Hello Darlings, welcome to the infatuation of Supernatural, Sons of Anarchy, & The last of us No shame, just pain (caused by the Winchesters, Jax Teller & Joel Miller)
Joel Miller x f!reader
Explicit, 18+
No use of y/n
Series summary: Albert Camus said that "A man is always a prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them,” and it made me wonder how we justify romantic affairs — if we are free when we enter them in secrecy, or only truly free when we have burned the bridges we ran over to reach the arms of the other.
Warnings: Infidelity, smut, drama, no outbreak AU, age gap, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, neglectful, toxic and messy relationships, dd/lg dynamics, daddy kink, size kink, family issues, loneliness, domesticity, marriage and divorce, fluff, emotional volatility, jealousy, fighting, soulmates AU, possessiveness, dick from a man you wish was your father, HEA, breeding kink, pregnancy, toxic fighting and conflict.
A/N: If you're interested in more of my infidelity-centered writing, feel free to check out Reflection of the Moon (post outbreak Joel x Ellie's teacher), Right My Wrongs (double infidelity, father-in-law Joel), or Didn't Cha Know (brother in law Joel).
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Chapter one: cacciatore
~ Outtake: cantuccini
Chapter two: stracciatella
Chapter three: ziti
Chapter four: arancini
~ Outtake: torrone
Chapter five: crescentina
Chapter six: cannoli
Chapter seven: ossobuco
Chapter eight: panzanella
Chapter nine: pandoro
Chapter ten: agrodolce
Chapter eleven: tiramisu
~ Outtake: bruschetta
Chapter twelve: fiori
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🐻 Joel's physicality HC's drabble
⚡️ Stracciatella meme
🔥 Cavallucci - non-canon oneshot
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My current obsession, my most recent binge - y’all this is it! There’s only 2 chapters so far, but man oh man @chloeangelic is making my heart SING I’m a thirsty hoe for her and her stories and I NEED more just as much as Joel NEEDS HER 😈
Thank you @chloeangelic for blessing my feed with your greatness. Your style, writing description, is beautiful and incredibly captivating. No joke when I say I cannot wait to see the rest of this series.
hi! im wondering about if you’re still continuing the two of us. of course, there’s absolutely no rush OR pressure to even write another part at all, but im curious and still go back to it! it really is a masterpiece, your writing style is so gorgeous and you’re doing really interesting things with syntax. again, no pressure, love what you’re doing!! <3
First off, thank you so much for your kind words, it makes my heart sing! I’m so happy you enjoy the two of us, and secondly thrilled you’re inquiring about part two, because yes! I do plan to continue their story and have already started 😈 Joel just makes me giddy!
Let me know if there’s anything you wish to see, or if you’d like a little sneak peek ❤️
Summary – You find Joel taking care of you yet again, but not in the way you want. Tonight, you decide to address it.
A/N - I couldn’t stop thinking about this, so I decided to write it. Inspired by Episode 3 of the last of us, takes place in the clearing that Joel and Ellie settle in for the night but this time, it’s Joel and you.
Warnings – Minors, do not interact. This fic is 18+ only
The filthiest thing I’ve written so far, and I put all the blame on Joel Miller. He makes me absolutely feral!
Smut with little plot. Poor girl gets edged for way too long, teasing, masturbation for both, daddy kink, pet names - pretty girl, brat, sweetheart etc. (Joel calls reader whore once) Dirty talk, thigh riding, reader humps her sleeping bag, cursing, soft/dom Joel. Mentions of murder, blood, and wounds and weapons – knives, gun. (Reader has a small cut). Joel is in his fifties; readers age is not specified but absolutely over the age of 20. Please Let me know if I’ve missed anything! Enjoy!
“We’re stopping here f’ the night.”
Joel accelerates the Chevy S-10 ranger off the familiar pavement and onto the rough prairie towards the forest line. The uneven earth below you causes the truck to wobble, you grip the handle mounted above you to stay steady.
The sun is on its way to set and reveal the sky she has in mind for this evening. You hope it’s another blue and pink one, when the clouds blend it becomes a milky mauve and it’s Joel's favourite kind of sunset. Which naturally, and secretly, is the very reason why it’s become your favourite too.
You roll down the passenger window with the manual hand crank, wincing at the sore residing across your collarbone. A souvenir from earlier endeavors. Well, early as in this very morning.
When you and Joel came across what seemed like a stationed FEDRA stop, relief washed over when it was revealed to be just a band of yahoos. You quickly learned they were as nervous as you. Ironically enough, that’s an advantage, as your travelling partner was unlike the lot of you all. Joel possesses a different mindset than others. A different perspective that was always so solidified. Certain.
As the air in the environment shifted, it became hostile. This was a group with no good intentions. Not for the two of you anyhow. Yet you saw the fear grow in their eyes when Joel charged, surging forward, letting survival take over. The thing is, Joel also has a different sense of fear. Such as fear of getting off track while trying to find his brother, among a fear of running out of coffee and most impending, the fear of getting old. That one makes you laugh.
Therefore, when the two of you approached the group of three men and a lady, fear didn’t have a seat at Joel's table. So, your morning kerfuffle was exactly that – a mere kerfuffle that ended with 3 dead and one spared with a worn-out map. She won’t make it far though. Not on her own.
You initially tried to kill her yourself. An opportunity that was seconds away when you were straddling her chest, your knife hovered above her sternum, promising a fatal strike but you were viciously flung off by Joel with a quick “We don’t kill women” as he returned to bludgeon some poor guy’s face. The woman however had survival rules of her own. Taught by the men she traveled with; her version of death didn’t discriminate.
She was quick to retrieve her blade you’d tossed moments ago. Before you knew it, she was on top of you faster than you could gather yourself. She now had the high ground, the advantage and with no one to stop her, she swung the sharp steel across your skin with purpose. She aimed for your neck, but thankfully you were faster, your reactions saved you and you were rewarded a swift cut to the collarbone instead. You had reached for her jaw, throwing her off balance as you shoved her face upwards. Joel had then come to your rescue, pulling her to the side by her neck before putting the fear of God into her.
It could’ve been worse for you, but a part of you was relieved as you didn’t have to encounter the grief that weighs on one’s soul when they take a life. You’ve never killed before, but that doesn’t mean you won't. You’ve accepted the fact that it’s only a matter of time, but it’s an event you’re not eager to attend.
As much as you reamed out Joel for letting her go, for letting you nearly die at her hands, you really only chastised to keep hearing his apologies in that low southern drawl. It was a record you could keep on replay for all eternity. Joel saying sorry? What a sound.
With a tender touch, you press against the damp blue material covering your wound. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, but a bit had still seeped through. Joel had given you some gauze which clung to the wound tightly as the blood hardened, like a scab. You figure it’ll have to be changed soon.
You gaze out the window, appreciating the cool breeze whistling across your features. You can smell the soil underneath the green grass as the truck tires roll over them.
To your surprise Joel continues past the trees, into the forest itself. A sliver of anxiety burst in your chest.
“We’re not camping by the tree line?” You question as your eyes frantically scour each gap between the lush evergreen trees.
“Not safe enough” he barely utters to you as he himself scans the earthy environment. “Less chance for surprises deep in here”.
“Mmmkay …” you hum, feeling a wave of sadness as you realize watching golden hour wouldn’t be in the cards tonight. Nature in this area is overgrown, and rich. The trees are abundant, dense, and evade the sky above you.
With a light squeal, the truck comes to a halt, and when the engine dies you know this is home for the night.
You pull out of the passenger seat and groan as you stretch your body, raising your hands above your head.
“Today was a long one hey? How many hours were we on the road?” You question as you glance around your new surroundings.
“You should know, you’re the one who told me you were gunna start observin’ more” He raises a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he unlocked the tailgate. “Guess it’s hard t’ count when you’re nappin’ half the ride.”
“Okay let’s not get carried away there, I don’t plan on being on your level of analysis, Miller.” You smirk at him as you help him unload the sleeping bags and the worn-out Coleman’s barbeque.
With a thud of the bags against the ground he turns to you.
“What’d I say ‘bout usin’ my last name?” His brows are drawn tightly now. His brown eyes dark like char, focus on yours. He places one of his hands, palm side down against the body of the truck, the other gripping his hip.
You raise your own hands in surrender as he scoffs with a shake of his head but continues unpacking. It’s something you tend to poke and prod him with from time to time. But only from time to time. Well, in the short time that you’ve known him anyway.
For some reason, it really does tick Joel off when you say his surname but that’s precisely why you enjoy using it when he least expects it. Because if he knows it’s coming, he won’t let it slide and you’re left talking to yourself for the remainder of the day, sometimes two. So, you use it when you want to be momentarily scolded, but you say it as if it’s an accident. A habit not quite beaten out of the inner brat in you.
You hear him mumbling to himself again as he splays the sleeping bags out, readying the grill for whatever canned goods are left. Sounds something like “You’re gunna learn one f’ these days” but you pay no further attention as you skip to the driver’s side of the truck, leaning into the center console to grab the cheap lantern. You won’t need it yet, but darkness tends to creep in much faster when you’re in the woods. You want it close by as you’ve not been granted access to firearms. No matter how many times you’ve pleaded Joel, it wasn’t up for discussion. Therefore, you’re left with your trusty blade and ‘works half-of-the-time’ lantern.
Joel heats up two cans, one possessing creamed corn and the other, ravioli. You prefer corn, but you don’t miss the smile that briefly dances in Joel’s eyes when he gets to take the ravioli for himself. Another mental note you’ve made about Joel. He likes his Chef Boyardee.
As the night crawls on, Joel summons you over with a sharp whistle to the tailgate where he’s standing.
“Hey, c’mere,” he pats the hard plastic of the trunk.
“Joel, I just got comfy. I’m finally warm in my little cocoon,” you pause as you wait for his mercy. None was served as he snaps his middle finger against his thumb to you again, motioning the truck with his forefinger as he continues unzipping a little red bag with the other.
“Get over here,” he demands but not in a mean way, his voice was softer than before.
“You’re not the boss of me,” you whisper under your breath as you make your way over to him, shuffling the sleeping bag off your feet.
“Heard that,” he grunts.
“Good,” you chirp back as you stand next to him.
“Up” he says, once again motioning his forefinger upwards to the tailgate.
With a roll of your eyes, you turn your back to the truck and hoist your bottom from beneath you up onto the bench. You sit there quietly, swaying your legs while watching Joel prod through the medical bandages and wipes with his large fingers in that small, little bag. A ping of jealousy rises in your chest as you wished you could have his fingers explore your –
“Quit thinkin ’so loud,” Joel interrupts your thoughts as he tears open a small white package between his teeth. An action that makes you bite your bottom lip involuntarily.
It’s no secret you struggle around Joel. Maybe it’s the long-term effects of the apocalypse, causing so many to lose the common sense of touch with one another. Creating incredibly touch-starved individuals, especially you.
Maybe it’s because you’ve never really been properly touched by a man, and you think Joel would know how, you think of it far too often. Or maybe it’s simply because a man like Joel emits sexuality with his entire being. It’s like he releases a pheromone that makes those around him go feral for his manhood. At least that’s how you feel anyways.
Your eyes tend to linger longer than you’d like when you watch Joel grip his rifle, his strong hand cupping the neck of the gun. The way his fingers trace lightly on the trigger, teasing the bullet inside to erupt. The way he narrows his sight into the scope, his breath held before exhaling in the most sensual way. The way his broad shoulders rise and fall before he makes his kill. Hell, you could watch this man paint and still be in a pool of your own arousal.
Maybe it’s just because Joel is the most masculine man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, becoming partners with, in the coworker sense of course. He possesses the knowledge, the experience, the determination, the patience, and strength… of survival. But you’ve always wondered if those same factors come into play when he likes to…play.
Joel has always noticed when you’re thinking, the way you zone out on his lips or his large fingers. Your eyelids become hooded as he watches the filthy gears turn inside your mind. It’s something you do without even realizing and he fucking loves it. It makes his heartbeat fonder; his ego grow bigger and without fail, each time, it makes his cock twitch in his jeans. Which is the final action that brings him back to reality to snap your dirty little naïve mind out of it.
He understands the effect he has on women, how they would stare at him back at the QZ. Crawl to him with need, begging to be put out of their misery. It’s a quality he doesn’t mind as it makes it easy to find release but when it comes to you, he scolds himself for ever letting his mind drift into those delicious, curious, devilish thoughts. Your innocence is a hidden treasure in this corrupt world, and Joel simply won’t corrupt that too.
He recognizes the way you stray close to him as if he's shelter. The way you look at him with wide eyes when he senses danger, how you shuffle so tight into him, because you know he’ll protect you. And he will. He quietly prides himself in being your gatekeeper. How you give him complete control over your life, a feeling he’s only ever had once before.
He pictures you as a small ornament made of thin glass. So precious, yet so fragile and it sits so nicely in his roughed up, deadly, deleterious hands. He could shatter it so easily. Let the pieces fall at his feet and walk away before the fear of failure seeps in, had he done that in the start, his feelings would be protected.
But the problem is, he’s gotten attached to his little ornament. Therefore, he’ll watch every move he makes, to be sure not to flinch and accidently crack it. He dreads the weight that comes with the stiffness of protecting you, how it makes his body and mind ache, but he knew. He knew the moment he took you out of the QZ and into the unknown, that he would ache till the day he takes his last breath. He made his choice that very night, that he's responsible for you. He just didn’t realize how much he would care. How much you’ve impacted him. How much of you has molded into him and the things he recognizes in you that you’ve gained from him. His little ornament, he vows to keep safe because the eternal hell that comes with defeat, he simply won’t go through again.
He stares down at you, looking at your eyes still trained on his mouth that has just ripped open the white plastic. He wondered if it reminded you of the memories that creeped into his. If you've ever seen one before. A type of rubber that used to sit in his wallet pre apocalypse when he travelled to seedy bars.
“Take your shirt off” You snap your eyes from his lips to meet his brown ones. They’re still dark from the “Miller” comment you made earlier but this time there’s a twinkle you can’t quite read.
“You, y- you want me to take it off?” You speak so softly but in such a needy way Joel has to forcefully repress the groan that’s stuck in his throat. Instead, he smirks at you.
“Need t’ see the cut”. You blush at his words, feeling silly for assuming he’d want anything otherwise. God you were so lost in your train of thoughts, you’d briefly forgotten what you were sitting here for.
Joel catches sight of your blush by the low light of the lantern sitting next to the med bag. He knows he can’t give into you, or let himself ponder on you for too long, but that doesn't mean he can’t have a little fun teasing you.
You grab the hem of your sweater, peeling it up and over your head, leaving you in your white tank top. One that had been stained from dirt and blood, but you’ve washed it in rivers in between travels. The stains never come out, no matter how hard you try.
You hear his breath hitch as you pluck the sweater off, bundling it to your side and it only fuels the ache in between your legs that much more.
You slip in and out of your trance, feeling so vulnerable yet powerful in the hands of Joel. Waiting for his next move. You watch his eyes examine your cut, as he chews on the inside on his cheek.
“S’not too bad, but could get infected, especially when we’re out here,” he explains, opening the wet cloth that was inside the package and before he brings it to your wound, he raises a finger lightly over your shoulder.
“Just... gunna move this out f’ the way” his voice velvet as he softly shifts your tank strap away from your wound to the edge of your shoulder, enough for it to fall down your arm on its own. The motion of it all raising a shiver up your tailbone. You then see his eyes grow heavy, his tongue dipping out to wet his bottom lip.
The touch of his calloused fingers against your skin, the way the strap falls from his grasp, how his eyes briefly drop to your chest before seeing the red blotches form across his neck, all these things have your buds growing hard against the fabric of your shirt.
You groan when he removes the old gauze and finally applies the alcohol-soaked cloth against your cut. The sting somehow adding to your arousal. You can’t help but let a small pornographic moan slip from your lips resulting in a hiss from Joel.
“Jesus” He mutters, more to himself than you. His other hand palms his crotch to briefly adjust the growing hard on beneath the zipper. He thought he was subtle in the dark, but you still saw, and it drove you wild.
His touch shocks you as his hand gently grips your neck, holding you still as he dabs your sore some more. You see the wrinkles forming on his forehead as he bends down, leaning in close to inspect the cut further. You could roll your eyes in pure ecstasy just from the way he has you in his grasp. The way his head is ducked down beneath yours, so closely to your chest, you can nearly feel his hot breath kissing your nipples.
You feel your dignity slipping away. You want nothing more than to submit to him, let him take what he wants. You’ve seen the signs, surely, he’s thought about it too.
His big thumb lightly caresses your sensitive skin as he focuses on wiping up the rest of the smeared mess that stained your collar bone. In between his shuffling, you spread your legs open some more, hoping he’ll come closer.
You peer down, watching his eyes flicker to yours, a warning resides within them. He knows what you’re doing, and he isn’t going to take bait. He’s in trouble enough as it is. You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress the guttural want inside you. But your mouth falls agape when his glare falls back to your neck, tracing slowly back to your wound before looking down lower to your breasts poking through your thin shirt. He inhales deeply through his nose, his eyes closing as if he’s praying for restraint. You hope none delivers.
In one motion, he regathers himself in such a Joel manner, you know he’s done playing. He tosses the crimson-stained wet fabric back into the red bag, zipping it up in such aggression you thought it might just break.
“Just keep it covered, should heal fine,” He orders, not once looking your way.
“Joel” you mewl to him, your hands having a mind of their own as they reach for his jacket.
“No” he says bluntly, his eyes on the med kit. He’s trying to be cold, but you can hear the quiver that laces his voice.
He tosses the bag further into the trunk, he jaws clenching so hard you think his teeth might shatter.
“Joel” you cry again softly, biting your lip. Your arousal is becoming unbearable, downright painful. At this point, you can care less about how pathetic you sound. You just need relief, but this time from him.
“I said no,” He growls, “It’s bedtime.”
Joel then, in one movement reaches one arm under yours, supporting your back and the other hand gripping your waist.
You clutch the collar of his jacket, panting feverishly, your heart racing from his touch. His head had leaned down close enough, you thought he might just kiss you.
But then you realize what's really happening as he picks you up off the tailgate and plants you on your feet to the ground. You don’t miss the way his hand lingers before letting you go.
“I’ve got first watch, get into your sleepin’ bag,” He commands as he picks up his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder.
“I’m not tired” you whine, desperation seeping out of your pores.
“M’ don’t care, we have a long day tomorrow n’ you need rest, so get rested.” His voice is strained as his teeth grit at the end of his sentence. He putters around, putting the lantern next to your bag, closing the lid to the barbeque, not once looking in your direction.
And you know why. He’s trying to hide his desire from you, the evidence sticking out in his jeans. Trying to distract himself from the utter temptation that hangs in the air. Trying to be the good guy that is strictly business and most days his virtuous behavior warms you, but tonight it’s pissing you right off.
“I can’t sleep like this Joel, I, I- I’m uncomfortable” you whimper, your arms at your side as you admit defeat.
“That’s enough” he spits your name “M’ not saying it again.”
Your perk up when he turns, striding towards you but it’s quickly followed by a groan when he passes you to go to the truck. He grabs your sweater, before slamming up the tailgate with force. The sexual frustration radiant in his demeanor.
You watch him come closer; his knuckles white from gripping the fabric of your top. Your breath catches when you meet his eyes, his glare so intense you think you might become a meal, you hope you will.
He raises his fist to your chest; you look down at the blue material.
“Put this on, it’ll protect your wound. I’m checking the perimeters then I’ll be back” he says lowly, peering down at you without tilting his head. When he does this, it makes you feel incredibly small, more than you normally feel around him. Which you like. You frown at his back as he strides away, towards the trees.
“Joel, please” you whine again. “I – I need – “ Tears begin pricking at your eyes, you’ve never felt this needy in your life, and all you want is Joel. He’s the only one that can help.
He stands still, before turning his head to the side, his knee popping out in his stance. He stays that way for a moment before you hear him sigh loudly. He turns to face you, hand gripping his jaw as his eyes scans your figure, weeping in front of him.
“Sweetheart, I know what you need,” His nickname shocks and spurs you on all at the same time.
“Do what you need to do, I’m goin’ to do rounds, I’ll be back when you’re done okay?” His tone shifts from frustrated to understanding, his face somber but riddled with want. You glance down at his jeans, his bulge sticking out so loudly. You feel yourself start salivating.
“Can’t you do it Joel?” You mewl “Help me feel better?”
This time he groans, one so low and gravelly you think you might cum right there.
“Baby girl I can’t” his palm rests on his forehead before he runs his thick fingers through his salt and pepper locks.
“You know I can’t” His voice is getting rougher in between his pants. “I need you to crawl into bed and touch yourself, okay? I know you can do it” He points his index at your sleeping bag and with a sigh he walks off before you can say anything else.
And just like that he disappears into the darkness. You know he won’t stray far, but enough to grant you privacy. You groan to yourself, hoping it wasn’t going to end like this, but it is progress. You had touched yourself before, but always in secret. In worry Joel might get upset or confused, or worse - mad as to why you would need to relieve yourself around him. You always feared he’d find you weak or pathetic if he caught you, so you always waited until he was on patrol in the dark, or settled in his own room in whatever housing the two of you would find.
The fact that Joel now knows, and understands, and is urging you to, is incredibly sexy.
You grab the slippery material and bring it over, near to his that lay empty. You slid yourself in and with shaky hands, undo the buttons and zipper to your confining jeans before snaking your hand down to your soaked cotton panties. You sigh at the touch, savoring in the instant relief that comes with it.
With slow, messy circles, you rub the outside of your panties against your core as you think about Joel's strong hands lifting you off the tailgate. The way his chest was pressed against your breasts, the way his hands lingered on you. Your breathing quickens as you start rubbing circles harder and quicker, cupping your swollen clit. More tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes when you begin to think this isn’t going to work. Not when you know he’s around. Not when he’s the very reason you’re dripping down your thighs in the first place. Not when you need him.
In an act of desperation, you kick off your sneakers, toss them on the grass with two thuds and strip your jeans completely off. Your cocoon becomes so humid with the heat from your arousal that you end up crawling out of it before bunching it up enough to straddle the material, grinding against it. You whine as the friction brings more relief than your fingers as you start humping your sleep bag. The cool breeze against your dewy skin feels like a kiss from mother nature herself. You feel yourself grow closer to your climax as you begin to furiously hump more, your knees against the earth, your thighs spread wide. You know how ridiculous you must look, but you couldn’t give a shit. You need relief in order to have some clarity again.
Then you hear it. The unmistakable clink of his belt buckle coming undone. The teeth of his zipper groaning apart before he lowers his jeans. You listen as you slow your pace, riding the edge of your summit, teasing yourself. You hear him spit into the palm of his hand before you imagine him gripping his length. When he finally groans, you know he’s fisting himself.
You smirk and decide to have fun with this. As you stop your pace all together, you peel off your blue sweater once again, leaving you in the same white revealing tank top. You know he’s somewhere in the darkness behind you, but you aren’t sure if he knows you know, yet.
You hike your panties up higher, the band hugging your hips and exposing more of your plush cheeks spilling out from the cotton material. You hear him grunt again.
As you start grinding slowly, you snake one hand up to your chest and pinch your bud, rolling it between your two fingers, eliciting a moan from you.
“Fuck”
He’s getting louder, still muttering to himself as he watches you from behind a cedar tree. With his rifle still slung on his shoulder, he fists his cock, his other hand wide against the trunk to brace himself.
