stare at each other, you nod shortly, heaving a breath.
“You still have the keys to your place?” Joel asks, and you take a second to feel for them in your back pocket. Thankfully, they appear not to have fallen out during your ordeal, and you nod.
“Alright,” Joel says with a curt nod, before looking down at you, “Can you stand?”
You nod weakly, before getting to your feet. Your legs are still wobbling a little, and you frown as you feel pain flare through your ankle. Joel notices, and doesn’t even ask before he stands beside you again, taking your arm again to steady you against him.
You go as fast as possible, but it still feels like an eternity before you reach the building in which you live, the people in the streets either too busy running towards or away from the wreckage of the shop to pay attention to you. The minute the door closes behind you, Joel walks you over to the kitchen table, and sits you on top, your chest heaving a pained sigh.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, and even though his tone is neutral, his hand comes up, two fingers gently taking your jaw to analyze your face. He tilts your head to look at the side of your face as you groan slightly.
“I can’t hear anything on the left,” you say, and he hums.
“You’re bleeding. . . eardrum must be bust.”
“Shit,” you let out, closing your eyes and trying to take a deep breath as you feel Joel's fingers leave your face before he steps away from you.
“You got a first aid kit? Anything like that?”
You nod, motioning towards the sink. “Cupboard under the sink.”
Joel moves towards the sink, before crouching down and opening the cupboard under it.
“What about Tess–”
“She’s a smart woman,” he says through a strained voice as he gets to his feet again, setting the kit down on the counter, “She’ll figure out where we’ve gone if she has any suspicion we survived that. . . ANFO. . . I should’ve fucking known,”
Joel feels his stomach churn with guilt; of course he knew what ANFO was, they use to use it quite a bit way back when he was still rebuilding houses for a living.
“What was that?” you let out, and Joel’s face darkens as he grabs a glass from the upper cupboard and fills it with water.
“Pipe bomb,” he mutters, before he looks over his shoulder briefly, eyes pausing on the scratches that litter your arms, “Something like nails of bolts in it, from what I can see. . . the ANFO packs a pretty big punch in of itself, but the nails and bolts do double the damage because they act like shrapnel. . . it’s what the Unabomber did,”
Joel vaguely remembers watching a TV documentary on the Unabomber with his ex-wife, which had detailed his similar methods. He briefly wonders– or rather hopes– that the dude died during the Outbreak.
“Jesus Christ,” you let out in a breath, burying your head in your hands, “Who the fuck would do that?”
“People who feel like they aren’t being heard,” Joel says darkly as you hear him step back towards you, and you feel like sobbing.
Hadn’t the outbreak been punishment enough? Weren’t people sick of pain and grief?
“We sold them that shit, Joel,” you say through your hands, the despair and guilt in your tone clear as day.
He comes to stand in front of you again, leaving the kit and the glass of water on the table next to you, before pulling one of the chairs from the side of the table to sit facing you.
“I know,” he says solemnly as he sits down and opens the first aid box, pulling out some rolls of gauze. You finally look back up, eyes meeting his, and Joel can see in your eyes that you’re struggling with grasping this particular fact.
Of course Joel feels guilty, to some extent, but he'd been in the smuggling business long enough to adhere to the policy that once it was out of his hands, it was no longer his business.
“Here,” he says, swallowing as he grabs your arm, zeroing in on the largest cut.
Ironically it looks much worse than it actually feels, and almost the majority of your forearm seems covered in dried and fresh blood from this particular wound. Joel works in silence, cleaning the large cuts one by one and dressing them. You don’t mutter a word either, as you sit still and stare ahead of yourself a little. Joel knows you must be in shock, and he feels a strange amount of concern every time a loud sound from the street makes you flinch.
“Sorry,” you mutter after a particularly loud bang in the street outside makes you jump, and Joel temporarily loosens his grip on your arm as he bandages it.
“S’okay,” he says after a second, looking up at you briefly only to find your eyes unfocused once again, staring almost vacantly at the window. He notices your ears straining for sounds from the street, brows tied tightly together like you were searching them. Then, you feel Joel’s fingers back on your chin as he gently turns your head away from him.
“Still nothing?” he asks as he cleans the trickle of blood that has run from your ears down your neck. You shake your head as you feel his other hand come up, “What about this?”
You assume he snaps his fingers, but you only hear it on your other side. You shake your head.
“No,” you say, swallowing.
Joel lets out a sigh before his hand falls back down to his lap.
“Shouldn’t last very long,” he says, in an attempt to distract you, “Maybe one or two weeks.”
You give a non-committal hum as you nod, eyes still not meeting his as he returns to the final scratches on your arms.
“Stop thinking about it,” he says after a second, and this gets your attention, your head turning to look at him as he hunches over your arm.
“How?” you return, and he looks up at you, “How do you stop thinking about it? I–. . . those people are all dead, Joel. . . that could’ve been us.”
“Well lucky for me you got some fast reflexes,” he says, his tone almost joking as he looks back down to your arm, and you shake your head ever so slightly.
“This isn’t funny, Joel,” you say, and your voice is heavy with emotion as he looks up at you, your eyes shining with tears.
“I know,” he replies with a sigh, looking up at you, “I never said it was.”
There’s a split second in which you look at each other, before you swallow shakily and look away again, silence falling over you both.
It lasts only a second before you speak up again.
“How come you’re always the one patching me up?” you mutter, your tone half-hearted, making Joel let out a small scoff.
“Maybe because you keep getting yourself into trouble, sweetheart,” he returns as he wraps the rest of the bandage over a particularly large gash on your arm, careful to keep his grip loose around the fresh scar of your stab wound.
“Saving your life, you mean,” you mutter, and Joel emits a dry chuckle, before looking up at you from where he’s sitting hunched towards you. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, or if it's even a good idea, but he finds himself putting a reassuring hand on your knee, which he feels under his fingers is still trembling.
“That’s twice now,” he says with a squeeze of your knee, “You done being a hero? ‘Cause I’m afraid there won’t be much left of ya if this happens again.”
His face doesn’t reveal much, but his tone is strangely gentle, caring. . . something you’ve never before heard from Joel.
“Yeah, I’m done,” you say with a groan as you try to sit up a little more, Joel’s hand leaving your knee with a slight pat, before he gets to his feet. Then, his eyes fall on something under your chair, and he frowns.
“Are you bleeding?” he asks you, looking back up, and your eyebrows knit together as you follow Joel’s eyeline and find, to your great concern, a rapidly growing pool of blood gathering at your feet.
“I–. . . I didn’t think I was,” you let out, frowning slightly, before Joel steps around you, and you listen as he takes a sharp intake of breath.
“Your shoulder,” he says as you watch his hand go into the first aid kit and reach for the scissors, “You don’t feel that?”
“I mean a little, but, fuck–. . . ! What was that for?” you ask him, turning around to glare at Joel, who just used what felt like his entire hand to press down on the wound, making your shoulders erupt with pain.
“Sorry,” Joel mutters, as you feel his fingers pick up the hem of your shirt. Then, you hear the scissors cutting through the fabric of your top, “Doesn’t look too deep, but you’ll need a few stitches I think.”
“More fucking stitches,” you grumble to yourself, shaking your head as Joel peels the shirt from your back, “At this rate I’m going to be, like, 90% scar tissue.”
“And water,” Joel adds in an attempt at a joke, and to his credit, you chuckle slightly.
“And water, I suppose,” you say with a nod of your head as he reaches into the first aid kit for something to suture you with. You sit in silence as Joel cleans the needle and then your wound, before you feel him put his hand on your shoulder and he starts to sew you up.
It hurts, and you immediately feel tears spring into your eyes as your shoulders tense and your fingers tighten around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
“If you relax, it’ll hurt less,” Joel says, and his voice is practically in your ear, his breath fanning over your exposed skin.
“I’m being stitched up by a stranger with no pain medication or alcohol. . . I think you can understand why I’m tense,” you reply with a sigh.
Joel says nothing, but you can hear him thinking. You wonder about what.
“Stranger, huh?” Joel asks you with a hum, and you snort.
“What word would you use?” you reply, eyebrows creasing, “Because something tells me you’re not the type to have friends.”
Joel says nothing, only letting out a grudging sound as you feel the needle pierce your skin again, which makes you grit your teeth, shoulder tensing up again.
“Jesus Christ woman, relax,” Joel says again, letting out a breath as you feel him put a hand on your other shoulder, “Or I’ll sew you up crooked.”
You try your hardest, letting out a shaky breath and forcing your shoulders to un-tense, but it still isn’t enough, and Joel heaves a sigh as he tries to think of a way to distract you enough so he can sew you up at least half-properly.
“Be honest,” he says eventually, “How the fuck did you survive a month and a half out in the open?”
You’re silent for a second, and Joel waits for your answer before getting back to work.
“I was by myself,” you say eventually, as Joel places another stitch, which you react less violently to than the last one, “That sounds stupid, but I’m pretty sure that’s how. . . you have nobody else relying on you, you’re responsible for nobody and only have yourself to answer to. . . you’re entirely alone.”
“Here I was thinking that’s exactly what leads people to giving up,” Joel notes, throwing another stitch, and you let out a breath.
“You’d think that, but spite is a good motivator,” you admit, “Most of my time traveling I was just angry at the universe for putting me through the ringer. . . so I kept going. . . kind of like a ‘fuck you’, huh?”
“So you’re telling me–” Joel says, stopping to place another stitch, which you hiss at slightly, “–that you survived 2 months of hiking through the American backcountry as a fuck you to the Universe?”
“Canadian backcountry, actually,” you correct, before chuckling slightly, “But yeah, pretty much.”
“Canada?”
“Hm,” you give an agreeing hum, “We’d heard the midwest was hell on earth. . . as much hell as you can get in an apocalypse, I suppose. . . so I crossed the border somewhere in North Dakota, walked along the border.”
“What about infected?” Joel asks, and you shake your head.
“Only in and around big cities,” you note, “The rest is mostly national parks and forest, so I ran into relatively little trouble. . .infected were really the least of my worries, it’s the people.”
Joel gives an agreeing hum, but before he can open his mouth to reply, your front door flies inward with an almighty sound and you hear someone’s hoarse voice call out your name.
You jump again, eyes widening. From behind you, you’re vaguely aware of Joel’s hands having left your shoulders, and you hear the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off.
Sam doesn’t look too injured as his wide eyes search the room before falling on you. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and he has some smears of grime on his cheek, as well as a bloody handprint on the side of his pants that looks too small to be his. When he sees you, his face simultaneously relaxes and tightens at once.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he eyes the cuts on your arms, seemingly not even noticing Joel sitting behind you, and you nod.
“Just a few scratches,” you assure him, and he lets out a breath, before his expression becomes stormy. Behind you, Joel moves again, his hands coming back up to your wound where you assume he’s almost finished.
“The fertilizer,” Sam pants in a panicked voice, “Who did you give it to, speedy?”
“I kno–” you say, but Sam doesn’t listen.
“–because if you mix fertilizer with fuel oil you get–”
“–a bomb,” you finish, “I know, Sam.”
Sam’s voice stalls in his throat, eyes widening. “You knew? You knew they were planning on blowing people up and you went along with it anyway?”
“Obviously, I didn’t know that,” you reply sarcastically, and Sam lets out a scoff as Joel puts another stitch in your shoulder, palms coming up to steady your bicep.
“Sweetheart, I’m sure this is a very important conversation, but I’m gonna need you to hold still for me,” he says, his voice low but still audible as he focuses on the stitch.
Something in Sam's face twists when he hears the nickname, and Joel recognizes the flash of jealousy behind the young soldier's eyes that makes him realize this might not have been his smartest move. He doesn't find himself caring too much, drawing some satisfaction in the way Sam sizes him up.
"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" he asks him, moving his rifle towards Joel; not quite pointing it, but enough to tell him his attention has shifted, and not in a good way.
Joel takes up the challenge, moving his gaze from you to Sam, his shoulders setting imposingly as he gives Sam an almost unimpressed eyebrow from over your shoulder.
"Someone who doesn't have the fucking time for your little schoolboy crush."
"Joel," your voice is a sharp warning, "Not helping. . . Sam, I didn’t know.”
“I don’t care,” Sam says with a shake of his head, “Come on, you can’t be stupid like this, speedy.”
You close your eyes as you feel another stitch, face contorting in pain momentarily before you sigh. “I know.”
“–and all those people. . . did you know they killed fucking kids? I mean Jesus Christ,” Sam lets out again, and at this your jaw sets slightly.
“FEDRA hung an entire family for trying to come into the QZ last week,” you say, your tone cold, “You don’t need to lecture me on the blood staining my hands, thanks.”
There’s an uneasy silence between the two of you as Sam takes heavy, angry breaths, and after a second, Joel clears his throat, chair grating as he gets to his feet.
“All done,” he says, his voice back its usual stoicism, but neither you nor Sam pay him any attention as he walks to the other end of the room to clean his hands in the sink.
“You have to stop,” Sam says with a shake of his head, hands on his hips as he gives you a look.
“I have stopped–”
“No, I mean you have to stop smuggling,” he says with a shake of his head, “I don’t ever want you anywhere near this shit again.”
Normally you’d agree with Sam, but something about his tone irks you. It’s too authoritative, too controlling.
“Excuse me?” you utter, eyebrows flying up your forehead, “I don’t need you telling me to do anything, Sam.”
“Clearly, I have to– given you’re in absolutely no fit state to make any sound fucking decisions,” he hisses at you, and his tone has a venom to it you've only heard him use a handful of times.
“What the fuck is your problem?” you let out, and Joel can hear in your voice that you’re stung.
“You really want to know what my problem is?” he seethes, before motioning towards Joel, “This. . . ! This is my problem! This ridiculous rebellion you have going on, that you’ve had since the day you left the academy, that makes you run around here like some kind of untouchable, twisted version of Robin Hood. . . it’s stupid, speedy, and sooner or later it’s going to get you killed.”
“Hasn’t gotten me killed yet,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, and Sam lets out a sound of exasperation.
"I don't fucking care!" Sam lets out, his voice loud with anger and frustration, "You aren't listening–. . . the Fireflies’ cause isn’t any more noble than FEDRA’s regime. . . they’re all the fucking same, they lie and they kill, and sooner or later, they'll turn on you and you'll end up like your fucking dad."
"What?"
Your tone is shocked, and Sam watches with a guilty turn of his stomach as your eyes widen in shock, and grief, glistening with the oncoming threat of tears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Sam says your name, but you interrupt him as you get to your feet suddenly, the sound of the grating chair filling the otherwise silent room.
"Tell me," you say through gritted teeth, and Samuel purses his lips, jaw clenching in frustration with himself as he takes a second to answer you.
The room is so silent that even with his bad ear, Joel is sure he could hear a pin if it dropped.
