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sunflowersteves · 1 year

Text

only for you || j.m.

pairing || joel miller x fem!reader

summary || there was one routine that you and Joel never broke, not even when the world goes up in flames.

author's note || a part two to singing in the shower! but also can be read as a stand alone. this was supposed to be posted two sunday’s ago but um procrastination kicked in. hope you enjoy <3

warnings || angst, some fluff, mentions of death, canon typical violence mentions, reader is five years younger, soft!joel, hurt/comfort, joel with wet hair, SMUT, vaginal sex, praise kink, soft sex, creampie, soft dom!joel, [18+ only]

Joel wasn’t as soft as he used to be.

His calm, gentle smile that shined when you and Sarah danced around in the kitchen, listening to Johnny Cash, had faded into hard lines and gray stubble. His movements were brash and jarring, almost threatening with his hard-set glare that bore into everyone around him.

He never smiled anymore, not really.

His lips would quirk slightly upwards in amusement from your insults to other people in the QZ that deserved it, or his lips would curl in delight from the safe haven of his apartment, but that was all you really got. You didn’t complain much, though. It wasn't like you smiled that often either.

Only with him. Only with each other.

Instead, Joel tended to show his affection toward you in ways of touch.

He was protective—that much is true. Any time you had to leave the albeit protection of Boston for whatever reason, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. He would have his hand guiding you by the small of your back. His arm would reach out to stop you from walking any further to the dangerous depths of the unknown.

He always squeezed your wrist in anticipation of what was to come. He never lets you walk behind him, ever. You are always first. He would make hard-set rules with you on outing trips, despite the grit of your teeth from irritation.

It wasn’t that he thought you couldn’t handle yourself. No, he knew that. He has watched you decapitate a shambler or two over the years. He has seen you take on about five men at a time and make it out with only a couple of stab wounds. He knows you can handle yourself just fine.

He just couldn't bear to lose you. Not on his watch. He has lost a fuck ton in his life, and the thought of losing something that is keeping him on his last thread and something so pure and good to him—well, it terrifies him.

You are the only thing that matters to him.

So, his only way of truly showing affection, to know nothing has changed with how he truly feels about you, was through his feather-light touches and protective manner.

It was endearing, really. You knew he still loves, and fuck, did you still love too.

There was one guarantee, though, through all of his overbearing protectiveness and crinkled wrinkles of menacingly deadly eyes that you knew Joel was still enamored by you. There was one constant—a routine that never changed. If there was one thing he could look forward to, it was that constant. It was you that he could rely on.

It was simple, really. It almost seemed stupid that there was one moment in time every single day that the two of you could count on one another.

You both always showered together. Always.

It didn’t matter if the water was cold or if there was barely even any water, to begin with. It didn’t even matter if you weren’t in the QZ. Overgrown hot springs and vastly green rivers still counted as getting clean. The shower walls of your shared apartment weren't the biggest, either, but the two of you made it work.

But that one constant that he could always look forward to was holding you in the shower and pressing gentle kisses against the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

He craved it.

Joel would always walk through the front door with a grunt after getting home from smuggling Oxy to some FEDRA soldier with Tess. He was tired, absolutely exhausted. He was like that pretty much every day, and he could feel his age catching up with him.

You were sitting criss crossed on the beat-up couch, reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. He could feel something beat and sprout across his chest at the sight. You have read that book probably about ten times by now, and yet you read it all the same with an immersed furrowed brow.

He had gotten the book for your birthday a couple of years ago. He watched you unwrap the shitty old newspaper with animated eyes as you stared at the cover.

He could’ve sworn he saw tears on your lash line. You enveloped him into a hug—hands pressing tightly against his back to keep him close and you kept him there. You both sat like that for a long time.

He always loved watching you read. He didn’t pay that much attention before everything went to shit, but now, it was his favorite pastime.

Your lips would lick the corner of your mouth in concentration, and your eyes rapidly scanned each individual page as if you were hanging on the edge of your seat. It was always a heartfelt reminder for him of you—of how much he truly cherishes you.

Before the outbreak, you had been a philosophy professor at UT Austin. It’s how you met, actually. You were grading papers in a coffee shop when you saw the two of them walk in. Sarah had begged him for a chocolate chip muffin, and since it was a special occasion to be in the heart of the city, he couldn’t resist saying yes. He had accidentally bumped into your table, causing the three of you to have a lengthy conversation as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Long day, handsome?”

His eyes focus back on you. It was like his thoughts had put him in a trance until your soft voice punctured the air.

You were peering through the dusty book, and a ghost of a smile wrapped around your lips. He nodded, stretching out his hand for you to take it. You dog-eared the book and placed it face down on the couch. You took his hand—feeling the dry calluses and rough skin.

“Long fuckin’ day.”

He guided you to the cramped bathroom, and you squeezed his hand. He turned on the shower head while you took off your shirt and pants. A shiver ran through your body from the lack of isolated heat. He did the same, unbuttoning his plaid shirt and tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

He stepped into the shower to place his hand under the water to test it as if he didn’t know that the water was barely even warm. He did it every single time you two bathed. Every time. It was all routine.

You let him guide you into the shower, eyes noticing his own trailing down your figure. Every single day, he couldn’t help but look at your beautiful curves and supple skin.

He wanted to admire you for the rest of his days. He wanted the scene of you washing your body of dirt and grime to be seared into his brain like a farmer branding some cattle. You close the curtain behind you and watch as his eyes never leave you.

“Pretty girl.” He whispered into your ear. You felt yourself softly smile—something you hadn’t done in hours, not since Joel woke you up with a kiss on your cheek.

You let the feeling of him wash over your body and soul, his arms wrapping around your torso and pulling you close. He smelled earthy and bold, with a hint of cedar from his own musk. You could feel his chest fall and rise against your shoulder blades, and his chin dug into your shoulder—endearingly.

You let out a hum before untangling his arms. As much as you love these moments, you know you shouldn't waste too much water. You rubbed a shampoo bar into your hands and lathered them together to create a sudsy mess. Joel felt his eyes flutter close in anticipation for your hands to dig into his hair.

He lets out a soft moan when your hands finally grab hold of his hair. His jaw slacks open, and you try to suppress a smile from his relaxed state. Your hands scratched against his scalp to clean all of the dirt and oil off of him. Joel’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head from the euphoric emotions that sunk deep within his chest.

His eyes snap open in disbelief when he feels your hands leave his hair, and you almost laughed aloud. He could see the amused expression radiate off of you, and he felt himself heat up—you never failed to make him feel a certain way.

You gasped as you felt his hand harshly grip your hips, but you saw a bright smile wrapping around his face that almost made you freeze. His smile. It punctured the air and made your head feel dizzy with delight. Your eyes rake over his pearly teeth and deep wrinkled lines on his cheeks. It was ethereal. He was ethereal.

“What you starin’ at, pretty girl?”

You pressed your thumb into the crevasse of his dimple, and his eyes fluttered back closed. “I think you’re the pretty one.”

He lets out a small snort. “Not a day in hell.” His Texas accent was gruff against the planes of your ear. His hand trailed itself up to rest on your cheek, thumb swiping so soft and caring that it brought a bigger smile to your lips. “Ain’t pretty at all.”

“I beg to differ, Miller.” His eyes crinkled in a smile at the use of his last name—knowing you were super serious now. But the teasing gleam of your eyes told him otherwise. “You’re too pretty.”

He clicks his tongue. “Too pretty, huh? Think I’m takin’ a run for your money?”

You shake your head in bubbled-up laughter—adoration spreading from your shoulders to your toes. Throughout all of the tragedy and suffering this world has put the two of you through, you are so elated to have each other.

“Oh, handsome, you took it and buried it deep.” He rolled his eyes and gently pinched your cheek to get you to stop teasing. Although, if there’s one dynamic that never changed, it was giving each other shit.

He lets out a huff. “Whatever you say.”

You gently guided him under the stream of water and rinsed out all of the shampoo. You cupped a hand over his eyes to avoid any product from stinging his eyes. You turn to pump some expired conditioner in your hands, but his rough fingertips halt you to a stop.

“Your turn, darlin’.”

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

After Joel relaxed in the lukewarm shower with you, he always got a little soft. Even if the shower was no less than five minutes, you could always tell how much he enjoyed it.

It reminded him of home. It reminded him a little bit of what once was or what could be.

He always stares—lovingly—at your newly clean body. He watched your chest rise and fall so gently from the calm atmosphere of your apartment.

His soft brown eyes skated across your figure with such love—such hope and elation. He felt like he was in pure bliss just from the exhilarated feeling of the thrill of your gentle touches caressing his skin.

He felt whole in these moments with you.

He watched you gently rub expired lotion onto your skin. Boston was always humid and lacked the airy feel of dry Texas winters, but the frigid cold of light snowfall always broke out your skin. Joel loved to feel your soft curves, and his hands would spread across your legs to relish in the feeling. He was obsessed with your thighs, too, gripping and nipping at them until you had to tug his hands away.

You stood near the bed to find that his eyes were already on you—his naked form sitting on the uncomfortable mattress. His wet hair glistened underneath the yellow glow of the overhead light. He looked so handsome like that. The gray hairs poked loudly against his soft brown ones, and you watched as the water dripped down his neck.

“C’mere.” You didn’t need to be told twice before taking your seat onto his legs—straddling his waist and your hands gripping his shoulder. His thighs were tense and hard, muscles flexing underneath your own.

“Y’smell so sweet—” He whispered into the frizz of your hair. His hands rested on your hips, while his fingertips squeezed around your love handles. “Could eat you right up.”

You looked into those grumpy brown eyes, and pure adoration sprouted from your chest and into your lungs. He was intoxicating in each and every way, from his rough exterior to his soft lingering touches that send love aches into your bones.

“Joel.” You whispered.

You pressed your lips against him, tasting burnt coffee and of him, that lingered in your mouth. Your lips were molding together with each open-mouthed kiss and teeth clashing to be closer and closer. You could feel yourself start to squirm in his lap, and he had to have a tight grip just to keep you somewhat still.

Your hands pushed themselves into his damp hair, spreading your fingers across each strand. You pulled gently at the base of his neck, and a moan vibrated against your lips.

He pulled away from you—much to your dismay—to reach and pull down your underwear. The material pooled around your ankles, and you anticipatingly shrugged them off.

“Gonna take care of you, sweet girl.”

You shivered from the suspense of what was to come, but you wanted to stop him from taking control. He deserved to be loved on too. He deserved to feel the euphoric dance that pooled in his stomach just like you did.

You shook your head. “W-Wanna ride you, Joel. Please.” He let out a shaky breath because god, he could never say no to you. You could ask for all the stars in the sky, and he would give them to you in a heartbeat.

He finally nodded after gaining composure and re-adjusted his hands to rest more gently on your torso. You could tell your wetness dripped from your lips and spread to your hood. Your walls ache and plead for the sweet stretch of his cock.

You watched his cock twitch from your glistening cunt. He knew you were wet. He always knew. He could practically taste it on his tongue if he thought hard enough, but his brain couldn’t catch up. Not when you take your hand to position his length and slowly sink down onto him.

He let out a groan as he listened to your sweet whimpers. “S-Shit.”

You both stayed still for a moment while you caught your breath from the long stretch of his cock. No matter the twenty or so years you have been together, you could never get used to his thick cock filling you up to the brim.

“Fuck, baby, feel so fuckin’ tight.” And you always did. You always hugged him completely and squeezed until your juices ran down his thighs. You were always fucking heaven.

The gentlest of moans left your throat, and as if he wanted to capture them, Joel started pressing kisses up and down your neck. “Y’take me so well, darlin’.”

You grind up and sink your way back down, a whine escaping you. His eyes are glued to watching himself disappear inside of you—hands tightening once again around your love handles. “Goddamn, baby—”

“Fuck, Joel. Yes—”

Your thighs spread even wider as you snapped back down his length—the soft cushion of the bedspread flushed against your knees. “You like this hmm? Like bein’ in control?” His words slurred together, and he took in every snap and roll of your hips.

You nodded. “Love when you’re a mess for me, Joel.” Your head lulled back, and he groaned—sultry and deep as it hit your ears. “Yeah, Joel, Yes—”

Your hand moved to cup his cheek in the softest of ways and it made Joel’s brain short-circuit. He whimpered at the contact of your skin and the simultaneous rock of your hips. You could barely make out the next sentence he says because you squeezed his cock, and Joel became too drunk off of you.

“Fuck, d-darlin’, baby—shit—” He gasped and puffed—chest heaving from the pure sensation of your spongey walls. You started to feel that familiar coil wrap against your stomach, pushing yourself to find that angle.

You started to lean more toward the side to grind and swirl your hips as fast as you could. You could tell the angle wasn’t quite right, so you tried again—gasping and moaning in the process. You almost wanted to groan in frustration alone when you still couldn’t find it.

Joel just watched in amusement as you tried to find the spot he was always able to find. He almost didn’t say anything from your adorable expression until he saw the frown across your face.

“You want me to help, darlin’?” You looked down to see a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. You almost wanted to say no, but you ground your hips again, causing the two of you to moan, and you gave in.

You mewled out. “Please, Joel. I-I need you.”

In one swift movement, Joel flipped you over so that your back was pressed up against the mattress. He presses a kiss to your calf as if it gave you any warning. He swung your leg right over his shoulder and thrust so deep inside you; you had to hold onto the bedroom wall behind you. “Fuck! Joel!”

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so good.” His cock pounded into you, and he hit that spot over and over and over. You screamed into the night air and chanted his name as if it was the only thing on your mind—and it was. All you could think about was Joel.

“Joel! P-Please! Oh, Fuck—”

“Yeah? Gonna cum, sweet girl?” You couldn't even respond back to him because his thumb presses up against your clit, and your jaw slacks in a silent scream. “Cum for me. Please, pretty girl. Cum.”

With a “JoelJoelJoel” and a clench of your walls, your juices flood around yours and his own thighs. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he thrusts through your climax. “Yeah. That’s it, darlin’. Look at you. Pretty thing.” He almost coos. He could watch you cum around his cock until it was the only thing he thought about.

One, two, three thrusts into your sweet ecstasy, and Joel sighs out your name as he spills inside of you. Thick ropes of his cum filled your walls, and it caused you to clench once more. He pumped his cock to feel the sticky mess of his cum and yours as they swirled together inside of you.

“So good for takin’ care of me, huh?” He joked, breathless. He pressed a sweet kiss to your temple.

You fought the urge to punch his arm. Instead, you rolled over so your back was facing him.

“Shut the fuck up, Miller.”

He pulled you close and wrapped his arm around your torso. You reach around to squeeze his hand, causing a shadow of a smile to stretch his cheeks. You both always cuddled silently before having to take another, very cold, shower.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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yourwinchesterbros · 8 months

Text

THE TWO OF US

Paring – Joel Miller x Fem reader / 10.3K Words

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.

“Night sweetheart”.

#joel miller #tlof #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #reader x joel miller #the last of us #the two of us #daddy joel #pedro pascal #pedro is daddy

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assiraphales · 1 year

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nah I’m not even convinced humanity even needed a cure in the last of us for humanity’s survival. they should have all been putting more effort into towns like maria & tommy’s commune instead. the infected WERE manageable and they had a lot of weaknesses. fire, head wounds. they eventually dried up and died, as did the hosts. building defendable towns in the wilderness/remote areas was the best option opposed to living in dangerous and crumbling cities. as Kansas City proved, it was possible to round up large herds of infected — their problem was they never eliminated them. fedra and the fireflies spent so much time in a battle for power they couldn’t think straight. they never wanted to help people only control them, or else they would be actively implementing practical ways to make life better for survivors. the cure would help but wouldn’t solve the worst problems about the apocalypse

#tlou #the last of us #tlou spoilers

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raya-rhaenyra-ahsoka · 1 year

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Things Joel "You're cargo/I'm not her dad" Miller did for his not-daughter, Ellie "I'm not family/He's not my dad" Williams (Part 2)

1. Attacking a FEDRA soldier to defend her.

2. Dragging her away after Tess said, Save who you can save.

3. Lending her his jacket.

4. Suggesting to use a different route so she won't have see the skeletal remains.

5. Telling her to get more sleep even though he barely slept himself.

6. Keeping Henry from pointing the gun at her.

7. Shoving her behind him to protect her from Maria's party.

8. Giving her a choice and not hesitating when she chose to go with him instead of Tommy.

9. Urging her to go on and leave him to die.

10. Holding her hand for reassurance once he found out she didn't actually leave him.

There's still gonna be more.

#the last of us #the last of us hbo max #tlou #hbo tlou #joel miller #ellie williams #bella ramsey #pedro pascal #joel and ellie

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corazondebeskar-reads · 9 days

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of rage and ruin - chapter two

of rage and ruin series

chapter two

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.3k

summary: you come face to face with the beast.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, allusions to/threats of torture, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), depiction of injury, body horror, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, viewer discretion is advised,

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

They were careful never to touch you. The exam you’d been given when they first brought you here was done with thick rubber gloves, and no one has touched you since.

But there are plenty of ways to teach you compliance without touching you.

Before they moved you, you didn’t see a soul for two days. No one delivered or removed the cloth strips, food, or water. No one woke you up with a loud buzzer or dragged you outside to hose you down.