His eyes have gotten adjusted to the darkness, so when he returned quietly to the base you guys share, he saw you touching yourself in your sleeping bag underneath the moonlight.
He had debated on rubbing one out while checking the perimeters, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He knew he had to come back to you. He knew you would be relieving yourself like the good girl you are because you always listen to him, always do what you’re told.
But when he saw the frantic and frustrated way you slipped your pants off and bunched your bag to start humping, he knew he needed to watch. He needed to see the way you make yourself cum.
“Joel” You moan out as you continue your pace, your hips bouncing as you hump.
He groans again, his southern drawl slipping out like honey “Oh… fuck yeah baby girl, that’s it” You could hear his fist becoming more frantic against himself.
You decide to put on a show, grinding your hips in the most sensual way. Your pants getting breathier, your whines higher.
Joel was in a trance; he was fixated on you. Watching your every move, stroking himself to your pace. The view of your ass, the way your shirt slightly rises revealing the beautiful curve of your back, your hair swaying with your hips, you’re like a goddess in the woods. All he could picture was laying beneath you, letting you grind yourself on his mouth, tasting your juices, making you cum all over his face.
God, he wants you. He wants to show you he can be more than just your protector. He can help you, treat you so well, but he knows it would be so wrong. To some degree he’s taking advantage of you. You don’t know any better, not when you’re overwhelmed with all these kinds of needs. Hell, he’s overwhelmed himself but he’s also a lot older than you. He knows how to suppress it, how to will the feelings away and concentrate. But you, you’re not experienced. You need to make yourself cum in order to feel sane again. Once you’re this far deep into lust, it’s primal. It’s a need, not a want. He can’t blame you for caving into your desires yet him on the other hand, he’ll be held accountable by the devil himself.
But if there was ever a time where Joel was losing control with the fine line between right and wrong, it was now.
He continues his strokes, obsessing over how naughty you really are. He’s never seen you like this before. “C’mon baby, you can do it” He whispers.
You couldn’t stop yourself from what happened next.
“Joel?” You call out softly. All sounds cease.
“Yea?” He finally responds, after a long, quiet pause.
“Please” You beg “Please I need you.”
You curse yourself as you hear him zipping himself back up, suddenly feeling embarrassed as you’re still sitting in the state you are.
You peek over your shoulder to see him approaching you, buckling his belt. His jaw ticking as he stares at your ass. His bulge seems to be growing bigger.
You prepare for the worst. For him to cuss you out or tell you that you missed your chance. Had you left it alone, the two of you would have finished and he would have returned a little later to make it seem as if he wasn’t there at all.
But you just couldn’t do that, could you?
“Get in the truck”. He growls, his boots drowning in the material of your sleeping bag. You look up at him, to him looking down at you. You couldn’t make out his face as the light of the moon is directly behind him.
“W-Why... a a-are we leaving?” You whisper, suddenly afraid you royally fucked up.
“Are you talkin’ back to me?” His voice is sharp. Deep. Serious. Unreadable.
You shook your head as submission rolls over you effortlessly. He hikes his jeans by pinching the denim near his crotch before squatting down to your level. His breath right next to your ear. You stare forward into the darkness as goosebumps rise all over your skin. You feel so vulnerable with Joel right behind you but just as excited. You flinch as soon as he speaks.
“If you want my help, then do what I say” he says in a low rumble. You pause, holding your breath.
“Think you can manage that?” He questions, his tone unrecognizable as he turns his head to inhale the scent of your hair. You shiver, nodding once more. Your heart rate picks up speed, thudding loudly.
“Then, get up and get in the truck.” He orders you slowly. Almost as if he’s trying to stop the words from coming out.
Your eyes widen at his demand, a jolt of electricity soaring through your chest straight to your abdomen. With a careful shuffle, you stand on your feet and start towards the truck.
In any other scenario, this feeling would make you shrink. It’s the way you can feel his eyes on you, the thud of his boots echoing behind your naked ones in the grass. But you love every second of it. You feel your confidence flourishing as you realize he needs this just as much as you do. If not more. You begin to walk straighter, hips swaying wider, a pep in your step as you feel the power shift ever so slightly into your control.
“Someone’s gettin’ cocky” Joel states behind you. His palm gripping his crotch as he watches you.
“I sure hope I get some” You grin to yourself, feeling proud at your remark.
Joel stops in his steps; he can’t believe your dirty mouth. Sure, you’ve been foul around him before, but never sexually and the very fact ignites something dark within him. He proceeds forward, eyeing you down as you wait near the truck with that shit-eating grin on your face.
She’s in for it now.
“You think you’re funny?” He questions while approaching you. His large frame nearly swallowing you whole.
“Uh huh and I think you love it” You retort in your most sultry tone. The words hit him like a freight train, his cock bobbing in his jeans.
With a tut he leans into you “So ya’ think y’can toy with me?”
You can’t repress it, you’re beaming. You like the way Joel challenges you.
“I think it’d be better if I was yours, Miller” You reach out to grip his cock through his jeans.
He separates instantly, his face loss of all expression. The muscle in his jaw flexes as his eyes lock on yours.
“I think your attitude needs fucking fixin’” Your jaw drops at his profanity. Joel never speaks like this.
“You say that name one more time and so god help me,” He scowls “acting like a fuckin’ brat, tryin’ to rile me up” His eyes now black.
“Think that’ll end well f’ ya?” He questions, one brow raised.
You swallow, unsure if you took it too far.
“Well, you’re lucky, cus’ I enjoy turning brats into good girls... s’ you ready to learn some manners?” He mocks as he grips your mouth, which was still gaping.
“Start with closing that up until I say so, s’not lady like.” He pushes your chin up, your jaw closes with a click of your teeth.
You scoff in disbelief, pulling your chin out of his hand yet you’re incredibly turned on. You watch him in curiosity as he opens the passenger door for you, his face now as hard as his cock. You wait, wanting to test his patience just a little.
You see his chest heave; his teeth grind together before he grips the door harder.
“Guess there won’t be any lessons tonight after all...real shame too, was gunna make that pretty pussy cream all over me” He shrugs, about to close the door.
“No! I’m sorry Joel, I’m going!” You jump into the seat with such speed it makes Joel smirk, but his jaw goes slack the second he sees the wet spot that had formed on your cotton panties as you crawl in.
He groans at the sight. But if he was going to stay true to his vows, you’d have to keep your panties on or else he may damn himself beyond saving. He only has so much self control.
You rub your thighs together in anticipation as you watch him slowly stride his way to the other side of the truck. Your breath quickens as his door swings open; your fingers shake with sheer excitement.
He starts unzipping his camel-colored jacket before shuffling in. With a toss, his jacket lands in the back seat as he closes the door with a thud.
You listen to him groan softly as he settles into the seat, before reaching down between his legs to pull on the bar to slide the chair back as far as it can go. You find yourself already scrambling onto your knees.
“Needy girl” he tuts “already so excited f’ me”. He locks eyes with you, a mischievous smile grows across his face as he takes his time positioning his legs.
He then reaches to the side of the seat to lean the backrest down, but not too far. This allows him to manspread while he rests his aching broad back at the same time.
With a deep inhale through his nostrils, he looks at you with now hooded eyes.
“Need you to listen closely now” His raises one index in the air. “I’m gunna help you alright?”
You whimper a “Mhm!”
“But there are rules. Rules you need to follow.” You roll your eyes at his comment, which is returned with a scowl across his face. You mouth a brief ‘sorry’ before motioning him to continue, your desires reaching a boiling point.
“You’re not takin’ anything off and you’re not touchin’ me anywhere unless I allow it” He glares sternly.
“Yes, okay Joel” you usher, wanting to be in his touch before he changes his mind.
“Shouldn’t even be doing this, but I understand you’re having a hard time. Fuck, the state of our lives I can’t imagine the stress you feel, especially when you’re so young”. You squeeze your thighs, clenching around nothing as you wish he would get off the foreseeable guilt train.
“So that’s why I’m going to help you, understand?”
You nod furiously.
“Repeat it” He spits.
“I understand” You reply obediently.
With a quiet pause, Joel scans your features, his eyes trailing your desperate figure.
“C’mere” He pats his thigh with his large, calloused hand.
You obey, slowly crawling over to straddle his lap.
“Mmm” His chest rumbles. “She does listen”.
His eyes are closed as you position yourself over one thick denim covered thigh, your right knee brushing up against his crotch. He hisses at the touch, letting his head fall back into the headrest.
You raise your hands to rest at the nape of his neck, suddenly feeling sheepish as you’re not sure exactly what to do. You bite your lip, too nervous to start. You realize just how exposed you feel when you're up to him this closely.
He opens his eyes to meet yours, sighing at how beautiful you look when you’re aching but more so at the fact that you’re visually embarrassed, and he loves it.
“C’mon, don’t get shy on me now. You were acting all brave just minutes ago.” He coos.
You blush at his words, starting to feel silly. But you need him to encourage you. You like it.
He swiftly smacks your ass and bounces his knee once – motioning you to get going.
“Joel” You whisper at the infliction, lowering your head to rest in his neck, repositioning yourself against him, closer. Just the contact of your hot core on him, makes your arousal pain even more. And the way he smells, you tuck your nose further in, inhaling the scent of his earthy musk, is intoxicating.
“C’mon baby girl. You can do it, I got you” He finally raises his hands from his sides to grip your hips as his own roll up into you, you follow once with yours. “You need to cum, so you can sleep tonight, trust me I know”. You begin to slowly roll your hips, falling right back into the state of pleasure.
“J-just like that sweetheart, keep going”. His voice becomes raspy.
You hang off his words as you start grinding, moaning at his fingertips digging deeper into your soft skin. Your buds harden at the friction of your wet clothed cunt being rubbed against his jeans. You can’t believe this, the fact that Joel himself is sat beneath you, cooing you to finish yourself off on him.
Your pants become whines as you feel the coil in your stomach tighten with each hump against him.
“That’s it, good girl. You’re gunna make a mess on me aren't ya?” He growls as he stares at your lips. Your cheeks burn at his comment. The embarrassment seeping back into you. You can hardly look at him.
“You keep those eyes on me sweetheart”. He orders, one hand pinching your chin, forcing you to see him, you still look anywhere but.
He can read you like an open book. He see’s right through you. Hell, most of the time he can predict the things you’ll say. He knows you just need some encouragement, some reassurance that it’s okay to be nervous but that you can trust him.
He ceases, waiting for those wide doe eyes to meet his and when they do, he can’t help but grin.
“Why?” You begin to question.
“Tell me you want this” he whispers, the words hang in the silence.
“I want this.” You grip the back of his neck tighter. “I just feel… dumb. I’m not sure how to do this”. You mumble.
“Sure y’ do” his words surprise you and when you look at him, the confusion is clear on your face.
“I just watched you do it when you were all by yourself, humping your bag, tryin’ to make that ache go away” He murmurs as one of his hands brush a stray hair behind your ear. You shudder at the touch.
“That’s all you have to do with me sweetheart, just use my thigh and make yourself feel good”. He urges you as he begins motioning your hips once more, you watch his face as you take over, following the sensation as it builds again.
“There y’ go, nothing to be shy ‘bout pretty girl, y’ just need my help ain’t that right?”
You bob your head yes as your pace begins to quicken.
“That’s my sweet girl, take what you need, s’ just the two of us” He coos as he helps you continue grinding.
You throw your head back at his praise, which Joel saw as his opportunity to fist your hair and hold you bare for him as he trails your neck with wet kisses. A risky move, but he tells himself it’s only to help you. And fuck does it ever spur you on.
His teeth graze against your sensitive flesh and your grinding becomes rougher, more desperate. Your whines turn to moans as you feel your cunt drip through the fabric, your climax just strokes away.
“Stop” He orders, and you do.
Did you do something wrong?
He releases your hair slowly, inhaling deeply through his nose, his jaw ticking once more. He looks down at his lap, admiring your white panties.
“Slide back” He mumbles as he pushes your hips. “I need t’ see”. You ease back, your mind drunk off his sudden dominance.
With a moan, he stares at your clothed pussy, admiring the wet slick between your folds. Your pussy lips so swollen, he could see it throb. He breaks away looking up, closing his eyes as if he’s trying to compose himself. Not a second later, he looks back at you again, back to your pooling core, his jaw goes slack as you already seem wetter, your damp stain somehow bigger.
“Look at that.” He gently inches your thighs apart with his massive hands, causing you to throb more.
“You see what you’re doin’ pretty girl?” His southern drawl spurs on another wave of ecstasy to rush through you as you watch his reaction.
He fists your hair once more, turning your head down to face his lap, you yelp in surprise but not because it hurts.
“Look”. He roughly pulls your head in place to view the dark, wet spot you’re making on his jeans.
“Have you been walkin’ around all wet in your panties this whole time?” he cranes his neck to meet your gaze as you look at the mess you’ve caused, mouth agape. His face hardens when he sees yours.
“What I’d fuckin’ say about hanging your mouth open like a whore?” he growls as he squeezes your chin and cheeks with his free hand.
He holds you like that for a beat, one hand twisted in your hair, the other gripping your face restraining you from any movement. You gasp loudly when your cheeks are released from his tight hold, yet your hair is still intertwined in his fist as he forces you to look at your arousal again.
“That tight pussy droolin’ for me?” He questions sharply.
You finally murmur a yes while clenching your mouth shut as you blink slowly, drunk off being edged for so long.
“Yeah, I thought so” he says raggedly as if he’s been waiting for that very response. He lets you free as you lean back wanting to display yourself more. He sighs contentedly at the sight.
It’s become clear to you why Joel was so adamant about staying away. He’s primal in nature, but you had no idea he was this feral in lust. You smirk as you feel you’ve uncovered his dirty secret, his hidden persona. It makes you wonder how long he’s wanted you like this. If he was afraid of you seeing this side of him. And for some reason, that only makes you want him that much more.
“Touch yourself for me, just a little rub.” He rests further back against the seat, watching you and those dirty gears running at an all time high.
You comply, running your hand down his chest as you snake your fingers against the white wet cotton, rubbing slow circles over your clit, moaning at the sensation.
“Good girl” He praises. You can feel your wetness pooling through your panties as you continue rubbing yourself, your orgasm dangerously close. Your mouth drops again forming an “O” which elicits another groan from Joel as he watches you. “Yea, that’s the only time you’re allowed to look like that” He growls.
“I’m – I’m close Joel” You pant as he stares you down.
“That’s enough” You whine when he grabs your hand away from your core, bringing your fingers up to his face.
“Yea, I fuckin’ knew it” He groans, inhaling your fingers deeply, eyes closed. “I know you’re dripping in your little panties when I smell this scent off you” He smears your fingers roughly around his mouth and nose, still breathing you in. You watch in awe, the way he’s completely consumed by you.
“Hard t’ focus when you’re parading that little ass around me, reeking like this, just beggin’ to be filled up, you rub yourself like this around me at night?” He asks, voice hoarse.
Your cheeks burn again, but you nod once anyhow.
“My dirty, dirty girl. You’re just full of secrets, aren't yah”. He pants. “Fuckin’ knew you were wanting my cock. You just needed someone to make that ache go away, huh?”
You whine as you nod more, feeling so heard, so seen. “Yes Joel, yes” All you want is to feel him fill you up. Hit that spot that you can’t ever reach. You succumb to him, hoping he might just fuck you and you won’t have to get off like this. You want all of him. To discover more of who Joel is. Help him, just like he’s helping you.
“And you’re still treating me so good, listenin’ to what I say, even when I’ve been neglecting my poor baby” He drawls lazily as he pulls you back into place, and with another bounce of his knee, you resume your vicious pace chasing your orgasm. The way your perky breasts jiggle in your tank causing him to bounce his knee more, absorbing the view of you bobbing up and down with tears welling in your eyes.
You reach one hand down, to grip his hard on, wanting to feel his thickness again, hoping he might let you see it.
“No.” His hand wraps around your wrist in an instance. A grip so cruel, you swear there’ll be bruises when he lets go.
“Why not?” You cry, your hips still rolling.
“Boundaries, sweetheart. You can’t touch me there.” He smirks devilishly. He knows this is torture for you.
You whimper, your eyes falling to his lips. You want to make contact with those the most.
“Knock it off. I see the way you’re starin’. You’re not kissin’ me either.” His smile is now gone, yet his eyes sparkle. You swear he’s getting off by restricting your contact with him. He knows how badly you want it.
You rest your hands tightly around his neck again, the disappointment visible on your features.
“Don’t look at me like that, fuck, you have no idea what you do to me”.
You pout more, relishing in the way he’s weakening for you.
“Tell you what” he drawls, slowing your pace. His fingers at some point had slipped into the band of your panties as he held your hips.
“Because you’ve been such a good girl f’me , I’ll let you kiss here” He raises an index to his scruffy cheek “And here” as he points to the other side.
You can’t help the smile that grows on your face as you lean forward gently, placing a soft, agonizingly slow, peck to cheek, your nose brushing lightly against his skin. You test his limits as you get close to his lips as you make your way to the other side. You swear you feel him inch forward ever so slightly before falling back.
“God, you’re just a sweet lil thang aren’t yah” he groans at your light, edging touches.
You pull back, feeling powerful at just how wrecked he looks. You bite your lower lip, continuing slow rolls.
You decide to do it again.
“Oh fuck, baby that’s enough” He moans as you place yet another teasingly slow kiss to his cheek, but close to the edge of his lips. He pulls his face away, turning to the side. He’s completely fucked out. His eyes heavy with pure want. God and this is just from kissing him.
Then something snaps in him as he grips your ass and makes you rub on him harder and lets your knee make more contact with his bulge.
“Yeah – yeah that feels really good” You mewl.
He turns his face back to yours, staring you down. His grip is getting harder, almost painful but you don’t care.
“Keep going” He rasps. “Don’t stop, I know you’re close.”
“Uh huh” You moan “You’re gunna make me cum Da- J- Joel” Your eyes widen at the fact you almost slipped, but it doesn’t go unnoticed.
His eyes go dark as he clutches your ass tighter, leaning his face into yours.
“What was that sweetheart?” He whispers with his teeth grit, his nose grazing the side of your cheek.
You whine as he helps you continue your pace, pushing you back and forth on his thigh.
His hand snakes up, gripping your cheeks between his thumb and index. “You fuckin’ answer me when ‘m talking to you” He spits lowly.
“It feels really good!” You squeal as he starts to slow your rhythm.
“What else?”
Your hooded eyes connect with his, your cheeky grin making his cock twitch more.
“Tell me” He orders.
You pull yourself into his neck before whimpering into his ear.
“It feels good … Daddy”.
His groan is guttural as he squeezes your ass cheeks together.
“My dirty girl, you need your Daddy to help you huh?” He pulls you closer, your knee making full contact against his throbbing cock.
You nod your head furiously as your brows knit, you know you’re about to cum.
“Tell me why I’m your Daddy” he orders, his brows rising and falling.
You start to babble “Because you protect me” you barely get the words out, you’re so wrecked.
“I do, don’t I?” His voice drops an octave, while analyzing your face.
“And you’d kill for me” you moan.
“I have,” He pulls you down hard into him and holds you there, while grinding his crotch into you. “Killed for you”.
His eyes scour you frantically. Like there is so much he wants to do with you. Endless thoughts running through his mind of all the ways he could ruin you.
“Take your fuckin’ shirt off” he says rushed, as if this moment could get ripped away from him.
You obey, reaching the hem, and pulling it off in one swift motion. You toss it behind you onto the dash.
“That’s right” He spanks your ass hard.
“Go” He grits, and you grind down, your tits bouncing just inches from his face. He moves his hands off you and puts them down at his sides. As if to physically restrain himself from touching you.
“Fucking perfect, like a god damn picture” he watches your breasts as you’re nearing your climax again.
“M’ can’t let anyone hurt my special girl.” His expression turns hard as he feels his possessive side creep up. The men he murdered this morning were an exact representation of what he’ll do for you. Without question. He knew he was going to feel the blade sink in their flesh the second one laid eyes on you, the intention loud in his irises.
“I never wanna be apart from you Joel, you make me feel safe” Your confession comes out before you can stop it.
“I know baby, I know but fuck I love to hear it” He could listen to your sweet voice all day.
“Take your pants off, please” You beg but it sounds more like a squeal.
“No” He barely whispers.
“Please, Daddy please please, I wanna cum on you, it hurts!” You cry.
“Jesus Christ” His hands go to his belt, anxiously unbuckling, as you continue to mewl hovering above him.
“Always so fuckin’ needy” He pulls his jeans down his thighs before grabbing you and pulling you down aggressively onto him, his boxers the only thing confining his cock. "That's all you get" He spits.
“Wait” You reposition yourself, now straddling his lap. One knee on either side of his hips as you grind your wet, hot clothed cunt onto his massive, throbbing cock.
The moan that comes out of you is straight pornographic.
You suddenly lurch forward, before realizing he reclined the seat back further, almost laying flat.
“Put those fuckin’ tits on my face baby” He commands desperately.
You place your knees higher up on the cushioned seat. You pull yourself upwards to smother his face with your breasts. Joel's rough hands are still by his sides, he knows he’ll lose all sense of control if he gets any closer. No, it has to be your move.
“Yeah, Yeah, Joel please” You moan as he begins to softly kiss your breasts.
“You need more baby?” He gasps, his voice strained with want.
“Tell Daddy y’ need more, you need more help, I have to help” He consoles himself as he begins to suckle your buds, licking long strips wherever he can. It’s animalistic. You run your fingers through his salt and pepper locks as you essentially motorboat his face.
“You’re my special girl” He spills in a drawl. “Never gunna let anyone touch you.”
You can’t wait any longer, you sit back down on his bulge, wishing it was freed to split you in half but this will have to do. So, you grind, hunting your orgasm down once again, absorbing, engraining this picture of Joel in your mind forever.
And fuck, the way he talks to you, you’re lost in a trance, chasing after your high as you stare into his face. His eyes, his smile lines, the scar across his bridge, the way he looks down at his lap as he watches you, his jaw going slack. He’s perfect.
“Fuck I can smell you baby girl, your sweet pussy is beggin’ to come all over me” He growls “C’mon give it to me”. You take his permission and allow yourself to play on that teetering edge, right on the cusp of your much awaited orgasm.
“S’ okay baby girl, I got you, I got you”. He slumps back further, eyes trained on your clothed pussy grinding on his hard on with such desperation. He feels his own coming on as you rub against him.
“Not such a brat now huh? Not when I’m taking care of you” he says as his tired eyes scan your figure. You cry out at his words.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, S’ gunna feel better baby, gunna make that ache go away” He drawls out.
“Fuck, fuck” He mumbles, his eyes so hooded, you could have thought they were closed. All color drains from his face as he continues watching your motions. He can see wet, shiny strings appear from your panties, catching onto his boxers before they break apart from sliding back and forth. He can feel how absolutely soaked you are, that spot seeping through the fabric onto his skin underneath.
“That’s it pretty girl, right on daddy’s cock, right there”. His words fall out.
“I’m cum-I’m cumm-Daddy- oh yeah, Joel, Joel!” You scream.
You squeal as your orgasm comes rippling through, your thighs tightening around him as he feels your cunt pool through your panties all over him, your mouth hangs open as you ride out the waves of sensation.
“Jesus Christ”. He groans at the sight of you.
You rest your head against his heaving chest, riding out the stars that clouded your head.