"It wasn't some random bystander that snitched on your dad," Samuel admits finally, and Joel realizes with a horrible turn of his stomach what he's about to say, "It was the Fireflies. They weren't happy he stopped helping them, and so they tipped FEDRA off that he’d been letting them run operations through the shop."
Your vision is starting to narrow as you take a shallow breath, eyes boring into Samuel. "How do you know this?"
“It doesn’t matter–”
"No– Samuel, how do you know this?" you say, your gaze going back to the boy you'd known for 13 years, your eyes filled with the puzzle pieces you're struggling to put into place, "If we were ever friends. . . please tell me."
Samuel's eyes plead with yours as your brain works overtime, before he lets out a defeated breath, shaking his head. "Burke is my mom's name, I took it when I joined the academy because I was sure they wouldn’t let me in otherwise. . . my dad's name is Hartwin."
Even Joel recognizes the name; it had been whispered in the streets for the past few years as word spread of the Fireflies' revolution and victory in San Francisco, led by a hardened ex-marine called Jack Hartwin. His name had been spoken with a twisted kind of admiration, word of his liberal use of violence somehow less known.
"Sam," you let out, your voice trembling as you blink once, tears still refusing to spill down your cheeks as your face becomes a mask of realization, "Oh god.”
“Speedy, please–”
He takes a small step in your direction, but you respond with a step back, your body almost flinching at that stupid nickname falling over his lips. It had been for a stupid reason, as well, a name he’d called you after you’d out-sprinted almost your entire class during a training exercise at the academy. You had let him, allowing the nickname to take hold until eventually he had started to use it more than your actual name. Now, the name sounds poisonous coming out of his mouth.
“How long have you known?” you ask him, your voice is trembling with both rage and betrayal, “And don’t you fucking even think about lying to me.”
Sam’s face becomes a mask of solemn guilt.
“Since the beginning,” he admits sorrowfully, “I found out who you were a few days after you joined.”
“You knew–” you say, your voice stalling in your throat as you hear your heartbeat thunder in your ears, “You knew all this time, and you never told me?”
“What would you have done with that information? We were sixteen, speedy,” Sam pleads.
“You were protecting him,” you accuse, your voice hoarse with pain and anger.
"I was protecting you," Samuel shouts back, his eyes wide and pleading, "That's all I ever wanted to do, okay? My father would've destroyed you if you'd gone after him. . . you were my friend, the first and only one I’d ever had, and I couldn’t in good conscience say anything–"
“That wasn’t your decision to make!” you explode, and finally the tears flow freely over your cheeks, “This whole time, you lied to me. . . you looked me the face and you lied to me, for thirteen fucking years, I–”
Your voice stalls in your throat as you take a shaky breath, your trembling hand coming up onto your forehead, your chest tight and uncomfortable as you fight the overwhelming urge to hurl.
“Speedy, please,” Sam says, and his voice is shaky, “I wasn’t protecting him. . . I want nothing to do with him. . . I was horrified when I found out what he’d done, I joined the academy out of spite because I wanted to get as far away from him as I possibly could.”
“How fucking noble of you,” you spit, your tone venomous as you refuse to look at him.
Silence falls on the kitchen, not a word spoken by anyone, until eventually you let the breath out again, just as shaky as when it came in. Sam tries one more time, saying your name, your actual one. . . but you interrupt him before he can get any further.
“Get out,” you say, and this time, your voice is firm and furious. His eyes widen with surprise and hurt for a second, before his brow creases slightly.
“What?” he utters, his voice filled with pain, his eyes even flitting helplessly to Joel for a second, who is still standing in the corner as quietly as he can, wishing he had the superpower to turn invisible right now.
“You heard me, get out,” you repeat, and you’re still not looking at him, fingers pressed against your mouth lightly as your eyes look down at your feet.
His expression becomes almost pleading. “Speedy–”
“Samuel,” you return, your eyes, alight with fury, finally meeting his.
You say it like a warning, and Sam presses his lips together as he watches your expression.
“Get out of my house before I do something I regret,” you seethe, and Joel watches your fists clench at your side. He feels his shoulders tense slightly, readying to move just in case your common sense fails you and he has to actually pull you off the soldier standing in your living room holding an assault rifle. When Sam says nothing, you repeat yourself, your voice raising. “I said get out, Sam, fucking get out, before I–”
“What?” Sam interrupts you anyway, shaking his head “Before you kill me. . . ?”
He doesn’t say it with scorn nor anger, tone maybe a little disbelieving but open and vulnerable nonetheless.
When you say nothing, he takes a breath. “You would do that to me, Speedy?”
Joel knows it’s going to happen before it does, watches as your fingers curl around the glass of water on the table, hears the sound of it shattering as you knock it over. It doesn’t hit anyone, but Sam jumps slightly at the sound, but to his credit, his gun remains unfired.
“Don’t fucking call me that! Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” you shout at him, “Get out of my face. . . I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“You don’t mean that,” Sam says, and Joel notes that he actually sounds genuinely upset.
“With all my heart I fucking mean that, Samuel,” you say, your voice barely controlled as your eyes shine with tears of anger, “I mean it. . . I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want to hear your name. . .I curse the fucking day you ever even spoke to me, if you’d just minded your own damn business you’d have saved us both the fucking trouble.”
Sam is completely silent as he processes your words, the only sounds in the room that of your breathing.
“Get.out.”
Sam heaves a defeated sigh, his own eyes shining with threatening tears. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that Joel is witnessing this, his eyes focused only on you as his eyes plead with yours.
Finally, he turns on his heel and walks to the door, before pulling it open. He pauses there, before turning his head slightly over his shoulder, but without looking at you.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, before swallowing harshly, “I only did it because I love you. . . you’re my family, not him.”
Every word he says feels like a gut punch, and you show him your back as you try and take a deep breath, feeling your face contort as you’re overtaken with the sudden urge to cry.
The door clicks shut quietly behind him.
You take a deep breath, clearing your throat and looking at the ceiling for a second, before walking towards the door that leads to what he assumes is your bedroom, passing by Joel standing in the corner in silence. Your face is a mask of so many emotions Joel can hardly keep count; hurt, betrayal, rage, and he can see the tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheeks, but you don’t meet his gaze. He says your name, but you ignore him as you pass him by, only saying in a hoarse voice:
“Please do me a favor and show yourself out.”
Joel barely has time to nod wordlessly before your door slams shut with an almighty bang.
END OF SIDE A
a/n: ya'll i PROMISE it gets more exciting/more spicyyy. i just needed to establish this so i could flesh out the reader/joel dynamic and the basis for their relationship. please please bear with me, i have a plan heheheh. as usual, please let me know what you thought of this chapter and the story as a whole, i love hearing your input/feedback :)
taglist:
apart from those of you who explicitly asked to be added, i also took the liberty of tagging some of you that showed interest in more parts (if you do not want to be tagged, please please let me know, in which case i apologize in advance for doing so!)
pairing - joelmiller x femalereader ratings - 18+ word count - 4k
warnings - arranged marriage AU, dubious con(the whole arranged marriage against readers will thing), angst, brat!reader, softdom!joel, kidnapping, jumpscare!david, salt lake but a very different salt lake than the games (aka no cannibalism) , panic attack
authors note - thank you for waiting for this! i really hope you enjoy it, no smut in the first chapter :( (ik boooo) but there will be smut to come. cause you know joel miller is nothing if not a seducer of woman. comment, and let me know what you think! lets have a discourse.
SUMMARY - You thought coming to silver lake would be better than your previous QZ living situation. Come to find out, you had more than freedom waiting for you on the other side of the wall. You had Joel Miller, whether you wanted him or not.
series masterlist
Fuck this. Fuck him. They hold you hostage then offer you food and water? This shit doesn’t feel right. Your whole body turns away from him. Pushing the glass further from you as you pout.
“Drink.”
“No.”
“Now.
The growl in his voice startles you. For someone who swears they aren’t going to hurt you, it feels a hell of a lot like he is. Your eyes find his, now dark with a scowl on his face.
“I’m not gonna tell ya again, girl.”
You scoff.
“What…you’re gonna force me?”
Nothing you’ve been through thus far could have prepared you for this.
It’s dark. So, so dark.
“Get off me!” you screamed while trashing your body in the man's arms. Earning you an elbow to the side that made you groan at the harsh hit. Your body trembling, wishing you could see through the pitch black area ahead.
You arrived at Silver lake only a short time ago, not realizing how much of a mistake this stop in your long journey would be. You only made it a few hours into nightfall trying to observe the town from the far woods when a bunch of men caught you from behind. Now dragging you across the snowy town and making a scene of it.
“I will KILL you!” Your empty threats made the man dragging your left arm along laugh, causing you to turn your head and give him a nasty look.
“Hear that, ted?” the mystery man nodded his head to the man on your right, “we caught a feisty one. Know just who’d like this one…” the men disregarded your attempts at kicking, laughing as they went back and forth as if this was just another day.
You made it to what looked like some sort of run down restaurant, your brain working over time to think of every possible scenario that could happen here. Worst is you’re dead. Best is they feed you, cloth you, and tell you this was all a prank. But you doubt it’s the latter.
You huff out a small ouch as you’re being thrown into a makeshift jail cell at the back of the place you surveyed earlier, hitting the grown so hard dust particles float in the bright white light casting above you.
“Don’t move.” the taller man shouts down at you,
Your eyes roll at the request, “Nowhere to go in here, jackass.” you cross your arms and death glare at him from below.
“Fucking bitch,” his hand grabs your hair from in between the bars and drags you to it. Your whole body moved to follow his hand, trying to shield yourself from the pinching pain,
“HEY!, get off her, man. You know they’ve gotta be in one piece.” the other man warns, thankfully giving your scalp a break from the pull.
“Whatever.” he scoffs, turning to walk out with his buddy. Both of their backs towards you. You slap the cell bars and scream in frustration. Quickly realizing you needed to figure out your next move. You need to stay alive, you need to get the fuck out of here. Your body pushes itself against the wall, head falling back as you begin to silently cry. Nobody here but you and your thoughts for the foreseeable future. Your head falls against the wall, and your eyes close. Forcing yourself into slumber.
—
Drool begins to dry on your face before you are suddenly awakened by the loud slam of a door. You gasp, waking up and forgetting this is now where you have been staying. A cold, dirty cell floor. You look up quickly and your eyes find a taller man, one you haven't seen before; walking slowly towards you. You instinctively crawl to the further edge of the cell.
“Stay back.” you warned, as if you had any upper hand in this situation.
“m’sorry to scare you” the strangers hands raise in defense as he stopped walking towards you. “Just wanted to check on you.” He stands with his arms to his side now. Waiting on your next move.
“Check on me?” you begin, voice dripping with malice. “I was just kidnapped and thrown into this fucking cell.” his eyes follow your body as you kneel to stand up. Wiping down your pants to get the dust off. Fully standing, now closer to his height.
His face is flat and stern as he begins to observe how you are acting. Deeply in his own thoughts as he looks down at the ground, only to be brought back by your incessant nagging,
“HELLO! Can you even hear me?”
“I want to help you”
You’re confused by his bold statement, but accept his help by nodding slowly as you walk towards him in your cell.
“You’re not leaving this cell until they think you’re calm enough…and you’re not leaving this town. At least not alive, I’m sorry.”
“What does that even mean? What do you guys even want from me?”
“It’s not the right time.” the man turns on his heels and begins walking out, leaving you more pissed than you originally were.
“Please, please don’t leave yet!” you whined,
He turns his head over his shoulder slightly to acknowledge your plea, his back still to you.There is a comfortable silence until he breaks it, “What’s your name?”
You go back and forth with yourself for a little while, wondering if you should be honest. You have to get out of here, and maybe he is your best bet. If you play nice with him, maybe you can bring his guard down enough to get released and escape. You’ll play this role for now, and you tell him your name in a silent whisper.
He nods in acknowledgement, and you throw his question back to him. Another silence looming before he breaks it,
“Joel.”
—
It’s been hours.
The metallic clang echoed through the dimly lit room as a new man fumbled with rusty keys. You squinted at the sudden sound as he swung the creaking cell door open. His average figure standing at the opening of your cell, beckoning you to come with him.
“About time," you muttered, rubbing your eyes and standing up.
The man flashed a wry smile, his reddish beard framing weathered features. "Apologies for the delay. We don't get many visitors here in Silver Lake, and security is tight."
You stay silent as you give him a shy smile. Following him out of the room, and close on his trail as you walk an appropriate distance away from him as he brings you outside. It’s an oddly calm vibe, and you begin to overthink. Is this your chance to run, he’s giving you so much freedom…would he be able to even catch you? He does look kind of older, skinner than the other men you’ve had the pleasure of interacting with. As if he reads your mind, he breaks your thought pattern,
“Sorry about my guards. They can be protective of this place.” he eyes your bruises,
“What is this place?”
The man gestured for you to follow again as he led you through town. "Silver Lake is more than just a town. It's a haven for those who survived the apocalypse, a place where people from different walks of life came together to rebuild what was lost."
As you walked, you noticed families huddled in makeshift homes, the sounds of children playing echoing through the air. The aroma of cooking wafted from a communal kitchen, and people greeted you with nods as you both passed.
"It's been a tough journey, but we've managed to create something special here," the man continued. "We have families, we have friends, we’re a community"
“A community that throws people into dark dungeons and leaves them there for days?” you bite back, causing him to stop in his tracks, turning to you.
“I am very sorry about that. Let’s start over.” he holds his hand out for you to shake, “I’m David. And who might you be?”
You give him a funny look, face scrunching in disgust, not wanting to do whatever this is. But you remember what Joel had told you. Remember your plan to play along.
You shook his hand and told him your name, earning a smile from him, “It’s very nice to meet you.”
The air was thick with a sense of uncertainty the rest of the walk. You both ended up at a rather small house, the look of it just like every single other one. As you approached the house, the wooden boards creaked beneath your feet. The windows, covered with tattered curtains, revealed only glimpses of the dim interior. A sturdy figure with a graying beard stood on the porch, his eyes scrutinizing the surroundings.
"David," Joel called out, a tight smile breaking through the gruff exterior. "Wasn’t expectin’ you so soon."
“Thought I’d bring her here, have her rest up by you. Get acclimated to the community.”
You’re confused by David’s words. Was Joel one of his guards? Like the other two men who had caught you? You have so many questions you wanted to ask, but you were insecure. Didn’t know if these were people you could really trust or not, and you just wanted to make it out of here. You had to push through, had to endure whatever the hell this was. Just until you were able to make it out.
David begins to introduce you both, but Joel raises his hand stopping David’s words– “We’ve met.”
David looks at Joel in a peculiar way, a way you couldn’t quite decipher yet. Then back at you, grinning widely, “Glad you’re taking this so well, Joel.” he walks back off down the stairs, turning back just once to shout, “You’re in good hands!”
