Untitled

You’re still crying.

That tight, breathless kind of cry—your hands shaking, your thighs a mess, every nerve ending still fizzing from how hard you chased it. 

You came, but it didn’t help. 

Not really.

Joel’s hand is still on your face.

You nuzzle into it. Desperate. Small.

And he’s just staring down at you like you’re a car that broke down at the wrong exit.

Not disappointed.

Just... expected it.

“Didn’t help, did it,” he says quietly.

You blink up at him. Eyes glassy.

“No,” you whisper.

Joel sighs through his nose. Runs his thumb slow under your lip.

Then he leans in.

Not a kiss.

Just his forehead brushing yours.

“Y’wanna try again?” he asks low. “Try askin’ me right?”

Your bottom lip trembles. Your voice is wrecked.

“Joel—”

He shakes his head.

“You whine at me again, I walk out that door.”

Your stomach lurches.

You nod, fast.

You try. You try so hard to say it properly, but it breaks halfway through—

“I—I don’t know how to make it stop—I c-can’t do it without you, Joel—need you to help me, please—”

He groans. Doesn’t answer right away.

Just watches how you come apart saying it.

And then—

“That’s better.”

He stands.

You look up at him, dizzy. Lips parted. Knees weak.

“C’mere,” he mutters.

You try, but your legs don’t work right.

So Joel pulls you gently into his lap. Not soft. Just practical.

You’re straddling him now—bare, flushed, a fucking wreck. He’s still fully clothed.

He drags your hips down onto his thigh.

You gasp.

It's hot.

Rough denim, wet skin, his hand on your waist like an anchor.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really worked yourself up, huh.”

You whimper. Rock forward instinctively. It’s instant. Like your body’s just been waiting to be told where to go.

“That what you needed?” Joel says, dry and calm. “Someone to point?”

You nod. You’re sobbing again.

And you hate yourself for it—how quickly your hips start grinding down, how hard you’re clinging to his shoulders, how your stupid little sounds keep slipping out without permission.

Joel exhales slow. You can feel the rise of his chest under you.

“You cryin’ ‘cause it hurts, or cryin’ ‘cause you like it?”

You try to speak—but it’s just a broken noise. Too overwhelmed to answer.

He nods like he expected that.

“Y’don’t even know, do you. Don’t even care.”

You’re rocking harder now. Shame making it worse. Better.

He moves his hand to the back of your neck. Not soft—just there. Holding you down.

"You're real sensitive, baby."

You nod desperately, agreeing with whatever hes telling you.

And Joel—Joel—just grips your hips tighter and pulls you down harder against his thigh. The pressure sends your eyes rolling back.

“Y’don’t even wanna feel good. Not really,” he murmurs. “You want someone to let you fall apart. Let you be a fuckin’ mess.”

Your head drops to his shoulder.

“I—I’m sorry,” you cry.

That’s when it slips out.

Tiny. High. Broken.

“Daddy—”

Joel freezes.

You tense—immediately shame-hot, breath stalling, muscles locking up—

But he doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t mock you.

He doesn’t even blink.

He laughs.

Joel shufts his grip so your whole soaked cunt is dragging right over the meat of his thigh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

You moan—shameless, guttural.

He moves you for real now. Guides your hips back and forth while your breath hitches against his throat. You’re shaking, crying into his neck, absolutely pathetic.

“You waited so long to ask,” Joel mutters, calm as ever. “Coulda had this hours ago.”

“I d-didn’t mean—” you hiccup.

“Didn’t mean to, huh?” He huffs a breath. “You always mean to.”

You’re grinding helplessly now. Full-body spasming with every pass.

He holds your jaw. Makes you look at him.

“You gonna thank me for helpin’?”

You nod fast. Choking on it.

“T-thank you—thank you—oh my god—”

He hums again. Watches you shake.

The sheets are kicked off.

Your thighs are slick, trembling, your hands aching from how tightly you’ve been clutching at the pillows, the sheets—anything, anything to ground yourself.

Because he sure as hell isn’t doing it.

Joel’s across the room. Still half-damp from the shower, a towel low on his hips, arms folded over his chest.

Just watching.

Like he’s studying you.

Like you’re something small and twitchy and pathetic, and he’s letting you prove it.

Your hips jerk again.

A strangled sob slips from your throat.

“J-Joel, please—”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You drag your hand down your body again—fingers slipping, not enough, never enough—your legs splayed open wide, chest heaving, breath hiccuping because you’re so close you feel delirious. Drunk on it. And he’s just. Sitting there.

Watching you fall apart.