The two of you sit there for a moment, collecting your breaths before he nudges you to the side.
“Wait here” he mumbles, exiting the truck. You watch him through the rear window, straining your eyes to see him in the dark. You think you see him readjusting his crotch again before he leans down, grabbing both sleeping bags and the lantern.
You’re still dizzy from finishing on Joel's lap, your mind trying to comprehend what had just happened. You never thought you’d see the day where Joel would touch you or look at you in any way other than ‘Cargo’.
The breeze from outside whirls into the truck as you sit there waiting for him. He opens the back door, laying down the sleeping bags on top of one another across the bench.
“What’re you doing?” You murmur, cupping the back seat with your hands, watching him with sleepy eyes.
“Don’t want you sleepin' outside tonight” He responds, glancing at your tired gaze.
“C’mon” He waves you over. You scootch over to the driver seat and let your legs dangle out the door. He meets you there, one of his massive hands held out to grab yours, helping you to your feet and pulling you in front of him, guiding you to the back door. You let go of his touch to crawl to your revised sleeping quarters.
You slip in between the two bags, which Joel had unzipped. Laying one down, the other as a blanket on top. He also folded up his jacket as a pillow, which made you smile. You watch him tuck the fabric under your feet, making sure all parts of you are covered. He finds your jeans and your shirt and puts them aside for when you’d dress in the morning. Your sneakers on the ground beside the truck.
You can’t stop the warm glow growing inside you as you watch this man take care of you in such a way that seems so… domestic. It makes you wonder about him pre break out, and what he was like living in a house, working an 8-5 job, making dinners and probably having cold ones in the evening on a patio.
He closes the driver door before returning to you.
“Are you coming to bed?” You whisper with heavy eyes.
“No” he chuckles lightly “M’ wide awake now, gunna keep watch, we really do have a long day tomorrow so get some sleep alright?” He looks at you as one of his arms draped over the heavy truck door, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He looks proud, which you would roll your eyes at, but you’re far too tired.
“Joel” You whisper, bringing his attention back to you as he was looking over his shoulder, scanning the night.
“Mhm?”
“I still wanna repay the favor y’know” you mumble, your eyes closed, already drifting off.
He chuckles again; the sound brings a grin to your face.
“Not necessary, couldn’t stop myself from cumin' while watching you”. He sighs heavily, muttering to himself “like a goddamn teenager”.
You giggle at the comment. Which Joel couldn’t help but grin too, you didn’t see though.
“Goodnight Miller” You barely hear the words yourself as you fall into a deep slumber.
Summary – You find Joel taking care of you yet again, but not in the way you want. Tonight, you decide to address it.
A/N - I couldn’t stop thinking about this, so I decided to write it. Inspired by Episode 3 of the last of us, takes place in the clearing that Joel and Ellie settle in for the night but this time, it’s Joel and you.
Warnings – Minors, do not interact. This fic is 18+ only
The filthiest thing I’ve written so far, and I put all the blame on Joel Miller. He makes me absolutely feral!
Smut with little plot. Poor girl gets edged for way too long, teasing, masturbation for both, daddy kink, pet names - pretty girl, brat, sweetheart etc. (Joel calls reader whore once) Dirty talk, thigh riding, reader humps her sleeping bag, cursing, soft/dom Joel. Mentions of murder, blood, and wounds and weapons – knives, gun. (Reader has a small cut). Joel is in his fifties; readers age is not specified but absolutely over the age of 20. Please Let me know if I’ve missed anything! Enjoy!
“We’re stopping here f’ the night.”
Joel accelerates the Chevy S-10 ranger off the familiar pavement and onto the rough prairie towards the forest line. The uneven earth below you causes the truck to wobble, you grip the handle mounted above you to stay steady.
The sun is on its way to set and reveal the sky she has in mind for this evening. You hope it’s another blue and pink one, when the clouds blend it becomes a milky mauve and it’s Joel's favourite kind of sunset. Which naturally, and secretly, is the very reason why it’s become your favourite too.
You roll down the passenger window with the manual hand crank, wincing at the sore residing across your collarbone. A souvenir from earlier endeavors. Well, early as in this very morning.
When you and Joel came across what seemed like a stationed FEDRA stop, relief washed over when it was revealed to be just a band of yahoos. You quickly learned they were as nervous as you. Ironically enough, that’s an advantage, as your travelling partner was unlike the lot of you all. Joel possesses a different mindset than others. A different perspective that was always so solidified. Certain.
As the air in the environment shifted, it became hostile. This was a group with no good intentions. Not for the two of you anyhow. Yet you saw the fear grow in their eyes when Joel charged, surging forward, letting survival take over. The thing is, Joel also has a different sense of fear. Such as fear of getting off track while trying to find his brother, among a fear of running out of coffee and most impending, the fear of getting old. That one makes you laugh.
Therefore, when the two of you approached the group of three men and a lady, fear didn’t have a seat at Joel's table. So, your morning kerfuffle was exactly that – a mere kerfuffle that ended with 3 dead and one spared with a worn-out map. She won’t make it far though. Not on her own.
You initially tried to kill her yourself. An opportunity that was seconds away when you were straddling her chest, your knife hovered above her sternum, promising a fatal strike but you were viciously flung off by Joel with a quick “We don’t kill women” as he returned to bludgeon some poor guy’s face. The woman however had survival rules of her own. Taught by the men she traveled with; her version of death didn’t discriminate.
She was quick to retrieve her blade you’d tossed moments ago. Before you knew it, she was on top of you faster than you could gather yourself. She now had the high ground, the advantage and with no one to stop her, she swung the sharp steel across your skin with purpose. She aimed for your neck, but thankfully you were faster, your reactions saved you and you were rewarded a swift cut to the collarbone instead. You had reached for her jaw, throwing her off balance as you shoved her face upwards. Joel had then come to your rescue, pulling her to the side by her neck before putting the fear of God into her.
It could’ve been worse for you, but a part of you was relieved as you didn’t have to encounter the grief that weighs on one’s soul when they take a life. You’ve never killed before, but that doesn’t mean you won't. You’ve accepted the fact that it’s only a matter of time, but it’s an event you’re not eager to attend.
As much as you reamed out Joel for letting her go, for letting you nearly die at her hands, you really only chastised to keep hearing his apologies in that low southern drawl. It was a record you could keep on replay for all eternity. Joel saying sorry? What a sound.
With a tender touch, you press against the damp blue material covering your wound. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, but a bit had still seeped through. Joel had given you some gauze which clung to the wound tightly as the blood hardened, like a scab. You figure it’ll have to be changed soon.
You gaze out the window, appreciating the cool breeze whistling across your features. You can smell the soil underneath the green grass as the truck tires roll over them.
To your surprise Joel continues past the trees, into the forest itself. A sliver of anxiety burst in your chest.
“We’re not camping by the tree line?” You question as your eyes frantically scour each gap between the lush evergreen trees.
“Not safe enough” he barely utters to you as he himself scans the earthy environment. “Less chance for surprises deep in here”.
“Mmmkay …” you hum, feeling a wave of sadness as you realize watching golden hour wouldn’t be in the cards tonight. Nature in this area is overgrown, and rich. The trees are abundant, dense, and evade the sky above you.
With a light squeal, the truck comes to a halt, and when the engine dies you know this is home for the night.
You pull out of the passenger seat and groan as you stretch your body, raising your hands above your head.
“Today was a long one hey? How many hours were we on the road?” You question as you glance around your new surroundings.
“You should know, you’re the one who told me you were gunna start observin’ more” He raises a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he unlocked the tailgate. “Guess it’s hard t’ count when you’re nappin’ half the ride.”
“Okay let’s not get carried away there, I don’t plan on being on your level of analysis, Miller.” You smirk at him as you help him unload the sleeping bags and the worn-out Coleman’s barbeque.
With a thud of the bags against the ground he turns to you.
“What’d I say ‘bout usin’ my last name?” His brows are drawn tightly now. His brown eyes dark like char, focus on yours. He places one of his hands, palm side down against the body of the truck, the other gripping his hip.
You raise your own hands in surrender as he scoffs with a shake of his head but continues unpacking. It’s something you tend to poke and prod him with from time to time. But only from time to time. Well, in the short time that you’ve known him anyway.
For some reason, it really does tick Joel off when you say his surname but that’s precisely why you enjoy using it when he least expects it. Because if he knows it’s coming, he won’t let it slide and you’re left talking to yourself for the remainder of the day, sometimes two. So, you use it when you want to be momentarily scolded, but you say it as if it’s an accident. A habit not quite beaten out of the inner brat in you.
You hear him mumbling to himself again as he splays the sleeping bags out, readying the grill for whatever canned goods are left. Sounds something like “You’re gunna learn one f’ these days” but you pay no further attention as you skip to the driver’s side of the truck, leaning into the center console to grab the cheap lantern. You won’t need it yet, but darkness tends to creep in much faster when you’re in the woods. You want it close by as you’ve not been granted access to firearms. No matter how many times you’ve pleaded Joel, it wasn’t up for discussion. Therefore, you’re left with your trusty blade and ‘works half-of-the-time’ lantern.
Joel heats up two cans, one possessing creamed corn and the other, ravioli. You prefer corn, but you don’t miss the smile that briefly dances in Joel’s eyes when he gets to take the ravioli for himself. Another mental note you’ve made about Joel. He likes his Chef Boyardee.
As the night crawls on, Joel summons you over with a sharp whistle to the tailgate where he’s standing.
“Hey, c’mere,” he pats the hard plastic of the trunk.
“Joel, I just got comfy. I’m finally warm in my little cocoon,” you pause as you wait for his mercy. None was served as he snaps his middle finger against his thumb to you again, motioning the truck with his forefinger as he continues unzipping a little red bag with the other.
“Get over here,” he demands but not in a mean way, his voice was softer than before.
“You’re not the boss of me,” you whisper under your breath as you make your way over to him, shuffling the sleeping bag off your feet.
“Heard that,” he grunts.
“Good,” you chirp back as you stand next to him.
“Up” he says, once again motioning his forefinger upwards to the tailgate.
With a roll of your eyes, you turn your back to the truck and hoist your bottom from beneath you up onto the bench. You sit there quietly, swaying your legs while watching Joel prod through the medical bandages and wipes with his large fingers in that small, little bag. A ping of jealousy rises in your chest as you wished you could have his fingers explore your –
“Quit thinkin ’so loud,” Joel interrupts your thoughts as he tears open a small white package between his teeth. An action that makes you bite your bottom lip involuntarily.
It’s no secret you struggle around Joel. Maybe it’s the long-term effects of the apocalypse, causing so many to lose the common sense of touch with one another. Creating incredibly touch-starved individuals, especially you.
Maybe it’s because you’ve never really been properly touched by a man, and you think Joel would know how, you think of it far too often. Or maybe it’s simply because a man like Joel emits sexuality with his entire being. It’s like he releases a pheromone that makes those around him go feral for his manhood. At least that’s how you feel anyways.
Your eyes tend to linger longer than you’d like when you watch Joel grip his rifle, his strong hand cupping the neck of the gun. The way his fingers trace lightly on the trigger, teasing the bullet inside to erupt. The way he narrows his sight into the scope, his breath held before exhaling in the most sensual way. The way his broad shoulders rise and fall before he makes his kill. Hell, you could watch this man paint and still be in a pool of your own arousal.
Maybe it’s just because Joel is the most masculine man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, becoming partners with, in the coworker sense of course. He possesses the knowledge, the experience, the determination, the patience, and strength… of survival. But you’ve always wondered if those same factors come into play when he likes to…play.
Joel has always noticed when you’re thinking, the way you zone out on his lips or his large fingers. Your eyelids become hooded as he watches the filthy gears turn inside your mind. It’s something you do without even realizing and he fucking loves it. It makes his heartbeat fonder; his ego grow bigger and without fail, each time, it makes his cock twitch in his jeans. Which is the final action that brings him back to reality to snap your dirty little naïve mind out of it.
He understands the effect he has on women, how they would stare at him back at the QZ. Crawl to him with need, begging to be put out of their misery. It’s a quality he doesn’t mind as it makes it easy to find release but when it comes to you, he scolds himself for ever letting his mind drift into those delicious, curious, devilish thoughts. Your innocence is a hidden treasure in this corrupt world, and Joel simply won’t corrupt that too.
He recognizes the way you stray close to him as if he's shelter. The way you look at him with wide eyes when he senses danger, how you shuffle so tight into him, because you know he’ll protect you. And he will. He quietly prides himself in being your gatekeeper. How you give him complete control over your life, a feeling he’s only ever had once before.
He pictures you as a small ornament made of thin glass. So precious, yet so fragile and it sits so nicely in his roughed up, deadly, deleterious hands. He could shatter it so easily. Let the pieces fall at his feet and walk away before the fear of failure seeps in, had he done that in the start, his feelings would be protected.
But the problem is, he’s gotten attached to his little ornament. Therefore, he’ll watch every move he makes, to be sure not to flinch and accidently crack it. He dreads the weight that comes with the stiffness of protecting you, how it makes his body and mind ache, but he knew. He knew the moment he took you out of the QZ and into the unknown, that he would ache till the day he takes his last breath. He made his choice that very night, that he's responsible for you. He just didn’t realize how much he would care. How much you’ve impacted him. How much of you has molded into him and the things he recognizes in you that you’ve gained from him. His little ornament, he vows to keep safe because the eternal hell that comes with defeat, he simply won’t go through again.
He stares down at you, looking at your eyes still trained on his mouth that has just ripped open the white plastic. He wondered if it reminded you of the memories that creeped into his. If you've ever seen one before. A type of rubber that used to sit in his wallet pre apocalypse when he travelled to seedy bars.
“Take your shirt off” You snap your eyes from his lips to meet his brown ones. They’re still dark from the “Miller” comment you made earlier but this time there’s a twinkle you can’t quite read.
“You, y- you want me to take it off?” You speak so softly but in such a needy way Joel has to forcefully repress the groan that’s stuck in his throat. Instead, he smirks at you.
“Need t’ see the cut”. You blush at his words, feeling silly for assuming he’d want anything otherwise. God you were so lost in your train of thoughts, you’d briefly forgotten what you were sitting here for.
Joel catches sight of your blush by the low light of the lantern sitting next to the med bag. He knows he can’t give into you, or let himself ponder on you for too long, but that doesn't mean he can’t have a little fun teasing you.
You grab the hem of your sweater, peeling it up and over your head, leaving you in your white tank top. One that had been stained from dirt and blood, but you’ve washed it in rivers in between travels. The stains never come out, no matter how hard you try.
You hear his breath hitch as you pluck the sweater off, bundling it to your side and it only fuels the ache in between your legs that much more.
You slip in and out of your trance, feeling so vulnerable yet powerful in the hands of Joel. Waiting for his next move. You watch his eyes examine your cut, as he chews on the inside on his cheek.
“S’not too bad, but could get infected, especially when we’re out here,” he explains, opening the wet cloth that was inside the package and before he brings it to your wound, he raises a finger lightly over your shoulder.
“Just... gunna move this out f’ the way” his voice velvet as he softly shifts your tank strap away from your wound to the edge of your shoulder, enough for it to fall down your arm on its own. The motion of it all raising a shiver up your tailbone. You then see his eyes grow heavy, his tongue dipping out to wet his bottom lip.
The touch of his calloused fingers against your skin, the way the strap falls from his grasp, how his eyes briefly drop to your chest before seeing the red blotches form across his neck, all these things have your buds growing hard against the fabric of your shirt.
You groan when he removes the old gauze and finally applies the alcohol-soaked cloth against your cut. The sting somehow adding to your arousal. You can’t help but let a small pornographic moan slip from your lips resulting in a hiss from Joel.
“Jesus” He mutters, more to himself than you. His other hand palms his crotch to briefly adjust the growing hard on beneath the zipper. He thought he was subtle in the dark, but you still saw, and it drove you wild.
His touch shocks you as his hand gently grips your neck, holding you still as he dabs your sore some more. You see the wrinkles forming on his forehead as he bends down, leaning in close to inspect the cut further. You could roll your eyes in pure ecstasy just from the way he has you in his grasp. The way his head is ducked down beneath yours, so closely to your chest, you can nearly feel his hot breath kissing your nipples.
You feel your dignity slipping away. You want nothing more than to submit to him, let him take what he wants. You’ve seen the signs, surely, he’s thought about it too.
His big thumb lightly caresses your sensitive skin as he focuses on wiping up the rest of the smeared mess that stained your collar bone. In between his shuffling, you spread your legs open some more, hoping he’ll come closer.
You peer down, watching his eyes flicker to yours, a warning resides within them. He knows what you’re doing, and he isn’t going to take bait. He’s in trouble enough as it is. You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress the guttural want inside you. But your mouth falls agape when his glare falls back to your neck, tracing slowly back to your wound before looking down lower to your breasts poking through your thin shirt. He inhales deeply through his nose, his eyes closing as if he’s praying for restraint. You hope none delivers.
In one motion, he regathers himself in such a Joel manner, you know he’s done playing. He tosses the crimson-stained wet fabric back into the red bag, zipping it up in such aggression you thought it might just break.
“Just keep it covered, should heal fine,” He orders, not once looking your way.
“Joel” you mewl to him, your hands having a mind of their own as they reach for his jacket.
“No” he says bluntly, his eyes on the med kit. He’s trying to be cold, but you can hear the quiver that laces his voice.
He tosses the bag further into the trunk, he jaws clenching so hard you think his teeth might shatter.
“Joel” you cry again softly, biting your lip. Your arousal is becoming unbearable, downright painful. At this point, you can care less about how pathetic you sound. You just need relief, but this time from him.
“I said no,” He growls, “It’s bedtime.”
Joel then, in one movement reaches one arm under yours, supporting your back and the other hand gripping your waist.
You clutch the collar of his jacket, panting feverishly, your heart racing from his touch. His head had leaned down close enough, you thought he might just kiss you.
But then you realize what's really happening as he picks you up off the tailgate and plants you on your feet to the ground. You don’t miss the way his hand lingers before letting you go.
“I’ve got first watch, get into your sleepin’ bag,” He commands as he picks up his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder.
“I’m not tired” you whine, desperation seeping out of your pores.
“M’ don’t care, we have a long day tomorrow n’ you need rest, so get rested.” His voice is strained as his teeth grit at the end of his sentence. He putters around, putting the lantern next to your bag, closing the lid to the barbeque, not once looking in your direction.
And you know why. He’s trying to hide his desire from you, the evidence sticking out in his jeans. Trying to distract himself from the utter temptation that hangs in the air. Trying to be the good guy that is strictly business and most days his virtuous behavior warms you, but tonight it’s pissing you right off.
“I can’t sleep like this Joel, I, I- I’m uncomfortable” you whimper, your arms at your side as you admit defeat.
“That’s enough” he spits your name “M’ not saying it again.”
Your perk up when he turns, striding towards you but it’s quickly followed by a groan when he passes you to go to the truck. He grabs your sweater, before slamming up the tailgate with force. The sexual frustration radiant in his demeanor.
You watch him come closer; his knuckles white from gripping the fabric of your top. Your breath catches when you meet his eyes, his glare so intense you think you might become a meal, you hope you will.
He raises his fist to your chest; you look down at the blue material.
“Put this on, it’ll protect your wound. I’m checking the perimeters then I’ll be back” he says lowly, peering down at you without tilting his head. When he does this, it makes you feel incredibly small, more than you normally feel around him. Which you like. You frown at his back as he strides away, towards the trees.
“Joel, please” you whine again. “I – I need – “ Tears begin pricking at your eyes, you’ve never felt this needy in your life, and all you want is Joel. He’s the only one that can help.
He stands still, before turning his head to the side, his knee popping out in his stance. He stays that way for a moment before you hear him sigh loudly. He turns to face you, hand gripping his jaw as his eyes scans your figure, weeping in front of him.
“Sweetheart, I know what you need,” His nickname shocks and spurs you on all at the same time.
“Do what you need to do, I’m goin’ to do rounds, I’ll be back when you’re done okay?” His tone shifts from frustrated to understanding, his face somber but riddled with want. You glance down at his jeans, his bulge sticking out so loudly. You feel yourself start salivating.
“Can’t you do it Joel?” You mewl “Help me feel better?”
This time he groans, one so low and gravelly you think you might cum right there.
“Baby girl I can’t” his palm rests on his forehead before he runs his thick fingers through his salt and pepper locks.
“You know I can’t” His voice is getting rougher in between his pants. “I need you to crawl into bed and touch yourself, okay? I know you can do it” He points his index at your sleeping bag and with a sigh he walks off before you can say anything else.
And just like that he disappears into the darkness. You know he won’t stray far, but enough to grant you privacy. You groan to yourself, hoping it wasn’t going to end like this, but it is progress. You had touched yourself before, but always in secret. In worry Joel might get upset or confused, or worse - mad as to why you would need to relieve yourself around him. You always feared he’d find you weak or pathetic if he caught you, so you always waited until he was on patrol in the dark, or settled in his own room in whatever housing the two of you would find.
The fact that Joel now knows, and understands, and is urging you to, is incredibly sexy.
You grab the slippery material and bring it over, near to his that lay empty. You slid yourself in and with shaky hands, undo the buttons and zipper to your confining jeans before snaking your hand down to your soaked cotton panties. You sigh at the touch, savoring in the instant relief that comes with it.
With slow, messy circles, you rub the outside of your panties against your core as you think about Joel's strong hands lifting you off the tailgate. The way his chest was pressed against your breasts, the way his hands lingered on you. Your breathing quickens as you start rubbing circles harder and quicker, cupping your swollen clit. More tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes when you begin to think this isn’t going to work. Not when you know he’s around. Not when he’s the very reason you’re dripping down your thighs in the first place. Not when you need him.
In an act of desperation, you kick off your sneakers, toss them on the grass with two thuds and strip your jeans completely off. Your cocoon becomes so humid with the heat from your arousal that you end up crawling out of it before bunching it up enough to straddle the material, grinding against it. You whine as the friction brings more relief than your fingers as you start humping your sleep bag. The cool breeze against your dewy skin feels like a kiss from mother nature herself. You feel yourself grow closer to your climax as you begin to furiously hump more, your knees against the earth, your thighs spread wide. You know how ridiculous you must look, but you couldn’t give a shit. You need relief in order to have some clarity again.
Then you hear it. The unmistakable clink of his belt buckle coming undone. The teeth of his zipper groaning apart before he lowers his jeans. You listen as you slow your pace, riding the edge of your summit, teasing yourself. You hear him spit into the palm of his hand before you imagine him gripping his length. When he finally groans, you know he’s fisting himself.
You smirk and decide to have fun with this. As you stop your pace all together, you peel off your blue sweater once again, leaving you in the same white revealing tank top. You know he’s somewhere in the darkness behind you, but you aren’t sure if he knows you know, yet.
You hike your panties up higher, the band hugging your hips and exposing more of your plush cheeks spilling out from the cotton material. You hear him grunt again.
As you start grinding slowly, you snake one hand up to your chest and pinch your bud, rolling it between your two fingers, eliciting a moan from you.
“Fuck”
He’s getting louder, still muttering to himself as he watches you from behind a cedar tree. With his rifle still slung on his shoulder, he fists his cock, his other hand wide against the trunk to brace himself.
His eyes have gotten adjusted to the darkness, so when he returned quietly to the base you guys share, he saw you touching yourself in your sleeping bag underneath the moonlight.