No one hurt you.

The first few hours, you sit and do nothing as usual. You don’t really notice.

After that, though, you start to wait. This deviation, this anomaly, was far more terrifying than the wretched routine. And with no meals, you’re bereft of a way to count the passing of time. There’s no sunlight down here, after all.

To your deep relief, the lights still go off at night. Until you’re lying awake in the dark and realize they’re probably on a timer. So maybe all your captors are dead. Made a stupid mistake and got their asses handed to them by FEDRA.

Which would be nice, but also, you’d still fucking die. Because you’re trapped in this godforsaken grimy ass basement, and somewhere on the other side of it is the only other resident you know of. Him.

So either you starve to death, or he eats you. Or both.

You spend the next day hoping to see Cheryl’s smug bitch face.

When someone finally comes for you, it’s not Cheryl. It’s not Jim, either, but that’s not a surprise. He doesn’t like you, doesn’t like whatever Cheryl’s doing with you.

Not because he has any objections to the captivity or abuse. No, Jim’s been clear—you’re a waste of resources.

Anyway, it’s fucking Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber who show up. They’re not real twins (you’re not even sure they’re brothers), but they’re a damn good argument for nurture over nature. Spending the apocalypse together has them moving in tandem, grunting and jerking their heads to one another in a language all their own. They’re built like oxen and about as polite.

You don’t fight anymore, but they still tie you and drag you around. You haven’t so much as argued in weeks. You’ve heard that everyone breaks from torture eventually. You waved your flag from the start.

You’re not made for this.

They tie you up without touching your skin; hands layered in gloves just in case. They leave a length of rope from your wrists to pull you by, leaving the rope around your feet as it was. You had earned that six inches of slack, just enough to stand and walk to the makeshift toilet instead of crawling, after a solid week of good behavior.

When you figure it out, though, you try to run. Every electric screaming nerve in your body says to go. Go where? Who fucking knows. Anywhere. Away. Run.

The room they’ve brought to you is saturated in oaky musk, and you only need a glimpse of the little cage within before you’re jerking backward.

They must have gotten used to your compliance because the rope flies from Tweedle Dumb’s grasp. The three of you stand still for a moment, all shocked by the turn of events.

You turn to run, but it’s too late already. One of them swept your fucking legs like this was an action movie, and bound as you are, that’s the end of the fight. You crash and earn yourself some new bruises, and they drag you into the room by the rope between your feet.

One of them—you’ve forgotten who had which nickname in all the hubbub—snaps out a baton.

“Get in the fuckin’ cage, or I’ll break your ankles.”

It’s a strong argument that you have no desire to see if he’ll follow through on. Already hurt and humiliated, you crawl into the cage.

They lock it behind you and leave without another word. The lights go out with a buzz, casting everything you hadn’t taken in yet in total darkness.

When the lights come back on, you wish they hadn’t.

At first, you don’t even realize they’ve flickered to life, because what they’ve revealed isn’t real.

It’s a big, brown Rorschach blob. It’s an oil spill. It’s moving, in a jerky, fluid way that should be impossible. The limbs have pointed bony joints, and you can only describe the way they crawl as spidery, though they’re thick and bulky.

Jim is standing on the other side of the gate, holding onto a thick chain that rattles and creaks dangerously as the beast strains against the thick metal band around its neck. He looks bored, but he usually does.

Cheryl, however. The way her lips are curled, eyes wide and bright… this must be him.

“Don’t you know what happens to the others? The alphas?” she had teased the night of all the howling. She had laughed at the traitorously dumbfounded look on your face.

You do now.

A long pink tongue has unfurled from his massive jaw, flopped over far too many teeth, and dripping thick saliva onto the floor. The… fur, for lack of a better word, around his muzzle is matted with something dark that you can’t look at anymore.

Jim yanks him by the chain, and the creature lets himself be pulled to the door, barely holding still while the padlock and chain are removed from his collar and the cuffs from his paws.

He’s at the end of your cage before you realize he’s moved, and you scream, scrambling back as much as you can into the corner. The spaces between the bars are thin enough for just his… good god, are those fingers? They certainly aren’t canine toes. They’re tipped in thick, long claws packed with soil and detritus.

“Hey,” Jim barks, and the beast side-eyes him. “Remember what I fuckin’ told you. You break or eat her? That’s it. I’m not getting you another one.”

Eat? Eat?

Oh god.

Your stomach swoops and falls, abdomen clenching and drawing attention to your too-full bladder, unlocking a new fear that you’re going to piss yourself if he comes closer.

He does. You don’t. But just barely.

That long, dark snout pushes against the cage, as if it could nudge through to reach you, pink tongue lapping against the air. The oak musk is so strong now that it lines your throat and makes you gag.

You choke back a retch-turned-sob and he rumbles, a strange vibration that rattles the bars where he’s pressed against them. He rises, stretching up up up on his hind legs until he towers over your little cube, enveloping you in his shadow, and you can’t help it. You start to cry.

He can’t reach you, not when you’re tucked back in the corner of your cage. But he can smell you, and he can smell the rich iron soaking into the ropes around your wrists. It’s not yet visible, but the skin squishing through the edges is red and rough.

He whines, pushing his muzzle against the bars, long tongue flopping out like he can reach.

The sharp battery acid edge of your fear spikes, and he growls. Stupid girl. Stupid fucking omega. He’s trying to help you, and you’re—you’re—

You’re starting to cry again.

He can’t make human words like this, can’t enunciate or even really remember them. He tries to reach you through the bars again, snarling when they burn against his knuckles. Even the distended bony fingers of his full form can’t reach you there, not even with the tip of his claw.

You’re shaking now, body twitching and jittering beyond your control. Everything inside you is screaming white-hot and dissolving; vomit tickles the base of your throat, and you just can’t stop crying. It hurts; it’s ripping your throat and lungs to shreds. It’s a violent, tumultuous thing, and you can’t stop the wounded keening of your cries.

He’s pacing in front of your cage now, the beast, on four mangled limbs too long to be canine and too warped to be human. His huffs startle you, long snout returning, again and again, tongue darting out for a taste.

A little drop of blood slides down your hand from where the rope’s edge cuts into the bottom of your palm.

He freezes, nostrils flaring. You freeze, barely breathing.

He looks right at you and then tips his head back to howl, the sound like icy water through your veins.

You can’t help yourself. You scream, broken as your voice is from all the tears.

Between the cacophony, Jim stomps into the corridor and slams his hand on the wall. “Shut the fuck up, both of you!”

“Help me,” you yell.

I’m trying, the wolf howls.

“Please, please help me,” you gasp, sobs reaching new highs alongside your panic.

“If you don’t quiet the fuck down, I’ll open up your goddamn cage and let him eat you,” Jim snaps. “I said you were going to be more trouble than you’re worth, and I was fuckin’ right.”

The beast snarls, snapping his sharp teeth at the air.

Jim regards him with a sneer. “And you! Giving her a heart attack counts as breakin’ her.”

The words don’t make sense, but you don’t really hear them, anyway. “Please, I want to go home, please, please,” you whisper.

But no one’s listening.

The Wolf is listening.

He prowls back and forth on all fours, which really, isn’t any more or less terrifying than when he rises up on his haunches. Neither image capitulates to your need to make it make sense. There is no sense, no logic, no reality that can hold him.

The wolf, for really, that’s what he is, isn’t he? God, you don’t want to say it. Unbidden, a memory works loose in your brain, slipping out of the crates of nonsense stored away in favor of survival, and rattles around.

I know what you are. But you won’t say it.

Did you bring this upon yourself for reading trashy supernatural romance novels? Did you watch Underworld too many times? Did the shot actually put you in a coma, and you’re living in some kind of nightmare?

The wolf is watching you. There are no whites in his eyes, just pools of gasoline on muddy puddles.

You close your eyes and pretend you can’t hear the way his claws click against the tile.

While Laura had fed them stew, she told them about the trials.

They had been the first. The first taken, before volunteers were called. Before they knew they’d need secure places to hold them, they had been gathered for observation in an old YMCA, packed in racketball courts so the doctors could stand outside the large wall of glass and watch them all at once.

They stood outside that glass and watched them change, in one way or another. The ones who turned, as she called it, went first. The ones who would become test group alpha. More than half of the overall subjects, who became suddenly, violently ill.

They left them all in there with the rest, waiting, watching them cry out, watching them vomit and sweat and break impossible fevers. Temporal thermometers reading 105, 106, before they’d succumb to unconsciousness.

If they woke, they were… inhuman. Something more. Something hungry.

A lot of the first round of test data was lost when the subjects were eaten. But some were lost to the turn. Test group beta, Laura’s brother among them, didn’t survive the fever.

Laura’s husband turned but didn’t lose himself to the beast. Something in him stayed present, alert enough to protect his wife from the others. Or rather, something in her kept him that way. Something that had turned in her too, albeit without the violence, into something more than she’d ever been before.

“They drove us out of the QZ,” she said, picking idly at a gouge in the table’s surface. “To shoot us where they could burn all the bodies and forget.”

“And what happened?” Tommy asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“We ate them.”

They come back for him that night but he’s not waiting for them. He’s sat with his big, furry back to you, close enough to the cage that you could pet him. The thought crosses your mind in a moment of delirium. You could stick your fingers through the little bars and feel the coarse hickory hair. You know, if you were clinically insane.

You’re not about to offer him a little snack.

He’d given up on reaching you a few hours ago, content to sit there unmoving once your tears dried up. It’s only slightly less terrifying.

But when they take him out, you only get to sit with the relief for a moment. Minutes pass in the dark and silent room, but you regret letting your guard down when footsteps echo through the cavernous halls beyond.

The Idiot Twins are back, and they’re not taking chances with you this time. Oh, no. When they unlock the cage, you’re faced with the barrel of a handgun that doesn’t leave your temple as they pull you out by your bound hands.

They don’t bother to stand you up or give you a chance to move on your own, just dragging you out of the room and across the hall. You’re sprawled on your stomach across the frigid floor of the new room, with the door slamming shut behind you without so much as a word.

The rusted pipes on the wall in the beast’s room make more sense now, once you take in your shadowy surroundings. This room has the same shitty tan tile over every inch, but the walls are lined with blue (or what used to be blue) lockers. Not a single one is intact, whether rusted or dented or doorless, but they’re unmistakably lockers.

There are two lines of seamless benches, though half are rotted to oblivion. But it’ll be a better bed than the floor.

This is practically paradise. There’s a tray by the door that you don’t see for a while, but when you do, you almost cry again. Might have, if you hadn’t spent the day in tears.

It’s just broth and water, long gone lukewarm and dusty, but you set upon it like a vampire upon a vein. Wait, no, you really don’t want to think about that right now. But it’s not your fault you’ve got monsters on the brain.

Your reprieve is not long. The sun rises.

The beast returns.

Oh, and he’s pissed that you’re gone, based on the fucking racket that brings you back to the waking world.

“Oh, did you think you’d been good enough lately for a treat?” Cheryl taunts him.

The steel doors between you aren’t enough to hide the sounds of his fury.

“You’ll have her back when you’ve earned her,” she tells him amidst the cacophony of snarling and gnashing.

It’s ten days before they return you to the cage. Ten days of poking around the abandoned lockers and finding nothing. Ten days of broth delivered at dawn and dusk. Ten days of your back no longer appreciating the bench to stretch out on.

Ten days of listening to the nonstop scratching and growling and whining from across the hall. And worse. Oh, much worse. Wet squicks and splatters and harsh groans. You’re not sure if he’s eating or masturbating or what, but it sends shivers through your whole body each time.

It also sends the weird, sticky slick pooling between your thighs, but you ignore that. It’s been happening since the shot, one of the weirder side effects, but it’s gotten downright fucking annoying since you got here.

You try not to think about it.

It’s not long after they drag you back to the little cage that they drag him into his. For that’s what this room really is, you know that, even if it doesn’t make you feel better about being in there with him. He’s trapped, too, but you’re the one in danger.

They haven’t untied your wrists since the first time, which have blistered and bled and scabbed until the ropes rubbed the scabs raw and started the whole thing all over.

He smells it before he sees it, any interest in the slippery sweetness on your thighs gone when he tastes the blood in the air.

Hurt, he whines, though you can’t understand. Help.

You don’t cry this time, don’t split the sour tang with salt, but the fear and pain and exhaustion are enough to center him. If he tries, if he could just focus…

And there it goes. You watch, mouth agape and eyes blown wide, as he shifts in front of you for the first time. He backs away while it happens until he’s on the other side of the room and sits his very bare ass on his bed.

You watch the way his bones jerk and his body shakes and cracks and huffs out sharp, agonized grunts until he’s just a man. Just a man, nothing more. Just a beast masquerading. Worse than a wolf in sheep’s clothing, you think, because you know he’s the wolf, but right now?

He’s just a pathetic, broken human. Bruised and bloodied, though his marks are rapidly fading as the healing takes over, but his face is edged in nothing but pain and sorrow.

“M’not gonna hurt ya,” was the first thing he croaked out.

You startle, rattling the cage a little, which makes you wince.

But he stays on the other side of the room. He’s sitting on his mattress, legs bent up and crossed, as if he had anything left to hide. As if you hadn’t seen too much already.

He tries not to think about it, but jesus. It’s a fucking struggle. As he takes you in this way, unclouded by the hazy moon, it still punches him back. Your smell.

Joel’s never really liked tart things. Too much of a secret sweet tooth, of a deep yearning for the char and depth of anything fresh from the grill.

But even now, even nearly fully man , he’s salivating at your green apple tang. Of uncovering the sweet ‘n sour burst of you on his tongue. Of letting his sharp teeth fall sharper through the tough act you fail to wear right, too bruised and soft underneath.

To feel the way you’d give beneath him. The way you’d spill down his chin. No. He has to get a fuckin’ handle on himself. He can’t even look at you, not now that he knows you can smell the salt of his own slick where his swollen cock sits sobbing, neglected and furious.

“I’m not,” he protests against your silence.

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

But he doesn’t stay himself for long. Not after he thinks instead, suddenly, of autumn. Of the sweet smell of the orchard. Of taking Tommy’s truck up up up into the places where seasons meant something.

The roads sprawled like veins and they followed them with no end just to see the way the trees curled overhead, branches reaching and burning with dying leaves—a sight so devastating that Joel considered leaving Texas behind for somewhere he could start to take this beauty for granted.

Chasing the colors led them first to a field of corn, blustering amber in the setting sun. They had returned the next day, fresh from the motel with burnt coffee and warm flannels, parting with precious dollars for the privilege of picking pumpkins and apples and a little corn husk doll.

He’d have paid every cent ten times over to see Sarah smile like that again.

This is where the man breaks and bows out. Where the wolf at its weakest is still stronger than Joel. He gives in, gives into the grief, gives into the wolf, and shifts back. He stays curled up on his bed, though, and doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t speak to you again for a month.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #werewolf!joel miller #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o verse #fic: of rage and ruin #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfic

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inklore · 1 year

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impetuous

premise: the little games you and joel like to play become risky when you almost get caught.

pairing: joel miller x smuggler!reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected piv, established enemies with benefits, dirty talk, a certain clothing item being used as a gag, small mention of masturbation and bjs, hints of angst.

note: episode eight changed me as a person, the integration scene rewired my brain chemistry and i just needed to get this out before i collapsed from being in heat. the gif was made by me so don't steal pretty please.

part of this world but you don't have to read it to enjoy this!

“Shh, shh,” Joel silences you, just as a hard thrust of his cock has your mouth falling open, a moan filling the air of the damp shed. The crunch of sticks and gravel outside makes your already thumping heart beat faster against your rib cage.

Brows drawn together, the hands gripping onto Joel’s flannel digging into his sides. The thumb that was just pressed to the column of your throat—dirty palm squeezing your airway just enough to lower your moans, enough to make you wetter and less coherent—now moves down to where you’re bare and his cock is fucking into you. The rough pad of his thumb moving along your clit, “focus right here.”

Ignore the noises outside.

Ignore the possibility of getting caught by someone out after dark and up to no good.

Ignore the possibility of getting thrown in a cell by FEDRA because you two were out after dark and up to no good.

“Fuc-Joel,” you whine. Clench your eyes shut until all you can see is little white dots behind them. Try to focus on those, on the burn you feel from the tears that are now prickling at your lash line from how hard you’re trying to focus.

From how hard you’re trying to keep your mouth shut, to not getting caught—at least not before you’ve come.

Joel’s words “focus right here” mocking and blaring in your head like a song you can’t stop humming, a song stuck in your head, a song you want to bodily remove from your brain stem; your focus on the footsteps outside no longer the issue; your attentions shifting to the head of his cock, hitting every spot inside of you that makes your legs tighten around his hips more, on the burning pleasure he’s delivering to your clit right now.

You couldn’t focus on anything but him if you tried, and you’re trying really hard to focus that attention on staying quiet.

Which the two of you know is not your forte, in and out of this situation.

The countless times when Joel’s not fucking you come to the forefront of your mind of him complaining about your need to argue, to talk talk talk, instead of the two of you doing a trade, or making the other come.

“Anyone ever told you you talk too much?”