You sway back and forth slowly, hands crossing over the other as your gaze is glued to the ground. You don’t know what to think, what to do, what to say…
“You can come in.”
—
You’ve been sitting in silence for the past 30 minutes while Joel is simmering something on the stove. His kitchen table is small, and placed in the corner of his modest sized kitchen. It all looks so..normal. So much like how it was before. You watch Joel as he stirs the big pot, banging the spoon handle on the side to watch the sauce drip back down into the pot. He brings the spoon back down onto the counter, turning towards you to sit. You rip your gaze away from him, pretending you haven’t been observing his every move.
“You’re nervous?” His voice is soft. He is still standing at this point, noticing you flinch as he goes to sit. You get the feeling he isn’t bad…but at this point, you don’t know what to think. You look up at him, biting your lip as you stay silent.
“m’not gonna hurt you.” he reminds you. Joel grabs a cup from his counter, turning on the faucet and pouring you water. Water. You haven’t seen a stable source of water in…oh god it’s been long.
Joel takes note of the glint in your eyes as he pours you a cup, taking a deep breath in relief. Seeing you nervous only makes the seed of guilt in his stomach grow. The soft look of fear you’ve had plastered on your face since he’s seen you makes him angry. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have to do this.
“Here.” He sets the water down in front of you, sitting in the seat next to you.
Fuck this. Fuck him. They hold you hostage then offer you food and water? This shit doesn’t feel right. Your whole body turns away from him. Pushing the glass further from you as you pout.
“Drink.”
“No.”
“Now.
The growl in his voice startles you. For someone who swears they aren’t going to hurt you, it feels a hell of a lot like he is. Your eyes find his, now dark with a scowl on his face.
“I’m not gonna tell ya again, girl.”
You scoff.
“What…you’re gonna force me?”
“f’i have to.”
“Then go ahead.”
You hear him grumble to himself, words that resemble “fucking stubborn.” as he pushes out his chair, pushing it back in roughly. He slams a bowl down on the counter, causing you to gasp. You watch as he scoops a few spoonfuls of food into the bowl, turning abruptly to slam it down in front of you. Rushing off after he does. Leaving you to ponder your own thoughts. You’re looking down at the steamy bowl of what looks like a stew as you hear the front door slam open and closed. He’s left you. Has he gone to tell David about your interaction? Shit. You should have listened to him, you wanted to play this smart. Now for all you know this will be the last bowl of food you’ll have in a while. Will they bring you back down to the cell? Your thoughts frighten you into eating scoops of the food, taking huge gulps of water. Your belly burns from the nutrients you’ve been neglecting yourself for weeks. You sip the last remnants of liquid from the bowl and get up to set it down into the sink. With Joel gone, you were free to roam the house. But you just felt like a scared little mouse, too afraid to disturb anything not familiar.
You’ve decided against your better judgment to take a look at the place. Just until someone eventually comes back to take you away.
You look around the living room first, a small brown couch, enough to fit three bodies comfortably sits directly across from a fireplace. A mantle with nothing but dust lays atop of the fireplace, not homey at all. You inspect the room, finding nothing that tells you about the man who left you here. You decide to move on.
There are 4 stairs that lead up into what looks like a small wing of the house, the last square footage you have left to survey. To your left, a small bathroom. A large tub, one that reminds you of yours from home. Bubble baths and candle lit nights fog your memory. You surprise yourself as you feel water run down your eyes. Tears. Shit. This is all too much.
Just a few feet down, there’s an empty room with nothing but the sunlight of the open window shining through. Directly across, there’s another room. You break through that doorway and find a bed, a nightstand, and what looks to be a 6 drawer dresser filling the room. So empty, yet you wonder how he lives. You walk towards the drawers, opening up the top left one to find a few pairs of flannels. Of course. You open the top right and find it empty. He must travel light.
You get bored and begin walking to the bed, sitting atop of it to feel how soft the sheets are. You haven’t sat down on a bed in forever. So comfortable. The sheets stretched over the bed softer than you remember sheets being. The pillows are fluffier than you ever felt. The blanket is so warm…so…inviting. Your body does it before your brain thinks of it. Crawls under the covers. Your head hits the soft pillow, and you feel your eyes closing and your brain settling down. Your shoulders relax into the mattress, and your breathing evens out. You’re gone before you know it.
…You feel a thump on the bed that startles you awake, darkness engrosses the room and you thrash in bed to find your bearings.
“Joel?” you rub your eyes and see him standing in front of the bed, you look down to see fresh clothes lying next to you.
“Take a shower. We got somewhere to be.”
—
You are trying to catch up to Joel as he’s walking ahead of you, “Slow down!” you shouted to him, stumbling over your feet as you grabbed his arm to stay up.
“We’re already late,”
“For what?”
He huffs, but begins walking slower for you. Both of you now silently walk into the same restaurant you were kept at just a day ago. Your body goes rigid as you think of all the things that will happen. You fucked up. You did this to yourself, you didn’t follow the—your thoughts pause as you see the place crawling with people. Like a huge get together, chatter and laughs bounce off the walls. It’s so…alive.
The crowd of people part, and all eyes are now on you and Joel. David at the forefront of the room. “Welcome, Welcome! We’ve been waiting for you two.” he laughs as he walks past the sea of people to you both, grabbing onto Joel’s shoulder and smiling widely, “Hopefully you were late for a fun reason,” he winks at you two and you shudder, what the fuck was this guy assuming? You rip your hand off Joel’s arm, patting down your dress and making note of all the faces in the room. Your eyes catch the two men from your capture, hand and hand with ladies. How the hell did they land those girls? They were absolute dicks to you. But as you rip those men apart in your head, you notice everyone is coupled up. Kids in the mix as well. Maybe the community wasn’t terrible…seems family oriented at least.
You follow Joel to the front of the room, wanting to stick by him and not venture off too far. He seemed to be a rigid asshole sometimes, but he was an asshole that didn’t hurt you yet. You stand close to him, arms bumping as you look up at him. He looks down at you, smiling with his eyes turned down, a worried look etched on his face. Maybe he was as anxious at public events as you were.
“Please, everyone welcome our newcomer into silver lake!” David introduced you by name to the room, the whole room saying hello directly towards you in a cult like manner.
“Uh–Hi everyone?” you stuttered, heart beating so fast the pounding began to overtake your hearing.
David’s speech began again, mentioning new updates and new hunts their men had succeeded at. You zoned out again, only brought back to the present by Joel nudging you gently, your head batting to look towards David who had beckoned you to stand on the other side of Joel, sandwiched between the two men. You smiled and nodded, doing as you were told for this one instance. Put on the spot as you got comfortable in your new position, David called upon you,
“She has been a wonder, ladies and gentlemen. An absolute prize. That’s why I think we should all welcome her with open arms.”
You stood by David's side, feeling the curious eyes of the community upon you. Joel, a stern figure with a rugged exterior, stood nearby. The unease in the room was palpable as David continued his introduction.
"And this, my friends, is a crucial time for us. Unity is our strength, and it's my pleasure to announce that we have a new bond to forge. In the days to come, our friend here will be joining hands with Joel."
Your heart skipped a beat, panic creeping into every fiber of your being. You exchanged a wary glance with Joel, whose expression remained stoic. David's words echoed in your ears like an impending storm.
"Joel," David continued, "our only hermetic guard, will stand as a pillar of strength for our newcomer. Together, they will contribute to the resilience of Silver Lake and ensure the prosperity of our community."
A lump in your throat formed, the weight of the announcement settling in. Arranged marriage—a relic of a bygone era—now thrust upon you in the midst of survival. Your eyes darted between David and Joel, the gravity of the situation sinking in.
"Survival often demands sacrifices," David said, his tone filled with conviction. "And in this new chapter, we come together to build a stronger, more resilient future."
The room buzzed with whispers, but you could only hear the thudding of your own heart. Joel's gaze met yours, and you saw a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, as if he, too, had been thrust into this against his will.
As the community welcomed you both with a mix of cheers and polite applause, you felt the walls closing in. The air grew heavier, and your breaths quickened. This was worse than the cell. This was worse than your impending death. This was something you could have never seen coming.
As David's words lingered in the air, a suffocating tension settled over the room. The weight of the announcement hung over you like a dark cloud, and you couldn't bear the collective gaze of the community any longer. Without a word, you turned on your heels and bolted from the room, breaths coming in erratic gasps.
The cold night air hit you as you stumbled into the open, the dim glow of lanterns casting long shadows over the uneven ground. Panic gripped you like a vise, and you ran blindly through the narrow pathways, seeking solace in the darkness.
"Wait!" Joel's voice echoed behind, his footsteps closing in. You refused to stop, the desperation to escape overwhelming reason. But he caught up, his hand gently gripping your shoulder. "Stop."
You whirled around, chest heaving, eyes wide with fear. "I can't do this, Joel."
He stepped closer, his gaze softening. "None of us asked for this. But we're survivors, and sometimes survival means making tough choices."
You shook your head, the panic escalating. "I won't be someone's pawn. I won't let them control my life."
Joel's expression softened, and he pulled you into a hesitant embrace. "Shh, babygirl, calm down. Running won't change anything."
The unexpected term of endearment caught you off guard, but the gentleness in his voice began to chip away at the walls of panic. You trembled against him, the tension in your body slowly dissipating.
"We can figure this out," he murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "You're not alone here. We'll find a way out. Told ya I wouldn’t hurt ya."
You took a shaky breath, the warmth of his embrace offering a strange comfort in the midst of chaos. The reality of your shared predicament began to sink in, and you reluctantly nodded. "I don't want this, Joel.."
He pulled back slightly, locking eyes with you. "I know. You gotta smarten up if you want to survive. No more being stubborn."
You wipe your tears from your cheeks, sniffling as you nod at him. “Okay.”
“If we want to get out of this together. There are some rules ya gotta follow.” Joel began, surprising you with how fast the gentleness in his tone shifted into something more stern…
“This is not a fairy tale. It's about survival. Our survival."
You nodded, a bitter taste settling in your mouth. The harsh truth of your situation echoed in Joel's words.
"First rule," he continued, his eyes piercing through the darkness. "We stick together. There's safety in numbers, and in this world, trust is a luxury we can't afford. You stay close, and you follow my lead."
You swallowed hard, the gravity of the arrangement sinking in. "Fine," you mumbled, my defiance momentarily subdued.
"Second rule," Joel continued, unfazed. "We present a united front. Whether you like it or not, we're bound by this arrangement. Any sign of discord, and it puts both of us at risk. We can't afford internal conflicts."
You bristled at the demand, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I didn't sign up for this, Joel. I won't be some indentured servant."
He narrowed his eyes, his patience wearing thin. "You're not the only one dealing with shit. I won’t touch you, I won’t make you any kind of servant. You follow my rules, and you don’t fuck with our chance at getting out. Understand me?"
Reluctantly, you nodded, conceding to the harsh reality that enveloped you.
“I said, do you understand me?” he repeats, expecting an answer from you.
“I understand,” you whispered to him, lips curving down as you felt tears swell in your eyes.
You met his gaze, defiance flickering. "I won't play house just to appease the crowd."
He sighed, the weariness in his eyes suggesting a history of battles fought and lost. "You don't have to like it, but you have to do it. It's the only way we make it out of this mess alive."
As Joel's rules echoed in the silence that followed, you couldn't shake the feeling that your autonomy had been sacrificed on the altar of survival.
Series masterlist Join dark!Romana's tag list Dark!Romana's Masterlist
Summary: Deb gets what's coming
Content and Warnings: DARK JOEL! DUB CON! Although no violent rape happens like in TWW, reader is under systemic misogyny and a society of ritualized sex abuse. Everything other than the violent rape scenes, everything that happen in either The Handmaids Tale book or show are liable to happen here including but not limited to discussion of rape, child abuse, child marriage, ritualized sexual abuse, sexual abuse in general, acts of violence, major character deaths, mentions of miscarriage but never shown and never pregnancies we know of. Big ole homophobia warning, specifically in regards to lesbophobia. As for Joel, PIV sex, breeding kink, degrading (slut, whore etc but thing like Raider!joel) forced breeding and breeding kink, power dynamics, Joel is not the good guy but he’s also not the worst, slightly rough sex but not violent. Warnings are liable to be added as the story goes but I’ll always update. As always if I miss something please tell me, but i extensively label my warnings and in the end media consumption is your own choice. If you would like to know if this is a happy ending or not you can message me and I’ll tell you that way I don’t spoil for everyone but you can decide if this is for you.
Immersability: Reader has long hair, can conceive children theoretically.
Additional warnings: CUCKING, we're cucking Gina. Non con on Gina, reader is actively involved and making it worse. Praise, degrading, Gina trying to pawn 14 year old off on a 40 year old. Slapping, blood, little bloodplay.
Support writers, reblog and leave comments!
**********************
You were sore.
You had woken up to both Tommy and Joel wiping you down gently, and shushing you until your eyes fluttered closed again. Eventually, you were awakened with Tommy gone. Joel explained he was out with some other girl, but he was laying here beside you again, fully clothed as always. You lamented that this adventure hadn’t gotten him naked, but you were so satisfied from both Tommy and Joel tonight you couldn’t find it in yourself to care to much. Joel was soft as he coaxed you dressed and let you lay back down on his lap to nap on the ride back, his arm wrapped around you as he put you to bed.
Beat. Exhausted. Happy.
But waking up alone in the morning, you didn’t feel as good as you had felt last night. Mostly, you were worried about being seen, being caught. You were worried what Angela would think of you. She was so strong, so in control… how would she feel about letting Joel and Tommy degrade you like that… how would she feel about you letting Tommy fuck you… would she be jealous…
Why would she be jealous? Tommy was her commander, not her husband…
Angela knew what the Jezabels were, and Joel called her by her name. You were worried you were jealous because you were jealous.
Still, there were no sick days, no days off, and you had to go do the shopping with Angela today. As you descend down the stairs, you prepare to turn and go directly outside, not sure you can face Lesa, Gina or Ellie after the depraved acts of last night, but when you hear voices in the kitchen you can’t help but look.
The back of a strawberry blonde head, a man’s voice, and your gaze veered over his shoulder to lock eyes with Ellie.
They were wide and would be frightened if she didn’t look so fucking annoyed. ‘Help’ They begged as the man droned on. Commander Bedford. You nodded, knowing where you needed to go.
“OfThomas!” You greeted loudly as you quickly snuck out the door without Gina seeing you. She was too busy trying to sell Bedford on Ellie’s best qualities. She was lying through her teeth considering how much she hated Ellie.
Angela played along as the gate, although looking confused.
“Blessed be the fruit, OfJoel.” Her eyes tried to communicate that you needed to calm down. There were always gaurdians around.
“May the lord open!” God, you could not act naturally.