He had debated on rubbing one out while checking the perimeters, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He knew he had to come back to you. He knew you would be relieving yourself like the good girl you are because you always listen to him, always do what you’re told.
But when he saw the frantic and frustrated way you slipped your pants off and bunched your bag to start humping, he knew he needed to watch. He needed to see the way you make yourself cum.
“Joel” You moan out as you continue your pace, your hips bouncing as you hump.
He groans again, his southern drawl slipping out like honey “Oh… fuck yeah baby girl, that’s it” You could hear his fist becoming more frantic against himself.
You decide to put on a show, grinding your hips in the most sensual way. Your pants getting breathier, your whines higher.
Joel was in a trance; he was fixated on you. Watching your every move, stroking himself to your pace. The view of your ass, the way your shirt slightly rises revealing the beautiful curve of your back, your hair swaying with your hips, you’re like a goddess in the woods. All he could picture was laying beneath you, letting you grind yourself on his mouth, tasting your juices, making you cum all over his face.
God, he wants you. He wants to show you he can be more than just your protector. He can help you, treat you so well, but he knows it would be so wrong. To some degree he’s taking advantage of you. You don’t know any better, not when you’re overwhelmed with all these kinds of needs. Hell, he’s overwhelmed himself but he’s also a lot older than you. He knows how to suppress it, how to will the feelings away and concentrate. But you, you’re not experienced. You need to make yourself cum in order to feel sane again. Once you’re this far deep into lust, it’s primal. It’s a need, not a want. He can’t blame you for caving into your desires yet him on the other hand, he’ll be held accountable by the devil himself.
But if there was ever a time where Joel was losing control with the fine line between right and wrong, it was now.
He continues his strokes, obsessing over how naughty you really are. He’s never seen you like this before. “C’mon baby, you can do it” He whispers.
You couldn’t stop yourself from what happened next.
“Joel?” You call out softly. All sounds cease.
“Yea?” He finally responds, after a long, quiet pause.
“Please” You beg “Please I need you.”
You curse yourself as you hear him zipping himself back up, suddenly feeling embarrassed as you’re still sitting in the state you are.
You peek over your shoulder to see him approaching you, buckling his belt. His jaw ticking as he stares at your ass. His bulge seems to be growing bigger.
You prepare for the worst. For him to cuss you out or tell you that you missed your chance. Had you left it alone, the two of you would have finished and he would have returned a little later to make it seem as if he wasn’t there at all.
But you just couldn’t do that, could you?
“Get in the truck”. He growls, his boots drowning in the material of your sleeping bag. You look up at him, to him looking down at you. You couldn’t make out his face as the light of the moon is directly behind him.
“W-Why... a a-are we leaving?” You whisper, suddenly afraid you royally fucked up.
“Are you talkin’ back to me?” His voice is sharp. Deep. Serious. Unreadable.
You shook your head as submission rolls over you effortlessly. He hikes his jeans by pinching the denim near his crotch before squatting down to your level. His breath right next to your ear. You stare forward into the darkness as goosebumps rise all over your skin. You feel so vulnerable with Joel right behind you but just as excited. You flinch as soon as he speaks.
“If you want my help, then do what I say” he says in a low rumble. You pause, holding your breath.
“Think you can manage that?” He questions, his tone unrecognizable as he turns his head to inhale the scent of your hair. You shiver, nodding once more. Your heart rate picks up speed, thudding loudly.
“Then, get up and get in the truck.” He orders you slowly. Almost as if he’s trying to stop the words from coming out.
Your eyes widen at his demand, a jolt of electricity soaring through your chest straight to your abdomen. With a careful shuffle, you stand on your feet and start towards the truck.
In any other scenario, this feeling would make you shrink. It’s the way you can feel his eyes on you, the thud of his boots echoing behind your naked ones in the grass. But you love every second of it. You feel your confidence flourishing as you realize he needs this just as much as you do. If not more. You begin to walk straighter, hips swaying wider, a pep in your step as you feel the power shift ever so slightly into your control.
“Someone’s gettin’ cocky” Joel states behind you. His palm gripping his crotch as he watches you.
“I sure hope I get some” You grin to yourself, feeling proud at your remark.
Joel stops in his steps; he can’t believe your dirty mouth. Sure, you’ve been foul around him before, but never sexually and the very fact ignites something dark within him. He proceeds forward, eyeing you down as you wait near the truck with that shit-eating grin on your face.
She’s in for it now.
“You think you’re funny?” He questions while approaching you. His large frame nearly swallowing you whole.
“Uh huh and I think you love it” You retort in your most sultry tone. The words hit him like a freight train, his cock bobbing in his jeans.
With a tut he leans into you “So ya’ think y’can toy with me?”
You can’t repress it, you’re beaming. You like the way Joel challenges you.
“I think it’d be better if I was yours, Miller” You reach out to grip his cock through his jeans.
He separates instantly, his face loss of all expression. The muscle in his jaw flexes as his eyes lock on yours.
“I think your attitude needs fucking fixin’” Your jaw drops at his profanity. Joel never speaks like this.
“You say that name one more time and so god help me,” He scowls “acting like a fuckin’ brat, tryin’ to rile me up” His eyes now black.
“Think that’ll end well f’ ya?” He questions, one brow raised.
You swallow, unsure if you took it too far.
“Well, you’re lucky, cus’ I enjoy turning brats into good girls... s’ you ready to learn some manners?” He mocks as he grips your mouth, which was still gaping.
“Start with closing that up until I say so, s’not lady like.” He pushes your chin up, your jaw closes with a click of your teeth.
You scoff in disbelief, pulling your chin out of his hand yet you’re incredibly turned on. You watch him in curiosity as he opens the passenger door for you, his face now as hard as his cock. You wait, wanting to test his patience just a little.
You see his chest heave; his teeth grind together before he grips the door harder.
“Guess there won’t be any lessons tonight after all...real shame too, was gunna make that pretty pussy cream all over me” He shrugs, about to close the door.
“No! I’m sorry Joel, I’m going!” You jump into the seat with such speed it makes Joel smirk, but his jaw goes slack the second he sees the wet spot that had formed on your cotton panties as you crawl in.
He groans at the sight. But if he was going to stay true to his vows, you’d have to keep your panties on or else he may damn himself beyond saving. He only has so much self control.
You rub your thighs together in anticipation as you watch him slowly stride his way to the other side of the truck. Your breath quickens as his door swings open; your fingers shake with sheer excitement.
He starts unzipping his camel-colored jacket before shuffling in. With a toss, his jacket lands in the back seat as he closes the door with a thud.
You listen to him groan softly as he settles into the seat, before reaching down between his legs to pull on the bar to slide the chair back as far as it can go. You find yourself already scrambling onto your knees.
“Needy girl” he tuts “already so excited f’ me”. He locks eyes with you, a mischievous smile grows across his face as he takes his time positioning his legs.
He then reaches to the side of the seat to lean the backrest down, but not too far. This allows him to manspread while he rests his aching broad back at the same time.
With a deep inhale through his nostrils, he looks at you with now hooded eyes.
“Need you to listen closely now” His raises one index in the air. “I’m gunna help you alright?”
You whimper a “Mhm!”
“But there are rules. Rules you need to follow.” You roll your eyes at his comment, which is returned with a scowl across his face. You mouth a brief ‘sorry’ before motioning him to continue, your desires reaching a boiling point.
“You’re not takin’ anything off and you’re not touchin’ me anywhere unless I allow it” He glares sternly.
“Yes, okay Joel” you usher, wanting to be in his touch before he changes his mind.
“Shouldn’t even be doing this, but I understand you’re having a hard time. Fuck, the state of our lives I can’t imagine the stress you feel, especially when you’re so young”. You squeeze your thighs, clenching around nothing as you wish he would get off the foreseeable guilt train.
“So that’s why I’m going to help you, understand?”
You nod furiously.
“Repeat it” He spits.
“I understand” You reply obediently.
With a quiet pause, Joel scans your features, his eyes trailing your desperate figure.
“C’mere” He pats his thigh with his large, calloused hand.
You obey, slowly crawling over to straddle his lap.
“Mmm” His chest rumbles. “She does listen”.
His eyes are closed as you position yourself over one thick denim covered thigh, your right knee brushing up against his crotch. He hisses at the touch, letting his head fall back into the headrest.
You raise your hands to rest at the nape of his neck, suddenly feeling sheepish as you’re not sure exactly what to do. You bite your lip, too nervous to start. You realize just how exposed you feel when you're up to him this closely.
He opens his eyes to meet yours, sighing at how beautiful you look when you’re aching but more so at the fact that you’re visually embarrassed, and he loves it.
“C’mon, don’t get shy on me now. You were acting all brave just minutes ago.” He coos.
You blush at his words, starting to feel silly. But you need him to encourage you. You like it.
He swiftly smacks your ass and bounces his knee once – motioning you to get going.
“Joel” You whisper at the infliction, lowering your head to rest in his neck, repositioning yourself against him, closer. Just the contact of your hot core on him, makes your arousal pain even more. And the way he smells, you tuck your nose further in, inhaling the scent of his earthy musk, is intoxicating.
“C’mon baby girl. You can do it, I got you” He finally raises his hands from his sides to grip your hips as his own roll up into you, you follow once with yours. “You need to cum, so you can sleep tonight, trust me I know”. You begin to slowly roll your hips, falling right back into the state of pleasure.
“J-just like that sweetheart, keep going”. His voice becomes raspy.
You hang off his words as you start grinding, moaning at his fingertips digging deeper into your soft skin. Your buds harden at the friction of your wet clothed cunt being rubbed against his jeans. You can’t believe this, the fact that Joel himself is sat beneath you, cooing you to finish yourself off on him.
Your pants become whines as you feel the coil in your stomach tighten with each hump against him.
“That’s it, good girl. You’re gunna make a mess on me aren't ya?” He growls as he stares at your lips. Your cheeks burn at his comment. The embarrassment seeping back into you. You can hardly look at him.
“You keep those eyes on me sweetheart”. He orders, one hand pinching your chin, forcing you to see him, you still look anywhere but.
He can read you like an open book. He see’s right through you. Hell, most of the time he can predict the things you’ll say. He knows you just need some encouragement, some reassurance that it’s okay to be nervous but that you can trust him.
He ceases, waiting for those wide doe eyes to meet his and when they do, he can’t help but grin.
“Why?” You begin to question.
“Tell me you want this” he whispers, the words hang in the silence.
“I want this.” You grip the back of his neck tighter. “I just feel… dumb. I’m not sure how to do this”. You mumble.
“Sure y’ do” his words surprise you and when you look at him, the confusion is clear on your face.
“I just watched you do it when you were all by yourself, humping your bag, tryin’ to make that ache go away” He murmurs as one of his hands brush a stray hair behind your ear. You shudder at the touch.
“That’s all you have to do with me sweetheart, just use my thigh and make yourself feel good”. He urges you as he begins motioning your hips once more, you watch his face as you take over, following the sensation as it builds again.
“There y’ go, nothing to be shy ‘bout pretty girl, y’ just need my help ain’t that right?”
You bob your head yes as your pace begins to quicken.
“That’s my sweet girl, take what you need, s’ just the two of us” He coos as he helps you continue grinding.
You throw your head back at his praise, which Joel saw as his opportunity to fist your hair and hold you bare for him as he trails your neck with wet kisses. A risky move, but he tells himself it’s only to help you. And fuck does it ever spur you on.
His teeth graze against your sensitive flesh and your grinding becomes rougher, more desperate. Your whines turn to moans as you feel your cunt drip through the fabric, your climax just strokes away.
“Stop” He orders, and you do.
Did you do something wrong?
He releases your hair slowly, inhaling deeply through his nose, his jaw ticking once more. He looks down at his lap, admiring your white panties.
“Slide back” He mumbles as he pushes your hips. “I need t’ see”. You ease back, your mind drunk off his sudden dominance.
With a moan, he stares at your clothed pussy, admiring the wet slick between your folds. Your pussy lips so swollen, he could see it throb. He breaks away looking up, closing his eyes as if he’s trying to compose himself. Not a second later, he looks back at you again, back to your pooling core, his jaw goes slack as you already seem wetter, your damp stain somehow bigger.
“Look at that.” He gently inches your thighs apart with his massive hands, causing you to throb more.
“You see what you’re doin’ pretty girl?” His southern drawl spurs on another wave of ecstasy to rush through you as you watch his reaction.
He fists your hair once more, turning your head down to face his lap, you yelp in surprise but not because it hurts.
“Look”. He roughly pulls your head in place to view the dark, wet spot you’re making on his jeans.
“Have you been walkin’ around all wet in your panties this whole time?” he cranes his neck to meet your gaze as you look at the mess you’ve caused, mouth agape. His face hardens when he sees yours.
“What I’d fuckin’ say about hanging your mouth open like a whore?” he growls as he squeezes your chin and cheeks with his free hand.
He holds you like that for a beat, one hand twisted in your hair, the other gripping your face restraining you from any movement. You gasp loudly when your cheeks are released from his tight hold, yet your hair is still intertwined in his fist as he forces you to look at your arousal again.
“That tight pussy droolin’ for me?” He questions sharply.
You finally murmur a yes while clenching your mouth shut as you blink slowly, drunk off being edged for so long.
“Yeah, I thought so” he says raggedly as if he’s been waiting for that very response. He lets you free as you lean back wanting to display yourself more. He sighs contentedly at the sight.
It’s become clear to you why Joel was so adamant about staying away. He’s primal in nature, but you had no idea he was this feral in lust. You smirk as you feel you’ve uncovered his dirty secret, his hidden persona. It makes you wonder how long he’s wanted you like this. If he was afraid of you seeing this side of him. And for some reason, that only makes you want him that much more.
“Touch yourself for me, just a little rub.” He rests further back against the seat, watching you and those dirty gears running at an all time high.
You comply, running your hand down his chest as you snake your fingers against the white wet cotton, rubbing slow circles over your clit, moaning at the sensation.
“Good girl” He praises. You can feel your wetness pooling through your panties as you continue rubbing yourself, your orgasm dangerously close. Your mouth drops again forming an “O” which elicits another groan from Joel as he watches you. “Yea, that’s the only time you’re allowed to look like that” He growls.
“I’m – I’m close Joel” You pant as he stares you down.
“That’s enough” You whine when he grabs your hand away from your core, bringing your fingers up to his face.
“Yea, I fuckin’ knew it” He groans, inhaling your fingers deeply, eyes closed. “I know you’re dripping in your little panties when I smell this scent off you” He smears your fingers roughly around his mouth and nose, still breathing you in. You watch in awe, the way he’s completely consumed by you.
“Hard t’ focus when you’re parading that little ass around me, reeking like this, just beggin’ to be filled up, you rub yourself like this around me at night?” He asks, voice hoarse.
Your cheeks burn again, but you nod once anyhow.
“My dirty, dirty girl. You’re just full of secrets, aren't yah”. He pants. “Fuckin’ knew you were wanting my cock. You just needed someone to make that ache go away, huh?”
You whine as you nod more, feeling so heard, so seen. “Yes Joel, yes” All you want is to feel him fill you up. Hit that spot that you can’t ever reach. You succumb to him, hoping he might just fuck you and you won’t have to get off like this. You want all of him. To discover more of who Joel is. Help him, just like he’s helping you.
“And you’re still treating me so good, listenin’ to what I say, even when I’ve been neglecting my poor baby” He drawls lazily as he pulls you back into place, and with another bounce of his knee, you resume your vicious pace chasing your orgasm. The way your perky breasts jiggle in your tank causing him to bounce his knee more, absorbing the view of you bobbing up and down with tears welling in your eyes.
You reach one hand down, to grip his hard on, wanting to feel his thickness again, hoping he might let you see it.
“No.” His hand wraps around your wrist in an instance. A grip so cruel, you swear there’ll be bruises when he lets go.
“Why not?” You cry, your hips still rolling.
“Boundaries, sweetheart. You can’t touch me there.” He smirks devilishly. He knows this is torture for you.
You whimper, your eyes falling to his lips. You want to make contact with those the most.
“Knock it off. I see the way you’re starin’. You’re not kissin’ me either.” His smile is now gone, yet his eyes sparkle. You swear he’s getting off by restricting your contact with him. He knows how badly you want it.
You rest your hands tightly around his neck again, the disappointment visible on your features.
“Don’t look at me like that, fuck, you have no idea what you do to me”.
You pout more, relishing in the way he’s weakening for you.
“Tell you what” he drawls, slowing your pace. His fingers at some point had slipped into the band of your panties as he held your hips.
“Because you’ve been such a good girl f’me , I’ll let you kiss here” He raises an index to his scruffy cheek “And here” as he points to the other side.
You can’t help the smile that grows on your face as you lean forward gently, placing a soft, agonizingly slow, peck to cheek, your nose brushing lightly against his skin. You test his limits as you get close to his lips as you make your way to the other side. You swear you feel him inch forward ever so slightly before falling back.
“God, you’re just a sweet lil thang aren’t yah” he groans at your light, edging touches.
You pull back, feeling powerful at just how wrecked he looks. You bite your lower lip, continuing slow rolls.
You decide to do it again.
“Oh fuck, baby that’s enough” He moans as you place yet another teasingly slow kiss to his cheek, but close to the edge of his lips. He pulls his face away, turning to the side. He’s completely fucked out. His eyes heavy with pure want. God and this is just from kissing him.
Then something snaps in him as he grips your ass and makes you rub on him harder and lets your knee make more contact with his bulge.
“Yeah – yeah that feels really good” You mewl.
He turns his face back to yours, staring you down. His grip is getting harder, almost painful but you don’t care.
“Keep going” He rasps. “Don’t stop, I know you’re close.”
“Uh huh” You moan “You’re gunna make me cum Da- J- Joel” Your eyes widen at the fact you almost slipped, but it doesn’t go unnoticed.
His eyes go dark as he clutches your ass tighter, leaning his face into yours.
“What was that sweetheart?” He whispers with his teeth grit, his nose grazing the side of your cheek.
You whine as he helps you continue your pace, pushing you back and forth on his thigh.
His hand snakes up, gripping your cheeks between his thumb and index. “You fuckin’ answer me when ‘m talking to you” He spits lowly.
“It feels really good!” You squeal as he starts to slow your rhythm.
“What else?”
Your hooded eyes connect with his, your cheeky grin making his cock twitch more.
“Tell me” He orders.
You pull yourself into his neck before whimpering into his ear.
“It feels good … Daddy”.
His groan is guttural as he squeezes your ass cheeks together.
“My dirty girl, you need your Daddy to help you huh?” He pulls you closer, your knee making full contact against his throbbing cock.
You nod your head furiously as your brows knit, you know you’re about to cum.
“Tell me why I’m your Daddy” he orders, his brows rising and falling.
You start to babble “Because you protect me” you barely get the words out, you’re so wrecked.
“I do, don’t I?” His voice drops an octave, while analyzing your face.
“And you’d kill for me” you moan.
“I have,” He pulls you down hard into him and holds you there, while grinding his crotch into you. “Killed for you”.
His eyes scour you frantically. Like there is so much he wants to do with you. Endless thoughts running through his mind of all the ways he could ruin you.
“Take your fuckin’ shirt off” he says rushed, as if this moment could get ripped away from him.
You obey, reaching the hem, and pulling it off in one swift motion. You toss it behind you onto the dash.
“That’s right” He spanks your ass hard.
“Go” He grits, and you grind down, your tits bouncing just inches from his face. He moves his hands off you and puts them down at his sides. As if to physically restrain himself from touching you.
“Fucking perfect, like a god damn picture” he watches your breasts as you’re nearing your climax again.
“M’ can’t let anyone hurt my special girl.” His expression turns hard as he feels his possessive side creep up. The men he murdered this morning were an exact representation of what he’ll do for you. Without question. He knew he was going to feel the blade sink in their flesh the second one laid eyes on you, the intention loud in his irises.
“I never wanna be apart from you Joel, you make me feel safe” Your confession comes out before you can stop it.
“I know baby, I know but fuck I love to hear it” He could listen to your sweet voice all day.
“Take your pants off, please” You beg but it sounds more like a squeal.
“No” He barely whispers.
“Please, Daddy please please, I wanna cum on you, it hurts!” You cry.
“Jesus Christ” His hands go to his belt, anxiously unbuckling, as you continue to mewl hovering above him.
“Always so fuckin’ needy” He pulls his jeans down his thighs before grabbing you and pulling you down aggressively onto him, his boxers the only thing confining his cock. "That's all you get" He spits.
“Wait” You reposition yourself, now straddling his lap. One knee on either side of his hips as you grind your wet, hot clothed cunt onto his massive, throbbing cock.
The moan that comes out of you is straight pornographic.
You suddenly lurch forward, before realizing he reclined the seat back further, almost laying flat.
“Put those fuckin’ tits on my face baby” He commands desperately.
You place your knees higher up on the cushioned seat. You pull yourself upwards to smother his face with your breasts. Joel's rough hands are still by his sides, he knows he’ll lose all sense of control if he gets any closer. No, it has to be your move.
“Yeah, Yeah, Joel please” You moan as he begins to softly kiss your breasts.
“You need more baby?” He gasps, his voice strained with want.
“Tell Daddy y’ need more, you need more help, I have to help” He consoles himself as he begins to suckle your buds, licking long strips wherever he can. It’s animalistic. You run your fingers through his salt and pepper locks as you essentially motorboat his face.
“You’re my special girl” He spills in a drawl. “Never gunna let anyone touch you.”
You can’t wait any longer, you sit back down on his bulge, wishing it was freed to split you in half but this will have to do. So, you grind, hunting your orgasm down once again, absorbing, engraining this picture of Joel in your mind forever.
And fuck, the way he talks to you, you’re lost in a trance, chasing after your high as you stare into his face. His eyes, his smile lines, the scar across his bridge, the way he looks down at his lap as he watches you, his jaw going slack. He’s perfect.
“Fuck I can smell you baby girl, your sweet pussy is beggin’ to come all over me” He growls “C’mon give it to me”. You take his permission and allow yourself to play on that teetering edge, right on the cusp of your much awaited orgasm.
“S’ okay baby girl, I got you, I got you”. He slumps back further, eyes trained on your clothed pussy grinding on his hard on with such desperation. He feels his own coming on as you rub against him.
“Not such a brat now huh? Not when I’m taking care of you” he says as his tired eyes scan your figure. You cry out at his words.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, S’ gunna feel better baby, gunna make that ache go away” He drawls out.
“Fuck, fuck” He mumbles, his eyes so hooded, you could have thought they were closed. All color drains from his face as he continues watching your motions. He can see wet, shiny strings appear from your panties, catching onto his boxers before they break apart from sliding back and forth. He can feel how absolutely soaked you are, that spot seeping through the fabric onto his skin underneath.
“That’s it pretty girl, right on daddy’s cock, right there”. His words fall out.
“I’m cum-I’m cumm-Daddy- oh yeah, Joel, Joel!” You scream.
You squeal as your orgasm comes rippling through, your thighs tightening around him as he feels your cunt pool through your panties all over him, your mouth hangs open as you ride out the waves of sensation.
“Jesus Christ”. He groans at the sight of you.
You rest your head against his heaving chest, riding out the stars that clouded your head.
The two of you sit there for a moment, collecting your breaths before he nudges you to the side.