"Well, one of us has to do the talking, Mr. Resting Grump Face. Besides, you’d be bored if I didn’t make you work for what you came for.”

“That what you call it? Workin’ for it? You mean until I give you what you want because you can’t seem to ask for it unless you’re deliverin’ me bad news,” he had smirked. Wiped the grin from your face and covered it with his mouth seconds later as he backed you into the wall, groin grinding against your front. “I got better uses for that mouth.”

The scrape of the metal table your ass is on moves each time Joel thrusts, each time his cock drags against your sensitive walls over and over. If it weren’t for his jeans still covering half of him, the sounds of your skin moving against each other—and your wetness that was more than likely staining the front of his jeans, the small window in the back doing little to help light anything but his face and neck—would cover up the mewls and cries making your throat hoarse and raw each time they slip out when you fight to swallow them down.

“The only way you know how to be quiet is with my cock in your mouth.” There’s humor in his tone; his heavy breaths add more heat to your face. You feel his free hand run along your leg, moving it from his hip for half a second as he pulls your underwear from your calf and over your ankle until it’s in his palm and he’s pushing the material into your mouth.

You can taste the remnants of your arousal on the cotton, from even before the two of you started your little game. When it was still just a simple trade of stolen items and things your boss was too cowardly to hand off to the big bad grump. When he had just been scowling at you, listening to your bullshit story, and bidding the time until one of you cracked. Before both of you threw the items to the side and Joel’s hands were bending you over the nearest surface or pushing you to your knees.

You swallow around the material, your whimpers caught by the fabric and barely audible. His lips press against the material, barely touching your lips; the sweat on his forehead mingles with your own as he presses it against yours. “Focus on comin’ for me, take what you came for. C’mon. Come with me,” he grunts. Moves his hips in a way that has your eyes rolling back and your teeth biting the salvia-soaked cotton.

The hand not rubbing fast circles on your clit, cups the back of your skull. His dirty fingers wrapped in your hair, keeping you in place. Keeping you bent at the perfect angle so your hips can meet his. So his thumb has access to that nerve that’s making your toes curl—to push his cock further and further into you so the tip hits something pleasurably painful.

When you’re coming, when his name is muffled against your underwear and your nails are clinging and digging into his skin from the searing heat that has your body convulsing against him—"That's it, that's it, take it” murmured against your forehead—you feel him finish seconds later. Your walls clenching and spasming around his cock. A deep grunt breathed against your skin.

Your insides feel warm, like jell-o left out in the sun. Like if Joel never moved from between your legs and the two of you stayed connected forever, you wouldn’t mind.

And after he’s pulled out and his warmth is gone from your body, you quickly shoot down the disappointment rising up inside of you that he didn’t stay between your legs longer. That this part of the night is over, and now you’re back to the game.

To the reason you snuck out after dark to begin with.

Completely denying yourself any opposing thought that could put that reason into question. The two of you have been doing this for too long for your mind to think it’s something it isn’t.

Even when he doesn’t just take what he came for and leave or shoot you a scowl when he helps you find your pants, the way you expect him to.

Or how he doesn’t let you go first no matter how much arguing you do against it—how he makes sure the coast is clear before signaling it’s safe. Him hanging behind to—cover his ass, you’re sure—make sure when you slip down the dark alleyway, no one is there to catch you sneaking away into the night.

And later, when you’re laying in bed, you’ll chalk up the pounding need you feel again as you remember Joel’s rough fingers against you—your jaw, your neck, digging into your sides, your shoulder to keep you from moving anywhere but against him, anywhere but where he wouldn’t be inside of you—and his words still playing in your head “focus right here, come with me”, your heart will pick up, and you’ll have no choice but to sedate the ache you feel by making yourself come. Joel’s name on your tongue and bit into your bottom lip; you’ll blame it on his stupid mouth and your lack of options for sexual partners in this hell hole.

It won’t be because of an attachment or attraction of any kind.

Fuck that.

And tomorrow, when you tell Robert to do his own fucking deliveries, it won’t be because of your feelings but instead because you almost got caught last night. This little game becoming more of a risk than entertainment for you, and you’ll be damned if you get in the mix with FEDRA over Joel and the underlying need the both of you have to pick each other apart and pull the hatred you harbor inside out with teeth, tongues, and fingers that make you see stars.

But Robert is spineless, and you’re not convincing enough to make yourself believe you want to end anything with Joel.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fics #joel miller fics #joel miller x smuggler!reader #the last of us fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine

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thot-of-khonshu · 1 year

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eyes on me (Joel Miller x reader)

Summary: Joel expresses himself through his eyes and his hands. He was always the strong and silent type.

Mature 18+, explicit smut.

A/N: This is just a little something because like all of us, this man has taken over me. Not beta’d.

He was always the strong and silent type.

Even before the outbreak. Even before the demanded silence to save your lives when exploring new territory.

He’d grunt if he didn’t like something. He’d have a smart ass retort for something he did like. For someone who used so much sarcasm, Joel was a man who was straightforward with what he wanted.

Sarah and Tommy did most of the talking for him.

And when they were gone, filling their gaping cracks felt futile.

The two of you didn’t even attempt to fill the silence. A comfortable quiet that only two people with your intimacy could understand.

With so much between you, some things were better left unsaid.

He did, however, manage to express everything through his eyes. All the pain, all of the longing for the past, everything held back and wanting more all at the same time.

Those damn brown eyes.

“Eyes on me.” He’d say.

When he wanted you to focus on him instead of the growing clicks inching your way, steadying your heartbeat as you loaded your gun.

Eyes on me.

During negotiations with FEDRA where he could outsmart these idiots that sold their body to the corrupt government. Giving you more ration cards to support yourselves than you needed.

Eyes on me.

When the knife in your stomach pierced and burned. When he’d wrap you in your arms to Cary you back to the QZ with softness the smugglers that just got a bullet put into their brains couldn’t imagine.

Eyes on me.

When the pain was unbearable as he washed you with a warm cloth. A gentle cadence you hadn’t heard from him in years, his hands so gentle because he was so afraid you’d break.

Eyes on me.

When he knew you wouldn’t break. When you could take all he gave you. Riding on top of him as he fucked into you mercilessly. His large cock sliding into your frame as he exited you with more of your wetness. From behind as he grabbed your ass so hard it was as if he thought you’d vanish.

The thing about Joel is that even though he wasn’t vocal, he wanted you to be. He wanted to make sure you were still there. That there was something of a semblance from his old life.

If all you heard was the skin slapping between you, he’d grab at your hair tighter, reach out for your nipple in that specific spot you like or even from behind slide a finger into your tight ring. All to hear your sweet sounds.

Eyes on me.

Between your legs, panting and wanting salvation through this world from your slick heat. Fingers slowly breaching you and coaxing you into orgasm.

It was you and him, no matter what.

Through the silence. Through the loss.

Through those damn brown eyes.

#joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #tlou hbo #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal x y/n #Pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #Pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x you #joel miller fanfiction

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poeticpascal · 9 months

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Stay (Joel Miller x Reader)

Masterlist | Request here!

Summary: After being betrayed by a FEDRA agent, losing your belongings and getting severely injured, you have no choice but to steal and kill your way to survival. But when Joel and Ellie become your next targets, you never could've imagined how they'd save you in more ways than one.

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: smut, 18+ content, MDNI, PIV sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f!receiving), violence, descriptions of killing, descriptions of injury, guns, blood,

A/n: eek, I'm so in love with this fic! I'd love to know what you think, and if you have any Joel x reader ideas, requests are open so send them my way! :)

As the sun sets beneath the tree-lined horizon, you can’t help but think about how worryingly close to death you are by now.

Spring brought cold winds and heavy rain, washing away the den you’d managed to live in for a few months. It’s a wonder it lasted that long, really.

You could’ve managed. You’ve managed for years now; your whole life, in fact. You never could remember your mother or your father, if you had siblings, if you had friends. All you know is you were 6 years old when Outbreak Day destroyed the world, and you’ve been alone from then on, lucky enough to get brought to a QZ and lucky enough to escape it when you were 15.

You could’ve managed the shitty weather, until you were betrayed, by a FEDRA agent no less. One you’d dealt with for a few months now, smuggling whatever drugs he wanted into his QZ in exchange for the food and medicine and warm clothes they had there. You never wanted to go back, could never let yourself get locked behind those walls again, but you had to admit their resources were far better than any you could attain out here, alone in the infected world, and so you made it your business to get your hands on it.

It was a week ago now. The agent - whose name you never bothered to learn - must’ve been caught with the gear he got from you. Of course, FEDRA let him off easy, as long as they gave him a name. Your name.

So instead of pocketing a new med kit and a crate of food, you got beat, shot at, nearly tortured before you could make your escape into the shrubbery and away from the small legion of agents that came for you. But not before the agent you’d dealt with led them to your base, where they burnt your every belonging, every piece of tattered material and weaponry and sentimentality you owned.

And so here you are, no food, no clothes but the ones on your back, one gun with just a few bullets left and a blunt knife hidden in your boot. And you’re fucking pissed.

Pissed that you’re dying. Pissed that over a decade of fighting, looting, trading had been burnt to ash in just moments. Pissed that the bullet wounds in your torso weren’t enough to kill you, but just enough to let you live in agony, spurred on by hunger and dehydration.

Even the small stashes you’d spent years placing strategically around a good 25-mile radius were useless without a map of their locations. Which you had made, obviously - you haven’t survived this long out of luck. You’re smart, you know how to traverse this world, and you know how to protect yourself. But everything got fucking burnt.

So perhaps you don’t know how to protect yourself at all, because you’ve spent the last week wondering how you could’ve been so stupid as to let this happen.

It’s not like you’d trusted the agent. You don’t trust anyone.

But you worked with him, and somewhere along the line you must’ve slipped, told him where you keep your base, let him choose a meeting point when it should always, always be you to choose. You can’t even remember what it was, what error you made. Untreated bullet wounds do an awfully messy thing to your mind.

You collapse through a string of branches and shrubbery, landing with a wet thud on the muddy path. You’ve stumbled into a clearing, and with as much strength as you can muster, you pull your cheek away from the dirt and look up to see the old building you’ve been looking for. A small, weak smile tugs on your lips. A glimmer of hope.

It used to be a doctor’s surgery, as far as you know. Written on the decayed wooden sign was ‘Dr. Hardman’s Healthcare Services’, though it was so faint it was almost unintelligible, and the cracked blue floor tiles gave a clinical air to the place, even in its decrepit state.

Obviously, it would have been looted beyond recognition within a week of Outbreak Day.

But there were those stupid enough to go in and search it anyway. And that’s why you always came back to places like these over the years.

The first time you did it, you were 16, not long free of the QZ and still getting to grips with life on the outside. With surviving. It was a different building, a warehouse somewhere near Philadelphia as far as you remember. One you hoped would have something left, anything worth taking. It didn’t - but it did have people. Other looters, a small group of around 3, all of whom had split up to search while leaving a pile of rucksacks near the front entrance. It was incredibly easy to take what you needed, and you learned then the brilliance of lying in wait for others to bring their resources to you, and taking, and running.

It was sleazy, and you’re not proud of it. But it’s the only way you could survive those first few years, before you cemented your foundations, able to source your own food and build solid relationships and make decent trades that let you survive.

And now, you have to do it all again, because your shit’s all burnt and your blood’s surely depleting and breathing is starting to get really difficult.

You just hope it’ll be simple, that they won’t even realise what happened, ‘them’ being whichever unlucky soul happens to stop by first. Not because you’re afraid to kill - you accepted a long time ago that it was something you had to do to survive - but because you really don’t think you can survive a fight.

You don’t even pick yourself up from the floor where you fell. You’re just about hidden below the bushes, with a good view of the building, and the mud you’re lying in has warmed up from your body heat, providing much needed comfort as the rain continues to pour.

You spend a few hours like that, falling in and out of sleep, when you finally hear voices. Two, you think, though you raise your head to see properly and sure enough, there are two people making their way up the path to your right. It’s an odd pairing; there’s a man, tall, rough-looking with his beard and messy hair. The other is a woman, a girl even, she can’t be more than 16, you think. His daughter? Perhaps. She’s excitable, almost galloping up to the house, shouting back at the man who seems to only grumble in response.

They’re far enough away that you’re confident you won’t be seen, but close enough to just about hear them, straining your ears against the rain’s pitter-patter.

“This place is creepy, dude. Do we have to stay here?” The girl whines, spinning herself around a pillar that stands at the entrance, childlike.

The man grumbles, stopping before the steps of the building, looking up at it with a hand rested on the strap of his rifle. You’ll have to get them while they’re asleep, you think.

“Yes, Ellie. We do. I’ve gotta stash of some things left here, and it’s the only proper shelter for miles.” His voice is low, southern you think, and undoubtedly appealing. Not what matters right now.

“But Joel-”

“Just get inside.” The man, Joel, enters first, clearly protective of the girl - Ellie, you think he called her - as he finally gives her the go ahead to follow him in. The door shuts, and your head falls back to the ground, knowing it’ll be a few hours yet before you can make your move.

Joel and Ellie. You remember their names as you start to fall back asleep, figuring if you had to kill them later on, it’s the least you could do.

You’re nice like that.

You really regret the whole ‘lying face down in the mud for 6 hours’ thing once it’s time to actually get up. Everything hurts, the rumble of your stomach aches against the wounds that puncture it, and the dirt has soaked through your clothes and onto your skin so thickly that it almost weighs you down.

But it’s now or never, so you all but drag yourself towards the building, doing everything you can to hold back the whimpers that threaten to break through your lips.

You enter the back way, a quieter one, where the frame is empty of a door and - hopefully - where you’d be able to sneak in without detection. The front entryway was too obvious, too bold, and if they expected anyone to come in, it’d be through there.

There’s an upstairs, but it’s pretty miserable, even by the current day’s standards. You’re fairly confident they’ll have stayed downstairs; the reception area was particularly favoured among the less experienced travellers, though from Joel’s apparent knowledge of the area and the gun on his back, you suspect he’s not one of them.

You’re right; they’re not in the reception, so you continue to tiptoe through the halls, checking through windows and the gaps in doors before finally hearing a slight rustle coming from the end of the corridor.

You smirk, slightly endeared to these two; they’d made a good choice. One you always make whenever you spend the night here. They’re in the clinic’s bathroom - for some reason, bathrooms in any building were always forgotten by looters. As if no one would think to sleep there. It’s a small but cosy space, close enough to the front door to make a quick escape, but just hidden out of way enough for it to be easily the safest spot to hide.

There’s also no window into the room for obvious reasons, and while that’s served you well many times while you stayed here, right now you curse as you plan your next move to get in and out undetected.

The rustles are quiet, not the movements of someone awake, but turning in their sleep. You wrap a hand around the door handle, giving you full control of its swing as you open it as slowly as you can manage, your other harm held tight against your aching torso.

The door opens easily, silently, and you’re grateful. Joel is lay closest to the door - his protectiveness on show again - using his bag as a pillow. Dammit, you think. The girl, Ellie, is lay against the back wall, her frame noticeably much smaller than his from where you’re crouched, watching from the small slip in the door.

You search the room, the hint of desperation you’ve managed to push down for this long finally creeping up on you, your head suddenly going dizzy.

Then, you see it.

Ellie’s backpack in the corner of the room, by Joel’s feet, tucked under one of the sinks. Within arms reach if you can just fit in at the right angle.

You push your arm through the gap, trying to find balance with your free hand while not leaning against the door so much that it opens further and inevitably hits Joel, waking him. If the guy’s as experienced as you think he is, your pained, whispered gasps alone may be enough to do that. But you carry on, twisting at the elbow and pressing your cheek against the doorframe, flailing your hand until it finally, finally brushes against the dense material of the bag.

Relief floods you, and for a moment, you almost don’t feel the pain anymore. You strain further, your fingertips pulling the bag towards you just enough to be able to properly grab it, and you’re almost reckless with the way you snatch it through the door and back away quickly.

You stand on shaky legs, not even thinking to check the contents of the bag; you just needed to get out now. You head for the front door, letting the wall guide you there as you lean against it for support, the dizziness stirring in your head once again.

Then, you hear it.

The unmistakable sound of the safety being taken off a gun. One you’d produced yourself too many times to count.

“You’re gonna put that down, and you’re gonna walk away. ‘Else i shoot you.”

It’s him. The man, Joel.

His voice is far more gruff now than it was before, when you were outside. You turn to face him, still clinging to the wall, the bag still in your hand. His expression is a mix of anger and nonchalance; like this was more of an annoyance to him than anything else. He just wanted a good night’s sleep, but here you were, padding through the shadows and stealing from them.

He’s about as happy as you’d be in this situation.

“Put it down,” he repeats himself, louder this time, the unwavering aim of his pistol pointed right between your eyes.

He must’ve woken up Ellie, because you hear movement from the room behind Joel, and next thing you know she’s creeping out the door with her eyes wide open. “The fuck is going on?”

Joel curses, rolling his eyes, and you just watch their strange dynamic unfold. “Get the fuck back in there. I’m just dealing with a little… problem,” he turns back to you.

