Summary: Daddy Joel knows how much your period hurts you. So he takes you to the strawberry field he found. He carries you when your legs give out, feeds you berries one by one, wipes the juice from your chin with his thumb. All he wants is to make you feel better, to remind you that you're his sweet, whiney girl.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, FAUXCEST, huge age gap (60s and 20s), daddy!joel, ddlg undertones, pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, slight breeding, praise kink, spitting into mouth, slight food play, slight cum/period eating, clit rubbing, period sex, secret relationship, idk how much it makes sense that strawberries exist after the outbreak but
A/N: guess who had strawberries AND her period in this heat? 🥵 i was craving some dada joel and some ickiness sooo...ALSO im currently writing a lot of requests (bc they've been sitting in my inbox for ages🫣) and one of them is sleazy!joel hehe. As usual: if you don't like something you can just scroll and block me. I hope yall enjoy this one pookies <333
Joel had a surprise for you.
He lied to Maria, the Guards and even to his own brother Tommy.
"Got some scoutin' to do," he told them. "Won't be long."
And once you two were out of Jackson, he slowed. His hand moved from yours to the small of your back, guiding you through the tall grass.
But the last half mile had been rough. You've been whining under your breath, one hand pressed to your lower belly, the ache a dull, stubborn throb that pulsed down into your thighs.
The walk had begun to feel endless, every step a small betrayal as you dragged your feet through the wild grass, letting out a little huff of complaint.
"Joel…where are we goin'?" you whine, your voice thin and pitiful.
He doesn't answer, just keeps walking ahead, his broad back a quiet wall of patience. The afternoon light catches the gray in his hair, and you watch the way his shoulders move under his flannel. He's carrying a small canvas sack, but you don't know what's in it.
"Dad," you try again, letting the syllable stretch into a whimpering plea, knowing the name gets him.
He glances back, and his eyes are soft, the corners crinkling. "Hush now, sweet girl. We're almost there."
You let out a dramatic sigh, but you keep walking.
Your underwear is already damp with blood again, the fresh pair with a slip he helped you into earlier felt already too sticky. You remember the way he knelt in front of you in your little room, his big hands gentle as he peeled off the stained panties, knowing you're embarrassed. "That's alright, honey. S'just your body. Nothin' to be ashamed of." He murmured, pressing a kiss to your hipbone, then another to the swell of your belly, and you'd felt the tension crack open, just a little.
The first thing anyone noticed about Joel Miller was his rough edges; knuckles permanently shadowed by old scars, deep-set furrow of his eyebrows. A voice that could drop into gravel and command a room by sound alone.
But you...you noticed his soft edges.
Maybe it was the way his fingers moved with a deliberate gentleness on your skin. Pressing a warm hand on your belly. Smoothing back your hair when you dozed off against his shoulder. The way he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly, before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
Or maybe the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that kept him grounded in this God abandoned world.
You noticed it first, when you called him 'dad'.
It slipped out, honestly.
You were curled in his lap after a nightmare—something about clickers, about teeth, about the cold. He had held you, rocked you, murmured soft, sweets words into your hair. And you had looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks and said, "Thanks, Dad."
His hands had stilled. His eyes gone dark and soft and hungry all at once. He didn't correct you. He just kissed your forehead and said, "Anytime, bun."
Later, when he was on top of you, cock hard against your thigh, he growled (or begged) for you to "Say it again," and you did.
But nobody needed to know, of course.
What would everyone say? A sixty year old, together with a woman whose youth made him feel almost ancient.
And oh, how much he tried to forget your face, to ignore your touch, to dismiss his feelings for you.
You were too young to remember the world before, too soft, too sweet. He said that as if it was an accusation, but his eyes said something else.
Now you're outside, and the world smells of earth and green, and you're following him like a child, trusting blindly.
Halfway up a small rise, you stop, leaning over with your hands on your knees. "Can't," you breathe. "Cramps are real bad."
Joel turns, and there's no impatience in his face, only that steady, watchful tenderness that makes your chest ache.
He walks back to you, and without a word, he crouches, one hand reaching for your wrist, pulling you gently towards his back. "C'mon. I got you."
You don't argue.
You climb onto his back, your thighs wrapping around his waist, your arms looped over his shoulders. He stands easily, one hand cupping your ass, the other holding the sack. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing that comforting smell he has.
The sway of his walk is hypnotic, and your cramps start to ease slightly with the steady motion.
"You're so good to me," you murmur against his skin, pouting.
"S'what daddies do, peanut." His voice is a low rumble, the vibration felt more than heard.
He carries you for what feels like forever, until the path opens into a small clearing. You lift your head, and your breath catches.
Strawberries.
A whole patch of them, sprawling over the ground like a spilled paint of red and green. The vines are tangled, the berries fat and gleaming, some half-hidden under leaves. The sun falls directly on them, and the scent rises up—sweet, earthy, soft.
It's impossible, a tiny miracle in this broken world, a secret pocket of something beautiful.
"Joel," you whisper, your voice thick with wonder.
He sets you down carefully, and you stand there, staring.