“Wait here” he mumbles, exiting the truck. You watch him through the rear window, straining your eyes to see him in the dark. You think you see him readjusting his crotch again before he leans down, grabbing both sleeping bags and the lantern.
You’re still dizzy from finishing on Joel's lap, your mind trying to comprehend what had just happened. You never thought you’d see the day where Joel would touch you or look at you in any way other than ‘Cargo’.
The breeze from outside whirls into the truck as you sit there waiting for him. He opens the back door, laying down the sleeping bags on top of one another across the bench.
“What’re you doing?” You murmur, cupping the back seat with your hands, watching him with sleepy eyes.
“Don’t want you sleepin' outside tonight” He responds, glancing at your tired gaze.
“C’mon” He waves you over. You scootch over to the driver seat and let your legs dangle out the door. He meets you there, one of his massive hands held out to grab yours, helping you to your feet and pulling you in front of him, guiding you to the back door. You let go of his touch to crawl to your revised sleeping quarters.
You slip in between the two bags, which Joel had unzipped. Laying one down, the other as a blanket on top. He also folded up his jacket as a pillow, which made you smile. You watch him tuck the fabric under your feet, making sure all parts of you are covered. He finds your jeans and your shirt and puts them aside for when you’d dress in the morning. Your sneakers on the ground beside the truck.
You can’t stop the warm glow growing inside you as you watch this man take care of you in such a way that seems so… domestic. It makes you wonder about him pre break out, and what he was like living in a house, working an 8-5 job, making dinners and probably having cold ones in the evening on a patio.
He closes the driver door before returning to you.
“Are you coming to bed?” You whisper with heavy eyes.
“No” he chuckles lightly “M’ wide awake now, gunna keep watch, we really do have a long day tomorrow so get some sleep alright?” He looks at you as one of his arms draped over the heavy truck door, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He looks proud, which you would roll your eyes at, but you’re far too tired.
“Joel” You whisper, bringing his attention back to you as he was looking over his shoulder, scanning the night.
“Mhm?”
“I still wanna repay the favor y’know” you mumble, your eyes closed, already drifting off.
He chuckles again; the sound brings a grin to your face.
“Not necessary, couldn’t stop myself from cumin' while watching you”. He sighs heavily, muttering to himself “like a goddamn teenager”.
You giggle at the comment. Which Joel couldn’t help but grin too, you didn’t see though.
“Goodnight Miller” You barely hear the words yourself as you fall into a deep slumber.
The panic versus the control. Quick and urgent movements versus slow and methodical. Someone who is terrified to lose everything versus someone who already has and refuses to do so again.
notification blog | kofi | in honor of my bestie han @swiftispunk who recently celebrated her birthday (and in honor of spooky season starting 🎃) i thought i'd step outside the boundaries of what i usually write and try something new. i'd also like to give a huge shoutout to @toxicanonymity whose entire masterlist greatly influenced my desire to try something like this. please heed the warnings!!! and as i said this is my first time writing anything like this so pls be kind 🫠
summary: a harmless game of truth or dare ends with you tied up in a certain mysterious neighbor's garage.
rating: 18+ explicit
warnings: dubcon (reader is given a choice to leave, but not immediately), dark!joel, age gap (reader is college age, joel is in his fifties), unprotected p in v sex, use of restraints, ropes, spanking, degradation, sir kink, dirty talk (use of 'little girl' as a pet name), face fucking, rough sex, creampie, brief anal play, humiliation, inappropriate use of a household item (he puts a flashlight up her cooch), marking (with a sharpie), size kink (joel is much bigger than reader and can lift her), pls lemme know if i forgot anything
word count: 8.3k
Your palms are sweaty, fingers sticking to your skin as you stand at the edge of the property with goosebumps already blooming along your flesh. The air is chilly, that end of summer evening air flooding your nostrils as a car drives past through streams of leftover rainwater, headlights blurring your vision for a moment. It passes quickly and you're alone again, standing on the street corner with a mixture of anticipation and dread filling your trembling body.
Everything had been fine about twenty minutes ago. A typical party with your hometown friends, one last hurrah before everyone splits off for the third year in a row to go back to their respective colleges, back to long lectures and underwhelming frat boys. It had gone the same way it always does when you get together - shots, secrets, schemes. No end of summer party could ever be complete without a game of truth or dare, not for your crowd anyway.
It had started simple. "Which one of us had the best glow-up this year?" "I dare you to text the last guy you slept with." "What's the kinkiest thing you've done with somebody?" "I dare you to show us the last nude someone sent you." Typical borderline adolescent challenges, things you all still followed through with despite being too old for the game - it's the principle of it, to indulge and pretend, if only for a little while, that life is as simple as it once was.
"Who's the last person you had a sex dream about?"
You'd twisted your hands awkwardly in your lap, felt heat rush to the apples of your cheeks. Usually a question like this wouldn't make you hesitate, but the subject of the answer had been a slightly embarrassing one. As soon as the name Joel Miller had fallen from your lips, you'd been met with screams and squeals and excited chatter from every direction.
"He's so fucking creepy though," one of your friends had said with wide eyes, palm over her mouth, "He gives off serial killer vibes."
"Oh please, he's not that bad," another had chimed in, "He's just a loner, kinda mysterious. I see the vision."
"Are we forgetting the part where he's old as hell? Dude must be in his fifties, at least."
"But that means experience."
"It could also mean limp dick."
"You guys are disgusting," you'd moaned, leaning back on your hands, "It was one dream, let's move on."
And they had. Briefly. Until it was once again your turn and they'd all rounded on you with cheshire cat grins and glinting stares. You should have known what was coming when you chose Dare.
"I dare you to go over to his house."
You'd resisted, of course. The dare itself didn't even make much sense; what were you meant to do? Go over and ding-dong-ditch his front door like a twelve year old boy? But it had only snowballed from there, all five girls tossing in their own thoughts and ideas, talking and giggling over each other. "She should ask him on a date." "She should just flirt a little bit, see how he reacts." "She could see how far she can get with him, maybe?" "Oh shit, that's good."
You could have always said no - there was no way any of them could force you to do it, even if it would have ended the party abruptly with grumbled complaints and a slammed door. But the more they talked the more you found yourself listening, letting the concept sink in, the images of the dream you'd had the other night flooding to the front of your mind. Mysterious and elusive Joel Miller, big hands covered in the motor oil he uses to tinker with his truck, trailing his messy fingers between the swells of your breasts...
They'd managed to convince you just by the reminder alone, though also due to the fact that they'd each tossed in a twenty dollar bill and stated that simply getting a kiss on the cheek would warrant a win. The prospect was intriguing; it would be a testament to your own desirability, your game. How far can you get with your quiet neighbor who probably hasn't touched a woman in years? Who'll probably fold the second he realizes someone as young and beautiful as you is interested in him?
"I'll do it," you'd said with a smirk, rising from the hardwood, "How hard can it be?"
Harder than you thought, apparently. Because now you stand a few feet from Joel Miller's house, loitering soundlessly at the edge of his front lawn, hesitating. The sun has gone down, turning the hedges along the side of his property into frighteningly tall shadows, dark and menacing. A light breeze flows past and you wrap yourself tighter in your well-worn maroon cardigan, shivering, staring at your boots and wondering if you can really bring yourself to do this.
It'll be so humiliating if he rejects your advances. On the other hand, will it somehow be less-so if he returns your flirtatiousness and you then have to reject him once you've gotten what you came for? How will that make you look? You're not even really sure why you care - probably because the man has done nothing to you whatsoever, nothing that would warrant such a foolish prank as this being played on him. It makes you feel bad, in a way. As much as you and your friends make fun of him, he really is just a man who keeps to himself - perhaps this is going too far.
You notice light flickering nearby, a reflection of fluorescents in the puddles of his driveway. You figured he'd be in his garage - it's where he spends most of his time, bent over the exposed hood of the truck he's seemingly been working on ever since he moved in at the beginning of the summer. You've never seen him drive it, never even seen him leave the property, but you've passed by the house on more than one occasion. You've seen the way he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, forearms splattered black and grey, expression focused on the task at hand while sweat drips from his greying temples.
Having a sex dream about him really shouldn't have been that shocking, now that you think about it. The man is a mystery, sure, but he isn't ugly by any means.
You swallow down your qualms, picturing the faces of your friends more than likely smooshed against the living room window a few houses back, watching. As soon as you turn the corner, you'll disappear from view, obstructed by the hedges and the sudden darkness of night. You take one more deep breath, one last burst of chilly evening air into your lungs, and accept your fate.
--
He doesn't notice you walking up his driveway, taking slow and meager steps as you assess the open garage, the truck with its hood popped as usual, the flickering of the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. He doesn't notice you, but you notice him. You spot a pair of steel toed boots and long denim clad legs sticking out from underneath the truck, hear the clink and clang of metal against metal while he tinkers with something down there, unseen. As you reach the garage it becomes apparent that you still have one last chance to end this before it begins, turn around and take the loss.
But you don't.
"Excuse me," you offer in a weak voice, teetering nervously at the edge of the garage door, neither inside nor out - neutral ground.
The clinking stops, replaced by the steady pounding of your heart in your chest, the heaviness of your breathing. You try to loosen your hands from their fisted forms and unclench your fingers, focusing on the stretch of flesh and bone while the legs beneath the car slowly begin to inch forward. He's not laying on any type of support, one of those wheeled contraptions you've seen other people use - no, he's simply got his back to the ground, a back and body that's slowly coming into view.
His black and green flannel rides up where he's been laying on it, as well as the grey t-shirt he wears beneath; as he slides out from under the car you spot a bare sliver of skin just above his waistband, a patch of hair that trails down into his jeans. A lump forms in your throat. When he finally peeks his head out, you swallow around it and try to remember to breathe.
Greying hair slicked back behind his ears, cheekbones smeared slightly with something black, scruff lining a strong yet soft jawline, a plump bottom lip, and those eyes... dark brown, almost black. It's the face that's practically been haunting you all summer, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.
His brow furrows as soon as he sees you, "Can I help you?"
It's not the first time you've heard him talk, but it's certainly the first time he's ever spoken directly to you. His accent is stronger than you remember, words slipping smoothly past his lips like butter as he eyes you from the floor of his garage, knees up, hands still hidden in the darkness. A few seconds pass before you realize he's asked you a question.
"Oh, um-" You haven't thought this through very far, that's for sure. What the fuck do you even say? You take a breath and remind yourself that you're good at this, have seduced your fair share of frat boys in the past two years with minimal effort and have never heard the word no. Sure, Joel Miller isn't a frat boy - far from it - but underneath his cold exterior he's still very much a man, and very much capable of falling under the spell of a beautiful woman. You hope, anyway.
"I was just taking a walk," you lie, "Saw your light on, thought I'd come say hi."
He stares at you blankly, like he's unsure exactly how he's supposed to respond - or perhaps he's already seeing through your façade. You take a step into his garage, poised at the edge as you lean casually against the opening.
"Honestly, um-" you push some hair behind your ear and attempt to look shy, though it's not a huge jump from how you're actually feeling, "I've been meaning to talk to you, before I go back to college."
At your words he raises an eyebrow and slowly brings his hands downwards, palms pressing flat against the dark concrete. You watch as he eases himself up and out from under the truck, and god he's tall - tall and broad and huge compared to you, a fact that sends a little flutter into your belly. He takes a step toward the work bench against the wall, eyes still on you as he reaches down and picks up a rag to wipe his hands, big and wide and streaked with oil. You remember your dream and feel a twinge in your underwear.
"Talk to me about what?" he asks, massaging the rag against his fingers.
You shrug as nonchalantly as you can, taking another step inside his garage, closer to where he stands at the work bench. You cross your legs in an attempt to show them off, stretching your ankle toward a spare tire on the floor and accentuating the sheerness of your black tights, the little run that splits the material at the inside of your knee, the hint of bare skin that peeks out beneath.
"Nothing in particular," you say, keeping your voice soft and steady but doing your best to keep that shy girlishness present, "Just... wanted to." You peer up at him from under your lashes and bite your lip, then reach out your hand for him to take. You say your name.
He assesses your hand but doesn't take it, brow still furrowed. "Joel," he replies, "And I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment. Don't really have time to talk." His voice is cold and gruff, absolutely no sign of interest or attraction - dammit.
"What're you doing?" you ask, tilting your head.
He continues to stare at you blankly, "What does it look like I'm doin'?"
Okaaaay, then.
You shrug again and take another step, turning to look at the wall next to you. Tools line the shelves, wrenches and screwdrivers and the like dangling rather precariously here and there, smeared in motor oil and dust. It's a mess but you'd be willing to bet that it's organized chaos, that he likes it this way.
"What's this?" you ask, pointing to a particularly large object, something that looks like a mixture between a pair of scissors and a wrench.
"Bolt cutters," he supplies you monotonously.
"Ohh," you say with a nod, leaning a bit into the confused pretty girl stereotype and hoping maybe he's a sucker for it, "And what's that?" You point toward a small cylindrical object, black and tactical, only a few inches long.
"You never seen a flashlight before?"
Oh. Right. "Woops," you giggle, "Sorry."
You turn your face to look at him sheepishly and he's still watching you, big arms now crossed against his broad chest - impatient. Well, this is clearly not working either. He's frowning, eyes so focused on your face that you feel almost naked beneath it, like he's staring into your soul. You clear your throat awkwardly and tug your bottom lip between your teeth, breaking your own gaze away from him and trying to find something else to comment on.
"So you've been working on your truck," you state, gesturing toward the vehicle as if only just noticing it was even there, "What's - uh - what's wrong with it?"
He's clearly not buying into whatever the fuck you're even trying to sell. He remains silent, eyes still on you, and suddenly it's like you've never even interacted with a man before - and to be honest, maybe you haven't. Frat boys are certainly not men by any means, and nowhere near in the same league as Joel Miller by a long shot, probably almost triple their age with a dark and mysterious aura that feels almost suffocating. He just stares at you, slightly unnerving, but also seductive in its own way, almost like he's challenging you.
"What do you want?" he asks blankly.
"I-I told you," your voice is already faltering, losing its flirtatious edge the more you realize how dumb of an idea this was, "I just wanted to talk to you."
"Yeah, I got that," he says stiffly, "Why?"
You've already exhausted the avenues you thought might work, which means you've got one last chance before he sends you packing. With bated breath you take the final few steps toward him and - averting your gaze - you reach your hand out to touch his forearm with your fingertips. It's feather light, but you're suddenly very aware of the goosebumps that rise on his freckled flesh, the way the thick hair on his arms seems to stand on end the second your skin touches his. Okay, now we're getting somewhere.
"I think you're handsome," you murmur softly, feeling warmth rush to your cheeks when you realize that it's not a lie. And it really isn't. As your gaze gradually tilts up you catch a glimpse of the hair on his chest, peeking out from under his grey t-shirt. You spot his pecs beneath the fabric of his flannel, see the throbbing veins in his neck, the coarseness of his scruff, the sharp curve of his nose, and those fucking eyes - looking at you with a darkness, a lust, that wasn't there before.
He's not just handsome; he's fucking gorgeous.
"What're you doin'?" he asks you, that gruffness still present but being taken over by something else, something darker.
"Nothing," you breathe, still trailing your fingers along his forearm until they reach its apex and dip into the soft part behind his elbow, damp with sweat. You swallow, throat going dry as you stroke his skin with your thumb.
"Doesn't feel like nothin'," his voice is quieter, matching yours, and he tilts his head slightly as he continues to stare into your eyes, "Why're you really here, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart. The word sends a burst of warmth to your chest, a smile to your lips. You unlock your eyes from his bashfully, watching your own movements as you trail your fingers back down toward his hand and wrap them around one of his fingers, so thick compared to your own. You squeeze gently, biting your lip again as you peer back up at him. Here it is. Moment of truth. You tilt your head up slightly, eyelashes fluttering as you lean forward to connect your lips with his.
Except, they don't connect.
Instead he pulls his hands away from you, brings them upwards and wraps them around your upper arms, squeezing tightly. Your eyes widen, confusion flooding your features.
"Turn around and bend over."
"W-what?" Shock doesn't even begin to describe the ice cold feeling that now makes its way through your body, edged with something else - something you can't explain.
"Turn around," he repeats, his big hands squeezing your arms even tighter - relentless, firm - as he peers down at you with a dark hunger in his eyes, glinting black beneath the fluorescents, "And bend over."
He does not give you another chance to obey - you're too frozen in surprise and confusion to do anything yourself. Instead, he uses the force of his weight on your arms to spin you on the spot, shoving you against the work bench. You feel one of his hands move from your arm to your back, pushing hard until you fold, warm cheek coming to rest against the cold wood.
"Wh-what are you doing?" your voice is meager, weak, and you feel him wrap one of his hands around both your wrists like it's nothing, pinning them against your back like they're simply twigs in his wide palm.
"What you're clearly fuckin' beggin' for," he replies gruffly, and you feel his other hand at your skirt, feel the brush of his fingertips at the hem as he reaches upward to grip the band of your tights. Your eyes widen and instinctively you pull back, pull away - he just pushes you back down.
"I'm not-" you begin, shock quickly being replaced with fear when you realize how easily overpowered you are, how fluidly he's able to tug down your tights and expose your ass to him, clad in only a black thong already lost between your cheeks.
"Oh, you're not, huh?" his voice is cold and stoic, angry, "You think you can play games with me, little girl?" His hand comes to rest against the swell of your behind and you suddenly feel his breath above you, hot in your ear, "Tell me why you're really here."
You try to lift your head up to look at him better but he just shoves you back down again. Panic floods your body, mixed with the unmistakable burn of arousal. You feel yourself twitch in your underwear, feel a sudden gush of warmth spill inside the fabric as he begins to trail his finger up and down the thin line of black cotton.
"I-I'm..." You're at a complete loss for words, unable to articulate anything, unsure of what exactly is happening - or about to happen. Two minutes ago you'd been sure he was about to tell you to leave, practically kick you out of the garage himself, and now you're not sure leaving is even a possibility.
He pulls his hand back and you cry out when it comes down to slap against one of your cheeks, a sharp sting and burn you hadn't been anticipating.
"Tell me why you're here," he repeats - authoritarian, firm.
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a frightened squeak, something which clearly eggs him on even more. He spanks you again, harder this time, palm flat and wide against your pebbled flesh. The sound that slips past your lips is somehow akin to a moan of some sort, guttural and deep.
"I'll just make it harder and harder, sweetheart," he says then, and the pet name no longer contains the warmth it did mere moments ago; instead it's cold and detached, mocking. You're still reeling when his hand comes down to slap against you again, even harder this time, and your hands ball into fists behind your back as you let out another low moan. More slick gushes into your panties and it's impossible to deny that somehow, despite the fear twinging in your heart, you're so fucking turned on.
"M-my friends," you gasp out, and you feel him squeeze your abused ass cheek which you're sure is already dark with his handprint, "They- they dared me to see how far I c-could get with you."
He lets your words sink in for a moment, squeezing again - tighter, so tight that it hurts. You whimper against the wooden top of the work bench, legs shaking.
"So you came here to get fucked," he finally states.
"N-no, I swear, I-"
"Wasn't a question," he interrupts, and you feel his other hand tighten around your wrists, "You came here to get fucked so you're gonna get fucked, end of story."
"But I-"
Without any warning he suddenly pushes himself up against you from behind, the rough denim of his jeans pressing deliciously up against your exposed skin. You gasp, eyes going wide when you feel the long, thick shape of his dick between your cheeks, huge and hard. He holds it there, his free hand coming down to lay flat beside your head against the work bench.
"You feel that?" he asks, voice suddenly quieter but still full of that ice cold malice, "You feel that cock?"
Fuck. "Y-yes," you breathe, "I feel it."
"You have five seconds before i close this door and stuff you full, understand?" Suddenly all you can hear is the heavy sound of his breathing, the panting of your own, the thud of your heart where it presses painfully against the wood. He's giving you an out.
"I- I-" you swallow, brows furrowing when you feel his hand slacken around your wrists. You could pull away now, yank yourself out of his grasp and sprint down his driveway, return to your friends. Forget this ever even happened.
It's your last chance.
"Five," he begins, breath warm against your face.
Run. Just run.
"Four."
But why?
"Three."
Why don't you want to run?
"Two."
Why do you want to stay?
"One."
He pulls his hand up from the work bench and hits a button on the wall, eliciting a loud mechanical noise to your left as the garage door starts to close. You watch with wide eyes as your chance to leave slowly vanishes inch by inch until it's gone completely, and yet no part of you itches to run, to escape. There's nothing to escape from, you realize. You want to be here. You want him to fuck you.
As the reality of your situation starts to settle, his grip around your wrists tightens once again. You sense him reaching up somewhere above you, and you suddenly feel the harsh texture of what feels like thickly braided rope wrapping around your wrists. The realization that he's restraining you sends another pool of release into your panties, another faint squeak past your lips.
"You gonna stay still for me?" he asks, voice dark and clearer now in the silence of his garage, no sounds of rain or cars to disrupt you, "Huh? You gonna be a good girl?"
"Yes," you breathe, nodding against the wood.
"Say it."
"I'm gonna stay still," you promise, "I'm gonna be a good girl."
He finishes knotting the rope around your wrists, tight and uncomfortable against your skin. He pushes his groin up against your ass again, brings his now free hands downward to reach through your cardigan and squeeze your breasts. Your nipples are hard beneath the soft cotton of your shirt, no bra between the layer of material and your bare skin; he tweaks them in his fingers and you shudder.
"These are mine," he whispers in your ear, scruff nuzzling against the side of your face, "These tits, this ass," he drops his hands from your breasts to squeeze your cheeks again, "and this pussy." His hand drops to the puffy shape of your lips beneath your thong and you whimper. "Understand?"
"Y-yes."
"Yes, what?"
You're not sure what he's asking for, what he wants you to say. You take a guess. "Yes, sir," you whisper, and you feel him smile against your ear. Bingo.
He doesn't bother to pull your tights down the rest of the way; instead, he rips them, pulling them apart in his big hands and reaching inside to curl his index finger around the thin strip of your thong. He pulls it - hard - and it rips from you with a rough tearing sound and a painful sting, eliciting a loud gasp from you which he rewards with another spank.
You feel his finger slip between your lips for a moment, gathering some of your release before he pulls it away. "Juicy fuckin' pussy," he mutters, and you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone, vulgar in the quiet room. You have no time to ask about protection, no time to even really process how quickly this is already happening, before you feel the warm tip of his cock pushing against your twitching hole. You gasp again, hands furling under the ropes.
"Shh," he quiets you, stilling for a second, "Don't squirm."
"Sorry," you whisper, tears pricking in your eyes, "I'm sorry."
"What're you sorry for?" he murmurs, feeding his cock to you in small increments, reveling in the noises falling past your lips. It's so fucking big, bigger than you'd anticipated - it feels like he's spearing you, splitting you in half, especially without much preparation. It stretches and burns, but the warmth of it, the way it pulses as it invades your body, just makes you gush even more. "Hm?" he continues, "What're you sorry for? You sorry for squirmin' or sorry you pissed me off?"
Your eyes roll back as he bottoms out, his pubic hair pressing coarsely against your pussy lips, heavy balls firm to your ass. You try to speak but it's hard to get the words out when you're so full, the wide tip of him pushing into your cervix.
"You a virgin?" he asks you then, voice changing for a moment, like for the briefest of seconds he's wondering whether he should have gone slower.
You shake your head quickly, "N-no," you manage to gasp out.