You really didn’t want it to end like this. You never do. But this is the way it goes, more often than not. Still, the girl’s spunky, with more life than you’ve seen in anyone for a very long time. And he, well… he’s hot, and if that isn’t a good enough reason to feel bad about killing someone, you don’t know what is.

There’s no doubt in your mind that you can pull it off. You’ve been in this situation a thousand times - gun pointed at your head, no escape route in sight - and you’ve left every time with your pockets full and a handful of dead bodies behind you.

You brace yourself to launch, to throw the bag at the man then draw your gun just as fast, but you’re cut off by a shriek-like sound from the girl, “oh, shit.” She’s looking at you, but at your face; you follow her eyes down to your abdomen, and yeah… shit.

You’re bleeding. Like, really bad. You’ve been bleeding for 7 days now but this is a fresh, gushing stream of blood that spurts from the left bullet wound and mixes with the mud that cakes you into a dirty, sticky mess.

The dizziness hits you again, for longer now, and you stumble. Any escape plans are long gone as everything blurs together, nothing but one tall shape and one short one visible before you, and Ellie speaks again, “dude, is she… dying?”

Yeah. Maybe.

The two exchange more words, but you don’t hear them. They could’ve been screaming into your ear, just one inch from your face, for all you know. Your senses cloud completely, you think you feel yourself fall, and then… everything turns black.

—------------------

You groan, fighting the heavy pull of your eyes to stay closed, completely disoriented. Your eyes flicker open for moments at a time then shut again, your brain seemingly not ready to wake up yet. You’re already going into overdrive, though.

Because you feel really fucking weird.

You’re warm. The room you’re in is warm. The bed you’re in is warm. You haven’t slept in a bed in years, and yet here you are, soaked in sheets as light as clouds and laying on a mattress that cradles you like a child.

The pain is gone. A dull ache sits in your abdomen, but it lulls, more like a stomach ache than a week-old and most likely infected bullet wound.

You feel good.

Weirded the fuck out, but good.

You use your strength to lift an arm, groaning again, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear a gasp from across the room, and suddenly there are feet hitting the floor and a loud shout, “Joel! She’s awake!”

The voice is familiar, probably the only thing around you that is, but you can’t place where. Its owner has left the room as you finally scan it, pulling yourself to sit upright.

The room’s actually really, really nice. It looks normal, like the bedrooms you saw in those old Hollywood movies you’d managed to find one day. You’re lay on a king-size bed, set inside a carved wooden frame, with matching side-pieces and a dressing table directly across from you. There’s a white wardrobe to your right, and just beyond that, a large window where the curtains are blowing back slightly, letting you see out into the neighbourhood. It’s quiet, but pristine. It’s normal.

It’s weird. To your left is the only door, presumably where the other person who’d been in there with you left from, making that a no-go in your escape route. Window it is.

You swing your legs off the bed with a whine, the ache in your stomach intensifying. It’s only then that you notice the bandages wrapped around your torso, perfectly neat and clearly fresh. Like someone had been replacing them.

You hear two sets of footsteps, one is quieter but quicker, running up the stairs outside your room. The other is much heavier and slower, and the juxtaposition of them both causes a sudden flash in your mind of the pair you recently met -

“Hi,” Ellie says, having reached the top of the stairs and charged into the room before you could even comprehend your own trail of thoughts.

You just stare at her, in what must’ve been the most confused and annoyed expression you’ve had in your life. She stares back, with a mischievous look on her face that both sets you on edge and endears her to you at the same time.

Joel appears then, the same scowl on his face as he’d worn before you passed out, terribly unimpressed as he stares down at you on the bed.

For fuck’s sake.

“Where am I?” You ask, given up on your plans to get out of there. Your body’s too tired.

“Bill and-” Ellie starts, but Joel quickly shuts her up with a sharp glare. “Oh shit, erm, it’s a secret. Can’t tell you where you are.”

You roll your eyes, looking around the room again before setting your eyes back on the two. “Why am I here?”

“We saved your lucky ass,” Joel replies, his tone almost mocking. He shifts from the doorframe, walking towards you and folding his arms, stopping only a metre away from where you sat. “Shoulda’ killed you when I had the chance, but this little pain in my ass,” he nods towards Ellie, “insisted we save your life. After you fuckin’ stole from us.”

“To be fair, she didn’t get very far,” Ellie quips, then addresses you directly, “you fuckin’ fainted, dude. I thought you were dead!”

Joel just grumbles at her interruption.

You squint, leaning your head back in a poor attempt at a stretch. Your body is screaming at you to move, to walk around, to remember how to function. You push the desperation down, not ready yet to try anything, not with those two just staring at you.

You push them instead, unsure, untrusting. “You’re saying you just decided to save me? Just like that? After I stole from you?”

Ellie nods enthusiastically, smiling. Joel grunts again. He does that a lot, you’ve noticed.

You huff, looking away, unsatisfied with their answers. “Should’ve let me die.”

Joel sighs, unfolding his arms and throwing his head back in annoyance. He points at Ellie, as he makes his way out of the room. “Fuckin’ told you this was a bad idea.”

He leaves. It’s awkward. Ellie just continues to stare at you as you hang your head, hands clasped in your lap, trying to figure out what to do next.

“We literally saved your life, you know,” Ellie breaks the silence. You look up at her as she continues, “you were so nearly dead. It was so weird. You were literally-”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” You interrupt her, rubbing your aching head. It’s silent for a little longer, still awkward, and you let out a sigh. “Thank you. For - for saving me.”

She smiles. A big, cheesy grin that somehow lifts your mood with its genuinity. Then she gestures to the door, the one Joel had disappeared from minutes before - “it’s him you need to thank. He’s the one who carried your sorry ass 3 miles to get here.”

You laugh, something foreign to you after all these years, and she giggles back. The air between you both seems softer now, lighter, and the tension that filled your body when you woke up has dissipated completely. You think she can sense that it has, too.

“Frank told me to tell you there’s fresh clothes in the closet, and the shower’s out the door and on your right,” she points in the vague direction she’d described. “We’re having a barbeque later, just come downstairs when you’re ready.”

You nod, and she leaves you with a final smile. You take another look around the room and sigh, wondering just what you’d gotten yourself into.

—------------------

Bill and Frank are fucking lovely. Bill’s a little grumpier than his partner, but just as sweet all the same, and you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the little life they’d built together.

When you came downstairs after your shower, you’d bumped into them in the kitchen, preparing food and drinks to bring outside for the barbeque. Frank explained how things worked, how they live off the land, growing and making everything they could ever need to live happily here forever. How Joel had helped them stay safe, setting up the large metal gates that surrounded their small, solely-occupied community. It sounded like he really cared about them, and then Frank told you about Ellie, how Joel had taken her under his wing and they were travelling together on some sort of mission that they couldn’d built together.

That was a few hours ago. You were alone now, sat in the living room, listening to the soft music of the radio and the laughter of the group outside. You didn’t feel like joining them; they wouldn’t want you there, a looter and murderer, and even if they did you weren’t the type to make friends. It’s a dangerous habit in this world.

So instead, you sit on your own in the house, feeling a little sorry for yourself and really craving the sausages you could smell cooking outside.

You hear something behind you, turning around to see Joel traipsing in through the back door. He kicks his shoes off, making you smile at the politeness from such a rough, grumpy man, and stalks through the house towards the kitchen. He stops when he sees you.

The two of you just stare at each other, for a good few moments, the kind that feel like hours.

“What’re you doing in here?” Joel asks. You can almost sense something honest in his tone. Like he genuinely wondered why you were here, alone, and not out there with them.

“Thinking,” you just reply, quietly.

“‘Bout what?” And there it is again, that earnest intrigue.

You shrug, not sure what to tell him. “What to do next, I guess.”

Joel furrows his brows, and begins to stride towards where you sit on the couch. He walks slowly, hands buried in his jean pockets, before taking a seat on the chair across from you and relaxing into the cushion.

It’s strange seeing him act so casually, so normal, when just days ago he’d had a gun pointed at your head and every intent of pulling the trigger.

You suppose he feels the same about you, sat on a floral-print couch, covered in a far-too-big plaid shirt and - for lack of a better word - sulking.

“So what’re you gonna do next?”

He’s looking at you, fiercely so, his eyes unwavering from yours. You don’t know whether to look at him, or the floor, or your hands fidgeting in your lap - his stare is uncomfortable and intoxicating, all at the same time. You opt for your hands.

“I don’t know. All my shit’s gone. That’s - that’s why I was there. At the clinic. Ste-… taking your stuff.”

Joel pushes out a breath of air, almost a laugh but not quite. It’s not mocking, though - not like his tone was earlier. It’s understanding, like his way of telling you, “I know.”

And then he says it. “I know.”

You just nod, and he continues, “you gotta be more careful out there. Anyone less caring than Ellie woulda let you die there on that floor.”

“I’ve done this my whole life,” you shoot back. “And if it weren’t for - fuckin - this” - you point to the bandages round your torso - “I’d have killed you both and left you with everything you have.”

Joel rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of something playing on his lips, like the beginnings of a smile. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and maintaining his stare. His brow is cocked upwards.

“Well, ain’t we lucky you had your little problem there, huh?” You scowl at him, finally meeting his eyes and being almost surprised by the sheer depth of them. There’s pain in those eyes, you can see it because it matches your own, and yet there’s a kindness in them that you’d not seen in the man until now.

“And what about you?” You ask, feeling bolder now. “Why didn’t you let me die?”

“The kid made me help you,” he answers with speed, like he’d rehearsed it. You can tell there’s something on his tongue, something waiting to spill, and so you stay quiet. Coax it out.

“And… those wounds, you didn’t get them from some average Joe’s gun. And someone your age, someone who must’a grown up in this hell… you don’t go stealin’ from people like me for the fun of it.”

You nod, offering him a small smile, one that says thank you. You think it’s the only form of thanks he’ll accept.

“I did want to kill you, though.” Joel says, so casually he could’ve been telling you about the weather that day.

You huff. “And I wanted to kill you.”

His eyes stay trained on yours, and you don’t look away this time. It’s close, intimate. “I really don’t like you.” He seems to lean in as he says it.

“I don’t like you either,” you reply, mirroring the sly turn of his mouth.. Your answer seems to satisfy whatever it was he was looking for, and he nods.

“Good. We’re on the same page then.”

In unison, you back away from one another. “Yeah,” you say, though it’s redundant. “We are.”

With that, Joel stands, offering his hand to you. You just stare at it, unsure of what he wants. “C’mon,” he says, gesturing outside. “Come and sit with us.”

You think on it for a moment. You still don’t know what you’re going to do next - where you’ll go - and you certainly don’t want to make friends. But here’s this man, with his calloused hands and the scars on his face that tell a thousand stories, and you just can’t seem to say no to him.

So, you take his hand, letting him help you through the doors and onto the lawn where the three others sit drinking and lauging. There are a few burgers and hot dogs left out, which you eye up hungrily, making Joel laugh. Bottles of wine and whiskey sit on the table, a few cans of soda for Ellie, too, and two empty chairs sat round the camp fire waiting for yourself and Joel to sit down on. A feeling of joy spreads through you at that, the fact they’d thought to leave a chair out for you. You try to ignore it.

—------------------

The night is filled with laughter, and drinking, and telling stories of a world long gone that make your heart hurt and your mind spin with wonder.

Joel’s distant, and you have a feeling that’s just how he is, the type who prefers to watch and listen than be the loudest person in the room.

Ellie, for whatever reason, has taken to you quickly. You think it’s because you’re one of the first women she’s hung out with in a long time, someone she can relate too, and for all the attention she gives you, it’s nice in a way. Albeit overwhelming.

That’s what all of this is, really. Overwhelming.

Because you don’t live here. It’s not your home. None of your things are here. None of your things are anywhere but that wretched pile of ash, most likely collapsed in the rain and buried in mud by now.

And though you won’t admit it, it hurts. It hurts to have lost it all. It hurts to have to start again. It hurts to have these people, these great people, showing you so much hospitality and knowing you’ll have to leave because this won’t work. It can’t work. Friendships can’t work, and by god, whatever it is you’re starting to feel for Joel cant work either.

You’ve stayed at Bill and Frank’s for four days now. Three nights from when you woke up. And in that time, you’ve found yourself drawn to Joel in a way you’ve never felt before. He’s distracting. He talks, and even without having to try, you hang on to every word he says. You wonder if he feels the same way. You don’t talk much, at all - only if you absolutely have to. And yet when you do, he’s there, listening.

The one you do talk to, more than the others, at least, is Ellie. You see some of yourself in her, you think. Someone lost in a world that had given up on her before she even had the chance to try.

And that scares you, too. If there’s one thing you’re not, it’s someone to look up to, and yet that’s all the kid seems to do.

It’s something you think about as you pack your bags.

You’re not stealing anything, per say. Except the bag. And the things you’re putting in it.

But it’s what you need to do in order to leave, and get out of their way for good. If that means losing a shirt or two and a pack of sandwiches, then so be it.

It’s late, around 3am, when you’re sure everyone will be asleep. You tiptoe down the stairs, holding the back tightly to your side, checking behind you every few minutes knowing that Ellie’s as sneaky as she talkative.

You slip through the front door, the cold night air hitting you like a brick. You curse yourself for not packing a coat, it must’ve slipped your mind as you rushed, but it’s too late to go back now.

You head down the patio steps, your only priority now being to get out of there as quick as you can. You’d managed to disable the security on gate 1, it should mean you can slip out pretty easily, and then it’s back to your old life again. Back to survival.

You didn’t think you’d feel as sad as you do right now. You’ve been alone for so long, convinced yourself that it’s what you wanted… but loneliness never felt like this. It never hurt. And now, as you make haste away from Frank and Bill’s house, away from Ellie, away from him… you wonder if the bullets hurt less.

Until you’re stopped, that is.

“Where the hell are you goin’?”

The similarity to your first meeting with Joel isn’t lost on you.

Except now, as you turn around to face him, it isn’t anger drawn across his features. It’s hurt. Real, deep, hurt. Heartbreak, you’d be inclined to call it, if you didn’t know better. If you thought that was possible.

His eyes drop down to bag you’re holding, clearly full, then up again to meet yours. His expression saddens even more, somehow.

“You’re leaving.”

It’s not a question.

So you don’t answer.

It’s hard to tell if he expects you to or not. But in this agonising silence, he calls your bluff, because he knows you have something more to say.

“I have to.”

He shakes his head, and answers just as quickly as he had a few days earlier in the front room. Except it’s not rehearsed. It’s raw, and desperate, and pleading. “No you don’t.”

Tears brim in your eyes, stinging. “I do. I do, Joel. It doesn’t work. Friendships don’t work. And this-“ you stop yourself from gesturing between you, from finishing your sentence at all. He knows what you were going to say. But he still pushes you.

“And what?” He begins to walk towards you, as slowly, as painfully, as usual.

The words are gone from your mouth, I forgotten but unspeakable, too powerful to tell him. But he knows. He knows.

And before you know it, he’s reached you. It’s the closest you’ve been yet, closer than when he sat across from you on the couch. His breath fans your face. Your fingers brush his, and you tell yourself it’s not on purpose.

“And what?” He whispers, not because it’s nighttime, or because you’re already so close. But because he’s scared.

Then he kisses you, leaning in so heavily you think he’s trying to fuse you with himself, to keep you there forever. And in that moment, that’s all you want. You kiss him back, dropping the bag and wrapping your arms around his neck while his go to your waist, the kiss deepening and his tongue slipping into your mouth.

You moan, spurring him on, his crotch now pressed flush against yours. You let one hand fall from his neck, glide down your bodies and slide between you, palming his already half-hard cock. Joel groans into your mouth, bucking his hips and kissing you so desperately that your teeth collide and you miss one another’s lips at times. Neither of you care.

Before you can realise what’s happening, Joel’s sweeping you up, hooking your legs round his waist and holding you up by your thighs. He’s careful to never break the kiss, to never let go of you, and you hardly recognise the movement as he begins to carry you back inside the house.

Your escape bag is left behind on the grass.

Joel’s careful as he brings you upstairs, quiet, though his need for you never falters. It’s hot, passionate, and his grip on your thighs leaves bruises that you hope will last forever.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his back, letting you fall in, entangled together. He finally breaks your kiss, the both of you gasping for the air that your noses alone weren’t enough to breathe.

You land on the bed, bouncing softly below Joel’s gaze. He’s quick to climb on top, guiding you backwards so your head hits the pillow, just as soft as the one you’ve been sleeping on the past few nights.

And then, for the first time since he discovered you trying to leave, the two of you just… stop. Joel lifts a gentle hand to your cheek, brushes his calloused thumb across it, watching you with a cocktail of amazement and care and the same fear you saw before in his eyes.

It’s sweet. It’s gentle, and soft, and there’s a voice in the back of your head telling you it’s something more. The same something you weren’t able to say when Joel caught you leaving.

Now, you don’t know what love is.

You’ve never known what love is. You’ve seen films, old pirated copies you’d been able to find on your travels, that you watched tucked away in a camping tent on the DVD player you looted from some old store. You’ve heard music, sweet tales of love and loss, told through melodies and lyrics that seemed too much like fairytales to be true.