"Found it last spring," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "Thought you’d…I dunno. Like it." You didn’t give him time to second-guess it—just threw your arms around his neck, pressing sticky kisses to his stubbled jaw until he huffed and swatted your ass. "Quit it. Pick some before the birds do."
You let out a sound—something between a gasp and a laugh and you immediately dropped to your knees in the middle of the patch, the soft soil giving way, the leaves brushing your knees.
You plucked a strawberry, fat and crimson, and bought it to your mouth. The first bite is a burst of sun and sugar, juice running down your chin, and you moan, closing your eyes.
Joel chuckles, a low, warm sound. "That good, huh?"
You don't answer.
You're already reaching for another, and another, stuffing them into your mouth, the red juice dripping over your fingers, staining the front of your dress.
The sweetness floods your tongue, and for a moment, the cramps, the heaviness, the embarrassment of earlier—all of it just fades.
You're just a girl eating strawberries in a field, and your daddy found this for you.
He settles down across from you, legs crossed, watching you with an expression of pure, quiet adoration.
"Messy girl," he coos.
You look up at him, your lips smeared red, your hands sticky. You grin, a wild, happy grin. "Dad. Open your mouth."
He raises an eyebrow but complies, his lips parting slightly. You pick a perfect berry, hold it up to his mouth, and press it gently past his lips. He bites down, and you feel the slight brush of his teeth on your fingertips. You giggle, pulling your hand back, but he catches your wrist, sucking the juice off your fingers with a slow, gentle pull.
Heat flares low in your belly, a different kind of ache.
"Gonna bite your hand off if you ain't careful, bunny." he murmurs, his eyes darkening.
"Don't you dare," you say, but your voice is breathy.
He lets your hand go, and you pop another strawberry into your own mouth, chewing slowly, watching him. Your dress is hiked up a little from kneeling, the hem bunched around your thighs.
You're not wearing a bra (you never do when you're with him) and the thin cotton of the dress clings to the curve of your breasts.
You feel his gaze travel down, lingering, and then a slow smile spreads across his face.
"Lemme see, babygirl."
Your heart stutters. "Dad…"
"C'mon. Just a peek."
He leans forward, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress, lifting it inch by inch. The air kisses your thighs, your belly. You shiver, but you don't stop him.
His eyes drop to the patch of white cotton between your legs, the damp spot visible, pale pink. He hums, low and appreciative.
"So pretty," he breathes, and then he's leaning in, pressing his mouth to the inside of your knee, then higher, his lips brushing fire along your skin.
You forget about your strawberries. You forget about everything. Your head falls back, a small moan escaping your lips.
His fingers find the waistband of your panties, sliding under, brushing through the soft curls. You gasp, the touch electric, and then he cups you, his palm warm and firm, pressing against the ache.
"Daddy," you whisper, your voice small. "S'full of blood. It's…messy."
He looks up at you, his mouth still against your thigh. "Don't give a damn, honeybun. You think I care about a little blood?" He shakes his head slowly, his eyes holding yours. "You're my sweet girl. Every part of you. Even the messy bits."
Your cheeks flush red.
Then he shifts, laying you back on the grass, the ground soft and cool under you.
The strawberry vines brush your arms, the leaves tickling your skin. He moves between your thighs, settling his weight over you, and you feel the length of him pressing against your hip, hard even through his jeans.
"Let's make you feel even better, huh?" he asks, his voice a low, rough whisper.
You nod, your mouth dry.
He strokes your hair away from your face, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Are you gonna let dad see your pretty pussy?"
The words send a shiver through you, a wet heat pooling deeper than the cramping. You nod again, your eyes half-lidded, already sinking into that warm, foggy space where there's only him, only daddy.
He lifts the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your ribs, and then he hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulls them down slowly, deliberately. The damp cotton slides over your hips, your thighs, and then he's lifting your legs to slip them free. The air hits your cunt, cool and tingling, and you feel the slow, thick trickle of blood sliding down to the grass. A sensation that would make you flinch if it was anyone else.
But it's Joel.
He looks down at you, at the smear of red on your inner thighs, the way the ground beneath you darkens. He makes a sound, soft and almost reverent. "Look at you," he murmurs. "Bleedin' into the grass."
Your face heats. "Daddy…"
"Shh, baby. S'beautiful." He leans down and kisses your soft belly, just above the mound of your cunt.
Then he's unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans and briefs down just enough for his cock to jump free, already thick and flushed, the head glistening with pre-cum.
You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes fixed on you, nodding as if he is counting his strokes.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says, but his voice is thick, and you know he's as desperate as you are.
He lines himself up, and you feel the blunt pressure at your entrance, warm and heavy. Then he pushes in, and the sensation is a shock—tight, wet, the blood acting as a slick, silky glide. You gasp, your fingers digging into the grass. Your body clenching around him, the fullness making you dizzy.
"Dad, oh—"
"I know, I know," he hushes, stroking your hair, his forehead pressed to yours. "Let go, honey. Let daddy in."
He pushes deeper, the squelching sound is loud in the quiet field, obscene but intimate. The blood and the wetness and the heat—it all blends together into that perfect, cozy feeling.