“Does your mistress like oranges? I heard they may have some.”
“I don’t-”
“Let’s ask your Martha.”
Say no more. “Yes, let's.” Angela grabbed your arm pulling you away from the guardian who was eavesdropping. In a tight whisper, she opens the servant's door and pulls you inside. “What the hell is-”
The door closes. “Is Commander Miller home?” You hoped you didn’t sound as anxious as you sounded. You wanted to be brave, to help Ellie but you were scared nonetheless.
She nodded, yanking you again down to his office. “What. Is. Happening.”
“It’s Ellie.”
Angela did not even knock, bursting into Tommy’s office.
He stood up. “What’s going on?” Efficient pair.
“Joel is gone and Gina had Commander Bedford over for tea, he’s at a table with Ellie right now and Gina-” Tommy was heading out of his office, beckoning you on as he speed walked. “Is trying to sell him on her.”
“David doesn’t need to be sold.” Tommy grumbled. “She’s still got ‘teen’ in her name, that’s enough for him.” He stopped, directing the two of you. “Stay here a few minutes then leave like you normally would.” and he was out. You and Angela watched as he let himself into Joel’s house. After a moment, Angela coaxed you out, despite your shaking.
“You gotta relax, hun. No one has any reason to carebut Gina and she has no reason to suspect you even saw them. Acting weird will get us questioned, though.”
Taking a breath, you go with her. Still, as you pass your home you can’t help but turn around when the door opens and Tommy has his arm around Bedford’s shoulder, guiding him away from his niece and down the stairs. Tommy caught your eye, gave you a small smile and nod.
“How was last night?” Angela asked, jolting you out of your thoughts.
“Hm? Oh. Um… ”
“I just mean, they were okay to you, right? Cause I’ll kick Tommy’s ass.”
You shake your head. “No, no it was…” it was what exactly? You couldn’t tell her it was good, that it was hot and you wanted it again… you werent supossed to like it…
“It’s okay you know. To enjoy it. To to let yourself enjoy the good things.” She looked at you while you both walked, her face earnest but a small smile threatening to break.
You pause only a moment before smiling. “It was so good.” You start giggling.
Angela laughed too. “God, it really is.”
“You’re not… your not jealous I was with Tommy?”
Waing her hand, she dismissed you. “Hell naw, he’s not my boyfriend. I’m telling you, we gotta make the best of the time we have left.”
The time we have left… 9 years for you. 3 commanders, 3 years per commander. If you couldn’t produce a child for Gilead, you’d be sent the colonies where the radiation would kill you in a few months. If you did, you may have a chance at surviving, but you weren’t sure you really wanted to. Your son would grow up never remembering his mother’s face either way, and did you really want to bring another child into this world? Joel was a good commander… you didn’t think you’d be so lucky twice. Angela has less time, and how were you supossed to navigate this without her?
Angela breaks you out of the thoughts of memories with your son. “Did Joel fuck you?”
“Hm?” You turn to her. “Oh! Yeah, yeah eventually.”
“Damn, how’d you get him to do that? Joel only ever watches me and Tommy.”
A tinge of jealously comes through you. Joel watched Angela? Did she look better? Of course did, Angela was stunning, perfect curves, intense eyes, dark curls… fuck, did you want to be her or did you want to fuck her too. Maybe Joel was right, you were just a desperate slut.
“Yeah.” You cuckle. “I told Tommy he felt and looked better than Joel.”
“Oh man!” She laughed. “He must be really possesive of you, that never worked for me. I used to taunt him all the time.”
You wished she’d stop talking about Joel seeing her naked.
*
It was time for the next ceremony, and you could cut the tension in the house with a knife. Ellie, as always was excused, but as you stood in the living room with Lesa and the driver, Luke, she hung around.
Lesa tried to excuse her. “Miss Elizabeth, the commander says you don’t have to be here.”
Ellie stayed put. “And my mom wants me to be here, so I think I’ll listen to her. Respect your mother and all that.”
“You’ve never listened to her a day in your life.” Lesa chastized, but had a small smile. Lesa raised Ellie more than Gina during her childhood.
When Gina flew into the room holding the blue cloak, you knew there was a problem, but you didn’t think she’d backhand you hard enough to strike you to he ground.
“What the fuck, mom!”
Ellie tried run to you, but Luke caught her arm in time. You didn’t want her involved.
But Gina turned to Ellie, furious. “Did you know about this?” She held up the coat, a red smudge of lipstick on the hood.
“Maybe I did!” Goddammit Ellie.
Gina took a step towards Ellie, raising her hand, but you scrambled up and in between them. “She didn’t know-” Another slap, this time from the palm, not a backhand. This one was meant for Ellie, but you took it for her. The impact hit your lip and you tasted blood. Only then did you realize her backhand caused her ring to cut you much in the same way that left a scar on Ellie years ago.
Gina screamed at you, calling you a whore as Luke pulled Ellie away from the ation, and you were certain Gina hit you again, dark curls usually so perfect falling out of her bun.
You didn’t notice notice Joel until his hand was fist in Gina’s hair, yanking it back.
“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE?” He bellowed, his strong masculinitity controlling the room, bringing order.
“I know what you did!” Gina yelled, shoving Joel off of her. “Took her to the fucking Jezabels, didn’t you!”
“That is none of your business!”
“I’m your wife!”
“You know damn well I only married you because you baby trapped me!”
The ensueing scuffle was hard to keep track of, Gina trying to hit him but Joel quickly subduded her, one hand hard in her hair, the other twisting her arm behind her back.
“I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR GODDAMN HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!”
“I DIDN’T-”
“YOU FUCKING TRIED TO!”
The blood from that attempt was still on your lips.
“Lesa, Luke.” Joel spoke evenly. “Keep Ellie down here.”
“Yes sir” “Yes sir.”
Joel kept his grip on Gina towards the stairs. “OfJoel!” He called, and you scramble after him.
“Joel?” Gina asks, still angry but a little bit of nerves sinking in. Joel told Gina before, she lays a hand on Ellie and she’s dead. Maybe this was enough cause for Joel to have her hung, or lashing her? “What are you doing?”
“It’s ceremony night.”
*
Joel threw Gina on the bed, then motioned at you as he unbuckled his belt. “Go on.” You move to follow his orders obidiantly, trusting him, but he stopped you. “Undress.”
You can’t help glance to Gina. “U-undress?”
“You heard me.” Joel slipped out of his house shoes and yanked his pants down. Despite the black boxers, you could see his growing erection as Joel palmed himself.
So, you did as you were told. You wanted to show him you were better, you were a good girl, you were obidiant. You were good to Ellie. You listened. Joel kept his eyes on you every single moment, rubbing his cock throughhis shorts nd giving little nods on encouragment with every garment you reached for until you were totally undressed. You moved to get between Gina’s legs, but she stopped you.
“Joel! This is fucking insane!”
“Shut the hell up! You don’t want us fucking alone? Fine, you can watch. Now shut the fuck up and do what I tell you unless you want to be punished for real.”
Gina shut her mouth, and you settled in her lap in the usual position. Joel had other plans. Dropping to his knees, his strong arms wrapped around your thighs and pulling you right to his mouth. “C’mere” He mumbles before he latches to your pussy lips.
Despite your head resting between Gina’s legs, you couldn’t find any shame when you moaned for him. Joel and you were what mattered, Gina just had to watch. She had it coming.
“Fuck, Jooooeeell” You whine for him, bucking your hips up to where he eagerly lapped at you. You wondered not for the first time when the last time Joel touched Gina like this was. You knew he fucked her, but did he bring her to orgasm? Did he clean her up after? Did he lick into her core with the furver he did no?
Slipping a finger up your ass, you cry out in pleasure, hoping that the other kept Ellie away as you cum on her dads mouth and fingers.
When he was satifified, Joel didn’t even look Gina as he kissed his way up your body devour your mouth. At some point, he must has taken off his boxers, so when he knelt between your and his wife’s legs, he was tall and powerful s stroked his girth in front of you. Finally, Joel threw off his coat and began unbottoning his shirt… He was glorious, hair being revealed fron his chest as he undid every botton, all the way down to the swell of his stomach… You look up to find his eyes going over you, and an angry, hungry look on his face as and shucked off off the white button down.
He was doing this for her, not you. To tease her, taunt her, punish her. You were just the barrier to their hate fuck.
You reach out to grab at his thick torso, pulling his attention back to you.
“Joel, fuck me…” You beg him, but while his body and mouth are on you, his eyes are still on her. Gina mutters something about you being a whore, and you get an idea, pushing Joel over to lie on his back. NOW you had Joel’s full attention, and surprisingly, he was letting you take the control, for now at least.
Climbing on top, you waste no time lining him up at your tight entrance and slowly sinking down, being sure to make a whole a show of moaning obscenely at the intrusion. “Ooooh fuck, Joel… god… you feel so fucking good Joel, so fucking full…” You look over to see Gina glowering at you, bit a hint of desire in her eyes. Maybe you were just high on the power of riding such a powerfull commander… but… “Touch yourself” You tell her.
Her face shifts to disgust. “What the hell? No!”
You knew where your power was. Leaning down, you slow your movements to kiss Joel, trailing down his neck as your pussy teases him.
Joel mutters a warning through gritted teeth.
“Joel, I want her to touch herself, please? It’d be so hot baby, your wife getting off to me bouncing on your cock, watching it split me open.”
“Ohhh fuckkkkk” He was breaking.
You take his face in your hand, Guiding his mouth to the cut on your cheek. On instict, he licked it up. “Taste that? That was a slap meant for Ellie. I took that for her Joel. Please? Please make her touch herself to us? Please?”
“Do it.” He groans, bucking up into you. “Fucking touch yourself, watch me fuck another girl in our marraige bed.”
She was hesitant, but Joel gave her a deadly glare and Gina complied, lifting up her skirt and pulling down her udnerwear. Wives got nicer underwear. Fuck, she had a pretty pussy too… but you’re was prettier.
“How do I feel, Joel?” You ask, going back to bouncing on his cock.
“Mmmm s’fuck good, beautiful.”
“Better than hers?”
“Sooooo much better”
As long as you weren’t going crazy, you heard a small moan from Gina.
“Tell me, Joel. Tell me!” Your legsare burning but you refused to give up until he cums inside you, so you continue chaing your own orgasm.
Joel’s strong hands smacked yoru ass hard before gripping it brusingly, helping you bounce. “Your so much tighter, baby, so much hotter than her, so much prettier, fuck, you’re fucking perfect, perfect girl just bouncing like a bunny on my cock, little bunny girl, I own you, don’t I? You’re my tight little hole, my little pretty bunny.”
You came in a gush to the wet squelch of Gina fucking herself on her fingers.
Her and Joel came together.
You collapse on Joel. Still speared on his dick, your cunt pulsing around him in the aftershocks.
As the sweat cooled in its thin layer over your skin, you shiver, and wonder how long you’d been laying there with Joel’s hands soothing over you.
“Get dressed, beautiful. I’ll take care of this.”
‘This’ meant Gina.
You do as you’re told and redress. Before you leave to clean your face, you see Joel, he’s looking at his wife with soft eyes, and you wonder if he’s going to comfort her, kiss her, fuck her, or worse. Kiss her.
“Gina is trying to pawn Ellie off on Commander Bedford. He had tea with Ellie a few weeks ago.”
When you close the door, you smile, hearing Joel and Gina begin to shout at each other again.
*******************
LMFAOOOOOO GET FUCKED GINA!!!!!
2 chapters left!!!!
I think Gina had it coming, but im gonna update everything to darkish!reader
Let me know what you think!! I had a lot of fun with this one!
The last chapter got like. 5 notes, soooooo if you re still here, drop at least a like so i know lol
love you all so much! Im not getting rid of my tag list, but Im ADDING and update blog, @romana-updates bc tumblrs terrible at tags so if you like my work here or my work on my main, give it a follow and sign up to get updates.
(His) Home for the Holidays: A Meet Me in the Back Christmas Special | (joel miller x fem!reader) (18+)
Part 4 of Meet Me in the Back
pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader
summary: joel texts you while he's horny during the holidays, and you decide to visit him at his house after work.
warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (no specifics), size!kink, daddy!kink, face-ridin', dick!ridin', ass-eatin' (Joel tosses reader’s salad and gives her a side of housemade ranch iykyk), kissing after said ass-eating, some nasty cumplay, brief fingering, kissing!!!, taking nude photos, unprotected PIV, pussy...job? idk reader strokes him off w her pussy lips, v brief mentions of cigarettes and weed, fluff??, characters actively avoiding Feelings™!!!, so many fucking stupid dirty christmas puns, reader can fit in Joel’s coat, has hair, and doesn't necessarily celebrate christmas, but is very familiar with it ig
word count: ~5.2K | ao3
a/n: thank you guys so much for loving this fucker as much as me. we get into some real naughty list shit here!! i hope you like it, and don't be mad at me about the end ok thx <3 also s/o to @cafekitsune for the adorable divider!
Taglist Update: I have decided to decommission my taglist in favor of an updates blog! Please follow @atticrissfinchupdates and opt in for notifications to get notified when I post a new fic!
Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Kofi
The days before the Christmas holiday are always the longest. The office is relatively empty, no real action happening, and yet you’re stuck here for eight hours a day regardless. You find yourself bogged down with busy work and rubbing at your eyes with the strain of staring at your screen.
You hear a vibration on your desk and check your phone.
Joel: Wat r u up 2?
You roll your eyes a little, but you won’t lie to yourself. You're glad for the distraction.
You: Working
Joel: cum over
You: I literally just said I’m working dude
Joel: leave early. want u
You: I can’t just leave early. I’m stuck here.
You huff and toss your phone on your desk, trying to get back into your flow, but your phone keeps buzzing.
Joel: im so horny 4 u rite now
Joel: cock is all harddd
Joel: needs 2 be inside u
Joel: permishin 2 send pic???
You groan, your forehead falling into the palm of your propped arm. He has gotten much better at asking before he just sends full hog, and you’re grateful for that.
You glance around quickly, ensuring that no one is lurking in the proximal area, and you give him the go-ahead. God knows you need a little excitement while you’re dying of boredom in corporate America.
The picture arrives quickly, and you look around one more time before opening the text.
He’s actually taken the time to set up his phone at the end of his bed, clearly with a timed shutter, because he’s naked, up on his knees, with one hand gripping his massive length and the other dangling a twig of some kind of greenery above it…is that mistletoe?
Joel: u gotta come kiss it now. sry I dont make the rules
Fucking mistletoe.
You: Jesus. Did you buy mistletoe JUST for this little bit of yours?
Joel: no comment
Joel: cum over and suck it baby he needs it real bad
You don’t know what the fuck it is about this man, but he’s getting more and more dangerous for you. You’ve become much more inclined to jump when he says so. And the sight of his cock, thick and hard and ready for you has your body responding in kind. You squirm in your chair, pressing your thighs together and feeling the pressure building there.