You don’t know what love is, and yet for all the stories you’ve watched and heard, this feels pretty damn close.

You don’t know how, but Joel sees the struggle behind your eyes. The way your mind spins at a million miles an hour.

“Hey. You okay?” He whispers, his southern drawl sultrier than ever.

You nod, but it’s not enough. “No, come on. I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. I’m okay, Joel,” you breathe, and he seems appeased.

“Alright.” He kisses you again, much slower this time, letting your lips slide together like they’d been made to fit just right.

The kiss becomes heated, the same passion rising within you both again, and Joel reaches for the rim of your shirt, pulling it over you with a quick check for your agreement. You lift your arms, letting him expose your already braless chest, and you’d be lying if you said the way his eyes light up and his cheeks fill with blush didn’t fuel your ego.

You take his shirt off next, then reach for the zip of his jeans, but he stops you. You look up at him, confused, and he just smiles before leaving a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Not yet.” He murmurs, before kissing down your neck and onto the plane of your chest. You moan, hands tangling in his hair as he leaves marks across your skin, finally reaching the peak of your breast and sucking it into his mouth. Quiet gasps fall from your mouth, sensual, basking in the feeling of his hot tongue on your nipple.

“You like that? My mouth on your tits?”

Another loud moan leaves your lips at his words, dirtier than before and making wetness flood at your core. Joel grins - your eyes are closed, but you can feel the stretch of his mouth on your breast, and your grip on his hair tightens in response.

He finally, finally starts to move to where you want him. His fingers are painfully slow as they work to pull your jeans down, revealing your soaking wet cunt to him, and the groan that escapes his throat at the sight only makes you more needy.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so pretty.” He moans, spreading soft kisses along your public bone, centimetres from where you need him. “How bad d’ya need my tongue, honey?”

You could scream at how badly he’s teasing you, but you’re able to hold it, responding in a way you certainly weren’t proud of. “So - so badly. Please, baby, please.”

Your hands flex in his hair, tugging on the strands haphazardly, and the way his breath speeds up against your core lets you know he likes it. On your word, he delves into your cunt, dragging his tongue over your folds and burying it in your clit.

“Shit, shit, Joel - ah -“ your moans are getting louder, more needy, desperate as he tortures your cunt and licks across your bundles of nerves again and again.

You arch your back off the bed, not even in control of your own body at this point, his tongue now plunging so deep inside you that you can hardly remember your own name.

He fucks you with his mouth, moving his lips against your hole as his tongue curves around your walls, curling in a way that makes you whine so loud you fear any one of the others in the house would hear you. Joel doesn’t seem to care though, his only focus being on you, your pleasure, your screams for him.

“J- Joel, please, I’m gonna -“

You regret warning him. You regret the words as soon as they fell from your mouth because he fucking stops.

“What? Baby I-”

He shushes you, climbing back up to meet your lips, calming their begs with sweet kisses. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. I gotcha.”

His hands roam over your sides, teasing the edge of your breasts, one still wet from his mouth and sensitive in the cool night air. He kisses you again, making you moan as the taste of your own wetness hits your tongue, and you’re sure you can feel his cock swell against you at the sound.

He must feel it too because he desperately pulls his jeans off, throwing them behind him with no care for where they land. He does it without breaking your kiss, a grace to his movements that mesmerises you, leaves you victim to whatever he wants and needs as long as you get to feel his skin and his touch and his taste.

“Have you done this before?” Joel’s words are croaked, broken apart by the tightness you left in his throat, by your words and your touch alone. So much so you hardly hear him, too lost in the realm of desperation to register that he’d spoke.

“Baby?” He taps your chin, making you finally open your eyes and look up at him, drowning in the brown husks that meet your gaze. “Baby, have you done this before?”

You swallow, nodding your head so quickly that it makes you dizzy. Or maybe it’s the way he starts to grind against you, his bare cock slipping between the wet folds of your cunt, threatening to slip inside while leaving you so empty you could cry.

And it was true; you had done this before. Not many times, and only when necessary. The first time was before you left the QZ, with a boy your age who was just as curious about what all these new feelings and hormones actually meant. FEDRA was terrible at many things, and sex education was one of them. Another time was with a FEDRA agent - ironically, you thought - one who’d promised you food and shelter but left you in the dirt as soon as you smuggled in the pills he needed.

You’ve done this before, but you’ve never done this before. You’ve felt skin on skin, sweat dripping down your neck, a tongue in your mouth that felt foreign but explored your body all the same.

But you’ve never felt this passion. The way your body cries when it loses his touch. The way your mind is alive with sensation and need, begging to feel his fingertips and hear his voice in your ear again and again until the coil inside you unfolds and you give yourself, endlessly, doubtlessly, to him.

You don’t know how he knows. And you don’t know how you know that he knows. But Joel’s eyes pierce yours, his breath falls into your open mouth, and there’s just something in the way he looks at you that tells you his every desire is the same.

He needs you like you need him.

And so he begins to pump his cock, moaning into your mouth as you close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck once again. Where he feels most secure against you.

“Shit, I-” He mumbles against your lips, half incoherent, and you break the kiss. Your eyes search his, looking for whatever it is that’s tripping him up, and it’s only then that you realise just how much he’s begging for you. How his hips grind against yours with so much need that he could cum right there and then, you think.

And fuck, it turns you on.

“Need your cock, Joel. Need your big cock filling me up so badly.” You moan into his mouth, not even kissing him anymore, just letting your heavy breaths fall into the cage of your lips pressed together, perfectly fit.

He buries his head in your bare neck, revelling in the soft skin that greets him there, a canvass for his touch as he peppers kisses and bites across your throat and over your collar bone.

His hands settle on your hips, draggin you as close to his own as possible, and you wrap your legs around his waist again on instinct. He presses his forehead against yours, willing his eyes open, though you watch how they flutter and it makes you need him more.

Joel whimpers, catching himself from falling as he brings up to your cheek, stroking it gently. “You can do this, baby?’

Your heart warms at his words, blooming flowers only made for him. “I need it. Joel, I need it, I need you-”

Before you can finish, he’s heard you, pushing the bulging head of his cock into your cunt as you try to stop a scrambled scream in its steps. Joel’s head burrows further into the crook of your neck, teeth bearing down on the skin so hard that you’d scream if you weren’t already incapacitated by the fullness of his cock inside you.

You moan in unison, gripping him like your life depends on it as he bottoms out, tears brimming in your eyes as he draws himself away from you and slams back inside again.

“Fuck, Joel, so fuck - so fucking good,” your moans break the thick sound of skin on skin, as Joel slams into you again and again, aching your hips and scrambling your brain into nonsense. He groans, the hand that rested on your cheek now balanced on the pillow beside your head, allowing him to fuck you harder, deeper than before.

Sweat paints your skin, reflecting in the moonlight that seeps through Joel’s curtains, matching the thin veil of the man above you. You wince as the headboard begins to smack against the wall, hitting it again and again, making the unyielding pace of his hips all the more heady as you drown in his sounds and his scent and his thrust.

“Babygirl, fuck, fuck,” he’s getting closer, you can tell, and it takes everything you have not to come right there on the spot.

Instead you flex your hips, meet his thrusts with legs still tight around his waist, pulling him further, deeper inside you. “Need to fucking - ah, ah - J- Joel I need to cum.”

His head frantically nods, still buries beneath your jaw, before he musters the strength to emerge from his new-found home in the crook of your neck and meet your eyes once again. He rests his forehead against yours, both sweaty and sliding, but neither of you care as his hips rut faster and faster into the warmth of your cunt.

“You- fuck, you can cum, baby. Need ya to come for me babygirl.”

At his words, your desperation unfolds, tethers of pleasure unraveling from your core and tightening around his cock, still fucking inside you without respite. He groans, his pace finally faltering as he feels your warmth coil around him, welding his hips against yours where he finally releases ribbons of thick, hot cum inside you.

Joel collapses on top of you, careful to rest at least some of his weight on the hand beside your head, but otherwise burying as much of himself into you as he can. His cock stays inside your cunt, plugging you with his cum, and in your post-orgasm haze you can hardly think as you bring a hand to the back of his head, stroking his hair and letting him rest atop your chest.

“Don’t leave.”

You don’t hear him at first. Truly, you don’t. You know he’s said something, felt the vibrations of his whispered pleas on your skin, and yet you’re still so caught up in the sweat and the smell and tingling of his body on yours to even register his words.

But he’s desperate. He’s sad, and hurt, and hopeful. Hopeful that tonight meant as much to you as it did to him. Hopeful that you weren’t about to continue your plan and leave into the night, as much of a ghost as when he’d found you.

“Don’t leave,” he repeats. “Stay.”

For all the shades and emotions and words you’ve seen in his eyes, there’s something in them now that you can’t place. You wonder if he even knows what it is himself.

You just nod, gasping slightly as he takes your small, delicate action as all the confirmation he needs to move, keeping you tethered together as he rolls onto his back and pulls your limp, shaking body on top of his.

Joel’s hands finally move from their vice grip on your waist, one wrapping tightly around your back, holding you to him, the other cradling your head. You crave him, his touch, and leave kisses on any expanse of skin you can find on the scar-riddled chest you find yourself huddled against. The one you wish you’ll never have to leave.

It’s hard to say how you know you’ll fall asleep first. Maybe it’s because he continues to move, to soothe, as you drift off in his grasp. Maybe it’s because he has his mouth pressed against your ear, whispering promises of togetherness that melt into a dream of hope and sweetness, one that stains the very sheets you’re lay in.

Maybe it’s the way he’s fucked you so good, you can hardly keep your eyes open.

Whatever it is, it works, and your eyes drift shut in the wake of his touch. You hold him, sinking into his softness with an ease you’ve never felt before, and his last murmurs before you finally fall into your dreams fall into the air like smoke.

“Just stay. Please, stay.”

#joel miller x yn #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller

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bowieandqueen11 · 1 year

Text

Small Spoon / Joel Miller Imagine

Request: sis i am a simple woman

i saw small spoon joel and now i need a fanfic

GIRL I got you I got you @aninnai

Also sorry in advance I mixed a bit of what happens in the game with what happens in the show for fun lmao

If you enjoy, please comment and let me know! It really helps so much :)

Warning: strong language, mentions of explosions and injuries/blood, mentions of drugs and alcohol, mentions of guns and a little nsfw!

(I do not own the Last of Us or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @lousolversons.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Like the Boston quarantine zone, the apartment was draped in darkness by the time you slammed the door shut.

It had been a disappointing day all round: first Robert steals your guns and pills and decides for extra fun to jump you on your way back home, then queen Firefly herself decides that during your excursion through the other side of town’s checkpoint is the perfect time to bomb the place. You spent half the time trudging back along the side streets picking shrapnel out of your bleeding shoulder, and the other half waving off some straggler friends who were concerned about the new bust over your lip.

‘Robert. It was that goddamn Robert again’, you’d say and wave them all off back to their card games or their street sweeping duties. A few raised eyebrows or wolf whistles as they turned, but everyone knew that with Joel and you still together, it wasn’t you they should be worried about. It should be the fury in Joel’s eyes as soon as he found out a hair on your head had been harmed; it was the warpath, the ravage, the raging heart flinging and panging against the bars of its cage that would bring the whole state to its knees with its laceration.

The docks could wait till tomorrow. To be honest, at the moment, you were that tired you couldn’t really care less about your new lot of lost cargo. All you wanted to do right now was to kick off your muddy boots, crawl yourself into bed, and splat your face straight into the warm, broad expanse of the man that would be waiting there to lie beside you.

Speaking of, Joel had promised he would try and wait up for your return. By the way you shouldered your splintered apartment door, pushing with all your force until the creaking hinges finally gave in and swung open to the familiar musty smell of your shared room, you could already tell he hadn’t managed it. Instead of a pistol to your face in the case of you being a stranger, or one of Robert’s men, or even some half-hearted grumbles of salutations from the man who should have been hunched over the table trying to fix the new dent in his pistol, you were greeted with slain silence.

As you kick the stack of training manuals by the kitchen counter out of the way, the train of events before your arrival back home became even more crystal clear. By the half-thrown chipped tumbler and the fractured looking pill bottle left abandoned on the dining table, it wouldn’t even take FEDRA’s soldiers two guesses to find out how well his day had gone too.

You tiptoe around the side of the bed and squint, barely able to make out the gentle rise and fall of the sleeping man’s chest through the broken slants of the shades. Bless his heart, even in his sleep the crinkles in his forehead are as deep as the currents of the Allegheny River. He must be having a nightmare, from the way his mouth keeps fumbling and his fist squeezing into the frayed edge of his pillow. Even the vapours of moonlight that slanted in through the cragged skyline, the sharp pelts of spotlights that skim from time to time through your bedroom window like phantom shadows couldn’t soften the man’s haggard face.

With a sigh, you press the back of your hand fondly over the scruff of his cheek, trying not to wake him as you lean down to press a quick kiss against the creases on his forehead. No amount of light seemed to be able to crack through this man’s walls; no peace, little hope, and even less optimism, and still his fingers move out across the bed to try and reach yours as if on some invisible tide.

The gesture is small, but coming from Joel Miller it meant everything. It isn’t much, but you were the first person in twenty goddamn years he was willing to offer the remains of himself, his heart up to. So far, you hadn’t let him down; if you did, the both of you knew that he would regress even back further into himself, warping back into the shadow of a man he had been all those years ago when Tommy first left. When he left behind nothing but repressed rage and grief and a loathing so inflamed it could have scared a clicker stiff. At himself, at his brother, at the world - you could never tell. But you understood one thing for sure: Joel Miller wouldn’t be able to survive another loss. It would destroy him, change him too far beyond recognition that even he couldn’t come back from it.

You could tell from his dreams, that in the end, that’s what he thinks he deserves. And yet he always still reaches out, in one way or the other. ‘That’, you think as you let your hand fall from his face and flop it back down towards your lap ‘is the part of him that Sarah managed to get. That sweetness is just begging to be let out.’

You smile as you stand up and stretch, taking in a needed deep breath after the day you’d had. The same day you’d had for the last ten years, over and over again. And yet it was worth it, as you paced over the creaking floorboards and headed over to your side of the mattress, if it always ended like this: with comfort, stability, and a beating heart beside you.

‘Scootch.’

Only an incomprehensible murmur and two barely blubbering lips were your sign that Joel had even recognised what you were saying, but after a groan he obliged and shuffled his body over to the right. It left you ample of opportunity to slide in stealthily behind him, Joel already lifting his arm up in anticipation for the feel of your fingers over the side of his jean shirt.

For his sake, you pretend that neither of you notice the tremble that rushes like shooting spores straight down the muscles of his body. Instead, you relish in just languidly letting your fingers float like fireflies over the side of his hip; you spread them out, dancing through the coarse light just before you reach the bone. You scratch against the material, letting it ride up until your fingernail comes in contact with his flushing skin. Teasingly, you grab at the meat of his hip and enjoy the way he puffs out, unconsciously pushing himself back against you. You trace your fingers further forward, inch by inch, tracing the inseam of his jeans...and then suddenly stop. You only start again when he gives a hoarse groan in warning: one that reverberates through his back and makes your breath hitch as it grumbles against your chest.

You press yourself flush against him, giving in and properly wrapping your arm round his waist until your hand reaches his stomach. Finding his bellybutton, you give it a little poke which earns you a kick back from his leg in retaliation, but you can hear the light chuckle he admits despite himself.

‘Late night again, huh?’, he mumbles out. His pursed lips are half open and don’t rise from the pillow. As he lethargically blinks a couple of times, he pretends it’s because he’s too tired too move. He knows deep down in the pit of his stomach, though, that you’re too astute that let that lie fly over your head. You know the man too well, and you know damn rightly that he’s enjoying the feeling of your face smooshing itself into that little soft dip to the side of his shoulder blades. He’s just far too stubborn to ever admit it. But even so, Joel Miller’s silence speaks wonders.

‘Oh, same old same old. Robert’s being a little asshole again.’

‘Oh he is now, is he?’, he turns his head, making as if he’s trying to get up but your quick to push him back down again.

‘He and his little gang of morons can wait until tomorrow. I, on the other hand, am freezing cold. And you, Joel Miller’, you squeeze your arms into a vice around him and lift your legs up to slide in between his knees. They rest heavily, tangling against your own, and the weight is the most wonderous thing you’ve felt all day. ‘You are the best source of heat in all the damn zones put together.’

He lets his elbow rest comfortably on top of your own despite your words, so used to the back and forth between the two of you by now that they just wash over him. In fact, when he feels your forehead bump against the small litter of freckles you know line the left side of his shoulder, that spread of constellations running from the dip of his neck down his left shoulder blade, he even chuckles.

You feel his hand slide down from where it was resting under the cup of his chin to entangle with your fingers. He tugs them in to the heat radiating from his chest, and you take the opportunity to scratch out against the loose buttons of his shirt.

‘You just keeping me ‘round ‘cause of that? If I’m so damn warm, maybe I should go and donate all your jackets to FEDRA.’

You press a kiss against the tightened denim of his arched back and smirk.

‘Yeah, well maybe I should start selling you out for some ration cards. Five of them cards for a ten minute hug with Joel sounds like a pretty easy business to me.’