“Why won’t you help me?” you whisper. You sound like you’re crying. Maybe you are.

Joel tilts his head. His voice, when he speaks, is low. Rough.

“Help you do what, baby?”

You whimper. “Y-you know what—”

His eyebrows tick up like he’s humoring you.

“You tryin’ to come again, sweetheart?”

His tone is so calm it makes your stomach flip. Like he’s commenting on the weather. Like it’s nothing to him, this thing that has you panting, shaking, teary-eyed in the center of his bed.

“Y-yeah—yes, I—fuck, I need to—”

He hums.

“Then why’re you makin’ it so hard on yourself?”

You let out a choked sob. “You won’t—won’t touch me—”

“Didn’t say I would.”

He shrugs.

“You’re the one that started this, weren’t you? Runnin’ your mouth all day when I told you I was busy, bein’ a brat. Climbin’ on my lap tryin’ to grind on me like I wouldn’t notice. Now look at you.”

He gestures lazily, eyes moving over your body. You’re flushed, soaked, one hand between your thighs and the other gripping the sheets like it’ll anchor you.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, and that’s somehow worse than if he mocked you.

“J-Joel, I’m—I c-can’t—”

Your back arches. You try again, faster this time, hips grinding against your own palm, mouth falling open in a needy little whine.

Nothing. Just—nothing.

It’s like your body won’t let go without him.

Joel sits down further down and shifts in his chair.

Spreads his legs.

You can feel his attention like a brand.

“You’re gonna cry again?” he says softly. “Always do when you can’t get what you want.”

You sniffle. Whine. “Why won’t you help me?"

"I—I need you.”

“Do you?” His voice drops.

You nod frantically, hips bucking.

“I need you, Joel—need your hands, please—need your voice, I c-can’t—”

He stays still for a long moment.

Then:

“You wanna be good for me?”

You whimper out a shaky yes so fast it’s practically a sob.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes—yes, please—”

Joel finally leans forward. His elbows on his knees. His voice molten.

“Keep goin'. 'M gonna watch you’.”

Your whole body jolts.

“Don’t care if it takes five minutes or fuckin’ thirty—you wanted this. You show me how bad you need it.”

You’re trembling now. Your fingers are slick and shaking and fumbling, but the sound of his voice saying that stupid "keep goin'" does something cruel and primal to your brain.

the air was sticky.

sweet. 

the hiss of the shower head was above you, heat curling off your skin in waves, fogging the glass and your brain with it. 

it starts innocently.

you think.

you're on your knees on the shower floor, fingers trailing the wet beads trailing the thick curve of joel's calf. he's standing infront of you, water pounding down his shoulders, his face half-lost in the steam. 

you're not even looking at him- 

you cant. you're too focused on the way your thighs ache. the way you're clenching on nothing. the way your breath keeps catching.

your voice wobbles when you say it.

"need to... wash your legs, joel."

it wasn't a question despite you silently begging for his permission.

he tilts his head at that. doesn't say anything right away.

and then-

"you're already kneeling baby. don't gotta ask."

your hands are trembling now. you try to act normal, try and drag the bar of soap along his shin, but your fingers falter. you lean forward just a little to reach the back of his leg- and that's when your hips shift. 

just slightly. 

the front of your pelvis grazes his ankle. 

and you freeze.

because it feels good.

stupid good.

now that you've felt it, your body wants it again.

so you do it again.

a small, little roll of your hips. barely anything. but it lights up your whole core.

you don't even realize you're doing it, body moving on its own accord until joel speaks-

"what're you doin'?"

you go still.

so, so still. 

your head drops.

your hands fall front his legs. shame crashes into you like cold water. 

"n-nothing...." you whisper. "didn't mean to."

he doesn't say anything.

just stares down at you. and when you finally lift your eyes to meet his, your face hot, thighs trembling-

he's already looking at you with that quiet, unreadable expression.

"you didn't mean to," he repeats, likes he's testing it on his tongue.  

you shake your head, though his words send a heartbeat through you as your hips stutter against him.

silence. 

the water beats down on you, water dripping down your nipples that hardened under his stare. you looked down for a moment, then met his gaze. 

he looked like he might've almost laughed at the sight of you,

back arched on the floor, beads of water dripping down and down-

"you tryin' rub one out on my foot, baby?"

your lip trembles.

you whined.

"didn't mean to- just felt good-"

"yeah?"

"i bet it did. that why you're still humpin' me?"

you look down, hips rolling onto him without a thought. 

you're crying now. 

you nod. or try to. you're already too gone. 