You sigh and respond.
You: I’m off in three hours. Don’t you have to work tonight?
Joel: its my day off. let santa stuff ur tight little stocking real nice n full bby
You scoff at the cringey line, as used to his disgusting language as you are.
You: Yikes
Joel: yikes what?
You: Just everything about you.
Joel: and yet u scream around daddys cock all the same every fuckin time dont u. dont kid urself. just cum get ur present
You drop your head back with a quiet whine, the arousal between your legs only intensifying as he lays out so plainly how deeply he’s come to own you and your desires.
You don’t let yourself linger too long on your response, promising you’ll be there as soon as you’re off and requesting his address.
__
The mobile home park where Joel lives is…not exactly well-kept, but you try not to judge. You get momentarily lost, but eventually see Joel’s beater pickup truck pulled up next to one of the trailers, and you pull in next to it.
You: I think I’m here?
You confirm the number on the outside of the house and gingerly step out of the car.
Joel: doors open
You steel yourself as you climb up the small flight of rickety, crumbling wooden steps and pull the clattering metal door open.
“Joel?” You call out, taking in his living space for the first time and kicking off your boots.
It’s pretty small, but you suppose that’s fitting for a man living alone. A minimal kitchenette cluttered with food items and dirty dishes, a shrunken living room with a ratty couch and a recliner set in front of a television with a chipped coffee table littered with beer cans, cigarette butts, an overflowing ashtray, and a bong. A skimpy fake Christmas tree adorns the far corner of the room with cheap ornaments, some tired-looking garland, and flickering multi-colored lights, but it does have a certain charm to it.
“Back here,” You hear him call out from the end of the narrow hallway to your left. You shrug off your purse and coat and hang them on the hook by the door, next to his coat. The same coat you’d wrapped around yourself when he helped with your tires.
Curiosity gets the better of you, and you lean in to take an exploratory sniff.
It still smells like him, of course. His cologne, his cigarettes, his weed. But there’s something else. The very subtle aroma of your perfume. An indulgent smile bleeds across your face. Sure, maybe he’s just lazy and hasn’t bothered to wash it. But you like that you’re there. That it’s not just him leaving bruises and ink on your skin and a deep aching between your legs every time he fucks you, but you’ve also left your mark on him.
Your reverie is interrupted by Joel’s voice once again from down the hallway.
“Come see what Santa brought you for Christmas, darlin’.”
You shake your head, but your smile is still intact.
The floorboards creak under the shag carpet as you make your way towards his voice. His door is only partially shut, so you slip yourself inside tentatively.
And he’s there, just as you’d suspected. Naked as the day he was born, lounging on top of his sheets with hands clasped behind his head. He's got one leg extended and the other bent and spread wide to showcase his hard cock slapped against the pudge of his stomach. He's still got that tacky gold cross around his neck. But the pièce de résistance is the goddamn Santa hat placed jauntily on his head.
“Knew you’d come runnin’ when I called.”
You click your tongue dismissively against the roof of your mouth and curve a hand around your hip. “Please. You had to beg to get me here. You and your Discount-Strip-Mall-Santa ass.”
Joel’s face pinches, tugging at the rim of his cap, “Ouch, baby. This here’s the finest quality Santa hat that money can buy at the dollar store.”
You snort, wetting your lips against your tongue as you banter back, “Shouldn’t you be ringing a shitty bell at the local grocery store panhandling for donations or something?”
“Nah,” Joel refutes, scrunching his nose in the most annoyingly adorable manner, “Gave me the boot after I fucked all the lady clerks in the break room.”
“Ah, naturally,” You nod, stifling a giggle.
You watch as his eyes give you his customary scan from head to toe.
“Goddamn. Look at you, all done up.”
You glance down at yourself and lift a brow at him as you jog your memory of your chosen outfit for the day. Black trousers, a button-up blouse, and a simple blazer. Nothing you’d normally bat an eye at, but you guess Joel has only ever really seen you in casual clothes. “This? Really?”
“Mmhm,” Joel hums, scraping his teeth over his lower lip as his gaze heats up. “Daddy likes.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” You joke as you crawl onto the bed, Joel tracking you with his eyes along the way until you’re straddled above him. “Are you ‘daddy’ or ‘Santa’ right now? I’m a little lost in this roleplay.”
Joel chuckles, pinching your chin in his fingers and angling you down toward him. “Come on, now, ain’t you ever heard that song? ‘I Saw Mommy Kissin’ Santa Claus’? We’re one and the same, darlin’.”
“That mean I’m supposed to kiss you now? I thought that only applied to your cock, Mr. Mistletoe,” You laugh.
Joel shrugs, leaning his head up closer to you. “I’m not picky.”
You stare at his lips and weigh the decision. You’ve never kissed him before. He’s kissed parts of you. Possibly every other part of you. But never your mouth. And since you know very intimately what he smells like, you have a good idea what he’ll taste like as well.
You sigh, meet his eyes for a beat, and then press your lips against his. They’re soft, faint remnants of chapstick clinging to the crevices, serving as a gateway to his already searching tongue. You welcome him into your mouth and he strokes at yours with an unexpected tenderness, tasting how you’d imagined. The tang of his most recent cigarette, the depth of every smoke he’s had every day prior, a hint of mintiness from either gum or toothpaste. And the weight of his tongue in your mouth…it rivals what you’ve felt of his cock when you’ve tasted it. Maybe not in size, but in sheer magnitude.
You lock your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and drop down to grind your crotch against his cock, your nice dress pants be damned as his dripping head soaks into the fabric and you continue luxuriating in the feel of his tongue filling your mouth.
Joel grunts at your movement, tugging at your hair enough to lift your lips from his. “Sweet as a fuckin’ sugarplum, baby.”
“And that’s not even where I’m sweetest,” You whisper, smiling against his lips.
“Don’t I know it,” He mutters, capturing your lips again and squeezing at your ass to kickstart your grinding again. “But how about you remind me?”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhm. Come ride Santa’s face.”
“I don’t remember that part in The Night Before Christmas,” You tease, twirling the ball on the end of his cap.
“Probably stuck it in them footnotes,” He chides. “Take off your pants.”
You dismount to shuck off your trousers, and the rest of your clothes just to save time and not feel so overdressed in comparison, and he manhandles you until you’re situated directly above his waiting mouth.
“Take a seat, darlin’. Might not be Santa’s lap, but it’ll be just as comfy, I promise.”
You don’t take much convincing, to be completely honest. You very willingly subscribe to the philosophy that if a man suffocates on your pussy, well…there’s not much of a better way to go. So you sit until Joel’s facial hair scratches and prickles at your skin, and you feel the broad length of his tongue stroking up the line of your pussy.
You moan out a breathy sigh and settle yourself onto his face, your hands stabilizing on either side of the pillow cradling his head, and start to roll your hips against the graze of his tongue. He’s attentive and thorough as he works at you, alternating between lavish licks to your folds and circling your clit with the point of his tongue, making you gasp and your stomach tighten intermittently.
It is a little weird not having him spewing heinous shit into your ear as he pleasures you, but you’re certain his brain is actively crafting more bizarre turns of phrase to plague you with as he eats you out from below.
His tongue spears and you moan out as he penetrates you with the muscle, fucking into your slick entrance as you rock down onto him harder. Joel moans in return, his brows drawing together as he strives to fuck you as deep as possible with his chosen tool.
“Oh, fuck, Joel, that’s…god, that’s so fucking good,” You whine, raising a hand to squeeze at your tit and steadying yourself against his wall above his head with your other hand. Joel must get inspired, because his own hand comes to grope at your unattended breast, working it in tandem with yours.
His other hand presses upward lightly on the back of your thigh, and you lift, looking down with a shred of concern.
“Just wanna knock at that back door a bit, baby,” He reassures.
“Huh?” You ask, brain a little fuzzy with arousal. But then his nose is nudging at your pussy and his tongue is prodding at your asshole, and your voice cracks mid-moan at the blissful sensation. You’ve never had someone eat your ass before, never really cared, but holy fuck. “Oh my god, Joel.”
“Call me ‘daddy’, sweetheart. Or ‘Santa’ if it gets you off,” He offers before diving back in on the tight ring of muscle with his lips and tongue.
“Fuck. Daddy…” You whimper as you feel the tip of his tongue breach the pucker of your asshole. The whole “daddy” thing is a losing battle at this point if he’s just going to push for it each time, and you might as well lean into it. He sucks lightly at the ring of you as he thrusts it inside softly. “D-daddy, that’s…”
You swear he laughs against you as the hand on your breast slides down to your hip. And you can’t help yourself, you dip your hand below your stomach to play with your clit to build upon the pressure Joel is stoking in your belly. The hand on your waist inches inward until his thick, wide thumb is sliding into your cunt, fucking you in time with the thrust of his tongue in your ass.
“Oh, god, daddy, I’m gonna come,” You whine, increasing the pace on the sensitive bud of your pussy. Joel growls between your cheeks, sucking and fucking you until you buck up into your hand with a shout and your pussy beats against the pads of your fingers. You feel your ass squeeze around his tongue, your cunt around his thumb, and Joel grunts as he coaxes you through your orgasm. And he doesn’t stop until you physically pull yourself off his face and fingers and collapse onto his chest.
“Oh fuck,” You pant, your mouth agape and dragging against the sheen of sweat on his skin. “No one’s ever done that before.”
“Not one goddamn motherfucker has eaten your ass?” Joel asks, his voice appalled but delightfully raspy and wrecked. “That’s a fuckin’ crime against humanity. That’s a perfect fuckin’ ass.”
“You probably wouldn’t be surprised how many men don’t give a fuck about going down on a woman’s pussy, let alone their ass.”
“Fuckin’ absurd,” He mumbles, smacking his hand on your asscheek and gripping it under his fingers. “Ass deserves to get fucked every which way.”
You shake your head vehemently. “You’re not fucking my ass with that third arm between your legs,” You shut him down immediately. “I’d never shit normally again.”
Joel rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively. “We’ll just table that for now.”
“No,” You protest, slapping his chest, “Not tabling. It’s buried. Six feet under.”
“Alright, alright,” Joel concedes with a chuckle, gripping the back of your leg and hitching it at his waist. “Guess that snatch is still plenty tight for me, ain’t it?” He says, latching onto your lips, sucking your response off your tongue. It’s only after he’s invaded your mouth entirely that you recall where he’s just been, but the dizziness in your mind has you shoving that knowledge as far back as you possibly can.
“And what about me?” He nips at your lip with a grin. “You wanna lick Santa’s big candy cane?”
“God,” You huff out with a smile of your own, your forehead dropping onto his chest.
“Or would you rather just take a ride on his North Pole, huh?”
“You know, I almost respect your commitment to this bit.”
“What bit? Can’t a guy just get in the holiday spirit with his little hoe, hoe, hoe?”
“Ok,” You groan, pushing yourself off of him to get up from the bed.
“Woah, now, hold on,” He protests, a strong hand circling your arm and gently tugging you back. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet.”
“Why? I got what I wanted,” You shrug, sitting back down beside him and laying a hand on his chest. “Santa is seeming a little selfish right now. Isn’t it the season of giving?”
“Season of givin’ you this dick, maybe,” He retorts, pulling you onto his mouth again, and you groan against him. He croons at you as his lips brush yours, “Let me fill that stockin’ like I said I would. Show you what Santa’s got for you in his big sack.”
“I already know it’s coal. Can’t be anything else when I’ve been letting a strange old man hit it this often,” You say, wending a hand down south to wrap around what you can of his cock, and grinning with pride when you see his eyes pull toward the back of his head as you start to stroke him.
“Well, that’s because I know all the best puss is on the naughty list, don’t I?” He groans, thrusting into your hand. “You don’t think Santa gets his little helpers from the Nice List, do ya?”
“Guess you got me there,” You concede, leaning down to taste him again. He moans into your mouth as you jerk him, and the sound of him so desperate and horny has your pussy thirsting after him again.
“Climb back on top, little sugarplum. Let Santa deck those fuckin’ halls of yours,” He breathes over you, and you don’t even question it, you just swing your leg over his hips and settle the lips of your pussy onto the length of him. You skate your soaked core up and down the underside of his cock as it rests against his stomach and dip your thumb into his tip to simultaneously massage his frenulum with his own wetness.
“Christ,” He pants out, clamping a hand onto your hip to push and pull you up and down the outside of his cock. “I could fuckin’ come from just this, baby. But I need to fuck this nasty little slit.”
“What, no dirty holiday-themed pun for that one?” You smirk as you take hold of his length and position him at your entrance.
“Just eager to fill you with all my Christmas spirit, darlin’,” He rasps, squeezing at your hips and stroking the creases of your thighs with his thumbs.
“There it is,” You quip as you sink down onto him slowly, your mouth dropping open as he…well, he does a damn good job filling you with that colossal Christmas spirit. And as your ass sits flush with his thighs and his cock kisses your cervix, you have to admit…you’re feeling pretty goddamn jolly.
The ease of which your body welcomes Joel inside you now has you equal parts comforted and terrified. If you’d have told that naïve, reckless young woman who flashed her tits at a convenience store clerk that you’d soon be hurrying over to that man’s dilapidated single-wide in a sketchily quaint trailer park, sitting on his monster of a cock like it’s an old friend, bantering with him about his stupid fucking puns…you might’ve had to admit yourself somewhere.
But the way he fills you, makes space for himself within you, makes you feel like you’re the most velvety, divine cunt he’s ever sunk into, it sends tingles up your spine and a pulsing in your pussy.
“Shit, baby. Lookin’ like a star on top of a goddamn Christmas tree with my big trunk shoved up inside you. ‘Cept you got these sexy little ornaments,” He coos, cupping your tits again and fiddling with your nipples between his knuckles as he gropes at them.
“Play with them a bit more,” You moan, grinding on his cock and feeling it drag against your walls, “Maybe I’ll light up for you.”
Joel smiles wide, massaging your breasts with rough, dexterous hands. “Look pretty bright already to me with this cock rammed up your tight little cunt. Got you glowin’ with it, baby.”
“Shut up,” You brush off, embarrassment heating your cheeks as your hips begin to rise and fall onto him. “The glow just comes naturally. Nothing to do with you.”
“Sure, sugarplum. All you,” He placates, leaning up to suck one of your peaked buds between his teeth. You gasp as he grazes over it, pinching the other in his hand as his upward movement causes his dick to drag along your cervix.
“Oh my god,” You keen, toppling forward onto his chest and burying your face into his neck. Joel’s hands glide around to your back, holding you against him and using his new leverage to thrust into you from below.
“That too much cock for you, baby?” He sings in your ear as you clench around him. “‘S it overflowin’ your little stocking? Rippin’ at your seams?”