‘As long as I get 50%.’

‘25% and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

In a surprisingly tender move, Joel brings your intertwined hands up and presses an unhurried kiss to the back of your knuckles.

‘Hmph, we’ll negotiate in the morning. Maybe I’ll make it so you’re my only customer, and then I get the best of both worlds. Hugs and ration cards.’

He says the last part with a sarcastic intonation, but even he can’t stop the helplessly hoping sigh that whistles through his teeth. He shuffles back against you and closes his eyes against the creeping crimson threads of sunrise that begin to shoot out from behind the alleyway corners.

‘How about now, we just settle for hugs. I have no doubt you’ll manage to get Robert’s ration cards tomorrow as well.’

‘Back to business, huh? Sure thing boss.’

You manage to get enough momentum to hit his belly with your hands. He pretends to double over, pushing against you a little too hard and nearly thrusting your abdomen backwards and straight out onto the floor. You manage to grab onto his biceps, though, and clamber back up safely against him. He pulls you tighter, using his free hand to draw circles over your forearm. Once you’ve both settled down on the mattress again, you take a final yawn and settle your chin down on his shoulder.

‘Good night Joel.’

He hums. ‘Night, night, sweetheart.’

As consciousness began to ebb, your mind going into free fall, swirling with the beautiful chaos of oblivion, you could just about make out the hoarse whisper of Joel against his pillow. His voice cragged with the effort, with the heaviness of it, with the consequence of it, yet every word managed to ring out true. It was the most genuine, honest sentence Joel Miller had dared to speak since his baby girl had died, and he was petrified by the choice he was making.

But by god, if it was a choice, if it was a chance that he had to take.

‘I love you.’

#the last of us #joel miller #tlou #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us imagine #tlou imagine #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel tlou #joel the last of us #x reader

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moonmunson · 1 year

Text

"the show did tess dirty!!"

no it did not. the last conversation her and joel have and the longing in both their faces because they know they can't kiss, having that last kiss stolen from them by the infected, her not getting gunned down by fedra soldiers and instead having the agency to take down all of the infected and herself ?? a fucking masterpiece. they didn't do her dirty, they gave her the send off she deserved. a fucking badass one too, if you ask me.

#tlou #tlou spoilers #the last of us spoilers #the last of us hbo #anna torv #joel miller

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moondirti · 1 year

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tender / and what’s left

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronze at this time of day, you know you can't touch him to feel the sun.

But you’re not looking for warmth.

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: explicit (mdni) word count: 4.3k summary: what gentle has come to mean warnings: smut, canon typical violence, angst, mild gore, mentions of death, very little plot, blowjobs, fingering, joel is not nice - not necessarily. tumblr please don't tag my shit notes: yeah... yeah. i don't know how i feel about this one. i tried something different with the style. that is, i cut down on the purple prose, so let me know what y'all think about that. also, can you tell i struggled with joel's characterisation? idk, it's a mess. but anyway - enjoy!

You’ll never get used to the smell.

Granted, the contrary was a lie you told yourself once things had gone to shit. A painkiller – your harsh reality sliced into digestible portions and force fed through a dry gullet. Mother earth will reclaim what spoils – like putrid carnage buried behind a thick cover of dirt, perfuming crisp air. That nature, prosperous again, would wind itself around humanity’s faults and embellish your end with a lush green.

And maybe it will, one day.

But it takes a while for bodies to burn. You’ve come to accept that’s all you have to look forward to in your lifetime. So, you focus on the scent of sulphur-doused charcoal and try to ignore how flesh sizzles when you throw another corpse into the flame.

Once the weight is offloaded, you trek back over the beaten path to the truck, your fingers tense with the frigid wind. A storm had come screeching through last night, mewling its sombre song while spewing out a flurry of ice onto the decaying buildings of the QZ. The sterility had lasted all of about an hour before the powdery white turned sludge and jaundice-yellow stains popped back up along the streets.

The only salvageable thing about winter, tainted with piss.

Huffing to yourself, you curl your hands to dissuade the frost gnawing on your knuckles and square your shoulders for the next haul. A quick scan of the cargo hold tells you you’re nearly done. There must have been ten or so infected cadavers when the unit had been dropped off – piled atop one another, heads wrapped in bags and arms still bound behind their backs. Joel had divided the work between the two of you – sectioning the heavier builds off for himself – and you’d made quick work disposing of the majority before the stink of death could cling to your blouse.

As for him–

He brushes up behind you, stunted to a slower pace, carrying a body twice his size. You tune in to his laboured breaths, the grunts he makes with each step, muffled behind the bandana he wears as a mask. In your peripheral, you think you spot it slipping – slicked with the sweat that shines down the curve of his nose. His hair is much the same; speckled grey, glistening with sebum and a gruelling day's work.

(You recall what it feels like, clutched in your tight grip. You like pulling at it, borderline violently, whenever you can. Whenever he lets you–)

You stop yourself. The tangent has a viscous momentum you’re all too familiar with. Reeling it in, you tuck it near your gut before it can get away from you. Instead, you choose to single in on the way his back rolls when he throws the weight into the pit – the penultimate corpse. Then, back to the task at hand. The trailer stands empty now, save for the last; a smaller frame, curled in on itself, clad in embroidered jeans and a dirty, purple sweater.

He kept the child for you.

What’s left of one, anyway.

Two seconds pass. You crouch to tie your shoelaces.

(You got them for free – traded off a FEDRA agent with a dependance on oxy. You don’t think you’ll get as lucky with gloves. Winter clothes run like cigarettes here – the theft of your last pair indicative of that fact.)

When you stand back up, the body is still there.

The chain to the trailer latch is tangled. You decide to undo it before you move.

It won’t disappear.

Just deal with it.

It might be the cold, or the sore patch on your palm, singed from hovering too close to the flame. Food poisoning, credit to poorly cooked rat jerky, or the flu. You tell yourself it’s anything apart from what it is. You know he’s staring – can feel the laden look, sparking the frayed nerves along your shoulder. Just deal with it; the sentiment swimming in dark eyes. Deal with it; his rough voice nails into you.

It’s not a kid. Not anymore. Not since a network of fungal threads wiggled their way into the gummy recesses of its brain.

(But its skin is soft. Not one scar on those delicate hands.)

You let your gaze slide across the courtyard. His presence tips the scales of your consciousness, crushing with its force, and you find his brow quicker than you can blink away the wariness in your expression. He’s leaned up against a wall, twisting a spare rag over his fingers. His dry study is indecipherable.

Your jaw clicks.

He steps the slightest bit forward.

With a sharp tug on the body’s ankles, you deflect his intervention and position it so that you can easily heave it onto your bent arms. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be. That, or, it’s the rigour mortis, its joints stiffened to intractable peaks.

Keep your back straight and use your knees.

(Joel taught you how to lift anything. He said it’d come in handy, one day. You still can’t tell what he’s preparing you for.)

When you flip the child into the fire, the bag flies off its head. Its hair is the same shade as yours.

He takes double your shift.

You were a florist, before, operating right outside Boston. It’s easy to forget what it was like: cramped in that two hundred square foot shop, up to your elbows in thorns as humidified air pooled beneath your pits. There’s the vague picture of a book, fatter than your forearm, always propped open on the register counter. Floriography, a guide to the Victorian language, with watercolour illustrations and an empty page dedicated to your scrawled notes on customer orders.

And, there is the memory that accompanies it.

An infatuated friend – no, assignment partner – in your mycology requirement. He’d gifted it to you on your birthday and you’d given a complaisant smile back before going back to the video your professor put on. It didn’t interest you at the time. You were a botany student, desperately clinging to the last shred of your sanity before the end of term, and you did not care about the outdated science of some epidemiologist in 1968.

Perhaps you should’ve.

But–

You remember the flowers.

Post-grad. You’d bring them in from wholesalers in Columbia. Dahlias and daisies by the dozen – thriving boscages, nursed in minerals, tepid water. It was a blend of powdered femininity, a reification of the artificial scent you’d practically bathe in as a kid. Soil a pillow for nectar and dew, their roots still branched in the nourishing mix. And it was marginally obsessive, the way you’d drink all of it in. Like divine ambrosia, hung in a drunken stupor of all-natural proportions.

In the mornings, you’d separate their petals with a gentle hand. You felt as though you could sit forever in that quaintness. It did not feel like a job.

Joel takes double your shift, because you cannot wait to get away from shit-clogged sewers.

He comes back disgruntled, just as the afternoon sinks below the horizon.

The room soaks in an orange tint, a deluge of evening light spilling in from outside. Scotch whiskey burns a trail down your throat, irritatingly concentrated, and you wonder where he got it from. Not many drinks nowadays pool as deep in your belly, are warm enough to strike your inhibitions. You blink, tipsy – malt and smoke clustered on your tongue – and can’t help but smack your lips, the taste reminiscent of the musk you lick from in between his legs.

He comes up behind you, pulling the bottle from your cradle before you can take another swig. You’d set a dirty tumbler out for him too, lipstains smudged against the annealed glass. He pours two fingers worth, then sits back with a weary sigh. It rumbles from somewhere in his chest, hampered with the deep baritone of his own voice.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

This is what life consists of. Busy work and silence.

Anything is better than clicking.

You observe him in your free time.

It’s not often you’re granted the luxury of running your fingers down his face. You have, once, after coming home much too late to see him knocked out, practically blitzed on hydro. You’d discovered his skin – that it matched the way it looks; rough, sun-worn like old leather. It folds up along his forehead, between his brows, etched in a permanent look of exasperation. He’s marked in wrinkles you don’t think will ever go away.

(You’d tried smoothing them out. It was a stupidly sentimental action, founded on the sudden spout of emotion that plagued you that night. You had just been beaten an inch from your life, and wanted to find comfort in the fact that – if anything – he was peacefully at rest. But he looked tired, even in his sleep.)

His eyes are far away, too. His lips, pursed. The way his hair twists on his head suggests that it’d been curly, once upon a time – flipping like waves crashing towards an isolated island. Uncoordinated. Devastating. And his beard is all but an extension of that brutality – patchy and abrasive, particularly when it smooths along your thigh. He’s ruinously handsome; weathered and dry and dark and so, so goddamn handsome.

Joel is a man of blunt lines and frayed edges, and though he seems especially bronzed at this time of day, you can’t touch him to feel the sun.

But you’re not looking for warmth.

You slide off the chair, onto your knees.

You’ve been around long enough for him to sense what’s coming. His shoulders slouch, slack posture buttressed against the back of his chair, and the movement allows his legs to spread, just so you can slot between two beefy thighs. They ripple with restrained strength when you run your hands along them, muscle apparent even under the cover of his jeans.

“You’re tense.” You remark, slowly ironing closer to the bulge at his crotch.

“Long day.” He responds with a torn exhale.

The unfurling of his zipper puts an end to the short conversation. You ruck his pants to his pelvis, then scoop his cock out from behind his boxers. It’s semi-hard, heavy in your clutch, pulsing as though it aches. You slip to the base – nested in a bush of wild, auburn hair – and tug it until he swells to become velvet-covered iron. He thickens, brims with arousal, head darkening to the colour of a day-old bruise.

It’s when it’s like this–

When you’re on your knees, or back, or stomach, his flesh smelting your insides like you’re metal over brimstone. Your lips wrap around him – stretching taut at cracked corners, your tongue rolling over his frenulum. You will yourself to sink further, to let him touch your tonsils and the enveloping heat there. Your breath hot, your mouth even hotter – sweltering, you suck him in, coating his length with a film of saliva, which aids you when you pull back up. Still, he’s too big for you to fully take, so you wrap what you can’t reach and twist it in tandem to your bobbing head.

Spittle pools at your lip, globbing out to splatter on his boxers. You can’t control the gags his girth elicit. It doesn’t matter. His large hand cups your temple, guiding you lower. You hollow your cheeks to accommodate the bludgeoning rhythm of his cock, choking on the smell of sweat and denim. He’s heady, potent with brine. Blurring heat corners your eyes, tears cropping at the sheer indulgence of it all. You don’t know whether he notices as they slip down your cheeks, whether he goes harder because of them.

It’s in these perennial moments, pearlescent prespend seeping down his shaft – a beautiful compliment to his skin – where you’re simultaneously selfish and selfless in a world that is kind to neither. That he feels more alive than ever. Pumping, pounding, like the fibrous sinew of a still-beating heart.

He’s not gentle as he takes. You don’t discourage it.

(You believe he’s forgotten how to be. There’s a certain severance you have to make to survive; a detachment from humanity. You don’t doubt he was a good man, once. You hear it in his cadence, that southern twinge that speaks to days of gentleman-like civility past. It’s excusable. You understand. You can’t complain of the strain he puts on your throat. You too have lost your touch.

But it cannot reduce the red on your ledgers. Gore binds the very books together.)

Cum covers your palette when he spurts his end – a hot, febrile concoction; the ocean lapping up on a beached log, like sand in every crevice. He holds your head down until you swallow, knees spasming against hardwood floors.

You splutter for air when you finally draw away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Joel shifts forward, picking an unknown material off the table above your head. You can’t discern what it is – not until he brings it down to your chin.

Your washcloth. Threadbare and thinning still.

He doesn’t let you speak as he helps you clean the evidence of his sin.

Lilies for restored innocence. Carnations for pure love.

You cycle through your mental index of funeral arrangements as carmine ichor spills from your front.

The operation hadn’t gone according to plan.

Joel said it’d be a quick pillage of a newly empty warehouse; an apparent treasure trove for supplies, left abandoned after a firefly attack drove FEDRA security off its perimeters. Lined wall to wall in crates of salvaged items; he’d heard wind of it through a contact in the agency – some son of a bitch by the name of Liam, trying to pay off a withstanding debt. Easy gains, he’d smiled, you can take your pick of the loot.

The knife lodged in your gut begs to differ.

(You posit another smuggling ring got dealt the same deal. They had come in behind you. Jumped fast, fought dirty – took all the ammo and cigarettes they could carry and left you for dead. Naturally.)

Where the fuck is he?

Vignette shadows edge your vision, throwing everything off kilter. You can hardly process every aspect at once: the pulsing wound, the surge of blood. Nausea encroaches on the site, convulsing in around the jagged blade, cramming your intestines for space. It blazes a fiery path up to your lungs, where your breaths escape in short, shallow increments. Oxygen dwindles. You’d skipped breakfast. Still, you heave as fluorescent lights blink in and out of existence above you.

The concrete floor is unforgiving.

Gladioli, perhaps. For someone who’s proven their strength. Tears glue your lashes shut, and you imagine being buried out in a field of their long stems. Swathed in peach, pink, babydoll colours untainted by grime. You wonder if Joel knows a place.

(You never asked for his favourite flower.)

The stab festers, broiling over with an impassioned heat. It must be hell overturning your system, bubbling up in pus, swaying you from making your peace. All those lives you took. The thorns you’d clipped. Your head is lifted onto a twitching lap. It’s soaked in carnage and smells like him.

Thank god. Felt like it was gonna explode.

“B-Bout– nghn, time.” You cough. You’re able to discern his silhouette through the fog, cloudburst heavy on your lids. It’s sticky, disorienting.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me now. We’ll get t-this fixed. We’ll get this fixed, okay?” He chokes, wrestling with a roll of something. “I gotta take the knife out, baby. It’ll hurt. It–”

“It–It’s okay.”

“No, no. Up, open your eyes, c’mon.”

You were hired to supply a wedding with its finery, back when you first opened shop. It was the gig that promised to put you on the map, insisted upon by a childhood friend who had the money to blow on imports from Holland. You’d spent days fine tuning the arrangements – fussing with leaves, waxing petals, trimming roots. Your cuticles were red, raw by the end.

The next week, all the flowers had wilted. The paraffin you used was the wrong type.

Joel’s voice cracks like a spoiled floret. You burn at the knowledge that it’s your fault.

He doesn’t give you the option to grieve it, twisting the blade out of your abdomen. You lurch forward, thrashing with a warbled scream. Borderline animalistic, the pain tears through you with harrowing intensity.

His hand smooths your hair back in the meanwhile, brushing across your sweaty forehead, winding between the tresses. You shudder under a wave of hypoxia and come to a sobering revelation.

It feels nice.

Something shifts.

He was quiet before. A man of very few words; upon your first meeting – a partnered smuggle run, arranged via Tess – you recall tallying the hours until he spoke. It hit three, prior to your suggestion of something so bewilderingly stupid he just had to pitch in his discontent. You’d smirked it off. It hadn’t been personal.

(Possibly the one insight that allowed you to continue working with him.)

But since your close call, he’s funnelled down to occupy a fraction of his previous presence. You suspect it has everything to do with how you bled out in his arms.

He leaves and returns during your small bouts of restless sleep. You don’t hear from him, or see of him – aside from the rare occurrences when your days intersect; when he comes back, tarnished and tired, to crash on the couch before his next job. You would haul him to bed if you could, yet your gut throbs in barely-healed rage with every exertive move. So, you spend your limited time with him as you’ve grown used to doing – watching.

His nightmares have gotten worse.