"i c-can't help it, joel- feels too good. and you're so warm- so wet-"

he hums, low in his chest. you feel it echo in your cheek as he brings his hand to your face, guiding. 

he just nods.

another roll, 

slow, wet, delicious.

"there," he says. "that where you wanted it?"

you whimper again.

it's shameful how loud it is. how your whole body reacts to that one little word. there.

you were like a pathetic puppy in heat the way you rocked back and forth on him shamefully. 

"dunno whats wrong with me-" you sniffled. you feel your knees threatening to give out. 

"i- i jus' needed to-"

another moan. 

"'m sorry"

"no, baby? what were you tryin' to do then?"

you sob again. pleasure possesses you as you start grinding harder- thighs burning, your stupid mouth gasping nonsense. 

"jesus."

"plea-please don't stop. don't move-"

another shake of his head. his hand strokes your wet head, low voice murmuring above you,

"i know, i know. feels good, huh? tell me baby."

your body jerks against him feels tight and then loose, slow, so, so good. his name comes out as a chant- choked and sobbing as you blabber. 

"t-thank you, thank you-"

Theres good music playing. 

For once.

Another fire. 

Another late night in Jackson. 

You're sitting just several feet away from Joel. Tommy and the others have been slowly drifting further out, dancing, swaying. Lost in the easy feeling of Tommy's stupid blunt. So stupid you hit it yourself only not too long ago. 

Laughter trails through the wind and into the porches of the nearby houses. 

But you're still here.

Him and you. 

Joel hasn't moved from his chair, one leg stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest, the very picture of ease if you didn't know better. 

But you do. 

You can feel the glances stolen from you as you sit on the blanket near the fire, legs folded, fingers tangled in the threads. 

The musics still playing, but quieter now. Low enough that it feels like it's coming from inside your chest. It felt weird. 

"You alright kid?"

The question breaks the silence so gently, it barely feels like a sound at all. You glance up at him, orange flames appearing to dance in between the two of you. 

Your shoulders rise. 

Then drop.

"Yeah," It comes out above a whisper.

"I love this song. He's my favorite."

A beat. 

His chin jerked up in your direction for a moment before he spoke, 

"You comfy? Lyin' in the dirt." 

You smile. Slow. Shaking your head. Your fingers traced the pattern woven throughout the fabric beneath you like routine.

"Gives me something to do, I guess.

Joel huffs. Just a soft sound. His eyes flick down, lingering a moment longer than usual, before shifting back ahead. He doesn't answer. Just exhales through his nose, leaning back further into his chair.

He might just melt into it, you think. 

Your hearts too loud now that you don't hear his voice. The high is warm behind your eyes, everything feels... different.

Easier.

Slower.

Like your body is working harder than your own mind.

Like if you just will yourself to- 

You don't finish your own thought. Just shift- crawl the couple feet over to him like it's the only thing that feels natural. Gravity can't be pulling downward, it's towards him.   

You settle at his feet.

A mess of a cross cross apple sauce. Closer than you'd ever let yourself. 

Joel glances down at you, expression unreadable. A slight furrow of his brow as he brings his flask to his mouth before looking straight ahead and sipping. 

And then, carefully-

so carefully,

you lean your weight against his leg.

Not hard. Not entirely obvious. Just enough to test the waters. He doesn't move. Not right away.

Just breathes slow. 

Then, after a pause that seemed to stretch forever-

His hand rests on your head. 

Not patting. Not stroking. 

Just there. 

Like a damn paperweight.

Your cheek smushes against the denim spanning across his legs, weight shifting onto him.

You bring your hand to his boot, fingers stroking the loop tied. Feels smooth. 

"You're warm."

Joel huffs. Just a soft sound. 

"You that high?"

You smile into his leg.

"I don't know. I feel warm. I feel kind of tired. But you're comfy. Comfier than my blanket-"

"You shouldn't be doin' this." 

You go quiet as you register his low voice. Not mean, but clear. 

You still.

"Do you want me to leave?" you ask, voice barely below a whisper. 

"No."

A pause. 

"I ain't tellin' you to leave. Just don't be gettin'  too comfortable."

You hear the fire crackle. The music soft and steady behind everything. His hand stays heavy on your head. Solid. Grounding. 

You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in. 

"Okay." 

Silence. 

You shift, bringing your hands up on his knee, fingers interlocking. 

You don't listen.

Your chin rests on top of them as you sigh. His hand leaves your head as if he's been caught.

Silly.

"You ever... think about how people like you?"

"If they do like you, y'know. 'Cause I don't think I ever did."

"Not until tonight."

You hold his gaze.

"Even then I wasn't sure." 