“‘S deep,” You manage to whine breathily. “So fucking deep, daddy.”
“I know, little sugarplum. Daddy gets real fuckin’ deep, don’t he? So good at takin’ all this cock, baby.”
You whimper into his neck, your nails scraping down his back as he fucks you open on his lap. Your clit grazes against him and you can feel your release climbing again as he continues to pound into you.
“You’re not gonna come again are you? Slutty fuckin’ thing. Can’t help but squirt all over this massive cock, huh?”
“C-can’t help—fuck, daddy, I can’t,” You cry, your teeth scraping at his neck as you grind your clit against him.
“Yeah, fuck, baby. Make a mess around daddy’s cock,” He orders as he thrusts, pulling your hips down onto his length.
Your vision starts to shimmer around the edges as he slams into the end of you, and you feel yourself splintering open, losing all grip you have on yourself. You burst apart around him with an inexcusably loud, animalistic scream, one sure to spark gossip among Joel’s neighbors for days to come.
“Fuck yeah, such a nasty fuckin’ slut. Feel you soakin’ my cock, baby,” He grunts, your juices flowing out of your pussy and down his balls as he fucks you through your orgasm.
And you can’t seem to get anything else other than “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” for a good thirty seconds. Joel seems to revel in that, encouraging it as his cock keeps splitting you open.
“Yeah, that’s right, tell me who’s makin’ you feel so fuckin’ good. Who’s big dick keeps you fallin’ apart like this. Good fuckin’ girl.”
Joel has no intention of letting you rest as he chases after his own completion, and his hips start to hammer up into you as he edges closer.
“Fuck, I’m close. You want me to come down your fuckin’ chimney, little sugarplum? Give you a real fuckin’ white Christmas?” He grunts as his fingers dig into your hips and his cock pounds against your walls.
You squeak out some semblance of an answer, unintelligible, and bear the brunt of his cock seeking its release.
“You know what I want, darlin’? Want you to jerk off my cock with those pussy lips like you were before. You do that for daddy?”
You whimper and nod into his neck, and you gasp when his length slips out of you entirely and he drops you on top of him.
“Grind on it, baby. Stroke daddy off with that drippy little fuckhole,” He instructs, helping to guide your hips back and forth.
You undulate your hips on the exterior of his cock as you stay buried in the crook of his neck, breathing heavily into his sweaty skin.
“Let daddy see you, sugarplum,” He urges, pushing you up by the shoulder until you’re upright.
You position your hands behind you and fall back onto them, giving Joel an unobscured view of your movement on him with the strength you’ve regained since your disorienting release. Your lips glide along him effortlessly with the ample supply of your own slick and come. Joel starts to jerk you forcefully back and forth on his cock with hands on your hips, like a ragdoll, until his grunts morph into deeper moans.
He finally comes with a slew of curses, his spend spitting from his cock directly onto his stomach and throughout the hair smattered on the skin there. You slide on his length until his hips buck with sensitivity and you slow to a halt, panting and staring down at the mess you’ve both made on his abdomen.
“So fuckin’ good for me, baby. Shit,” He groans out, stroking his hands down your slick thighs.
“That was…kind of incredible,” You breathe, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand.
“‘S’all you, baby. ‘S’all you,” He praises, and actually seeming to mean it this time.
You smirk slightly as you swipe a finger through his semen and pop it into your mouth, moaning around it.
“Fuck me, sweetheart. That’s…that’s a fuckin’ sight,” He sighs, dimpling your thighs with his fingers. “How about you go for another little ride on daddy’s tummy, huh?”
You quirk a lazy eyebrow at him and then drop your gaze to the mess on his stomach.
“Come on, sugarplum,” Joel rasps, nudging your thighs forward until you’re hovering over the puddle of his come, “Dip your cookie in Santa’s milk. Just like that.”
And you’re too far gone to even unpack the weird shit he just said, you just lower yourself down onto his soiled belly until you feel it seep through your folds. Your hips move almost on autopilot, dragging through the mess and honestly…feeling fucking heavenly. The slick slide of it over your core, the slip of his hair swirling in his own spend on each pass of your lips, the low rumble of Joel’s voice as he coaxes you on.
“That’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Seein’ my nut coatin’ that beautiful snatch. Can I take a picture of it?”
You nod, leaning back on your hands again while he retrieves his phone from his nightstand.
“Spread those messy lips open for the camera, sweet little sugarplum.”
You do as you’re told, tilting your hips up and using one hand to part your lips. You hear him snap a couple of photos and then he turns the phone around to you for your inspection. And it looks hot as hell. Your puffy cunt drenched in both of your fluids, his hairy, curved stomach very clearly soaked with the evidence of your activities.
“Send that to me.”
He smirks up at you and you watch his fingers move on his phone until you hear a buzzing in the heap of clothing on his floor. You lean down and put your weight on your elbows on either side of his head, lips ghosting over his mouth.
“Thank you, Santa,” You whisper, sealing your lips together.
He moans into your mouth as your tongue strokes along his. You suddenly feel something plopping onto your head and your eyes fly open, hands shooting to the top of it. Joel’s grin is incandescent as you realize he’s rehomed his Santa hat.
“Gross,” You groan, flicking at the fuzzy white ball at the end of it. “It’s all sweaty.”
“So that’s where we’re drawin’ the line now?” He jokes, stroking his thumb down your chin. “Looks better on you.”
“I dunno,” You impart nonchalantly, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t look so bad on you.”
“I’ll be damned. You think I’m handsome, sugarplum?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Y’did. I heard it loud and clear.”
“Hearing things, old man,” You dismiss, dropping one more kiss to his lips and unstraddling his lap, your pussy making an entirely unsexy suctioning noise as you extract from the stickiness between you.
“That was fuckin’ hot,” Joel remarks, rolling onto his side and hauling you back towards the bed by the back of your thigh. You yelp quietly as you stumble forward on the carpet and feel Joel mouthing at your messy cunt.
“Ok, Jesus. Down, boy,” You giggle, shoving Joel’s head from between your legs. Joel’s smile doesn’t budge as his mouth shines with your shared spend.
“Sorry, baby. Just too fuckin’ tasty. Irresistible.”
“You’re ridiculous,” You mumble. “Where’s your fucking bathroom?”
“Door on the left,” He answers smugly, settling back in against his pillow with his hands clasped behind him, just as you’d found him, only sans his festive hat.
You roll your eyes, maybe with a smidge of affection, and head off to clean up.
“Mmm. Hate to see you go—”
“Don’t finish that,” You cut him off, not even looking over your shoulder as you go.
“Give her one Santa hat and suddenly she thinks she’s got allll the power,” He calls out after you as you slip into the bathroom, and you can’t wipe the stupid fucking grin off your face.
When you’ve relieved yourself and tidied up a bit, you re-enter his room with a clean washcloth.
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” You raise a brow at him as you throw your leg over his thighs again and begin softly wiping at his belly.
“Ain’t nothin’ funny about this, baby. Just a nice view,” He says, unbothered against his pillows. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t,” You say as sternly as you can, but you can’t rein in your smile entirely as you do.
“I won’t,” He pauses, eyes flicking to your hat, “Mrs. Claus,” He ends with a smirk.
“Okay, we’re not…” You head him off, plucking the hat from your head and chucking it at his chest as he laughs and you try not to smile. “Keep that shit to yourself, please.”
“Whatever you say, sugarplum.”
You wipe at his stomach as the conversation settles, but not for long.
“Thanks for takin’ pity on me this joyous holiday season. Fuckin’ an old man and all.”
You glance up at him long enough to see the sly little upturn of his lips, his heavy, sleepy eyelids, and shake your head a bit as you focus back on your current task.
“You’re not so old,” You utter quietly, but you’re sure he hears it. “As far as I know, anyway. And you can still get it up. That’s what I care about.”
“Yeah? That all?”
You jot your eyes up to his face again, then quickly back to his stomach. “Yup.”
You see him stick out a lip and nod out of the corner of your eye, securing his hat back on his head. “Fair enough.”
You sit back on his thighs and toss the dirty rag into his overflowing hamper. “Well, thanks for my gift, Santa. I’ll forgive you for not wrapping it, I guess.”
Joel scoffs, squeezing at the side of your thigh. “You ain’t ask me to wrap a goddamn thing since the first time. Haven’t heard you complainin’ ‘bout it.”
“Guess not,” You muse, your fingers subconsciously filtering through your folds for a moment. “Anyway, I should go,” You mutter as you come back to yourself.
“Or you could stay,” He poses, gliding his thumb over your thigh. “Could play again later. I got all night.”
“I don’t think so,” You mumble, maneuvering back onto the floor and pulling your clothes on.
“Hey,” He calls softly, and you look up at him as you do up the fastenings on your trousers. He’s got a crease between his brows. “This is just fun. You and me. That’s all it’s gotta be, yeah?”
Your fingers stumble as they button up your blouse. “And that’s all it’s gonna be. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
You smooth out your collar and take a deep breath. “Yeah. So. Thanks for the fuck. It was good. Really good.”
His eyes roam over you and settle on your face. “Anytime, sugarplum.”
You nod once, resolutely, and head out the door.
Taglist Update: I have decided to decommission my taglist in favor of an updates blog! Please follow @atticrissfinchupdates and opt in for notifications to get notified when I post a new fic!
7.2k, vampy!Joel x f!reader | vampire masterlist | playlist
SUMMARY: Joel tries to take better care of you and plans a date night in. Next time he takes your blood, it feels amazing.
WARNINGS: I8+, big girthy age gap (440s to 20s-50s), reader is in captivity, angst, hurt/comfort, dark fluff, POV alternates (twice?), a lot of character dev in the first half, a former blood donor joins the cast, alcohol (minimal), chains, shackles, ankle collar, joel gets handsy and a little creepy, dry humping, groping, perfectly timed ejaculation. All dubcon because you're captive.
SERIES IMMERSABILITY: Reader can menstruate, be lifted by vampire Joel, and has no allergies.
After Joel took your period, you told him he was doing a bad job taking care of you, which was true. But he did a good job at something. You slept like a baby. He was back with when you woke up. Now he’s sitting next to you on the mattress, back against the wall. Against his thighs, he’s holding a pen on top of a book that looks ancient. He adjusts his glasses and opens the book. The pages are blank, discolored, and thick. Some have been ripped out. He takes the cap off his pen and asks, “What’d ya have at your old house that we don't have here?” then rests his hand on the page to write. His hand dwarfs the page, and you feel a surge of desire recalling his sounds of pleasure. No, you don’t want him, you tell yourself, as if you didn’t fantasize about him on your way to sleep.
“Freedom,” you answer, and he winces.
He closes the journal with the pen keeping it partly open, then he turns toward you. “If ya just gimme a chance, sweetheart. . . I'm really gonna do my best. . .”
When you stay quiet, he says, “Ya know. I think one day, we’ll get there.”
“Get where?”
“Outside, out in the world together.”
“Really?”
He nods. “That walk we took was nice, right?”
“What walk?”
“Through the alley, that first night, when I walked ya to your car?” Right. . .what a gentleman.
“Yeah, I guess.” Now your mind is drifting back to the way he gently pushed you against the brick wall to kiss you on that walk. Did he already know what he was going to do to you when he first pressed himself against you?
His eyes are earnest. “It can be like that again,” he nods. “Just need a little time.”
You nod.
He clears his throat, opens the journal, and picks up his pen. “So what do you need?”
Your stomach twists. Answering would feel like resigning yourself to some dark fate. “I'm not gonna help you keep me prisoner,” you mumble.
“Prisoner?” He dips his head and his brow furrows. “God, no,” he softly reassures you. He reads your face, then stares into the mattress and swallows.
You rephrase, “Well I’m not gonna help you keep me.”
He looks you over with pleading eyes. “I'm gonna go out for a while, okay? Can I get ya anything?”
There are things you need, but you still can’t bring yourself to acknowledge you’re there for the long haul. So you shake your head no. He goes to get the chain from the floor.
“Hate doin’ this,” he mumbles. “‘s’just for now.” He drags the chain over and lifts the sheet to expose your feet. He sees the scrapes and irritation on your ankle. “Shit,” he shakes his head at himself. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Stupid,” he mumbles at himself as he gets up. He goes upstairs and takes the tray from breakfast with him. He returns with the same tray. It’s holding a pair of his own wool socks in a fair isle pattern, a paper bag, and a translucent teal bottle full of water. “Lunch,” he says as he sets the tray down next to you. He puts the socks on you, and they're toasty. Then, he puts the cuff on over the sock. “Little better?”
“A little,” you answer.
“Good,” he whispers.
— JOEL —
He’s gotta do something about that chain. He’s about to lay down on the sofa to think, but when he moves a decorative pillow out of the way, he feels a rush of shame. “Oh my god,” he whispers. He’s so stupid. How did he not think to give you a pillow? He goes straight to a guest bedroom. The tall, oak door creaks as he opens it. The light from the window nearly blinds him. He blocks it with his forearm as he hurries over to close the heavy curtains. He sneezes. He picks up an old pillow off the bed and fluffs it. Dust swarms around. There's no way he's giving you that. This whole room has a sad vibe. But he could make you a different room, maybe. His wheels start turning as he goes back downstairs - he has ideas for what room he could use, and what he could do with it.
He says your name as he descends the final steps. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking,” he apologizes as he crosses the room. He hands you the pillow and assures you he'll get a better one. Then he goes back upstairs.
After a little research, he packs a leather, cross-body bag and checks the weather. “Damnit,” he grumbles to himself. Cool but no cloud cover. If it were another sunny day, he’d stay home, but this is too important. He puts on a scarf and grabs his parasol from the coat closet and tucks it under his arm as he pulls on his gloves. He’d rather endure the strange looks than come home without the energy to take care of you.
-
-
Joel’s first stop is an erotic boutique. It's been a long time since he was anywhere like this. The mannequins in mesh bodysuits and strappy leather catch his eye on the way in, and he almost forgets what he came for. He can't help but imagine you wearing some of these things, but he'd rather just see you naked.
He slowly makes his way through the store. Should he get you a toy? It seems like sexual health would be a basic need. No, he decides. It might make you uncomfortable. He doesn't want to assume, and doesn't want to invade your privacy. Plus, he has to be careful. He doesn’t want you to think this is all just to get him off. He knows how it feels to be fetishized.
“Can I help you?” Someone asks. Joel turns around and squints through his transition lenses at the worker’s face, then their name tag. Craig. Where does Joel know him from? Joel stays home a lot, but not as much as one might think. He needs some kind of social contact.
Craig interrupts Joel’s thoughts, “You’re the one with the mansion, right?”