You used to experience them in pyretic transitions, suspended in a state of hypnagogia, your consciousness bleary and flickering like old film set ablaze. You’d feel his tremors, could hear his whispered pleads filter in on your own dreams. But they existed as secondary – something to be acknowledged in that post-apocalyptic, apathetic way. I get ‘em too, bud. He never mentioned them, so you wouldn’t ask.

To see him unravel is another thing entirely.

Like corduroy twill being picked apart at the seams. A material made to be durable, to tough out years of erosion. He quivers, forearms contracting over his chest, his brows creasing. Something about Sarah as his hands rub together, clawing at his palms.

You wind your limbs around your middle. It’s frightening, you realise. You’ve come to know this man in the snarled face of adversity – he’s never so much as stuttered, carved in resilient rock. But it had to have come from somewhere, and if not vomit, if not viscera, if not fungi–

Whatever it is that torments him, you pour a glass of water and wait for him to wake.

He doesn’t look at you when he does. You don’t blame him; you’re practically pellucid, yellowing undertones an effect of the lesion that marks your stomach. The only thing you’d gotten out of the warehouse were medical supplies in abundance. You credit only them with your continued survival.

“I’m going back.” Joel says, tapping his index on the glass. You blink, nonplussed at the sudden noise. You recover in half the time, though, and open your mouth to protest. “We left some valuable shit behind.” He interrupts.

“You can’t go alone.”

“You’re staying behind.”

“I’m fine,” You start, then wince with the movement.

He stares at you, incredulous. The silence punctuates his point.

“Tess has a few men holding it down. It should be simple.” And with how he grits it, the words hissed through clenched teeth, it’s evident he means it as an end to the discussion. But doubt maturates, wheezing in the way punctured lungs do, sore under the pierce of cracked ribs. Tension swells from the afflicted site. You can’t control the disillusion in your tone.

“That’s what you said last time.”

Nothing erupts.

Not how you expected it to, anyway. It takes a moment for the blame to meet him, to find its honest meaning. In that time, it hangs between you, echoing, precariously balanced on seething eye contact. Then, his gaze flickers down to your abdomen.

“I’m not the idiot who almost got herself killed.”

It carries all the malice you wished for, and more.

(Whatever tenderness he had left must have bled out with you on that floor.)

He doesn’t die. But then again, that wasn’t what you were concerned about.

Joel makes his first appearance three days later. The return is sporadic, and divided upon many, each time with a small bag of supplies he stuffs underneath the floorboard. The sacking was successful, then–

(He throws a bottle of antibiotics onto the kitchen counter, his jerking shoulder a rough indication that it’s meant for your injury. But when his face catches the light, you’re thrown with the inkling that he might need them more than you.)

–though, nothing is without its faults.

Eggplant purple and violent red blend in a mottled contusion across his cheekbone, painted down to his neck – beyond his collar – hidden to your wandering gape. You’re no stranger to bruises; the world collapsed in on humanity a good twelve years ago, and burst capillaries have become a constant under the macerating weight. Yet it’s another layer stripped, a sheet of titanium snatched off the manifold complexity that is him. You’d never seen the evidence of his pain so clearly illustrated atop his skin.

“Joel–”

“Leave it.” He snaps.

You bite the inside of your cheek, pushing yourself up to sit by the sink. It’s futile to beckon him over, so you wait his pacing out by dousing a rag in leftover alcohol.

“Was there anything even left?” You accuse. He unzips a duffel bag atop the dining room table, ruffling through a layer of bandaids.

“Yes. The rations’ll last us two months, if we sell to the right people.”

“Thrilling.”

Your sarcasm lingers until he finally finds what he’s looking for, pulling out a jar of ground coffee from behind a box of detachable blades. When he walks over to fetch a mug, you grab him by the wrist and wrench him closer.

(You wouldn’t have been able to, had he not let you. You know his strength trumps yours.)

When you touch the makeshift wipe to his face, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“What did this?” The question stretches, losing its structural integrity under your elemental concern. This is all novel territory – you don’t make a habit of licking another’s wounds clean. But his desperate pleas hold possession over you; the restrained distress, the wavering timbre. Stay with me now. We’ll get this fixed.

“Gun.”

Your hand falters over his jaw.

“Butt end.” He adds. “FEDRA was on the scene.”

“Right. Do I even have to say it?” You whisper. ‘Told you so’ titters on the tip of your tongue.

“No.” He concedes.

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, locked in a begrudging dance that pulls you off your feet. Winter has nearly melted to its end, now; the howling gale tapering to a draft that crawls beneath window sills. Somehow still, it penetrates you, even colder than before.

(Joel crackles like a fed furnace, biting at the firm coals of your desire. You unconsciously veer closer, wiggling your hips until your legs cage his. He holds you in place with one large hand, the other gliding beneath the hem of your jeans.)

“You’re hurt–”

“So are you.” He settles. His fingers press up against the plush of your cunt, finding that electric centre. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and likewise, not enough; a defibrillator to your core, one that cannot revive you.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, finding purchase in his broad build. It does nothing dampen the needy moan you make when he pushes your panties to the side, toying with your swollen folds. He spots you, clenching around nothing, soaking the calloused pads of his thumb. It takes place on your clit, then, index and middle inching towards your hole to plug you full.

“Needy fucking thing.” He groans, shoving his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss. Far from it. He doesn’t try to match the pace of your gaping surrendering, preferring to devour you instead. You pant up into his mouth, gyrating with the back and forth of his pumping digits.

He claws out in you your tender-most spots.

(But that’s just it, isn’t it?

He might not be gentle, in the worn definition of the word. The touch that peels petals, reverent, finding delicacy in the finest bits of creation; gold leaf and concentrated fragrance. What you spent so long holding onto – the beauty that’s become obsolete in a post-fungal land.

But you cannot kid yourself.

He’s raw, uninhibited. You’ve seen it – that supplantation of humanity, a measure to rise above the monsters that hunt you. A sore bundle of mortality and death, left unhealed, yet just as capable of flaring when you reach out towards it.

Like stepping up when you buckle under the horror of your own reality. Wiping your chin of filth. Shaking with you, fading out on his lap, his best efforts centred in on your mutilated centre. The nightmares that plague him, seeking out whatever weakness lies dormant.

If you had to choose, you’d say he favours sunflowers.)

“Joel,” You whine, sinking your face in his neck.

“That’s it… C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

That night, he pulls something out of his bag, tucking it in your pocket as he joins you in bed.

“Hm?” Murmuring, you reach to wrap your hand around his. The fabric in his grasp is thick, knitted.

Gloves.

“Noticed you’ve been cold.”

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heartpascal · 1 year

Note

FATHER FIGURE JOEL, I’M LOVING IT. Can you make some comfort from father figure joel, pleaseeee???

so far from it

▹— joel miller x platonic!reader

▹— summary: you get into some trouble, luckily, you know who to call for help.

▹— a/n: aghhh i don’t like it!! but gotta give yall something while you wait for the part two’s! ALSO IM SORRY THIS ISNT AS MUCH COMFORT AS I MEANT FOR IT TO BE

▹— warnings: father figure joel, violence, blood, swearing, reader gets attacked, needles, stitches, a smidge of comfort at the end

masterlist

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Ever since you had joined Tess and Joel’s operation, things had been going pretty smoothly. Though they had argued on multiple occasions over your age, having various disagreements over your capability in this job, you had proven yourself time and time again.

It didn’t faze you. Nothing did, really. You could shoot an Infected point blank in the head without batting an eye, could dig through dirt and muck to find supplies you needed, could travel for hours upon end and Joel and Tess wouldn’t hear a peep coming from you.

That was life in the apocalypse, you supposed, the complete lack of any remorse for what could’ve been had you just been born a few decades earlier. This was your life.

Sometimes, it was a life you didn’t particularly want, but you continued, especially after working with the adult duo for so long, it had become increasingly clear that they needed you. You could get into places they couldn’t, your small size allowing those tight squeezes, and the strength in your arms helped towards moving things away from blocked entrances.

In return for your services, Tess had formed an agreement with Joel, that you could stay at their apartment with them, sprawled over their couch, and they’d provide you the ration cards you needed to survive. A roof over your head and food was more than generous, and you had known even back then that you’d be an idiot not to take it.

Especially when considering the power that Tess wielded in the QZ, with a network of informants spreading all throughout it, and with Joel, you knew nobody would dare look to steal from you. Everybody who was anybody in the QZ knew what the two of them were capable of, and considering your affiliation with them, you were sure nobody would even attempt to come for you.

You had prided yourself on being smart for a very long time, smart enough to survive in this world, smart enough to escape FEDRA school despite having no parents, smart enough to team up with adults who held some sort of power. You had never considered that that pride would be a bad thing.

But today, whilst out with Joel and Tess, you had decided to head a little further away from them than you would usually go, determined to use your ration cards for something you wanted. It was stupid, really. You wanted a dumb book, and thought your smarts were enough to trade the dealer for it, thought you were smart enough to avoid any tricks or cheats.

You knew there was something very wrong when two men stood behind you, one leering over your shoulder as you looked down at the object of your desires, and you repressed the urge to turn your head towards him.

Instead, you kept your eyes to the table, and shoved your hands in your pockets, one going to grip on to your ration cards, the other holding the handle of the knife Tess had given you.

It was when the seller nodded at the two of them that you knew you were fucked.

Trying to pull the knife out backfired, and the blade ripped your coat as the man on your right grabbed your arm, twisting until you felt your grip involuntarily weaken, and then the seller snatched it from your hand. The man on your left grasped your other arm, squeezing so tight you felt the bruises forming beneath his hand already.

It didn’t take a genius to realise you were in some deep shit, especially after being disarmed so quickly, and so you did the first thing that came to your mind.

“Joel! Joel, help—” Your yells were cut off by the left man slapping his hand over your mouth, and you bit his fingers, spitting as he hissed and pulled his hand away. You struggled, opening your mouth once more, but you were stopped before you could even begin again, as the right man grabbed your head, slamming it into the rickety table below.

Your vision swam, and you could only just register being pulled away from the street, down an alley nearby. Your ears were ringing, like they did when you fired your gun, and you weakly tried to reach up and hold your head, stopped by the hands grasping onto your arms even now.

The duo dropped you to the floor, and you just about managed to put your arms out to stop a second blow to the head, that would most likely have ended in a concussion.

Hands digging into your pockets were the next thing you became aware of, and your attempts of pushing them away went pretty much unnoticed.

“Fuck you, man.” You spat out, your voice garbled as you realised your mouth was filled with blood, and you could feel it oozing out of your lip and cheek. The metallic taste was disgusting, and it made you feel sick.

The two men pulled you to sit up against the brick wall, and you spat at the one you recognised to be righty, a glob of bloody spit landing on his knee as he crouched beside you.

“This fucking bitch,” He began, but was cut off by lefty, who shook the man’s shoulder with a sense of urgency as he looked towards the end of the alley.

You drew your gaze in that direction with some effort, and felt a grin light up your face. “Oh, you’re so fucked.” You laughed, blood still dripping from your mouth, and even the dizziness that overcame you couldn’t wipe the smile off of your face as the two men realised they’d dragged you into a dead end, and their only way out was blocked.

The fighting was a blur, if you were honest, the adrenaline leaving you as your body recognised that you were safe, Joel was here. It was only when his face was looming in front of you that your awareness came back, blood still pooling under your tongue.

“Shit, c’mon, kid. Let’s get you home.” Joel murmured, hands placed on your cheeks as he looked at your head injury, a wince on his own expression. Your head lolled, about to fall towards your chest if Joel hadn’t been holding it up, the weight feeling impossible all of a sudden.

You tried to help them stand you up, Tess having arrived at some point during the commotion, but you were likely more of a hindrance than a help. With an arm over either of their shoulders, you stumbled your way out of the alley, the FEDRA guard across the way turning his head to look away from the three of you.

You couldn’t remember much of the journey back to the apartment, which was probably good for your pride, as you could imagine it wasn’t easy. You probably looked like an idiot, unable to keep your own head up half the time, but Joel and Tess got you back safely, which you had never doubted.

“Concussion?” Joel asked Tess, after the two of them had settled you down on the couch, your neck resting against the arm of it, holding the weight of your head up for you.

“Let’s hope not,” Tess replied, handing Joel the bottle of alcohol and the rag that was left on the counter for times just like these. “I’m going back out, gonna go find those pricks and see what the fuck they were doing.” She announced, shouldering her backpack once again and frowning at you, before she turned and made her way out.

You could almost see the anger rolling off of Joel, the one emotion he never bothered to shy away from, and even as he tried to be careful, you still cringed and pulled away from the rag he was attempting to disinfect your injuries with.

“Sorry, kid, it’s gotta be done.” He grumbled, sounding the slightest bit sorry, and pressed the rag against your forehead, wiping away the blood that was still weeping from there.

You sighed, the taste of your own blood still lingering in your throat, but the wounds in your mouth had stopped flowing now. You couldn’t recall spitting out the rest of the blood, but you figured it must’ve happened on the journey back.

“Got me pretty good, huh?” You asked, your words slurring even though you were thinking of them with no problem, and you blinked your eyes shut in annoyance.

“Could’ve been worse.” Joel muttered, his hands moving your face to check it over for any further injuries. You could feel your eye and eyebrow swelling up now, and frowned at the sensation.

You should have never gone to buy that stupid book. It wasn’t smart, and you were always smart, so you couldn’t quite understand what had happened. That was childish, you realised, the feeling dawning on you suddenly, the shame, the embarrassment.

That was one thing you had always made sure to deny yourself of, those childish feelings, the spontaneous decisions that came with naivety, those were things that you couldn’t risk in the apocalypse. You couldn’t afford to — clearly, you had gotten too comfortable here, the impending doom that came with living in a world like this had started to feel far away, with Tess and Joel at your side.

It was embarrassing, having shown such a weakness, and for a moment you were worried it was going to cost you everything, but Joel finally returned to your side, having been to put away the alcohol and rag he’d used to disinfect your injuries. He was quiet for a few moments, and then started pulling something out of his backpack, the crease between his eyebrows deep.

You looked over at him, your brows drawing together when you saw the book he’d pulled from his pack, the blade of your knife stuck between the pages like some kind of violent bookmark.

The two of them were far too observant, and you swallowed nervously, frown growing deeper as you looked away from the book you had wanted so badly. That part of you, the childish part, the one that got you into this mess in the first place, wanted to reach out and pull the book from his hands, but you pushed that desire away like you should’ve done to start with.

“What? This not what you were after?” Joel asked gruffly, something like confusion catching in his tone.

“It was stupid,” You said in response, feeling anger warm your chest the longer you thought about the whole thing. From here on out, you were never gonna give in to such childish wants. “I was stupid.”

Your admission seemed to surprise Joel, if the way his eyebrows raised told you anything. He remained in silence for a few moments more, before he put the book down on the table to the side, and turned back to you. “You weren’t stupid,” Joel denied, about to continue before you cut him off.

“I was!” You said loudly, the words the clearest of any you’d said since getting back to the apartment, and you blinked away tears, blaming the head injury for making you more emotional. “I didn’t think. I put myself in danger because— because of what? A damn book? How childish is that—”

“You are a child.” Joel said, stopping you before you could continue your rant, your words getting more intelligible as you went on. You stared at him, the tears filling your eyes once more, and he carried on at your expression, “That’s not a bad thing. You’re allowed to want things.”

“I want to stay with you.” You told him, voice shaking and watery, “I don’t wanna have to leave because I act like a kid.”

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, kid.” He spoke firmly, and with a bit of a hesitation, he reached out, moving the hair on your head away from the cut that had started to bleed once again. “Swear it. We’re gonna sort those guys out, and nobody’s ever gonna come after you again.”

You nodded, feeling the slightest bit relieved at his words, though no less ashamed of yourself.

“Alright?” You nodded once again, “Good. I’m sorry for this, kid, but that’s gonna need stitches.”

Your face fell, and he sighed through his nose, understanding your pain. He held the suture kit in his hand, and you realised he must’ve gotten it when he put the alcohol away earlier on.

He grabbed your hand, squeezing slightly, and kept his grasp on you when he started stitching, letting you grip on to him tightly each time he pushed the needle through your skin. “I hate getting stitches.” You murmured, when he was finally done, letting him take his hand back to put the suture kit away.

“I know.” He acknowledged, and ruffled your hair as he stood up. “Sit up.”

You did as he told you, swinging your legs so you were sat only on one side of the couch, and you furrowed your brows as Joel got comfortable on the other side. You finally realised what he was doing when you watched him reach over to the rickety wooden table and grab the book he’d taken from the seller.

“C’mon, let’s see what this fuss is about.” Joel grumbled, pulling the knife out of the pages and handing it to you, making you smile lightly even despite the pounding of your head.

“Thanks, Joel.” You told him, eyes still watery.

“S’alright.” He responded, letting you settle at his side as he looked through the book that had caught your attention. “Puns, really?”

You laughed at his less than pleased reaction, setting your head against his arm as you looked at the jokes in the book, laughing to yourself over some of them.