"Feel like a fuckin' virgin," he grunts, pulling out and then immediately slamming back inside. Your head bumps against the work bench, a groan falling from your mouth as he makes a home inside you. "Christ," he mutters, "Tight little thing. You feel me in your stomach, baby?"
You're not sure he wants you to answer, but it becomes clear when his hand slaps down on your ass cheek again and you cry out.
"Yes," you moan, then quickly amend, "Yes, sir."
"S'what happens when you come in here, actin' like a little slut," he suddenly reaches for your cardigan and yanks it off - it catches on your restrained hands and he simply rips it and tosses it to the floor, "But then again, you're not actin', are you? Huh? What's a slut like you doin' wearin' all these fuckin' layers?"
"I'm s-sorry," you repeat, already mourning the loss of your favorite sweater, now ripped to shreds at your feet.
"Sorry's not good enough, little girl," he breathes, thrusting into you again so hard that you yelp, cheek still pressed into the splintered wood of the work bench, "That's it, fuckin' take it."
He fucks you without any reservations, any inhibitions. Your legs shake and you can hear the slap of his hairy thighs against yours as he pounds into you relentlessly. You have no choice but to take it, the stretch of his huge cock becoming less painful the more he gives it to you over and over, the room full of the wet squelch of your pussy gripping him. He grabs your hips, fingertips digging into your bare flesh as he takes and takes; you wish you could see his face, wish you could see how he looks when he's fucking you, getting his pleasure. The thought makes you whine, tears streaming down your face as your body moves back and forth against the work bench.
It feels fucking amazing. You've never had a cock as big as his before, never been fucked so deep and so hard, like he doesn't care if he breaks you, makes you cry. He hasn't touched your clit and yet you already feel you could come from just this, just the relentless push and pull of his dick inside you. Unfortunately, just as soon as you feel your orgasm starting to build, he pulls out. Your brow furrows.
"Stand up," he orders, "and turn around."
You obey, relief overtaking you as soon as you're no longer bent at such an awkward angle. The moment you turn to face him you barely get a look at his face before he's reaching down and tearing your shirt in half - easily, like it's nothing. You don't even have time to wonder how the hell you're gonna get home with all your clothes ripped to shreds when his mouth is suddenly wrapped around your left nipple, and you whine at the sensation. You peer down at him, biting your lip and watching his wet lips suckle around the hard bud, beard scratching deliciously against your skin. Your hand aches to cup the back of his head but it's still pinned behind your back, tied tight beneath the rope.
"Fuck," you whimper, and his dark gaze flashes up to meet yours as he sucks, the hint of a smirk on his lips when he pulls away.
"Feels good, does it?" he asks, and seeing the words come out of his mouth is somehow more sinful than when you could only hear them, "You like bein' used?"
You nod almost immediately despite never having experienced anything like this in your life - though admittedly you've undeniably wanted to experience this, ached to have somebody take control, tell you what to do, make you do things. It's like you've somehow known subconsciously all summer that Joel Miller could be that person for you, despite never having said two words to him. It was just a feeling, an instinct, and that dream...
"Yeah?" he continues, and suddenly his hand comes up to cup your pussy, thumb finally pressing against your clit. You cry out, tears still trickling down your cheeks. "Said you were in college, right? You take any college dick up here? Be honest now."
You nod again, "Y-yes."
"How many?"
"I... I don't know," you breathe. It's the truth, and you can tell as soon as the words leave your mouth that it does something to him. He presses his thumb harder against your clit, two fingers slipping up inside of you.
"'Course you don't know," he murmurs, pushing them as deep inside as he can, making you whimper, "You wouldn't know, would you?"
Your thighs tighten together - squeezing his hand - and he just smirks again, curving his fingers and making you moan. Your lower back digs into the work bench as he stands, pushes you up against it and peers down into your eyes again with a hunger that's only getting worse. You assess his expression, the pout of his lips as he fucks you with his fingers, the focused lines creased into his forehead. So fucking handsome.
"You're not a good girl," he breathes, nose brushing yours, "Knew it from the day I saw you. You're just made for takin' cock. Am I right?"
"Yes," you whisper, nodding shakily and bumping your lips up toward his - he pulls away again and you can't help but feel disappointed, aching to feel his lips against yours.
"Tonight you're made to take my cock, that clear?" he continues, and you watch as his other hand travels downward to wrap around it - just out of your periphery. He's too close to you, crowded so much in your space that you know he won't like it if you break eye contact. You can tell by his arm movements that he's pumping himself at the same speed he's fucking you with his fingers, inhaling deeply, "I'm gonna ruin you, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."
"Y-yes sir," you whisper, voice squeaking when he speeds up his fingers and pumps them in and out with fervor, thumb rubbing furiously against your clit. Yet again he brings you almost to the edge and then removes his hand completely, stepping back with a low chuckle when you whimper pathetically.
Your disappointment only lasts a moment because now you can see him, see the girthy length of him that's already been inside of you hanging out of his zipper, glistening with your slick. He's huge, tip dark and intrusive, beads of his own arousal dripping from the slit; your mouth waters. His eyes cast down to where you're looking and he smiles, dark and mocking.
"Never gonna see another dick like this, darlin'," he breathes, "So you better start showin' your appreciation." His eyes glint. "Kneel."
You're practically already on your way to kneeling before he says it, in awe of the sheer girth and shape of him. The second your bare knees hit the cold floor he's crowding you again, hand coming around to hold the back of your head.
"Open wide, baby," he murmurs.
Your jaw drops and he plunges inside your mouth quickly and seamlessly, making you gasp around his length as your eyes widen. You can't breathe, looking up at him with more tears already fogging your vision as he immediately slips into the depths of your throat with no hesitation. You gag, eyes bulging as you attempt to swallow around the intrusion, find your breath, but it's impossible.
"Yeah," he breathes, both of his hands cradling your face and holding you still as he lets his cock sit unmoving in your throat, "Yeah, that's it. That's what you're made for."
He only holds it there for a few seconds but by the time he pulls it out you're gasping for air, coughing and spluttering as tears stream relentlessly down your cheeks. He keeps cradling your face, tuts to himself as you try to get your breath back. The head of his cock bumps softly against your bottom lip.
"Not off to a great start, are we?" he murmurs, "Let's try again."
He pushes his cock past your lips again and you try your hardest not to gag, a little more prepared this time. The pulsing head of his cock situates itself firmly in your throat, the pubic hair at the base tickling your nose while his balls bounce against your chin. You look up at him with pleading eyes, watch as he stares down at you with nothing but malice in his expression, contempt. You're just a hole to him, nothing more.
He pulls out and lets you gasp another breath before he's shoving himself back in, hands moving back to hold your head firmly as he fucks your face. You don't move - you don't need to; he does all the work as he drags your head back and forth along his cock, hitting the back of your throat over and over again until you're gagging and practically sobbing for air. Your knees ache against the concrete floor and you know you'll have bruises tomorrow, know that you probably won't be able to swallow properly for a few days either. Somehow, you don't really care.
When he's gotten his fill he yanks himself out and allows you to catch your breath for a few seconds, throat constricting around nothing while you choke and gasp.
"Stand up," he orders, and even though you're still gasping for air you manage to bring yourself back up, legs shaking. Saliva drips down your chin, drooling from your mouth in long strands, but with your hands tied you can't make any attempt to clean yourself up - he probably wouldn't want you to anyway.
His wide palms are suddenly on your hips, and he picks you up and places you on top of the work bench with minimal effort, arms bulging. You're completely naked now save for your ripped tights while he's still fully clothed, dripping cock still peeking out past his zipper, covered in your saliva. He steps between your legs and pushes your thighs open, then slips inside of you once again in one short push, making you yelp.
"Oh, please," he grumbles, gripping your hips tightly and pulling your bare body taut against him, head hitting his chest, "We both know you can take it."
It's not like you have any other choice at this point. He fucks you harder than he had before, now that he has easier access, can pull you so firmly against him that his entire length is continuously swallowed up entirely by your dripping pussy. His nails dig into your skin as his cock fucks up against your cervix over and over, so relentless it's almost painful. It's overwhelming how huge he is, not just his cock but his body in general, the way he towers over you and watches your expressions as he takes what's now his.
"Poor little thing," he mumbles, bringing one of his hands up to thumb the tears on your face, "Never been so full, huh? It's okay, shhh," his finger finds your lips and pushes against them almost mockingly, like he's chastising you, "Shhh, this is what you asked for, remember? S'what you wanted." You shake your head but he just nods, "Yeah, it is. You wanted that cock and now you're gettin' it."
Suddenly you're being lifted from the workbench, carried in his embrace with his cock still buried deep inside. You cry out, wrists straining against the ropes, itching to wrap your arms around his neck and hold yourself up with more stability. His arms come up to stretch along the expanse of your back, holding you still and pulling you even closer. As if on instinct your legs bend upwards to wrap around his waist, curling around his lower back while he pistons inside of you without restraint, without mercy.
"Fuck," you almost scream, feeling the rough denim of his jeans scratching against your ass, the heaviness of his balls slapping against you over and over again, "Fuckfuckfuck!"
"Yeah, there she is, there's that little slut," he says, a smile spreading across his face, voice somehow calm despite the fact that he's pounding into you over and over, "Nothin' like gettin' fucked stupid to sort ya out, huh? Needed to be punished, didn't you, sweetheart?"
You don't answer, can't answer, eyes rolling back as he fucks you with abandon. Of course it's not a surprise when he lands a hard spank against your ass, grips your cheek tightly in his palm and growls roughly in your ear, "Answer me, little girl."
"Yes," you force yourself to gasp out, head tilting back, "Yes sir, yes."
"S'right," he mutters, and you suddenly feel the pads of his fingers against your clit, rubbing at an aggressively fast pace that sends depraved noises spitting past your lips, "Come on that cock, tighten up that little pussy even more for me, baby, come on."
It only takes seconds for him to make you come, your eyes rolling back as your body shakes and writhes in his grasp. He doesn't slow his movements, keeps fucking you deep and hard as your legs loosen at his waist and you flop like a ragdoll in his arms.
"Chokin' that dick," he murmurs, "Had so many cocks in this little hole and you're still the tightest thing I've fucked," his brow furrows as he watches your face, watches as your eyes flutter open and your jaw slackens, "And what about your other hole, baby?" You feel one of his fingers prod against your asshole, circle the rim as he continues to bounce you up and down, "Ever had a cock in there?"
You tense up a little in his embrace, eyes widening. At your reaction he slows his movements, still holding you upright and allowing you to just sit on his cock for a moment while he continues to prod your asshole, "I'll take that as a no," he mutters, "Think my cock'll fit up there?"
"It won't," you whisper immediately, shaking your head.
He assesses your expression, eyes trailing up and down your face calculatingly, like he's weighing the pros and cons. Your heart stutters in your chest and you feel that fear from earlier slowly begin to creep back into your psyche, hands shaking under the rope.
"I won't," he states, and relief floods through your body; you relax in his embrace, becoming aware again of his cock still buried deep inside you. He very carefully prods the tip of his index finger inside your asshole and your eyes go wide again, mouth opening in protest. "Yet," he amends, smiling coldly at you, "I won't yet. Not today."
He pulls his finger out and walks with you to the work bench again, places you down gentler than before and peers at you with something in his gaze that you can't place, a curiosity that wasn't there before. It's gone in an instant though, and then he's fucking into you again without warning, gripping tight to your hips and slamming back and forth until you see stars.
"You thought this'd be so funny, didn't you?" he growls, looking at you again with that detached contempt, black eyes locked with yours. He brings his hand down and starts rubbing your clit again, not caring that you only just came a moment ago. "Thought you'd come here, have your fun, and leave again. But it's not so funny anymore, is it? Huh? Is it funny?"
"N-no," you gasp out, overstimulated to the point of even more tears as you squirm and writhe on the work bench, pussy aching from the insistent way he's pounding you and the relentless rubbing of his fingers against your clit.
"S'the last time you show up here tellin' lies," he mutters, "Understand me? Any time you come into my house from now on you're gettin' fucked, got it?"
"Y-yes," you cry, hands futilely attempting to ball into fists behind your back, and he shakes his head.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir!" you scream it, and just as the words pass your lips he stills inside of you, cock twitching as he starts to come. Your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open as his hand sends you into another climax just as he reaches his. Your head falls against his chest and you hear him groan above you, feel the way his cock pulsates and throbs and spits his cum in long and heavy spurts. Your thighs twitch and you feel his hand at your back, pulling you in close as he cups the back of your head.
You stay like that for a moment without speaking, your heavy breaths the only sound in the garage other than the rain now pelting heavily against the door. You swear you can hear his heartbeat.
"Good little girl, warmin' my cock," he murmurs in your ear, and you're still catching your breath, eyes closed, sobs wracking from your throat repeatedly. "Full o'me, huh? You feel all that, baby?"
You can only nod against his chest, wrists still straining against the rope as your toes curl somewhere below you and your body continues to shake. His cum settles warmly deep inside and your eyes roll back a bit when he pushes in further, like he's trying to keep it inside for as long as he can.
"Guess I found a new little cum dumpster, huh?" he whispers, carding his fingers through your hair, "I'll have to say thank you to your friends, or -" he pauses thoughtfully for a moment, "maybe I'll just have to send 'em a little message back with you."
You pull your face back from his chest, peering up at him with tired confusion. He reaches down and pulls out one of the drawers of the work bench, coming back up with a sharpie. You watch with fluttering lashes, unable to stop him - and not really wanting to - as he uncaps the marker and pushes your hair out of the way to write something across your chest, the cold tip making you jolt slightly.
"Shh," he murmurs, "It's okay, I'll untie ya in a sec."
It doesn't take him very long to finish writing whatever it is on your skin, and then he's slowly pulling his cock out of you. You whimper at the loss, thighs twitching as you peer down and watch his softening length slip past your hole, followed by a steady stream of his cum. He quickly reaches up and pushes what he can back inside, thumbing it back in carefully while the reality of what's just happened really begins to settle. You just let a man in his fifties tie you up, use you, come inside you, and write on your chest.
"Can't have all that slippin' out yet," he mutters, "Now, what can we use?" His eyes dart up to the shelves above you and he reaches up to grab something; when his hand comes back down you see the pocket flashlight from earlier, see the slightly flared base and know almost immediately what he's planning on using it for.
For some reason - whatever reason it is that you stayed here after he gave you an out, whatever reason you really came here in the first place - you don't protest.
He brings the flashlight downwards and quickly removes his hand from your pussy to replace it with the wide end, slipping it inside with only minimal resistance. You whimper and he hushes you, brushing his nose against yours as he assesses his handiwork.
"That should do it," he murmurs, then peers back up at you and pushes some stray hair out of your face "You keep that in there 'til you get home, okay?" His eyes have softened a bit, looking more similar to the way they did when you first showed up - is this the real him? You honestly have no idea.
You don't say anything, just nod slowly, feeling the anxiety from earlier begin to sink in yet again. How are you going to get home when you have no clothes? How are you going to explain to your friends what happened? How can you tell them - or show them - what you let him do to you?
These questions are clearly none of his concern. You watch as he backs up and gestures for you to stand with him; you do, with beyond shaky legs and the cold metal of the flashlight between your thighs.
"Turn around," he orders.
You feel him untie the rope from your wrists, essentially ending your time here - whatever it even was. It somehow doesn't feel real. You let them hang limply at your sides, feeling embarrassment flood your cheeks as you turn back around to look at him. He's watching you with a smirk, arms crossed - his dick is back in his jeans. He looks no different than he had when you arrived.
"Now get the fuck out," he says, dark eyes glinting once again under the flickering fluorescents, "before I change my mind."
--
The air is still chilly. The road is still wet. But thankfully, there are no cars.
You don't know how you manage to get home without anyone seeing you - hunched over, naked in the darkness, avoiding the streetlights, trying to ignore the ache between your legs and the icy intrusiveness of the flashlight still lodged inside of you - but you do. Your palms are sweaty again, heart pounding at the thought of your friends coming to greet you at the door, for the shock and confusion and screaming to begin - but that doesn't happen.
The moment you're back in the house you pull a jacket down from the coat rack and cover yourself, tiptoeing past the living room and waiting to be accosted by the friends who put you in this situation to begin with. Instead, they're nowhere to be seen. You hear the faint echo of laughter from the kitchen, hear the sounds of glass clattering and a fridge being shut. It's like they've already forgotten you even left, like the game meant nothing, and they've already found something new to entertain them, something better.
As if your futile attempt at getting a kiss on the cheek from Joel Miller is already something lost in the past.
And, you think, as you shakily climb the stairs and creep into the bathroom, tear the jacket from your shoulders and stare at your bare chest in the bathroom mirror, see the dark permanent lines that read TRUTH OR DARE...
warnings: 18+, minors dni. post-OB, raider!joel, canon-typical violence. fists, knives, guns, clickers, etc. etc. age-gap (reader is in her early 20s, joel is in his early 40s). reader is a baddie, joel is a menace, joel stabbing dudes and growling at dudes and choking dudes and just generally harassing dudes, sexually suggestive/noncon dialogue (nothing actually happens, just one gross/threatening guy), joel fucks him up tho
a/n: this got ..... long
thank you for your comments, reblogs, asks. i love y'all. they mean the world to me. giving u all a lil kiss from afar. mild smut content to begin next chapter thank u for your patience
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“You gonna let me go?” you ask.
“I dunno.” He cocks his head. “You gonna try ’n kill me?”
You look at him. He lifts a brow.
“Yes,” you grit.
“Then no.”
You scoff. Heat dances in your stare.
“I could run,” you say. You’re not sure who you’re convincing.
The edge of his lip pulls, like you’ve said something vaguely amusing.
“Alright,” he says, in that long, Southern spool. “Run.”
You can’t hunt with a broken wrist.
And Joel’s…gift, or whatever the fuck you’re calling it — runs out way too quickly. You promised to pace yourself and still polished it off in two days.
You leave the empty plastic in the snow. It sinks there in the powder and you feel weirdly jealous you can’t do the same.
You don’t sleep that first night. Your wrist hurts, even packed in ice. And when it finally goes numb, and you close your eyes, all you dream about is Ali. You dream you’re back in that house with him, hiding up by the rafters. You dream —
His golden hair is burning. There’s blood on his throat and on his hands.
You reach for him and someone grabs you. Huge, rough, drenched in black.
He’s all shadow. You can’t see his face.
Fire laps at your feet. The room smells like smoke. You should be choking, but you’re not. You should call out for your brother, but you can’t.
You put a hand up to your face. There’s a black bandana there: across your nose, your mouth. Smoke fizzles and dies on the cloth.
You drag in a breath. Your eyes snap open.
You stay wide awake until the morning.
You spend most of your second day post-Joel making a splint, or something close to one. Partly as a distraction, to take your mind off your glaring lack of food, and partly because your wrist really fucking hurts. You rip a strip of bark off a peeling pine tree — you have to use your knife, really wedge it in there — and lash it to your wrist with the rope from your bag.
It’s not good. It’s not even decent. But it does alleviate the throbbing, purple pain in your arm — slightly — so you count it as a win. You’ll dig the splinters out later, when you can feel your skin again.
It still hasn’t snowed by the time night falls, which you take as another silent victory. The break in the weather is good. It means you don’t freeze, when you curl up in the dark under your bag and your jacket. And the lack of fresh snow makes Joel findable.
He’d disappeared in a hurry after shooting that Clicker, and you imagine he’s got a hell of a lead on you now. You’ve hardly moved at all, on account of your wrist. You’ve dragged yourself maybe a half mile in the two days since you’ve seen him. And not in any one discernible direction, either.
But now that your tangled wrist is splinted you can think straight — or sort of straight — and you can get back on track. Joel’s track. You wake up at dawn and sludge after Joel in your soaked black sneakers.
His footprints are huge. They make him easy to follow. And they’re distinctive, too — not just because they’re the only tracks in the entire forest, but because they’re ringed with black. Like he’s dipped the edges of the soles in ink.
At first you think maybe it’s blood, splattered on his heels. But then you bend down, wincing, because you can’t help that you’re curious — and put a finger to the rim of a print.
The black stuff flecks away. It leaves a smoky residue on the pad of your thumb.
It’s ash. There’s ash scrawled into the soles of his shoes.
You try not to think about why it’s there, because you have a pretty good idea and you’d rather be wrong. You try to come up with something equally plausible — maybe he lit a fire, and then stomped it out — but you know that’s not it. You’ve been on his trail for days. You’ve seen the camps he leaves behind. No kindling. No ashes. Not even the imprint of a sleeping bag in the snow, since he and Tommy parted ways. You think he must just — sling his vest off, and drop his gun, and curl up like a bear every night.
Which means the ash on his shoes is from something else. A different fire. Like the one that blazed on the night Ali died, when the house burned and someone dragged you out.
Someone saved your life.
You pause. Your breath hangs, frozen still.
“Fuck,” you hiss.
Fuck that.
That — someone — cannot have been Joel.
Because that would mean that he’s saved your ass twice, now, in almost as many days.
And that just — pisses you off. And confuses you. And pisses you off even more.
So — no. Fuck that.
You flex your good hand. Kick at his print, until it’s good and gone and buried. Then you straighten up, and shuffle your bow back onto your shoulder, and you follow his boots like a bloodhound.
You’re gaining on him, you think. Even with a slow start and a broken wrist. You’re faster, smaller, lither. Every part of him moves heavy.
You’ll catch up to him by morning. Then you can kill him, before he saves your ass a third time.
Except…you don’t catch up to him by morning.
It’s a white-out when you wake up. The kind of blizzard you used to read about, when you and Ali lived in California. You used to think they sounded kind of magical. Howling snow and wind with white fangs.
They don’t seem quite so magical now. The wind sinks teeth into your face and rips your cheeks raw. You stuff your hands under your armpits and drag your collar up over your mouth. Your wrist barks and you ignore it.
You stand up slow. Shove the mouth of your bow into piling snow. You can’t shoot, but you might as well put it to use. It makes a pretty decent makeshift ski pole, when you shuffle through the slush.
You dig enough snow out to make a path forward. But his bootprints are long gone.
Joel is long gone.
“Fuck,” you echo.
The wind picks your voice up. It rattles in the trees.
Without Joel to follow, you pick a path and pray it’s a good one.
And it is. Eventually. When the snow clears and the wind dies down.
By then it’s almost dark, and your teeth are chattering, and your good wrist is sore from all the do-it-yourself snow plowing. There’s a dull, persistent ache in the back of your head. You can’t tell if you’re hungry, or thirsty, or just generally fucked.
You eat a handful of snow, just in case it’s thirsty. Might as well rule out what you can.
Then you straighten up, and look around, and you’re more than a little relieved to see you’ve wandered to the edge of the forest. The trees are thinner, sparser. The ground rises at a slow incline. You follow the slope and ice gnaws at your knees.
The ground evens out eventually. You’re breathing hard by the time your feet are flat. You drag your hood up and clock the view from the hill.
You’re not that high up. A couple hundred feet, maybe, and standing in the center of a flat-topped hill. You’re pretty sure it used to be a parking lot, or something close to it. There are rows and rows of snowed-in cars, and if the ground was any less white you’re sure you’d see asphalt.
Cars is maybe too generous. They’re just shells, really. Everything’s been looted, stripped bare. The hubcaps, the wipers, the leather on the seats. You pry at a handle and it sticks, frozen shut.