Joel chuckles. “Uhh, I dunno if–”
“Oh, sorry,” Craig holds his hand up. “Ya know what? I must be thinking of someone else.” His lie is an unconvincing attempt to allow Joel his anonymity after the slip-up. He probably thinks Joel is in disguise.
“No, no, it’s okay, man. I was just gonna say. I wouldn’t call it a. . . mansion,” Joel feels stupid as he finishes the sentence.
“Okay,” Craig concedes with a playful eye roll. “The house with the Christmas party”
Oh, God. Joel hadn't even thought about his party. It's gotta be small this year, if it happens. Maybe it would be nice. Joel pictures you in a fancy dress sitting next to him at the table. He imagines having someone to kiss at midnight.
“New year’s, “ Joel corrects him and sticks out his hand. “Joel.”
“Right, right.” Craig shakes Joel’s hand and asks, “Friend of the Fishers, right?”
Joel snaps his finger, “Yes! Right. You're in David's choir.” Another thing Joel forgot. His life has revolved around you ever since you stepped into it. You're all he thinks about. Joel starts to apologize, “Look, I dunno if I'm gonna make the Christmas concert this year, it snuck up on me.”
“It's okay, it's okay,” Craig reassures him with a wave of his hand. “Can I help ya find anything?”
“Yeah, uh, it said online y’all have some cuffs and chains and stuff?”
“Oh yeah,” Craig nods. “Come with me.” He guides Joel to a back wall covered in all sorts of contraptions. “Looking for anything in particular?”
“Yeah, something really comfortable and secure.”
–
As Craig rings up Joel’s purchase, Joel silently worries if this is going to work.
“Want me to show ya how the lock works?” Craig asks.
“Uhh, sure,” Joel says.
Craig takes the leather cuff out of the package and demonstrates the metal lock. He dangles the two keys. “One for you, and one for them,” he smiles.
“And both cuffs have the same key?”
“Yep,” Craig nods.
The cuff seems comfortable–the inside is suede and there's metal over the leather-–but Joel wonders if it's secure enough. What if you get away and he never sees you again? He looks at the metal loop on the cuff.
“Hey,” Joel asks and scratches his neck. “Y’all don't have any, uh, ID tags or anything do ya?”
“ID tags?”
“Like the little metal ones that hang on a loop.”
“Ohhh, like for a collar.” Craig raises his eyebrows.
“Or for this?” Joel asks, holding up a cuff.
“Cool,” Craig nods as if Joel is an innovator. “Gimme one sec.”
Craig goes out to a nearby shelf and comes back with a few collars that have their own tag – mostly hearts, either blank or with something generic like princess. “This is all we got.”
“Y’all do engraving here?” Joel asks.
“No. . .But if ya only need the tag, and it's gotta be engraved, I can tell ya where to go.”
–
When Joel is done with his next stop, he opens his leather bag and slips the metal tag into a zippered pocket. Damn, he thinks. He doesn't even know your favorite color. He hopes you’re okay with a black heart. Certainly better than a bone shape. He starts his car and heads toward the library.
-
When Joel walks into the library, he politely nods at the information desk, then heads to the computers. He sits down at one in the back row. He takes his gloves off, pulls his journal and a pen out of his bag, then logs onto the computer. He searches the catalog and the internet. What do you need? Food, water, shelter, this all seems obvious. What do you want? Freedom, he can hear you saying it. How much can he give you? How can he make you stay? How can he make you understand how much he cares? He retrieves a book and opens his journal to make some notes.
-
Joel puts down his pen, looks over his notes, then takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. He wishes you’d talk to him. What do you really want?
He whispers your name out loud. “God I wanna make you happy.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. He has a headache. The sun is catching up with him. He shouldn’t have gone out today. He should go home. When he opens his eyes, he puts his glasses back on. Someone is approaching. He swiftly locks the computer screen and closes his notebook.
“Joel.” It’s a kind, grandmotherly voice.
“Carol,” Joel smiles, and leans back as casually as he can.
“You alright there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Joel nods, trying not to wince. She looks at the empty computer screen and closed notebook.
“Okay, well, you know where to find me, dear.”
“Great sweater, by the way,” Joel tells her. “Perfect color. Really makes your eyes pop.”
“Oh, Joel,” she coyly pats down her white curls. “Thank you, dear--OH, Christy asked if you came in. Do you want me to get her?”
Joel didn’t even think about her on his way in. He feels a twinge of guilt for silencing her call, ignoring her text.
“Joel?” Carol asks, looking concerned.
He snaps out of it and feigns a little smile. “Uh, no. No, thank you. Don't bother her.”
“Okay,” Carol says in a sing-song voice. “I'll leave you to it then.” She smiles and walks away.
–
So she was expecting him. Oh, shit - he thinks through his mental calendar - Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Warmth rises to his cheeks. It’s been so long since he’s felt his cheeks get warm. It must be something in your blood. Not only has Joel taken blood from Christy, but she’s been his wingman before. They'd go out somewhere, and he'd listen to her drone on and on–she never took a breath–about her armchair detective community.
She’s always been a little too into the whole situation. If Joel thanked her for her help, she’d beam, “Any time.” She wasn't with him the night he met you. He wasn't on the hunt. But you smelled special, and he couldn't physically resist.
Joel hears Christy greet someone. He can't dodge her, he just has to hope she walks on by. He picks up his leather bag and puts it in his lap. He rifles through it until he finds a stick of menthol balm.
“There he is,” Christy calls.
Too late. He stuffs the menthol back in his bag without using it. He looks up, and she’s paused in the middle of the library with one hand on her hip and her eyes wide, even wider than usual.
“Hey, Chris.”
She hurries over. “So you are alive,” she teases with her arms crossed, then tilts her head, widens her eyes, and whispers, “figuratively speaking.” She laughs at her own joke.
She knows as much about him as anyone alive. It's made a big difference having a friend who knows. This has been one of Joel’s better eras, but the era he’s moving into with you will be lightyears better. And it’ll be more than an era.
“Kinda late,” she cringes lightheartedly.
“Oh, no, no, none for me. I’m good, thanks. Sorry, I’ve uh – I’ve gotta go.”
He stands up and puts his bag on. She’s gonna know something’s up. He scratches the back of his neck, weighing whether to break down and tell her everything so she can help him know how to make you comfortable and happy. Plus, he just wants to talk about you. He wants to tell the world. But today he has one priority: taking care of you.
“Waait a second,” Christy says knowingly, studying his face. “You’re glowing. You just got some good stuff, didn't ya?” She playfully punches Joel’s arm. “Good for you,” she beams, then raises her eyebrows and lowers her voice. “Bet it was menstrual, O positive.”
“The blood type doesn't–”
“--You say that, but if you’d let me do my experiment. . .Oh! We’ve got some new microfilm downstairs. 1880s, if you can believe it.”
“Not today,” Joel replies a little too quickly if he doesn’t want her prying.
Her lips form a line and her eyebrows go up, then she shrugs it off. “Okay, mister. Hey, can you still take care of Cal next weekend? Nat and I are–”
“--Uh, yeah,” Joel starts to walk off. “If you can drop her off.” You might enjoy the cat’s company.
“Joel!” Christy calls after him. “Don’t forget this!” She’s holding his parasol.
–
Next, Joel stops by the hardware store to get some supplies to secure you more comfortably. He’s sure he’s forgetting something, but this is a good start, and there’s always delivery. He doesn’t want to leave the house again this week. Thankfully, the hardware store is next to a Walmart, which has groceries, clothes, and pillows. He gets you some loungewear, socks, and new bedding. It’s the least he can do.
—--
When Joel gets home, he brings you four different pillows and some bedding.
“Wasn’t sure what firmness.”
He unlocks you and shows you the socks and lounge clothes. “These looked comfortable. Here, I can help. . .”
“I can do it,” you tell him.
“Right.” He turns around. While you’re changing, he says, “Let's order in tonight. Too tired to get anything started.”
“I’m not hungry yet,” you tell him.
Then he shows you the new cuffs and chain. He rings the heart shaped tag onto one cuff, then puts it around your ankle. “Better?”
The chain is much lighter. “Yeah, I guess,” you admit. “What’s this?” You look at the tag.
“Oh I dunno, I just–I started worryin’.”
You stare at him blankly.
“I dunno, just in case.”
“In case what?”
He swallows. “If ya. .” He looks around. He doesn't wanna say it out loud. “If ya left. . . so ya could . . . I dunno, get back.”
Now there’s a hint of pity and bewilderment in your eyes.
“It was stupid, sorry.” He takes a deep breath and manages a small smile. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll be right upstairs.”
-
When he gets upstairs, he looks at his phone and has a message from Christy. His stomach drops when the picture loads. It’s his search history about taking care of adult human women and what makes them stay.
“God damnit,” he curses himself. Of course he didn’t clear his search history. He didn’t even log off. She's typing. She stops, then starts again, and he presses the heels of his palms into his temples. What now? Should he call her? She wouldn't tell anyone, but – Her message comes through with a woosh: “this is what librarians are for.”
“Ha," he scoffs with the slightest smile. He shakes his head and turns the screen off without answering. He should be relieved, but can’t help but worry. He's seen her at her worst. God, he hopes that was her worst. What does she want?
Another message comes in: “let me help you."
Of course that’s what she wants. Funny enough, he’s seen her at her worst specifically when she was trying to help. But it’s still tempting, because she’s smart and resourceful. She could tell him everything there is to know about you within an hour. He’d love to know what kind of clothes you’d like, your favorite foods, how to make you happy. But for now, he’s doing alright on his own. He doesn’t text back.
-—You—
A while after Joel goes upstairs, you hear drilling, then clanking, metal jingling, things being dropped.
Later, he brings you dinner. He doesn’t eat, but he sits with you. Then, after you’re done, he faces you, cross-legged on the mattress. He’s wearing his glasses and has his journal again. There are handwritten notes in it. From upside down, you can see the words “buy” and “do.” Some items are crossed through.
“I was thinkin’,” he studies the page, then looks up at you. “Ya might need a bed.” He looks at your face for confirmation. “Right?” he asks. Wow, he really wants an answer.
“I mean. . . yeah, I sleep in a bed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Okay, I’m workin’ on a room for ya.”
For the next few days, he’s hard at work.
—----
He comes downstairs one evening around dinner time and says, “I was thinkin’, maybe we could watch a movie or somethin’.”
“Here?”
“Uh, no sweetheart. I was thinkin’, if ya wanna come upstairs for dinner, then maybe, after that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he smiles.
“Okay.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Great.” He goes to the other end of the chain and takes a key out of his pocket to unlock the cuff from the floor. As he's doing it, he mumbles, “You can, uh, pick the movie. If ya want.” The chain is sliding around on the mattress as he fiddles with the cuff. When the cuff is free from the hook, he puts it around his wrist, then locks it. Your breath hitches. He sees you looking at his wrist.
“Don't wanna get separated,” he chuckles sheepishly, then puts a hand on your wrist. “Want yours here?”
“Yeah.”
He moves the leather cuff from your ankle to your wrist, and it's nice to feel his hands on yours as he fastens it. He smells good. Fresh, woodsy. He opens his palm and takes your hand to help you up. He holds the slack of the chain as the two of you walk upstairs.
—
It's a large room with high ceilings. It's dark, but cozy. A fire is lit. There are plants, lots of plants. And bookshelves in the walls. He takes you through the main room, to a dining room with a huge table already set for two. He offers you the head of the table and pulls out the chair for you. He lets the slack of the chain pool between your chairs, and you're both still wearing a cuff on your wrist.
You eat mostly in silence, which makes the jingling of the dog tag deafening when you move that hand. He asks where you’d like to travel. You’d love to just travel outside, down the driveway, but you humor him with more ambitious places.
The space is lit with gas candelabras, and it’s hard not to admire his handsome face and the way his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. Sometimes a flicker catches the silver in his beard just right.
After dinner, he takes you back to the main room. There's an oversized sofa with a large, soft blanket draped over it and pillows like the one Joel brought downstairs. There's a big, square ottoman. There's also a side table with two clean, empty wine glasses. The sofa faces the fireplace, which is quite wide, and there’s a screen mounted above it. Joel offers you a glass of wine, and you accept but won’t drink much of it. He starts the movie.
-
Joel puts his arm around you while you watch the film. The chain lightly clinks against itself as he strokes your shoulder, then your arm, and you feel yourself melting. He arranges the pillows and asks if you want to lie down. You do. He spoons you, with his free hand resting over your body. His chained hand is under the pillow, and it finds yours as the movie goes on. Your fingertips brush, and you don’t pull away. Then he fully rests his hand on yours.
The hand draped over your side gradually begins to wander. He slowly, lightly strokes your side. . .then your hip. . . then your stomach, over your clothes. His breath deepens. His light, meandering touch makes you weak with desire and lulls you half asleep.
“Thanks for being here,” he whispers. He kisses the nape of your neck. “I know it’s a lot to take in.” He kisses your hair. “But it'll be worth it.” His light touch continues, and you begin to tingle. “Won’t be stuck here forever. . .we’ll travel the world one day.”
His hand travels higher on your body as he moves it in loose circles, until he’s skimming the bottoms of your breasts. His palm grazes the outline of your hard nipple, and a hard shape twitches against your ass. You don’t flinch, but you inhale sharply through your nose, trying to suppress a wave of desire.
Joel pulls his hips back and tucks the blanket between you, to your secret disappointment. Then he props his head up to admire you. “So many things I wanna do with you,” he murmurs, running his massive hand down your side again where he started. “And for you,” he whispers, draping his hand over your lower belly. Then, barely audible, so quiet you might be imagining it, “and to you.” He puts his head back down on the pillow and inhales your hair, skimming your top with his fingers.
His hand nudges under your lounge top, then his fingertips slip into your waistband ever so slightly, and you’re throbbing. His fingertips skim your bare belly, dipping a little further into your pants.
He asks, “You okay from. . .”
Your heart rate quickens. “Yeah, I think so.”
“I can check,” he quietly offers. “Make sure I got it all.”
“Ok,” you whisper.
“Good,” he slides his hand down your lounge pants. You’re not wearing underwear. You gasp softly as his fingers reach your clit. He pauses there, and an involuntary push of his hips lets you feel him through the blanket before he pulls back again. His fingertips get lower, then hook between your legs, and he softly gasps when he reaches your wetness. He runs his fingers through your folds, then uses his massive hand to hold the waistband open while he peeks at his fingers.
“You did,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Shoulda waited, though. I wasn too rough. Shoulda let it happen.” He lets the waistband close over his wrist and cups your mound.
“You weren’t,” you tell him, closing your eyes, embarrassed at the whole situation. Now he knows how wet you are.
His middle finger twitches and nudges your clit, then begins nudging it rhythmically. Soon, it evolves toward a more deliberate, pleasure-focused rub, and he inhales deeply, chest expanding against your back.