He just shook his head, pushing down the smile that wanted to rise to his lips as he listened to you laughing.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller imagine #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #tlou imagines #tlou one shot #tlou imagine #tlou angst #tlou fluff #joel miller father figure #joel miller fic #pedro pascal angst #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal one shot #joel miller x platonic!reader

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viridescent-din · 1 year

Text

inexperienced

you screw up a mission. even worse, you make your feelings - and arousal - obvious to joel. in his own words, he ‘takes care of you.’

smut, 18+. fingering & oral, f receiving. joel is OOC, but only in the sense that he decides to fuck you in the moment

“Stay close,” Joel warns, his voice hushed as the two of you enter the broken down building. “Tess and I cleared it out a month ago, but they have a way of crawling back.” You stop, only a few inches from Joel. He stares down at you.

“Clickers?” You ask. Joel nods, and you let out a breath.

“Okay,” you say. You try to push down the feeling of dread creeping up in your stomach. Clickers are bad news - even Joel gets anxious around them, though he’d never admit it. You know him well enough to pick up on the signs: tense shoulders. Finger on the trigger of his gun, instead of laying on the trigger guard.

“Remember, we’re looking for a brown pack. Don’t know what’s in it. For the price we’re being paid, it doesn’t matter. We find the pack and we leave.” Joel’s gaze bores into yours. He’s not quite through the door yet, and the sun catches his brown eyes. They light up, and you try not to stare. “Understand?”

“Gotcha,” you confirm. Joel takes one last look outside, and carefully, walks through the door.

You clear the first floor easily - neither of you thought that even a FEDRA soldier would be too lazy or scared to come back for a bag they clearly care about if they left it on the ground floor.

“Probably not even important,” Joel tells you. “If FEDRA decides to do a sweep, and they find something they recognize as a soldier’s personal belongings…” he shrugs.

“Bad for that soldier,” you finish. Joel nods, then tilts his head towards the stairs.

“Keep behind me,” he tells you. You listen, never further than one step after him. As you get to the top, he stops you. “No noises here on out. No talking, no bumping shit over.”

“I know,” you say. “We’ve done this before.” Joel hesitates, like he wants to say something important. Instead he just turns away.

“Right,” he says, and then that’s it.

You explore to the right of the stairs first. It’s more shallow, only a few doors. You’re pretty sure this used to be a school. You check the offices, finding nothing. Joel motions you to follow him to the opposite side of the building. You enter a library, full of bookshelves and glass cases. There’s a circulation desk in the middle of the room, and it’s covered in drawings that look like they were done by little kids. You smile slightly.

Joel suddenly sticks his arm out, jutting into your stomach so you buckle over. It stops you from falling though, down an impressively large break in the floor. You’re not entirely sure how you missed it. Joel clearly doesn’t know either, judging by the equal parts incredulous and angry look he’s giving you.

Sorry, you mouth, straightening back up. Joel shakes his head disapprovingly. You feel it in your whole body, Joel’s dissatisfaction with you. It makes you think of a few hours earlier, when Tess insisted that you weren’t ready for this - as if it would be the first time you’d left the QZ, or the first time around infected at all. You grit your teeth, not wanting to prove her right.

It’s not her opinion you care about. It’s Joel’s. It’s bad enough that he probably knows how you feel about him. You’re sure he thinks it’s a stupid crush, the girl who was barely alive before this all started following him around like a puppy. If he’s going to think that, you at least want him to think that you’re capable of following him without getting hurt.

Currently, you’re not doing too well at that.

You and Joel trace the wall, backs pressed against it to walk against the bits of the floor that haven’t fallen in yet. From there, you spread out, flashlights on the dimmest setting and pointing towards the ground, looking for a brown bag. Neither of your footsteps make any noise, and you hold your breath as long as you can so no one (or nothing) can hear you breath. It takes about fifteen minutes, but you’re the one who finds the brown pack, sitting on top of one of the empty tables. You grab it, gleefully throwing it over your shoulder.

“I found it!” You exclaim, momentarily forgetting your surroundings as you call out for Joel’s approval. You slap your hand over your mouth as soon as you realize your mistake, but it’s too late. Your voice bounces off the walls, filling the silence.

And then you hear it. The high pitched clicking, the rapid footsteps. Your stomach drops, and your heart starts pounding in your chest.

“Go!” You hear Joel yell. He’s running towards you - you can’t see him in the dark, but you can hear him approaching. You stumble, making your way back the way you came. Joel catches up to you before the clicker. You’re just about to shimmy your way against the way when you feel the ground give way under your feet.

You ran into the hole.

You open your mouth, ready to scream as you fall, but Joel catches you. He hauls you up, throwing the two of you back against the shelves. His back hits it, and you wince, sympathy pains making you flinch. Joel holds you close as the clicker approaches, his breath somehow steady on the back of your neck.

And - oh - you landed in a compromising way.

Joel is sitting on his ass, legs spread out. You’re sitting between them, back to chest. But it’s the way Joel must have grabbed you as you fell, around your whole body so he could lift your weight. One of his hands is clamped over your mouth, stopping your scream, stopping you from making any more noise - but the other hand might kill you.

Joel’s arm is wrapped around your waist, his palm pressed directly on your crotch. He must have grabbed towards your thigh, maybe your hip, as you fell, the force of him pulling you both back moving it to wear it in now.

He’s holding you tight. You fidget, Joel’s large hand cupping your entire pussy over your clothing. Your breath stalls as you realize that despite the fact you can literally hear the clicker searching for you, your core begins to throb. Fuck, you think. This cannot be happening. Not now. You shift, trying to signal to Joel he needs to let go, he needs to right now, but the shuffling makes him tighten the hand he has on your face. Quiet, the movement tells you. You stop moving immediately, obedient.

The clicker is only a few shelves away, you can hear it. Joel’s hand on your face, your pussy, his breath on your neck, you’re beginning to overheat, stress setting in. You can smell him, musky and slick with sweat from worrying. Your eyes begin to water, and whether it’s an emotional or physical reaction to everything happening right now, you’re not sure. You swallow, the muscles of your throat moving against Joel’s pinkie finger.

This can’t last much longer. Even if the clicker finds and eats you, this will be over and you’ll never have to worry about it again. You will yourself to calm down, to relax. Your hips begin to sink, shoulders deflating as your body listens to you.

It’s a mistake. Your hips lowering changes the position of Joel’s fingers so they press the seam of your jeans into the apex of your sex. The sudden pressure against your clit makes pleasure ricochet throughout your body, your stomach muscles tightening. Not even Joel’s palm is enough to stifle the moan you let out, eyes slipping to the back of your head.

It sets off the clicker, and suddenly, both you and Joel are scrambling, trying to get up, trying to find a gun, trying to beat the monster as it barrels towards you. As you see it come within just a few feet of you, your bridge up before you even realize what you’re doing, sending your foot forward in a kick that lands squarely on the clicker’s chest. It screeches as it falls through the floor, landing on the ground with a sickening crunch. You sag with relief, your head bumping the inside of Joel’s thigh. You’re on your feet in an instant, looking at Joel in horror. He hauls himself to his feet, peering over the edge of the hole in the floor. He fires one shot, the bullet hitting the clicker’s head. Just in case. You swallow.

“Joel -” You say, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“No,” is all he says, all he gives you. He walks back the same way you came, not even looking behind him to be sure you follow.

You’re halfway back to the QZ by the time you work up the courage to try to say something again.

“I -”

“Save it.” Joel doesn’t look at you. You bite your lip, shame crawling its way back up your throat.

“But -”

“Stop.”

“Joel, just -”

“Shut up,” there’s a warning to Joel’s tone, one you ignore.

“If you could just let me explain -” your sentence is cut short by the force of Joel slamming you against the nearing concrete wall of a building, knocking the wind out of you.

“Explain?” He growls. You cough, gasping for air. Joel clenches your shirt, fists digging into your collarbone. You cry out, knowing he’s going to leave a bruise. “Explain what? That you clearly have no idea what you’re doing? That you did exactly what Tess said you would do, exactly what I told her you wouldn’t? That you almost got us killed because I touched your needy little pussy just a tiny bit?” You stare shocked at Joel. “Hmm?” He practically sneers when you don’t answer.

“I - I -” you falter. You can’t come up with any excuses, and Joel knows that. He just wants to watch you squeam, sit with what you’ve done. “I know what I’m doing,” you finally say. “I just… I wish you knew that too.”

The harshness of Joel’s brow melts away, his lips opening just the tiniest bit in surprise. He lets go of your shirt, his hand sliding from your shoulders to your waists. They’re warm, and Joel’s hands are so thick, you can’t help but settle against them. You don’t meet Joel’s eyes though, unable to face him. Joel remedies that by hooking his fingers under your chin, forcing you to look at him. You stiffen when he looks at you with pity, but the closer you look, the more you realize that’s not what it is. It’s sympathy. Maybe even a little guilt.

“Listen, kid…”

“I’m not a kid,” you protest, which makes the opposite sound true, but you’re right, you’re not a kid, and you’re not confused or stupid or somehow ignorant about the world you live in. “Fuck, I’m… Joel, I am mortified, and I never want to talk about this again. But please, please, do not kick me out for this, okay? Please don’t… please don’t push me away.” Joel doesn’t say anything. A few moments pass before he lets go of your chin.

“I ain’t gonna kick you out,” he tells you. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your head falling forward. It rests on Joel’s chest. He brings one of his hands to the back of your neck, massaging it. You knit your eyebrows, surprised at Joel’s sudden kindness. “And…” he clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “You ain’t got nothin’ to be embarrassed about. It’s… it was a natural response.”

“Oh god. Okay. Yeah, I’m uh, I’m not sure about that one.” You scoff. Joel tilts his head.

“You feel alright?” You must look at Joel like he’s insane, because he quickly follows it up with, “Edging can be hard on your body.”

“I - What?” You gape, shocked. “That didn’t… Oh my god, that wasn’t anything even remotely close to edging.”

“And do you have a lot of experience with it, sweetheart?” The pet name throws you for a loop. You look at your feet.

“No,” you admit. Joel nods slowly, looking pensive. Your face heats up.

“Joel, if you’re not gonna yell at me anymore -”

“Are you wet?” Joel interrupts. Your eyes widen.

“I - You -” You sputter.

“Baby,” you clench at the name. “Answer me.” You take a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Yes,” you admit, humiliated. Joel lets out a disgruntled sigh, like you’ve inconvenienced him, running a hand through his beard.

“Alright,” he says. “Hold this,” he shucks up your shirt. You don’t even think about it, you just listen, holding your shirt just above your navel. Joel takes a moment to trace the lines of your stomach with his fingers, making your muscles clench. Then he drops his hand, running his index finger up and down the seams of the inside of your jeans before he reaches the button of your pants. You breathe out as he pops the button, tugging at the elastic of your underwear. Just before Joel can do anything else, you grab his wrist. He looks at you. “Want me to stop?” You shake your head, almost frantically.

“No, I,” you search for the words. You’re throbbing now, your core acutely aware of how close Joel’s hand is to it. “But… why? Why now?” Joel clears his throat.

“You’re part of my people now. I protect you,” Joel’s thumb digs into your hip, and your eyes practically roll to the back of your head. “I take care of you. You. Me. Tess. We take care of each other.” Your face falls, body stiffening. You start to pull away.

“So you take care of Tess like this?” You ask, voice small. Joel looks surprised, then knits his eyebrows as he realizes his mistake. He purses his lips, then angles his head so he can press a kiss to the spot behind your jaw, towards your ear. It’s incredibly sensitive, your hands flying up to Joel’s biceps for balance and your toes curling in your boots. You hold back a whimper.

“No, baby.” He tells you honestly. His lips are still against your skin, his voice rumbling and sending sensation all over your body. You shiver underneath him. “I don’t.” He pulls back to meet your eyes, placing the hand that was on your hip on your cheek. He brushes the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone. “Alright?” He asks. You nod, your forehead bumping against his. Joel’s is still covered with a sheen of sweat. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna use my mouth and fingers. You tell what you like, what you don’t.” He slides his hand down your pants, cupping you over your underwear. You yelp at the suddenness, how close it feels. Removing the extra layer of your pants makes everything feel even more electric. Joel traces your slit over the thin cotton, humming. “Look at that,” he brings his fingers between the two of you, slick with your arousal. “Soaked all the way through. How long have you been feeling this way, hmm?” You don’t answer. Joel begins tracing you again, finding your entrance. You gasp as he pushes a finger against it, the tip and your underwear just barely pressing into you.

“It’s not good for you to be so pent up.” You whimper. Joel licks a stripe up the column of your throat, tugging down your underwear as he does. The air hits your pussy, and your thighs shake. Joel begins to knead the inside of your leg, each time getting closer and closer before backing away. You bite your lip to keep from whining, fingers digging into Joel’s shoulders.

“None of that,” Joel commands. “You couldn’t keep quiet when you needed to, you don’t get to be quiet out here. Understand?” He punctuates the last word with a press of his calloused thumb to your clit. You let out a moan in response, your head falling against Joel’s shoulder. “That’s it.” He encourages you. He starts to move his thumb in tight, firm circles that make your head spin. Your breathing becomes labored, uneven as Joel teases you. When he pinches your clit, you want to cry from the mix of pain and pleasure. Joel begins to prod at your entrance.

“Joel,” you say urgently, before he can do anything. He stops, finger pausing as it’s about to enter you. You exhale shakily. “I’m not bad at what we do. I’m not. I’m just,” you let out a cry, mouth dropping open as Joel effortlessly slides a finger into you. You clench around him instantly, keening against him. “I - Inexperienced,” you finish. Joel smirks.

“I know,” Humiliation makes your face burn, but there’s something about Joel knowing so much more than you - and knowing that he knows more than you, that it’s obvious to both of you Joel is the more experienced one - that you find arousing. You clench around Joel’s finger, and he takes it as an invitation to add another. You grit your teeth at the stretch. “Tell me how it feels,” Joel commands, his tone both firm but also somehow extremely soft and comforting. You moan as Joel begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.

“Good,” you tell him. “Full,” is the last word you manage before the only thing you can say is a chorus of ungh ungh unghs as Joel fucks his fingers in and out of you.

“Full with just my fingers? Oh, baby…” Joel trails off, and you realize he’s stepping away slightly, shifting down to his knees. Joel lets out a grunt as he does, the position probably uncomfortable for him.

“Wait, Joel, no,” your words are somewhat slurred, but still frantic to stop him. Joel stops inches away from your pussy, glancing up at you. He stops moving his fingers, letting them rest inside you. Their presence, in but not moving at all, makes you feel like you’re going to go insane. You suck in a breath. “You can’t - we just did a mission. I’m sweaty and gross, I don’t want you to -”

“I do,” Joel interrupts you. He presses his face to the junction of your thigh, inhaling. It makes you shake, the coarse hair of Joel’s beard on your thighs, the intimacy of the act. Your hand flies to his head, fingers burying in his hair. “I want you this way. I want it dirty.”

Joel’s brown eyes are swimming with lust, depravity, want. You can feel his breath on your pussy, and your sex is aching, begging for you to give him the go-ahead. When Joel’s fingers twitch against your walls, your hips involuntarily snap towards Joel’s face. He looks at you indignantly, but rubs your thigh, as if to silently tell you it’s okay to want this.

“Okay,” you concede, more to yourself than Joel.

When Joel dives in, it’s euphoria.

He eats you out like he’s a starved man, like he hasn’t had a meal in years. Joel’s tongue is warm and wet, and manages to find its way through every fold. It makes your head spin, your grip on his hair tightening as you haunch over him, a litany of oh, Joel and please please please pouring from your mouth. All the time Joel’s fingers push deeper inside of you, anchoring you to him and making him that more present: Joel is with you. Joel is inside you.

And then he finds your clit, giving it a few licks. You expect that to be all, for him to keep up licking, but instead, he closes his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucks.

You scream. Your eyes are screwed shut, and you’re pretty sure tears are flowing down your face. You keep rutting against Joel, begging him not to stop, pleading with him to keep going, keep doing exactly what he’s doing, not to let you go -

“Joel,” you gasp. “I’m going to -” Joel just squeezes your hip in response, unrelenting. He sucks at your clit and works at your g-spot until you can’t keep it away anymore. Your orgasm claims you, spreading from between your legs. You feel it everywhere, your head, your stomach, your toes. It leaves you boneless, thighs quivering and coated in your own wetness. It’s on your lower belly too, you don’t even know how it got there. You’ve never been this wet in your life.

Joel stands, grunting again. His lips are slick with you, patches of his beard shining in the sun as well. It makes you want to kiss him, lick him clean and swallow it all down.

“Can you stand?” He asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. You blink. You didn’t realize how much you’re leaning against the wall. You nod, straightening, but your knees almost immediately buckle. Joel catches you. “Stay there. That’s it,” you lean again, this time a little taller. Joel starts to help you pull your pants back on, then realizes his fingers are still wet. Without thinking about it, he wipes your fluid on your pants, then pulls up your underwear, jeans, and carefully zips them up and then buttons them for you. The whole thing starts as erotic, but ebbs into something sweeter, the nice gesture of helping you get dressed making your heart clench.

When Joel is done, he steps away, looking you up and down.

“Better?” He asks. You nod, unable to find the words. He nods back, bending down to pick up his discarded backpack and gun. “Then let’s get goin,’” he says, turning around and starting to walk. “Best be back before sundown.”

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