So someone’s been here, then. Multiple someones, probably. But it seems…quiet, now. No signs of people, or Infected. You get down on all fours and look under the cars, just be safe, because you sure as hell don’t like surprises.
When you’re satisfied you’re alone you walk to the edge of the hill. You peer over the ledge and squint down.
There’s a neighborhood there, at the base of the hill. Or — what used to be a neighborhood. There are houses scattered in a semi-circle, pushing up against the treeline. Big, sprawling, two-story places. The exterior paint is just starting to peel.
It looks like one of those planned communities, with the picture-perfect parks and the plastic playgrounds. All the houses are arranged in a happy cul-de-sac, porches sticking out like a bucktooth smile. There’s a stone sign on the corner, jutting out from the snow. You have to squint, but you can make out the words.
WELCOME TO MAPLE BLUFFS, in brassy gold letters. The top of the S is unbolted. It swings haphazard and scuffs the snow.
That’s not what really catches your eye, though. That’s not what makes your pulse snag.
Someone’s set up camp in the middle of bucktooth-smile Maple Bluffs. There’s a fire in the center of the cul-de-sac, spitting orange sparks onto the snow. And around the fire, in a smaller semi-circle — tents, wooden chairs, tables lined with weapons. Handguns, rifles, knives. One of those red-tipped fire axes you used to see in glass cases. And buckets, wedged into the snow and leaning on table legs, filled to the brim with something gold.
Ammo, you think. Just — buckets and buckets of bullets.
It was hard enough finding five workable arrows for the bow on your back. You’d scrounged for three and made two on your own. This is fucking — unbelievable.
And they have food. You can smell something cooking. There’s something speared across the fire, a hell of a lot bigger than that rabbit you killed.
Your mouth waters. Your fingers tighten on your bow.
There’s movement, down below. One of the doors on the big two-story houses opens and slams shut. Two men step out, side-by-side, and you can hear them laughing from the hill.
You drop to your stomach. You prop yourself on your elbows and inch your head over the ledge.
They trudge down the porch and walk to the fire. One of them checks on whatever’s cooking. The other takes a seat and rubs his hands on his jeans. You can just barely hear them if you block out the wind.
“He’s in a fucking mood,” one says. The one cooking, you think.
“He’s always in a mood,” says Hands-on-Jeans.
“Not like this. Micah asked him ‘bout Tommy and he nearly took his jaw off.”
“Yeah. I saw.”
“Poor kid.”
“Dumb kid.”
There’s silence. Your breath hitches.
Tommy.
It’s a common name. Common enough. But these men are dressed like Joel — black jeans, heavy jackets, holsters dragging at their sides — and you don’t believe in coincidence.
They look like Joel, too. Hard. Mean. Younger, though — and maybe not quite so…rough.
You shuffle half an inch closer. Your pulse rings between your ears.
“Someone’s gotta talk to him,” Cooking Man says.
“Ain’t gonna be me.”
“You scared?”
“Fuck you, man.”
There’s laughter. The one cooking pokes his boot at the fire.
“Saw Tess go up there, ‘bout an hour ago.” He nods towards one of the houses. The biggest one. You follow his head.
The other one barks out a laugh.
“Man, she’ll cheer him up, alright,” he whistles.
The sound snakes up the hill. He turns in his chair and makes a lewd, murky gesture.
His friend grins. You see his teeth in the dark. They lapse into silence and you watch a while longer, until your wrist groans and it’s too dark to see.
You shuffle back from the ledge. Stand up, slowly, when you’re far enough back that the men below won’t see you. You throw your bag through the window of a busted-up Chrysler and follow it inside, cramming your body and your bad hand through the frame. You brush glass off the backseat and curl up on torn leather.
You can’t really complain. It’s the best bed you’ve had in a while.
You can hear laughter again when you close your eyes. It rolls up the hill like a brittle, angry breeze. You hear the crackle of the fire, when someone stomps it out. You hear Joel’s name on someone’s lips, and even though you knew already, you knew, the confirmation keeps you up.
Joel. Joel. Joel.
Joel’s camp. Joel’s men.
You drag your bag closer. Your wrist dangles off the seat, half-supported by your shitty splint. Your heart runs sleepy laps around your chest.
“Joel,” you mutter. His name tastes heavy. Like metal. Like blood. “Found you.”
Turns out, your parking-lot-on-the-hill is a pretty decent hiding place. You have a great view of Joel’s camp, when the sky clears and the day moves in, and no one ever bothers looking up. If they did they might catch you staking them out, with your hood pulled up and your body splayed flat.
But they don’t. They never look. They’re either cocky, or stupid, or lazy — or some combination of the three.
You watch them for hours. Zero sign of Joel. But it’s not a total bust, because you count the rest — eight men and one woman. Tess, you figure. You map their movements when they come and go.
There’s always someone on guard, walking the path from treeline-to-camp. And there’s someone posted on the porch of that centermost house all day long, standing stock still with a gun in his hands.
Besides those two, security is pretty thin. They wander alone or in pairs, never as a pack. They clean their weapons with their backs exposed and their heads dipped down. They don’t seem overly concerned with being found out. Probably has something to do with the buckets of bullets they keep in the snow.
You’re pretty confident in their routine by the time night falls. You’re quiet, and you’re small, and the hood of your jacket conceals your face. If you time it right — which you would, you could — you could sneak past the asshole on patrol, and past the asshole on the porch, and snag some food off of their fire. You’d be long gone before they knew it was missing.
You’d leave tracks. But you could cover those up if you worked quickly. And you wouldn’t be so hungry. You could focus on Joel, and not the pang in your belly.
It’s sounding like a better idea the longer you consider it.
Fuck it, you think. You’re fast. You’re smart. You’re hungry. And they’re just — men.
You’re halfway to your feet when a door slams somewhere below. Three voices trickle up the hillside. You swear softly and drop back down with a huff.
They’re huddled by the fire when you peek over the ledge. You can’t make out their faces, but their hands are lit by firelight. One of them — the one in the middle — is holding something to the flame. It sifts like silk through his fingers and swings in still air.
Your breath catches. Something white-hot settles at the base of your throat.
It’s your brother’s necklace. Thin, gold, tinted orange in the swell of the fire. You can just make out the pendant, hanging heavy at the bottom.
You swear. Your bad wrist bites.
“Motherfuckers,” you mutter. If your wrist wasn’t so fucked, you’d shoot them all from here.
“Could get something for this,” one says.
The necklace swings dangerously close to the flames. You hiss.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” says another. “No one’s trading for gold. It’s useless.”
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” says the third. “Gold’ll always go for somethin’. Food, at least. ‘Nother rifle.”
“Yeah, well, you heard Joel. He doesn’t want it sold.”
“He says a lotta shit these days. Doesn’t mean I gotta listen.”
There’s nervous laughter. A scattered cough. Someone mutters something you can’t hear.
“—won’t even notice it’s gone,” one says. “Might even thank us, when we show him what we traded for.”
More laughter. More mumbles. You shuffle closer and your fist crunches ice.
A new door slams. That centermost house: the one with the shingled, snowy roof and the guard on the porch.
The laughter cuts like a split cord. Your gaze narrows, searching the dark.
Someone stomps down the porch. The guard on the steps shrinks back to let him pass.
He steps out into the snow and you can see him pretty clearly, lit up by the flames and the pale moonlight. He’s not in his vest, or his singed-black boots, or that knotted black bandana — but he’s unmistakable.
Your breath goes quiet, like you’re afraid he’ll hear the beat of your pulse. You wedge your stomach down deeper in the snow.
You can make out the parts of his face licked by firelight. Strong nose, cut jaw, trembling scar zig-zagging his temple. It’s startling, a little, how — handsome he is. How handsome he would be, if he didn’t wear that warped, tangled scowl or that soaked-black glare.
He’s got a ski jacket on, open and unzipped. A hunting knife looped through his belt. A holster on his thigh, buckled to black jeans.
He stalks to the fire and nobody speaks. The three men drift apart, slowly and then all at once.
He’s holding something in his hand. You can see it more clearly when he lifts it to the light.
An apple. A fucking — apple. You haven’t even seen fresh fruit for ages.
He brings it up to his mouth and takes a long, lazy bite. The resulting crunch rides up the hillside.
He chews thoughtfully. No one speaks. Then he lifts his free hand, drags it up, and points to the man with Ali’s necklace.
“Whatcha got?”
The man shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he says. “We were just messin’ around.”
Joel nods. He takes another bite and spits, instead of swallowing.
“Show me your hand,” he says.
The man swallows. Joel’s jaw flickers. His skin glows, orange-red.
“Show me your fuckin’ hand,” he echoes.
The man flinches. He opens his palm and the necklace winks up.
“There,” Joel says. “Wasn’t so fuckin’ hard.”
He sees his apple down on the closest table. It sits there: half-eaten, drizzling juice on the muzzle of a gun.
Then he turns back. Straightens. He digs his knife out of his belt and holds it over the fire. You watch the flames lick at the blade. So do the men.
“Thought I told ya not t’touch it,” he says. He tilts the blade, and the fire coats the other side. The steel burns red.
He looks up from his work. Nods to the other men.
“‘Less I’m rememberin’ wrong,” he drawls.
They shake their heads.
“No,” one says. “No, we remember.”
He nods. He pulls the knife out of the fire and the blade hisses, red-hot. Sparks drag off the edge and die on the snow.
“You remember,” he repeats. His stare shifts: from the two men, to the one with Ali’s necklace. “’N what about you? You forget?”
The man makes a faltering noise. He takes a stumbled step back.
“I remember,” he says. “I remember. I just thought—”
Joel pauses, head cocked. The knife drips from his fist.
“We could trade it. Food, guns—” He looks at his friends for backup. They look at the ground. “It’s useless.”
“It ain’t yours,” Joel growls.
He sniffs. Twists the hilt between his fingers. Heat curls off the blade.
He holds his free hand out, palm-up. Universal symbol for give it here.
The man hesitates. Ali’s necklace hangs in his hand. The pendant swings over the snow.
“C’mon, Joel,” he says. “Ain’t yours, either.”
It’s hard to see exactly what happens next. You’re too far away, and it’s dark, and you can only make out what skirts past the fire. But you hear the scream well enough, and you can fill in the gaps of the moments between.
Joel’s hand is latched around the man’s wrist, forcing his palm up and open. Ali’s necklace is on the ground by the edge of the fire. There’s blood on the snow, as red as Joel’s half-eaten apple, leaking from a gash on the man’s open palm.
The knife Joel’s cut him with is so fucking hot that the wound seals quickly. It blisters, too — which you think is the source of the subsequent scream.
The man reels back, palm clutched to his heart. His whimper breaks on the edge of the hill.
Joel kneels to collect the necklace. He stands with a sigh, brushing his knees, and you watch him stuff the pendant into his jacket pocket.
He cracks his neck, then his knuckles. He shoves his knife point-down in the wooden tabletop, next to his apple, and when he turns back around you could swear his eyes flick up. You could swear he almost sees you, where you’re plastered flat on the ledge of the hill.
You hiss. You flatten yourself further, as far as you can sink. You smash your cheek into the snow and pray to god it’s too dark.
When you look back up he’s gone. There’s blood on the snow and bootprints by the fire. His apple sits perched on the edge of a gun.
His men scatter. The camp is silent for the rest of the night.
So silent, in fact, that you take your chance when you see it. You half-crouch, half-slide your way down the hill — no backpack, no bow — and skirt the edge of Maple Bluffs. You watch the guard on Joel’s porch doze, leaning back on a rotting pillar, and you dart across his peripheral.
There’s no one by the fire. The three men have long since disappeared — two to their tents, and one to the woods. Everyone else is asleep, you assume, or holed up in one of the big, weeping houses. Still — you keep it simple. Nothing ambitious, with no bow and a broken wrist. You duck past the fire, to the table littered with guns — and you swipe Joel’s apple from the pile.
It’s stupid, probably. It’s reckless. You don’t care.
You make it back up the hill without a sound. You eat his apple in the back of that beat-up Chrysler, legs propped against the front seat, gnawing a circle around the mark of his teeth.
You watch his camp for almost a week. You spend your days propped over the ledge, sniper-style, down on your stomach and propped on your hands. As soon as it’s dark you sprint down the hill — you’ve perfected your route, by now — and swipe leftover food from the fringes of the camp.
It seems like every day you sneak down there’s more food than before. It seems wasteful — and improbable, given how many men are sprawled out in this camp. But you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. So you take what you can and you fuck off, back to your snowed-in car on your snowed-in hill, and you wait for your wrist to heal so that you can kill Joel.
It’s better, by the end of the week. Not — better better, but slightly improved. The constant access to ice probably helps. It keeps it from swelling, and your makeshift splint keeps the bone in check.
You still can’t draw your bow. But you could probably handle a knife, if it came down to it.
Which is why you’re a little bolder, by the time night falls at the end of the week.
You know their routes like the back of your hand. Eight men, one Tess, and Joel. You know when they eat, and when they sleep, and when they leave their fire unattended. You know Joel stays in that big, peeling house at the top of the road, with the grey walls and the boarded-up windows. You know Tess follows him inside most nights, and you can guess what they’re doing when the moon comes up.
Tonight’s one of those nights. She trails him up the porch and slips in behind him. The door creaks shut and you start to straighten.
Tonight you’ve got a plan. Tonight you’re eyeing that table at the edge of the fire, full of scattered guns and mismatched parts. It’s mostly handguns — police-grade pistols, silver revolvers — but there’s a rifle on its side, outfitted with a scope. You’ve been eyeing it, the last few nights. It’s got a worn strap and some scuffs on the muzzle, but it’s in pretty good shape otherwise.
They’d notice it was missing. They’re rough, and rowdy, and they make too much noise — but they’d notice you swiped it.
But you don’t need a whole lot of time. You only need one good hand to pull the trigger, and one good eye to stare through the scope, and one good shoulder to prop up your aim — and you only need one good shot, right between Joel’s eyes, before he scents you out.
So — yeah. It’s not a great plan, but it’s a plan. It’s more than you’ve had in a week.
And you owe it to Ali to at least try. He deserves that much. He would have done the same for you.
You sneak into camp late that night. Later than you usually go. The fire is out but the wood is still smoking. Sparks settle and sink in the snow.
You’ll be more exposed if you go for the rifle. You’ll be under the moonlight, in the center of the cul-de-sac. It’s occurring to you now that this is probably why Joel set up shop here, at the very top of a crescent road. It’s like walking into a huge, snowed-in net.
You take a breath. Inch out of the shadows. You glance at the porch-guard, leaning up against the rail. He’s facing away from you, head cast to the ground. You figure it’s as good as you’ll get.
You dart out of the shadows and streak soft across the snow. You skid to a stop by the edge of their weapons table.
You work quickly. As quickly as you can, with just one hand. You find the strap of the rifle and tug it towards you, and the motion makes the other guns clickclickclatter.
“Shit,” you hiss.
You shrink back at the noise. Your foot kicks the ammo bucket wedged in the snow. The plastic rattles and a couple bullets roll free.
“Goddamn it,” you mumble, “—fuck.”
You look up, around — and nothing’s changed. No one’s moved. The houses are asleep and the air is pulled still.
You drag your foot back from the bucket. Tug the strap again, gently this time. The rifle groans across the table.
When it’s out of the pile you reach for it. Wrap a hand around the base. It’s heavier than you expected — especially with one hand — but you can manage. You will manage.
You make to lift it. A gun cocks behind you. The air ripples, then stills.
Your hand freezes, wrapped tight on the rifle. Your shoulders bunch.
“Drop it.”
You drop it. The rifle clatters to the table.
“Hands up.”
You put your good hand up. Your bad wrist dangles at your side.
“Both of ‘em.”
You hoist your broken wrist up. The motion makes you wince.
You don’t risk looking over your shoulder. You know whoever it is, it’s not Joel — the voice is wrong, and his presence isn’t so…heavy. This one sounds younger, less ragged. He’s got a clip in his voice that spells anxious. Or eager. You pray it’s the former.
“Easy,” you say, softly. You stare straight ahead, at the distant treeline and the forest beyond. It’s too far to make a break for it. He’d shoot you two steps in.
So…bargaining, then.
“Look,” you breathe, “I’m not—”
“Shut up.”
He takes a step forward. You hear his boots slushslush. His gun kisses the back of your head.
You flinch.
“What do you want?” he hisses.
You weigh your options.
“A gun,” you say, after a beat. “The rifle.”
“Why?”
“I need it.”
“Why?”
“I want to kill someone.”
There’s silence. The muzzle bites at your head. Then he laughs — short, shallow. It’s not a reassuring sound.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
You don’t like how cold he sounds. That anxious clip has been replaced with something darkly excitable. You try to even out your breaths and keep him talking, because talking is better than dead.
“Turn around,” he says. “Slow. Put your hands on your head.”
You do what he asks. You lace your hands behind your head and turn to face him.
You were right. He is young. Twenty-five, maybe — a hell of a lot closer to your age than Joel. Black hair, black eyes, split lip. There’s a bruise on his jaw in the shape of someone’s knuckles.
“How’d you find us?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” you lie. “I’m with a group. We were just — passing through. They sent me ahead.”
He hisses. His lip curls.
“Bullshit,” he snarls.
“It’s not.”
“It is.” His finger ghosts the trigger. He wags the gun and your skin twitches. “You’re alone.”
“I’m with—”
“You’re not with anyone,” he snaps. “What are you? Twenty? Twenty-three? No gun and a broke hand? No one’s sending you scouting. You’re alone.”
You’re silent. He nods.
“Get on your knees,” he says.
You swallow. You don’t move, not right away, and he doesn’t like that. His finger furls on the trigger.
“Fuck,” you bite. “Fuck. Okay.”
You sink one knee down. Then the other. The knife at your waist digs into your shirt.
“You armed?”
“No,” you lie, again.
He bends down. He pats your jacket, your ribs, the curve of your waist. He digs the knife out of your waistband and straightens back up.
“That’s another fucking lie,” he says. He flicks the blade open. Your fingers flex behind your head. “Strike two.”
“How many strikes til you let me go?”
“Funny,” he says. “That’s funny.”
You scowl up at him. He scowls right back. His eyes rake your face, your neck, the exposed skin on your collar — and you don’t like the way they linger. You’ve seen that look on enough men by now. It makes your stomach turn.
“Okay,” he says. He gnaws his cheek. Nods. “I’ll tell you what, sweetheart. You’re pretty fucked.”
You’re quiet. Your jaw sets.
“You are,” he repeats. He does a short, barking laugh. The muzzle of his gun wavers. “But lucky for you, I’m feeling kind of…generous. You know?”
“No,” you say, drily. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” he jeers.“We can work something out.”
He looks down, suggestively, to the rusting zip on his jeans.
“You make it good for me…” He shrugs. “Maybe I make it good for you.”
You don’t follow his gaze. Your knees shift in the snow.
“Tempting,” you say. “But I think you’d rather you just shoot me.”
His lip turns up. A nasty look carves past his eye.
“Rude bitch,” he spits.
You’re quiet, still. He jerks the gun at your forehead.
“Don’t be fucking ungrateful,” he says.
He shoves his gun back in his waistband and sloshes closer. And you should be relieved, maybe, that the immediate threat is gone — but he’s still got your knife in his hand, and the look on his face is worse than staring down the barrel.
He moves behind you. He grabs your hair with his free hand — yanks your head back, back, — and presses the blade to the flat of your throat. You sputter. You reach instinctively for his wrist, to try and wrench his hand back, and his grip doubles down. A thin line of blood creeps under the knife.
“Say sorry,” he taunts. The blade see-saws on your throat. You suck in a breath and try to hold it.
“Say sorry,” he echoes. He presses harder and you hiss. You can’t help it. A bead of blood sinks to your collar. “C’mon, sweetheart. Real nice. Like you mean it.”
Your pulse hammers at your throat. You swallow, slow. And then —
“Micah.”
You know that voice. You know that voice.
Your eyes flick up. Micah’s knife — your knife — trails off of your throat. It drops to the snow and you snatch it up before it sinks.
You shove it into your sleeve and look up. Blood slips red-hot to your collar.
Joel is standing five feet from you, lit up by the dying fire. It’s the closest you’ve been since he shot that Clicker.
He looks right at you. You can’t read his stare.
“What is this?” he murmurs. His voice is dangerously low.
“She snuck in here,” Micah says. “Caught her trying to steal a rifle.”
Joel hums. The sound rumbles in his chest.
“That right?” he drawls. He’s talking to you.
You look at him. Your jaw pulls tight.
“Fuck you.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
You’re silent. His eyes narrow.
“See?” Micah says.
“Yeah,” Joel muses. “I see.”
He rakes a hand through his stubble. Watches you with that slick-black stare.
“C’mere,” he mutters. To Micah, again. He beckons subtly, two fingers crooked.
Micah moves. He steps around your front and stands between you and Joel.
“Heard ya make her an offer, just now,” Joel says. “Pretty generous. Maybe we can work somethin’ out, right?”
Micah blushes. You can see it, dancing up the back of his neck. He looks at the ground.
“No,” Joel murmurs. “No, y’aint that shy. Look at me.”
Micah looks at him. His hand is shaking.
“What’s the offer?” Joel asks. He frowns a little; spreads his hands. “C’mon. I’m dyin’ t’know.”
Micah shakes his head. He sounds nervous when he speaks. A hell of a lot different than the way he’d snarled at you a minute prior.
“Nothing,” he says. “It was — nothing.”
“No,” Joel says. “No, wasn’t nothin’.”
He sniffs. He looks up at the stars and snow settles in his hair.
“S’okay,” he drawls, when Micah’s quiet. “Think I can guess.”
He takes a lazy step. Micah flinches.
“Go ‘head ’n tell me if I’m close,” Joel says. His voice is low, low. You have to tilt your head to hear him. “She sucks you off, y’let her go? Somethin’ like that? Do a real good job, ’n I won’t cut your throat?”
The silence is fucking — excruciating. Your knees are numb where they sink in the snow.
“It was nothing,” Micah breathes, finally. “Just — talk.”
“Just talk.” Joel nods. “Okay.”
He nods again, like he’s convincing himself. Of what, you don’t know.
“C’mere,” he echoes. “Closer.”
Micah shuffles closer. He’s half a foot from Joel.
Joel sizes him up for a second — just stares at him, with that pitch-black glare — and then his hand comes up, fast, and bunches in Micah’s collar. He drags him down, like he’s yanking on a lead, and Micah crumples head-first to the edge of the table.
His forehead splits on the corner of the wood. You hear it crack first, before you see blood. There’s a twisting crunch of bone, and wood, and a garbled whimper bubbles up in his throat.
You wince. Your nose scrunches. Joel loosens his grip and Micah falls back, clutching his head in his hands.
“Jesus,” Micah whimpers, “Joel, what the fuck—”
“Get up,” Joel growls.
He struggles to his feet. You think he must be dizzy — from the blow, or from the blood, because he wobbles in the snow. His knees buckle.
“Go,” Joel says.
Micah looks confused.
“Go…where?”
“Go,” Joel echoes. “You’re fuckin’ done.”
“I’m done?” He looks incredulous. Blood trickles down his forehead, over his nose and down his chin, and when he opens his mouth his teeth are stained red. “Joel, come on, you can’t be serious—”
Joel makes a low, angry sound. He reaches around his back, under his jacket, and when his hand re-emerges there’s a pistol in his palm. He tugs the hammer back and Micah groans.