That feeling only Joel could give you.
He starts to move, slow, deep thrusts that rock your whole body, the ground beneath you soft and yielding.
"Somebody'll see us," you whimper, but the words come out as a moan.
He shakes his head, his breath hot against your cheek. "Cleared the whole area before. It's not patrol time. Just us, baby bun. Just you and me."
He picks up a strawberry from where it fell, pressing it to your lips. You open, bite down, the juice running down your chin. He leans in, his mouth catching yours, and he swallows the bite from your lips, his tongue sliding against yours.
As he pulls back, you see him gather a bit of spit and juice in his mouth, and when he opens, he lets it drip into yours.
"Swallow," he murmurs, and you do. "That's my girl."
His cock is a steady, dragging pressure inside you, sliding against that deep spot that makes your toes curl. Your hands find his chest, clutching his flannel, and you arch into him, desperate for more. The cramps start to dissolve under the pleasure, only the squelching sounds of blood being the proof of your period.
The red and his cum will mix later, but for now, there's only that gentle rhythm, the wet slap of his hips against your thighs, the soft grunts he makes against your neck.
He looks down between your bodies, at where the red is pooling around you, staining the green leaves. "Aw, honey," he coos, and there's a tenderness in his voice that makes your heart clench. "Makin' a mess of yourself." He reaches down, his fingers dipping into the warm slick, and he brings them to his lips, tasting. "S'just life, baby. Nothin' bad."
Your eyes well up, a mix of embarrassment and overwhelming love. "Dad..."
He shushes you, kissing your eyelids, your nose, the corner of your mouth. "You're doin' so good. So beautiful. Just let it happen."
He slows his pace, making each thrust a languid, deliberate drag, and you feel every ridge of him, every pulse. Your body starts to tighten, the pleasure building like a wave, slow and inevitable. You're gripping him, your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Close," you breathe. "Daddy, I'm—"
"I know, sweet girl. What did we speak about? Focus on that feeling. Focus on daddy." His voice dropping low.
He reaches between your bodies with that, his thumb finding your clit, pressing in tight circles.
The sensation spikes, your mind trying to focus on his thrusts and on the pleasure while a foggy cloud wraps around yours mind.
Joel coos and coos, persistent with his thrusts and rubs.
"C'mon, peanut."
And you shatter, your back bowing, a cry torn from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him in rhythmic waves, spilling blood, and he groans. His hips stutter as he drives into you one last time, spilling deep inside, the warmth spreading through you like honey.
He stays buried, his forehead resting on yours, both of you panting.
The world is silent again except for the hum of insects, the distant rustle of leaves. You can feel the mixture of blood and cum seeping out of you, pooling on the grass, and for a second, embarrassment flickers.
But then Joel shifts, lifts himself, and looks down.
He scoops his fingers through the slick, gathers a pearl of red and white on his fingertip. He looks at you, his eyes soft and dark, and brings his hand to his mouth, tasting it slowly.
"Tastes so sweet," he says, his voice husky.
You bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush, and he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He rolls to the side, careful not to crush you, and you curl into him, your head on his shoulder. The strawberry leaves are crushed beneath you, the juice and blood and cum mingling with the earth.
He picks a fresh strawberry from a nearby vine, holds it to your lips. You open, and he feeds you, watching you chew with that soft, paternal satisfaction. Then he plucks one for himself, eats it, and kisses you, sharing the taste.
"This was a good surprise," you murmur, your eyelids heavy.
"The best surprise is seein' my girl happy." He strokes your hair, his fingers catching on tangles, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. "You feelin' better?"
You think about the cramps, which are still there, but muted now, cushioned by the glow of pleasure. You think about the blood, the mess, and how he didn't flinch, didn't make you feel less. You think about the way he looked at you, as if you were something precious and holy, even with red smeared across your thighs.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Much better."
He hums, satisfied, and pulls you tighter. The sky is deepening to gold and pink, the sun lower now, casting long shadows across the field. You're sticky and sore and perfect, and he's here, solid and warm, your daddy in a world that doesn't deserve him.
You reach for another strawberry, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his mouth, biting it in half, offering you the other half with his lips. You take it, and the sweetness blooms on your tongue, the last light of day catching the red on his lips.
"My messy girl," he says, so softly it's almost a prayer.
And you smile, burying your face in the crook of his neck, the blood and the cum and the strawberries all blending together into one warm, pink, perfect afternoon.
This is so short🫣 i hope you all stay hydrated especially while taking antidepressants or stimulants!!! Also, i think the past tense and the present tense is very confusing in this, it's the one thing i struggle with most so im sorry...🥲
What if i just want to be a mentally unwell little girl wearing little white dresses and flower crowns spinning in circles living in an old timey psych ward where an unethical doctor cares for me and does experiments on me?
I think the answer is no which makes me sad because i ALWAYS wanted kids. I love children. My nieces and nephews are literally my entire world. I taught preschool for a long time and i just love them. But i also really value my time to myself and i also love my life currently so the idea of it changing so drastically upsets me.
I am not opposed to things changing in the future. And maybe some type of parenting will end up in my lap and that would make me happy too. So idk.