Your breath catches, your chest tightens. You hear the words after they've left your mouth, soft.

Immediately regretful.

"I don't know why I'm saying this. Probably 'cause I'm too high." 

You purse your lips for a moment, head shaking. Your face warms , pink flushing across your cheeks. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

Your voice breaks, and you choke back a sob.

Joel's voice is low and calm, his warm hand settling gently on your shoulder. 

"Hey- easy."

His fingers press steady against your smooth skin. 

You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. The warmth of his hand stupidly seeps into you deeper than it should and you double down, tears leaving your squeezed-shut eyes.

Your body twitches against your will, crying harder. 

"Alright. Look at me." 

You do.

"Breathe slow. Biiiig breathe. Count to five with me." 

You sniffle, nodding.

"One..." 

Your shaky voice mirrors his words.

"Two."

"Two."

"Three..."

Your voice wavers as you speak it back. 

"Good. Four."

Another sniffle. "Four"

"Five." 

You sigh, feeling the number roll of your tongue. His hand squeezes your hands for a moment.

Grounding. 

"Put your hand on the patch. Tell me how it feels."

You look down, confused. Your eyes scan the ground below you for several moments before looking back up at him, eyes blown. 

He only looked back at you, waiting.

Your head dropped back down, and you focused your vision on the green blades of grass now resting below your hand. 

You look back up at him- as if silently asking for permission. Joel nods once, raising his eyebrows at you. 

The grass is spiky between your fingers, a little scratchy. Like a leaf.

"Good. Keep with me." 

Were you talking? You must've been. Joel can't read minds. 

You lean heavier on him, head weighing you down.

"Don't wanna move anymore. Don't wanna think. 'M tired. I wanna stay here."

"Not sleepin' out here."

"I can." You mumble. 

The fire cracks, your attention turning towards it for a moment before your head hangs down.

"I just don't wanna move yet." 

"Yeah. I know." 

It's low. Final. Unkind. 

And then- he moves.

No big gesture, no grunt or complaint. Just the quiet shift of denim and flannel as he leans forward, bracing one hand on his knee as the other finds your waist. 

Solid. Warm.

You blink, slow. Just in time to feel your whole body lift. 

"Joel-?"

No response. He holds you steady.

You're against his chest before you can think twice about it, your fingers curling into his shirt without meaning to. His heartbeat feels realer than your own.

You breathe him in. 

Musky. Familiar. Good.

"Thank you Joel." 

You think maybe he’s humming, real low. Or maybe that’s just the sound he makes when he’s trying not to think too hard.

The crunch of gravel. The whistle of wind.

Your head feels loose, heavy.

You might just slip and fall, and you're sure you would be fine.

The walk in your house is quiet.

His steps are solid. Routine. Music slowly drowns out as the silence embraces you.

He shifts you in his arms to free a hand, opening the door with a nudge of his boot, carrying you inside. 

You feel the creek of the hallway. The faint smell of the candle burned earlier that day.

The turning of a knob.

Joel kneels beside the bed, letting you slide down slow into the blanket.

The worn gingham sheet is cold against your skin.

Your pillows a little crooked, and he silently adjusts it before you can even reach up.

You look up at him now, eyes half lidded.

Worn out.

Waiting.

Safe.

You feel his worn fingers stroke the side of your face, almost carefully. As if you may break under his touch.

You don't.

You lean into him, inhaling soft and slow as you close your eyes.

"Thank you daddy."

The stroke of a thumb under your eye,

Can't have you goin' to sleep crying.

He turns out the lamp beside you. 

Darkness.

Without a word, a kiss is pressed gently to your forehead. 

You don't remember exactly what happened, how you got from point A to B.

You were crouched behind a tree one second, joking with Tommy. Now here you were, black flooding your vision. What you do remember is being dragged out of the snow, legs dragging across the wooden floors inside the cabin up the hill.

Warm. Safe.

"Pick up your damn legs." Joel muttered.

Like you could.

Your head was pounding, your side warm and wet with red. Hand reaching and reaching for the source of this feeling-

"Don’t move,” Joel grits.

You can’t help it.

You twitch anyways.

He grabs your hip, plants it hard back into the floor. His fingers dig in- hot, unrelenting.

“I said- don’t fuckin’ move.”

You barely contain a whimper, breath hitching.

“Hurts-”

“Yeah. Hurts worse if I miss,” he mutters. “So you keep still.”

You’re bare to the waist, shirt cut off in strips. You eyed the blood dirtied strips of it a few feet away from you. A dirty bullet graze slashed deep through your ribs- close to too dangerous.