“I think I should go to sleep,” you whisper, overwhelmed. His finger stops moving, but his hand stays in your pants.
Joel offers, “Might sleep better if–”
“Not tonight.” You twist your hips away from his, already hating yourself for cutting this off, but knowing you’d judge yourself for continuing.
He slowly withdraws his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ came over me.”
On the way downstairs, he tells you again, “I’m workin’ on a room for ya. Just gimme a couple days.”
He chains you back to the floor, then makes up the mattress with a new set of bedding and a comforter. He tucks you in, and leans over you. He wets his lips, looking at yours. You look away. He kisses you on the cheek, soft and slow. Somehow, it feels just as sensual as if it were your mouth.
“Night, sweetheart.”
—-
The next evening, your room is finished. He brings you upstairs and shows you what he’s done. It’s an actual bedroom, with a nice, roomy bed. There’s a reading nook with a big, comfy chair and a wall of books. It’s dim, of course, but he shows you how to use the dials to remotely adjust the flames of the candelabras and chandelier. There’s a window with a curtain. It has steel bars, but at least it’s there. There’s a closet with clothes and some packages not yet opened. There’s even a fireplace.
“And here’s the best part,” he says excitedly, gesticulating in a way that makes the chain between you jingle. He brings you outside the bedroom and closes the double doors. There are two dark panels that create a heart where the doors meet. “Check it out.” He retrieves a key from his pocket, and locks the door from the outside. It’s a heavy, satisfying click. He looks at you like you’re going to be excited. “So you can take this off,” he explains, holding up the chain.
-----
You see Joel more often once you’re out of the basement. He’s happy to have you close, and you’re glad to have the accommodations. But you’re also confused, and a little depressed. You crave his presence and his touch in a way you know is unhealthy. You know it must be because he’s all you have right now, but your heart tells you there’s more to it. The whole situation has felt like a dream, and maybe that’s how you’ve coped. But the longer it lasts, the more real it feels.
One night, it catches up with you and you have a good cry. You try to be quiet. You try to stop, but you can’t. So you let it go, you just sob.
After a while, you hear the heavy lock, and the massive door opens just enough for Joel to come in. He closes it behind him, then stands there rubbing his beard. He looks at you like he’s lost, then cautiously approaches.
“Hey,” he whispers. He sits down on the bed. You’re curled up, facing him. You don’t turn away. He strokes your arm, and you cry harder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His eyes are sad. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He knows. He lies down, facing you. He hugs you into him and you cry into his soft t-shirt, inhaling his scent with every gasp for air. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s gonna be okay.”
You close your eyes, wanting him to kiss you, and you’re disturbed by your own desire. You pinch your lashes shut harder, and your whole face tenses. It hurts.
“This isn’t okay,” you sob. “It’s not gonna be.” You try to push him away, but he holds you still. After all the times he’s folded, apologized, and backed off, that’s not what he does. He holds you in his arms, making you stay there. “What are you doing,” you whine, and you push at his chest. He doesn’t budge. You half-heartedly hit and kick at him, and he cages you with his leg, too. It soothes you, like a weighted blanket, but you fight it.
“Shhhh,” he holds you tight. His voice is deep and quiet against the top of your ear. “We’re gonna be happy one day,” he insists. “Promise, sweetheart.” You exhaust yourself crying, and he holds you. “I love you.” You try to ignore it, but that doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. Soon you’re nuzzling your head into his neck, gripping his shirt in a fist like you don’t want him to go. He drapes a heavy blanket over both of you. He holds you like that until you fall asleep and your fist releases his shirt. He stays a little longer, then kisses you on the forehead and leaves.
—--
The next afternoon, Joel approaches you and sits down on the edge of the bed. “How ya feel? Ya look good,” he whispers, and cups your cheek. You don’t shrug him off.
“I’m fine,” you reply, wishing he would lie down with you again, but not wanting to invite him.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asks.
“I don't care,” you answer.
He sits there in silence and places a hand on your knee.
“Got ya somethin’,” he murmurs, and stands up for a moment. He appears to get nervous as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a shallow, velvet jewelry box. He sits down again and holds the box out for you to take, but you don’t. He opens it for you. It’s a necklace. He tells you what the stone is. It’s your birthstone. It’s thoughtful, but he only knows your birthday because he has your wallet. He faces you and puts his hands around your neck as he puts the necklace on, getting his face close to yours so he can see the clasp. With his temple nearly brushing yours, you feel a surge of want. There’s no denying it. The scruff of his cheek scratches you lightly as he finishes fastening the necklace. “There,” he says, and looks at you adoringly.
“Thanks.”
“You’re one of a kind, ya know.”
He wets his lips and you notice they’re chapped, dehydrated. He’s pale. You find yourself wanting to hug him, kiss him, but you don’t. He kisses you on the cheek.
—
One night, Joel makes you a special dinner. He cuffs the two of you together, and you eat in the dining room at the big table with him again. He tells you he needs your blood again. “I don’t have to take much,” he says. “It can be tomorrow,” he offers. “Don’t wanna spring it on ya.”
“It’s alright,” you tell him. “You need it.” And the truth is, you want it. You want him to take it. You want to be taken back to that moment against your car. You want something that overwhelms your senses and puts you on another plane. You need something to remind you that you aren’t just a girl in a room, and he’s not just some guy keeping you there. If you can physically feel all of that, maybe you can let yourself relax.
After dinner, he brings you back to your room and unchains you. You sit on the bed. He turns on the fireplace and tells you he’lll be right back. When he returns, he has an old medicine bottle with a cloth. He wets the cloth and says, “I’ll lay with ya, til ya wake up, okay?”
You look at the cloth in his hand and say, “You don’t have to put me to sleep.” He adjusts the cloth in his hand. “Don’t,” you shake your head.
His brows knit, and he reads your eyes for a few seconds.
“Let me stay awake,” you plead.
“You sure?”
You nod. He closes the bottle again and puts it on your nightstand.
“Thought it scared ya,” he mumbles.
“Well it did, when it was a surprise.”
He nods solemnly. “I’m sorry ‘bout that. I really shoulda. . . I don’t even know.” If he had asked, you wonder if you would have let him. Surely not, so you can’t exactly blame him.
-
“Okay,” he looks you over and gets on the bed with you. “You warm enough?” He nudges the cardigan you’re wearing.
“Yeah,” you nod, and shrug it off. You’re cozy enough from the fire.
“C’mon, let’s get up here.” He guides you up the bed and gets you to lay down with your head on a pillow as if you’re going to sleep.
He gets close to you, and starts lightly stroking your shoulder as he looks you over. His eyes glue to your neck, and he wets his lips, then he pulls his eyes back to yours.
“You can choose,” he offers. “Where I take it.”
You bite your lip as you watch his face and inhale his scent.
“I can take it here again,” he caresses your neck. Then he holds your arm and lightly brushes his thumb across where you’d normally get an IV, giving you an unexpected surge in arousal. “Or here.”
He checks your face, then lays his hand on your waist. His palm skims your side, down your hip. “Or,” he runs his hand up your thigh under your dress. His thumb caresses your thigh, right near your pelvis, and he whispers, “I can take it here.” You’re nearly overwhelmed with desire already.
“I dunno,” you whisper.
He gently rolls you onto your back. He takes a deep breath, scoots down the bed, and gets between your thighs. He nuzzles your inner thigh with his nose, then whispers, "up to you, sweetheart." You're throbbing.
“Tell me what feels right,” he murmurs and nuzzles your inner thigh with his nose. His hair is fluffy and his eyes are dark and sparkly as he looks up at you. “God, you’re . . .” He reaches up and wraps a hand around your arm. “You’re perfect.”
“Where do you want?” you ask.
“Everywhere, anywhere. I want every inch of you.”
You allow yourself a little smile and hold his eyes for a few seconds.
He sits up again and offers, “I can make ya feel good.”
“I know,” you nod with a laugh.
“I mean, it’ll feel best, if you’re already feelin’ good.”
You nod with butterflies in your tummy, telling yourself it’s for a practical purpose, and you might as well enjoy it.
He nods and whispers, “Okay. . .good.” His eyes rove your body hungrily. He asks, “Anywhere ya don’t want me to touch ya?”
You say "no" so fast your cheeks heat in shame.
His eyes darken and he growls, “good,” as he prowls back up your body. His triceps swell out from under his shirt.
He kisses you tenderly below your jaw and brings a hand to your breast. You lift your chin with a sigh. He drags his lips and nose down your throat to your chest, pausing at your neckline. He looks up and you nod. He nudges the fabric aside with his nose, then plants a wet kiss on the swell of your breast, and his eyes close. He moans into your skin. Your gaze fixates on his softwash khakis, and he briefly removes his hand from your chest to adjust himself. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“s’okay,” you whisper.
“‘Sposed to be about you right now,” he murmurs, looking up at you. You tilt your head, trying to look at his pants, but the room is too dim. Truth is, you’re finding it hard to think about anything but his cock at the moment. You only felt the briefest hint of it the other night. You want to feel it all.
He slides his hand up your thigh again, and his thumb nudges just slightly under the crotch of your panties, making you twitch. He takes a deep breath through his nose, then withdraws his thumb and lets down the edge of your panties. He scoots up to lie to your side again, leaving his knee between your legs. He rests his hand on your mound, and slowly ghosts your clit, closing his eyes. When he opens his eyes again, they sparkle, and his face drifts toward yours. You don’t flinch, you don’t pull away. You let him kiss you.
With one hand still between your legs, he slides the other one under your head. He kisses you slow and deep, stroking your most sensitive spot through your panties. Your mouths remain connected as his massive hand slides up to your bare abdomen. He gives your side a little squeeze before sliding back down and nudging his fingers under the hem of your underwear. He pulls his lips from yours and looks at you darkly. It’s not a question, but you nod as his hand slides down. You gasp and his knuckles strain the fabric as he cups your naked heat. “Good,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are. “What if ya just. . .” he kisses you again, then murmurs, “let your body decide." He plants a soft, open mouth kiss on your cheek, then whispers in your ear, "I'll go everywhere. You tell me when.”
You wrap your wrists around his neck and he catches your inner arm with his mouth. He wetly kisses the inner crook of your elbow, looking up at you. Then he drags his lips down toward your chest, where he pulls your dress down. Your skin hardens with goosebumps as your nipples sharpen, and he groans softly. He kisses your bare breast, then fixes your dress, and kisses your hard nipple through the thin cotton. You arch your back and sigh. He gets between your legs and backs up as he kisses his way down your torso. He lifts your dress and thumbs your panties, sighing “oh, God.”
He lifts one of your knees over his shoulder and kisses at your cunt through the damp fabric. Your hips lift into his mouth. He licks along the edge of the crotch, then your inner thigh. He leaves a meandering trail of kisses around your inner thigh, then plants his lips and leaves a hickey. He glances up at you and adjusts himself again, and you let out a little moan. “C’mere,” You nudge him, pulling at his arms, wanting nothing more than him on top of you.
He prowls up your body and plants his hands on either side of your chest. Lays his hips into yours, and when the shape of his warm, hard package presses into your most sensitive place, you gasp and he lets out a low moan. “Should I take-” he asks, reaching for his belt. You’re nodding before he finishes the question. He uses his left hand to unbuckle his belt. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he pulls away from you enough to take his pants off. Now he’s in long johns, and it’s quite a bulge you’re looking at. Your face and chest burn. You pull him toward you with your feet. He presses his throbbing arousal against your aching heat, and you moan. You card your fingers through his hair. “Feel so good,” you whisper.
“Good,” he whispers, then kisses your neck again.
He puts his hand on your thigh and you wrap your leg around him. He lightly grinds into you as he kisses your neck, then your cheek, then your lips again. Your mouths open and draw each other in. You breathe each other’s air and drink each other’s spit. Your lips tingle. Your chest tingles. As you kiss harder, he grinds harder against you. You badly want him inside you, but you won’t, you can’t, you shouldn’t, you tell yourself.
The next time his mouth comes to your neck, he teases you with his tongue and a bolt of pleasure shoots down your spine. Your nipples harden. He opens his mouth wider against your skin. “Do it,” you whisper, then feel the prick of his fangs against your flesh. “Do it,” you repeat, and his arousal swells against you as he sinks his teeth into your skin. Your hips lift against his. He moans into your neck, and as your blood flows into him, he gets harder. You shudder in pleasure as he takes what he needs. You move his hand from your thigh to your breast, and you lift your pelvis into his, whispering, “yeah.” You’re not lightheaded, not yet. He’s doing this slowly, pacing himself.
His warmer, harder cock twitches against you, and you reach down to grope it desperately. He groans. You grind up against him and moan, “Joel,” with a surge of need overtaking you. He ruts against you slow and hard, warm and stiff, then his cock pulses right against your clit. He groans into your neck, and you grind back against him, and the whole front of you begins to pulse with him. “Oh God,” you gasp and grab his ass, pulling him against you harder as the warmth of his cum seeps through the thermal fabric, “oh fuck,” you sigh as you cum with him.
As you finish convulsing, his fangs release you. His breath is humid against your neck. “Fuck, i’m sorry,” he mutters. He leans his cheek against your shoulder, and you can feel how warm his face is.
“Don’t be,” you whisper. “That felt really good.” He pulls back and looks at you, cheeks blotchy.
“Really?” he asks. He cups and adjusts his manhood through his damp bottoms. “I never. . .”
“I know,” you reassure him. “It’s my blood, isn’t it?”
He nods with his eyes half closed. “It’s incredible.”
You nod. “It was good for me too,” you admit.
“I could feel it,” he puts a hand on your panties. He sighs and lays half on top of you. He strokes your face. “Can I do somethin’ for ya?”
You shake your head no. “I’m good.”
He caresses your neck. “I’ll get ya some ice.”
“No,” your hand comes to his back, and you don’t let him leave. “Just stay right here.”
You lay in silence with him half on top of you. Then he props himself up to look at you.
“We're made for each other,” he whispers, looking at your mouth. He kisses you softly, then meets your eyes. “You don’t believe it yet. It’s okay.”
“It’s not that I don’t-”
“It’s okay. Don’t have to,” he reassures you. He rests his head close to yours on the same pillow, and nuzzles his nose against yours. “Just hope ya feel it one day,” he murmurs into your cheek. “I know ya will.”
You feel it. You disagree, you think, but you feel the truth in it.
He puts his arm all the way over you. His arm is solid, and you imagine very heavy, but it's not dead weight. It's tense, like he's actively holding you there, just in case.
—----
---------
--------
His parasol was inspired by @gasolinerainbowpuddles mood board.
Thank you so much for love for vampire!Joel and your patience for his story to continue.
I hear you about notifs not working, and tags too (i'm not receiving a lot of my tags either). consider checking my fic notifs blog @toxicfics or the "latest fics" link on my profile header once in a while to see what you might have missed.