“Okay,” he sputters. “Okay. Jesus. Okay.”
He stumbles backward through the snow, hands half-raised in sloppy surrender. When he’s far enough away he turns around, and you see him hit a loping sprint by the trees.
Joel watches him for a minute, maybe two. When his gaze drags back down he looks bored. He shoves his gun back to his waistband and holds out a hand.
For — you, you realize, with a startled sort of jolt.
You stare at it. Then you stand on your own, and he pulls his hand back.
You look at each other. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look quite so bored, anymore.
“Why’d you do that?” you breathe.
His scowl tugs. A muscle ticks in his neck.
“He’s a pig,” he says, quietly. “Don’t like pigs.”
“You’re a killer.”
“There’s a fuckin’ difference,” he growls.
You scoff. It’s empty; hollow. Your fist twitches on frozen air.
“Yeah,” you mutter. Fucking asshole. Psycho. But there’s something — something — flinching confusedly inside you. You yank at it like a stray thread but it just — keeps coming. Keeps coiling low around your core.
You swallow.
“You gonna let me go?” you ask.
“I dunno.” He cocks his head. “You gonna try ’n kill me?”
You look at him. He lifts a brow.
“Yes,” you grit.
“Then no.”
You scoff. Heat dances in your stare.
“I could run,” you say. You’re not sure who you’re convincing.
The edge of his lip pulls, like you’ve said something vaguely amusing.
“Alright,” he says, in that long, Southern spool. “Run.”
But you stay still, sneakers planted in the snow, because there’s nowhere to go and he knows it. If you run back to your hill he’ll follow. If you sprint for the trees he’ll pin you down before you hit pine. You have no backpack, no bow, and no choice but to stand here — because you had to get that stupid fucking rifle.
You’re an idiot. It was stupid, and you’re an idiot, and you could turn back time you’d kick yourself.
Alistair would shake his head if he could see you right now. He was always the careful one. You’re reckless, he’d say, those nights you’d come back with your bow stained bloody. You’ll get us both killed.
He’s right, you think. Always right.
Joel’s watching you. He’s got that look on his face that you can’t quite read.
“Tell ya what,” he drawls. “I’ll give ya a head start. Five seconds, ’n then…”
He moves his jacket aside. Taps the gun on his thigh. It’s a nicer one than the pistol in his waistband — black, sleek, Beretta.
“Or,” he purrs, when your stare tracks his hand, “y’can come with me.”
You push out a breath.
“Come with you,” you repeat. “Come with you where?”
He huffs. So — no answer, then.
“Fuck off,” you mutter. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He shrugs.
“’S up t’you, darlin’.” His hand slides casually to the top of his gun. “But I got real good aim.”
You’re fucked. You both know you’re fucked. You might be quick, but you doubt he’s bluffing. Not with a gun like that.
When you don’t try to run he rolls his tongue across his teeth. His eyes drag from yours.
“Smart girl,” he mutters. He tilts his head toward that centermost house. His house. “C’mon.”
He takes a step forward and waits for you to follow. When you stay put he rolls his eyes.
“Goddamn it,” he mumbles. “Let’s go."
He walks back to you and your good hand flexes, wrapped around the knife you’ve stowed back in your sleeve. The blade clicks open with a soft metal hiss.
One more step, you think. One more step and you can just —
He takes the step. You lunge at him, slashing for his neck, and he dodges you with a freakish kind of speed. His hand comes up, too quickly to process, and wraps tight around your wrist. He squeezes, hard, and the pressure makes your knife drop. He catches it with his free hand, hilt-first, and if it was any other time and any other man you might be mildly impressed.
As it stands now, here, with him — you’re just pissed.
“Nice try,” he drawls. He’s still got that bored half-smile scrawled out across his mouth. It’s not a real smile. It looks like something a lion would wear while it plays with its food. “Real good.”
He wags your knife in your face and stuffs it deep in his back pocket. Then he lopes to your side, and disappears around your back, and you hiss when he gathers your wrists in his hand.
You writhe. Your back presses into his chest. His grip tightens, bearing down, and you notice he keeps most of his pressure on your left wrist even when you struggle. Like he’s acutely aware of your crooked right wrist, and he doesn’t want to grab it too harshly.
Then you think that’s ridiculous, because he’s a psychopath, so you must be imagining it.
He kicks at you with the toe of his boot. You stumble forward with a swear.
Yeah. Definitely just imagining things.
“Nice splint,” he mutters, while he shoves you toward the house. His voice scrapes at the shell of your ear. “Where’d ya get the rope?”
You struggle in response. He clamps down — on your left wrist, just your left wrist — and guides you roughly to the door.
There’s no guard on the porch. You figure it must have been Micah.
Joel herds you up the steps, and through the front door, and he holds you briefly in the hall while he digs in his pockets. You hear the clink of metal keys and his approving grunt. Then you’re moving again, with his hand on your wrists and his chest at your back, and he’s shoving you up a double-wide staircase.
“Where are we going?” you hiss. It’s dark in here, and dank — on account of seven years of disuse — but it’s relatively clean. He must have had his men clear the dust and the cobwebs. It’s nicer than the house you and Ali were holed up in.
“Bedroom,” he mutters.
Your stomach flips. You grind your heels into the staircase and push back against his chest. Your wrists writhe in his hands.
“Fuck,” he growls. He’s stronger than you, and a hell of a lot bigger. All it takes is his free hand on the back of your neck to stop you from struggling.
“Stop,” he snaps. “Jesus. Ain’t — fuck. Ain’t mean it like that.”
“Fuck you,” you spit. “I know exactly what you mean. I know men like you.”
He shoves you roughly to a stop and freezes. His hand tightens on the back of your neck. His voice lingers hot at the dip in your shoulder.
“You don’t know a goddamn thing,” he snarls.
And then you’re moving again, up the last flight of stairs. He’s panting behind you, from the trouble of keeping you still. It’s at least kind of satisfying to know you’re making his life hard.
He shoves you up the last few stairs and you stumble to the landing. There’s a door at the end of the hallway, and he digs it open with the key in his pocket. He lets your wrists go and pushes you past the threshold.
It’s dark. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust. The window on the wall is boarded shut — his doing, you assume — and the light peeking through is silvery-black. There’s a bed in here: Queen-size, white sheets, like the one you used to have at home. There’s a dresser on the far wall. Not much else. No scattered guns. No black clothes piled up on chair-backs. No singed-black boots sprawled on the hardwood. No sign of Joel, at least not in here.
“What is this?” you ask. Your voice sounds small.
“Bedroom,” he repeats.
“Not yours.”
His gaze narrows. You think he looks vaguely offended.
“No,” he says. “Not mine.”
A flicker of relief paints your stomach. But then he takes a step forward, into the dark, and you shrink back into yourself.
“Relax,” he mutters. “Ain’t gonna touch you.”
“You already did,” you hiss.
He shakes his head. Huffs.
He holds his hands up. You notice one of them is still bandaged, where you stabbed him with that arrow. The wrap looks fresh. So he takes care of himself — or someone does. Maybe Tess, you think, with a funny little twinge. You wonder which bedroom she stays in. You wonder if his singed-black boots are stowed next to hers.
Then you stop fucking wondering that, because he’s evil, and he killed your brother, and he’s standing two feet away with that black look in his eye. Get it together.
He sees you staring at his hand. His fingers flex around the bandage.
“Got me pretty good,” he says. “Woulda been better ‘f ya used the bow.”
You glare at him. His jaw flicks.
“You’re, uh —” He points to his throat. You touch a finger to yours and it comes away red.
Fuck. From the blade, where it swiped past your neck. You’ve been so preoccupied you forgot to stop and hurt.
You remember now, though. You wince where your finger drags.
“It’s fine,” you clip.
He clicks his tongue. Shifts his weight from side to side.
“I said it’s fine,” you snap.
Your eyes dart to the door — unguarded, now that he’s not taking up the frame — and his hand flies to his gun.
“Don’t,” he warns.
His voice is cool. Cold. He sounds like the ice that gathers on the house: on the eaves, the roof, the boarded-up windows.
“Sit down,” he growls. “Foot of the bed.”
You sit down. Foot of the bed.
“S’better.” He shoves the gun back in his pants. “Good girl.”
You swallow. Your throat is tight.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he tells you.
He backs out of the room and shuts the door behind him. You hear it lock a second later. It’s darker, without the ambient light in the hallway. You ball your good hand in the sheets and your eyes droop on a reflex.
You didn’t know you were this tired til you met a real bed. It beats the backseat of the Chrysler, at the very least.
He comes back a couple minutes later. You hear his heavy footfalls in the hallway, and the bite of the lock, and then his broad, hulking shadow is slipping inside. He’s ditched his ski jacket, and the sweater underneath. He’s in a plain shirt and black jeans, and if it weren’t for his face he wouldn’t look quite so imposing.
His boots are gone, too. Just black socks on hardwood. Makes his steps quieter, when he crosses the room to the foot of the bed.
You notice his holster is still intact. You’re guessing he’s rarely without it.
“Look up,” he says, flatly.
You do not look up. You look at his hand, and the fabric he’s clutching.
“What is that?”
He looks at his hand. Blinks.
“Towel.”
“I don’t want that.”
“Didn’t ask ‘f ya wanted it,” he growls. “Look up.”
You set your jaw. Then you tilt your chin up, toward the ceiling, exposing your throat to his stare.
He takes half a step forward. The bottom of your chin grazes his tee shirt, just above his heart. He dabs at your throat with the edge of the towel, and the contact makes you flinch.
It’s not…totally unpleasant. The towel is damp, and warm, and it wicks the blood away fast. It leaves something soothing in its wake, and it occurs to you it’s the first warm water you’ve felt in months. You’ve gotten so used to the ice and the cold and the never-ending snowfall — you’d kind of forgotten it could go the other way.
You lean into his touch. Not on purpose, just — on instinct. It feels good.
The towel.
Not his touch.
The towel.
His thumb strokes at the base of your neck. It’s kind of mindless, aimless — the same way you lean closer.
He’s surprisingly gentle, you think. He dabs at the blood and smoothes your skin with his thumb. Again and again, over and over til your eyes hum shut.
And then they snap the fuck open, and you snap the fuck out of it. This is Joel. Scarred, snarling, shoot your brother in the dead of night Joel.
You wrench your neck back from his touch. Sweat beads at your forehead. Your breath comes short and stilted.
“I can do it myself,” you breathe.
He ignores you. He lifts the towel to your neck again and you jerk back.
He pauses. The towel hovers by your throat. He drags it back to his side in a slow, deliberate move.
“You killed my brother,” you say, softly.
Silence stretches. Quiet on quiet. You think you hear him take a breath.
Then he nods, once. The towel hangs from his right hand. Your blood coats the edge of the fabric and the ridge of his fingers.
“Why?” you whisper. “Why did you do that?”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t drop his gaze, either — he holds your stare, second for second, until your lip starts to tremble and you push back tears.
“He was good,” you say, and you hate the way your voice breaks. “He would’ve given you anything. If you had just — asked.”
He’s quiet. A muscle jumps under his neck.
“We’re done here,” he murmurs.
He moves back from the bed and you don’t think, you just — lunge. You wrap your hand around his wrist and your nails sink in, deep enough to break skin.
He sucks in a breath. His pulse twitches in your palm.
“I said we’re fuckin’ done,” he growls.
He rips his hand away. Your fingers fall back to the sheets. He turns his back on you; stalks toward the door, and something desperate bubbles up in your throat.
Fuck you, you want to spit.
“I hate you,” you blurt, instead. It’s watery. Almost pleading. A week of frozen mourning for your brother, thawed out and boiled over.
“Fuck.” Your vision blurs. Tears wobble on your waterline. “Fuck, I hate you.”
His hand hesitates on the door handle.
“You should have let me die,” you say, softly. “The night of the fire. I know you f—I know you pulled me out.”
He’s still. His shoulder jumps.
“Fuck you,” you say, shoving out a breath. “You should have left me.”
He twists the handle. His muscles twitch under his tee shirt. He looks over his shoulder for a split second, and his eyes are fucking — dark. Angry. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he looks disgusted. With you, maybe, or himself, or with something else you can’t place.
Then he turns. Away from you.
“There’s clothes,” he says, quietly. “In the dresser.”
The door slams behind him. You hear it lock from the outside.
You wake up the next morning upsettingly well-rested.
You sit up. Blink. The sheets slough around your waist.
You slept in your clothes — all of them, jacket included — because you’ll be damned if you’re getting naked with Joel halfway down the hall.
You could hear him last night. He’d been up for hours, after he’d left your room. Just — pacing, back and forth, padding down the hallway with those heavy footfalls. He’d stopped a couple times outside your door. You could hear his breath in the dark.
And then he’d turn, and his shadow would ebb, and he’d trudge down the hall like a spurned ghost.
And you’d eventually fallen asleep. In a real bed. For the first time in god knows how long — in Joel’s room, in Joel’s house, in Joel’s camp.
Joel. Killed your brother Joel. Cleaned your wounds, and gave you food, and shot the hell out of a Clicker Joel. Shut you in a locked room Joel. Cracked a man’s head who looked at you funny Joel.
You dig at your temple with the heel of your hand. You can feel another headache coming on.
Someone knocks at your door. You drag your knees to your chest and wrap your jacket tighter.
“Yeah,” you clip.
The lock clicks. The door eases open. Joel’s boots nudge across the threshold. You wonder to yourself when he put them back on.
He lets himself in and the door clicks behind him. You watch him from the center of the bed, curled in on yourself like a coiled snake, fingers grasping at the sheets for some sort of purchase.
He doesn’t acknowledge you. He doesn’t even look at you. He just walks to the dresser, and bends halfway down, and leaves your bow and your backpack in a neat little pile.
Your limbs unfurl. You sit up straighter.
“What—” your voice is dry — from the crying, or from sleep, “—what are you doing?”
He sniffs. Shrugs. He leans a lazy shoulder into the wall.
You stare at your stuff. Someone’s tampered with it: the dirt caked on your bow has been wiped clean, and someone’s duct-taped the faulty strap on your bag.
“That’s my stuff,” you say. You’re not quite awake, yet. You’re still working sleep from your eyes, your throat. “But you—I left it in the—”
In the car. On the hill. Where I’ve been watching you for days.
The sleep clears. You blink at him: once, twice.
“What the fuck,” you breathe. “You knew?”
He’s quiet. He picks at a rogue nail with the edge of his finger.
“How long?” you demand. “How long did you know I was there?”
He looks up. Shrugs.
“‘Bout a week,” he drawls. “Give or take.”
“A w—the whole time?” You stare at him, incredulous. “You knew the whole time?”
He cocks his head. His smile crooks. He looks infuriatingly smug like this, slouched up against the wall. He shoves his sleeves up his arms and the tendons there tick.
“The food,” you say, suddenly angry. “You f—you left that food out.”
“You’re welcome,” he drawls.
“I don’t want your handouts,” you snarl.
“Had no problem takin’ ‘em.”
You glare at him. God, you fucking — you hate him. You hate the stupid, arrogant slope of his words. You hate the permanent scowl sketched into his face. You hate the easy flex of his trigger finger.
His gaze drops; darkens. He shoves himself off the wall.
“Coulda let ya starve,” he says, “‘f you’d ‘a preferred that. Or freeze. Y’ain’t makin’ it far on that wrist.”
You can’t tell if that’s a threat, or just the truth. You settle for silence.
“There’s a better splint, ’n in the bag,” he says, nodding to your backpack. “Suggest ya use it.”
You look at your backpack. At the freshly-duct-taped strap, and the glistening zipper. Someone’s been in there, scrounging around. Your five feathered arrows still stick out the top.
“Where’d you get a splint?” you ask, quietly. “That’s med stuff. It’s fucking—impossible to find.”
He shrugs again. Rakes a hand through his stubble.
“Use it,” he repeats.
You stare at him. And you’re about to nod, despite yourself, when your door opens again. A woman — Tess, you think, this must be Tess — pokes her head through.
You’ve never seen her up close. Only in glimpses, from your ledge on the hill.
She’s pretty. Older than you — closer to Joel’s age than you are. Brown hair, tied back. A ski jacket like Joel’s. A rifle slung across her back, not unlike the one you tried to steal.
She looks at Joel. Then at you. She gives a brief, perfunctory nod.
“Tess,” she says.
I know, you want to say. You settle for a low, mumbled version of your name instead.
You’re not sure she even hears you. You’re not sure she’s listening. She turns back to Joel, hands pitched on her hips.
“We got a tip,” she says. She nods at the door. “Can fill ya in out here, if you—”
“’S fine,” Joel clips. He looks at you. Tilts his head. “She can hear. She ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Your skin pricks. Fuck you.
Tess shrugs. “Couple miles South,” she says. “There’s a group passing through the old Depot. Danny scouted ‘em.”
He nods.
“Anythin’ good?”
“Some food. Supplies. Whiskey.”
Joel lifts a brow. Tess smiles.
“Thought you’d like that,” she says.
“Armed?” Joel asks.
“Danny says no. Didn’t see any weapons. Gotta be pretty stupid, wandering without a gun.”
“Or desperate,” Joel hums. He studies you aimlessly, eyes grazing.
Tess follows his gaze. Her brows pull.
“Alright,” he says, after a long, searching silence. He rolls his shoulders. “Load the truck.”
“You don’t wanna wait?” Tess asks. There’s something anxious in her voice. “In case Tommy—?”
Joel whips to face her. His fist is closed at his side.
“Tommy ain’t here,” he snarls. “Load the goddamn truck.”
Tess nods.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Okay.”
She leaves in a hurry. You hear her footsteps on the stairs.
Joel’s gaze redirects. He looks at you. Clips his chin.
“You,” he drags. “Get up. You’re comin’.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want it louder? Slower? You fuckin’ heard me. Get up. You’re comin’.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Jesus,” he growls. You get the sense his patience is out. Not that he had much to begin with. He stalks closer, toward the bed, and you shuffle off the sheets before he can grab you.
He stands. Stares at you.
“Get dressed,” he says.
“I am dressed.”
“You’re a fuckin’ mess. Get dressed.”
You swallow. But you don’t fight him, because he’s right. You’ve been wearing the same jacket since you and Ali started running, a year ago now. It’s ripped in three places and stitched in two more. There’s a tear in your jeans where snow’s been seeping through. The soles of your sneakers are coming unglued.
You tug at one of the dresser drawers. Your brow lifts.
Underwear, sweaters, jeans. Wool socks. It all looks a little big for you, but it’s better than the shitshow you’re wearing now.
“Is this stuff Tess’s?” you ask.
“What?”
“These clothes,” you say. “Are these Tess’s?”
“Fuck,” he mumbles. He sounds annoyed. “No.”
You dig a sweater from the top. Black, heavy, crewneck. It’ll be good in the snow. You pull it out and hold it up to your chest.
“Are you gonna…” You look at the door. “I don’t know. Get the fuck out?”
He looks at the door. Then at you.
“No,” he says, again.
“Then can you at least--” You wave your hand. He takes the hint.
He rolls his eyes, but he does what you ask. He turns around, facing the corner, and his big broad shoulders bunch in annoyance.
You wait a second. Then two. Just to make sure he stays put. Then you drag your jacket off, and your shirt, and you pull the new sweater over your head.
“Is she, like—” you work your jeans down, then your underwear, “—your girlfriend?”
He doesn’t answer. You shimmy into new jeans.
“Tess,” you clarify.
He grunts.
“Did you kidnap her, too?” you ask, shoving wool socks on. It takes longer, using just one hand. You have to wrestle them over your ankles. “Or is she, like, also insane?”
He mumbles something. You don’t hear what.
“What?” you ask. You snap the second sock on.
“Didn’t kidnap you,” he says.
“Oh, really? So I’m free to go?”
He turns around. His jaw is twitching. You’ve clearly touched a nerve, or twenty.
“No,” he says, flatly.
“Then why don’t you just kill me?”
“Don’t wanna kill you.”
“You killed my brother.”
“That was different.”
“Different,” you repeat. “Like how you and that guy Micah were so different, right?”
He’s silent. His breath falls.
“Get dressed,” he repeats, turning back to the wall. “’N put that splint on.”
They keep the truck in the garage of one of the houses. It’s got one of those automatic scrolling doors, but the batteries are long-shot — so it takes two of Joel’s men to manually shove it up.
They get the engine going and stand lazy guard by the doors. Joel marches you out a few minutes later and a vague murmur of interest goes up.
He was right, that the new splint is a hell of a lot better. It’s one of those black velcro things they used to sell at Rite-Aid, before Outbreak day. It’s meant for a sprain, but it’s a step up from bark and fraying rope.
He doesn’t bother tying your hands. He marches you to the truck with a hand on your arm, heavy enough to stain but not enough to bruise.
“Alright, Miller,” one of his guys says. He claps Joel on the shoulder when he passes. “New toy?”
Joel’s fast. You give him that much. The grip he’s got on your arm doesn’t even loosen. He just — pulls to a stop, and whips his shoulder around, and stares that man down with a look that cuts stone.
The man self-corrects. His breath stumbles. You recognize him, from that night with Ali’s necklace. He’s got a brand-new scar bleeding hot across his palm.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “My bad.”
The grip on your arm tightens. Joel sniffs.
“Get the fuck outta my sight,” he growls.
The man scurries away. Joel shoves the truck door open and pushes you into the backseat. You climb up with a mumbled huff.
He slams the door behind you. Your shoulders grate into the seat. You can hear him barking orders at the men — load this up, Tess’s in charge while I’m gone, don’t be fuckin’ stupid —
And then he’s quiet. You hear his boots crunch. He walks back around the truck, into your field of vision.
“Fuck are you lookin’ at?” he growls.
You sit up straighter. Bump your forehead to the window. He must be talking to one of the men, but you can’t quite see.
The man says something in response. You don’t hear what. But you hear Joel’s response, muddled behind glass.
“She ain’t your business,” he snarls. And then, a moment later, in a voice that makes your stomach swirl —
“She’s mine.”
You pull back from the window. Your heartbeat hammers in your chest. Joel thuds back to the truck, and when he wrenches the driver’s door open you’re silent. He throws his bag to the front seat and slings his rifle through the straps. The muzzle clicktaps the window.
He slides to his seat and you look at his head.
There’s noise behind the truck. You turn halfway in your seat and watch two, three men climb into the truck-bed and sit sidelong by their rifles. This must be the backup crew.
“No Tess?” you mumble.
He’s quiet. Then —
“No,” he clips. He puts the truck in gear. The wheels spin. The men jostle each other in the bed of the truck.
“There’s room in the backseat,” you say, drily.
His gaze flicks up. You see his eyes in the mirror, stained black.
There is room in the backseat. A lot of it. It’s just — right next to you.
“No there ain’t,” he growls.
Your cheeks heat. His words run laps around your ribcage.
She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s mine.
“Why?” you snap. “Worried they’ll touch what’s yours?”
His knuckles tighten on the wheel.
“’S a long drive,” he murmurs. “Suggest y’keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.”
🤣🤣 After changing the plot I like it so much better. It's 1k+ and growing. Hubs has been on vacation at home so no writing was getting done while we had some much needed "us time" & family time. 💜🥰💜
Hey @yourwinchesterbros ! *waving* 💜💜 Remember the Tig idea we talked about that I wanted to write for you? Well it's in the lab and being hammered out. 😉
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