Close enough even Tommy went quiet.

Real quiet.

Now you’re leaned back into him.

You think.

He's holding you tight, and you look up at him just for his eyes to stay down, focused on your side. Your chest is rising too fast- everything feels too fast. Joel's fingers prodded at wound, carefully checking that nothing was stuck inside.

“Don’t wanna make this too long,” Tommy murmurs, watching your thighs shiver.

Joel cuts him a look.

“She’ll tell us if it’s too much.”

Will you?

You’re not sure. You’re crying again. Quiet, wet, messy- like it’s leaking out without your permission.

Joel sees.

His eyes flick up to yours and then back down to the suture kit. He tests the curve of the needle against his thumb. And then his voice changes.

Low. Rough.

“Alright, baby,” he murmurs.

“Gonna stitch you back up.”

You sob, small and desperate.

“’M scared.”

“I know,” he says,

It's not sympathy.

It’s understanding. Worse. Better. You flinch as the needle bites in. Joel mutters,

"Big breath. C’mon. Don't want you squirming under me. Gotta stay still, can you do that?”

You nod, broken. Tears slipping over your cheeks like static.

Tommy’s hands flex on your thighs.

Joel hums.

“Attagirl.”

The needle dips again. Your legs jolt.

Tommy’s voice rings, quiet in your ear.

"You’re alright. You’re alright.”

Joel watches the way you break down—eyes blown wide, mouth slack.

A beat, and then-

“You wanna be good for me?”

You don’t answer, breathing faster than you'd wish.

He leans in closer, breath hot against your cheek. “Need you to use your words, baby. You wanna be good?”

“Yes—yes—"

“There we go.” He draws the next stitch slower.

“That’s my girl.”

You whimper. Your fingernails claw at the Joel's hand below you. He grabs your hand, wraps it around his wrist. Lets you squeeze as hard as you want.

“Good girl,” he says again. “You’re bein’ so good for me. So brave."

You cry harder.

Behind you, Tommy’s breathing’s changed. Subtle. Watching too close. Joel presses his palm flat against your belly, thumb brushing just under your ribs.

“You feel that?” he says. “How warm you are?

Tommy's hands guide one of yours to the blood leaking onto the floor.

Wet.

"That’s all blood under you. We're gonna get you all washed off, run the bath." Tommy starts behind you,

"Are we gonna use the bubbles again baby?"

“Yeah-”

Another stitch. You choke on a pained moan.

“Poor baby,” Joel murmurs, voice like gravel soaked in honey.

“Body don’t know what to do with all this, huh? All this pain and nowhere to put it.”

Tommy shifts behind you. You feel the heat of him, the weight of his knee against yours.

“She’s shakin’" he says.

“Yeah.” Joel smooths your hair back, bloodied fingers tangling in it. “Bein’ so brave, right baby?

And that,

that, is what splits you wide open.

You don’t mean to say it. It bubbles up from somewhere deep and raw.

“Daddy-"

It slips out like breath, cracked and high and needing.

Joel’s hand stills.

Tommy stiffens.

And then Joel laughs. Quiet. Not cruel.

Disbelieving.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You choke. "I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.”

His voice changes again. Lower.

“Don’t be, baby. You’re all out of sorts, ain’t you?”

You can’t speak. Just nod. Joel shifts closer. His chest brushes yours.

Joel’s eyes flick to his brother.

Then back to you.

“Y’just needed to be talked through it, huh?” His thumb rubs just above the wound, gentle.

“Didn’t know how bad you needed it till it came spillin’ out.”

Your eyes shut as he presses the next stitch. It’s too much- The only thing keeping you tethered is his voice.

“Sweet thing,” Joel breathes.

“My good girl. Almost there."

You sob harder.

Your knees jerk, but Tommy holds them steady, firm hands on your thighs, grounding you between them.

Another stitch. You moan, head lolling back in pain. “Almost done,” Joel says. “One more for me, baby. Can you do that?”

You nod. Barely conscious.

“You gonna be brave? Just one more. C’mon. Show daddy.”

You cry as he threads it in. But you don’t flinch. Don’t twitch. You hold it for him. And when he ties it off, when the pressure finally fades, he leans down and brushes your forehead with his mouth- not a kiss, just breath.

“That’s my girl,”

he whispers. “Knew you could do it.”

You’re still crying. But it’s quiet now. Soft. The wind outside hums. The lantern glows faint yellow behind you. Tommy lets go of your legs, rubbing your back. Joel pulls you into his lap. The needle’s gone. The wound is stitched. But your body’s still trembling.