#mean!joel

But that's what you maybe liked about him. People would talk. Oh, how much they would talk. They would say he pinches too hard, slaps too rough, spanks you until you weep. They say he calls you puppy like a dog, pet like a thing, girl like you barely deserve that much. 

But they never see the way he holds you after—thumbs brushing the red mark on your cheek, voice low like gravel: "That's my girl."

He sometimes pinches your skin without looking up from his newspaper. 

Sometimes he doesn't even need a reason.

You'd be standing at the stove, stirring something for dinner, and he'd come up behind you. His fingers would find the soft skin just above your hip, pinch until your breath hitches, and he'd murmur right into your ear: "Been too quiet today, puppy. What's on that pretty mind?" 

You'd try to answer, but the words would come out shaky. 

He'd pinch harder. "I didn't tell you to speak." 

Until you'd go still, and he'd kiss the back of your neck like a reward.

Oh, but the slaps. 

Those would come when you really stepped out of line. 

Maybe you sassed him in front of the mailman. Maybe you rolled your eyes when he told you to fetch his boots. He didn't raise his voice. He never did. 

He just waited until you two were alone, then he'd take your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilt your head just so, and say: "You know what you did, girl." 

And then his palm would connect with your cheek, not hard enough to knock you over, but enough to make your ears ring and your eyes water. 

He'd hold you steady while you'd blink through the shock. "Better now?" he'd ask, soft and mean. 

You would nod, and he'd lean in and press his lips to the same cheek, a kiss so tender it hurt worse than the slap.

The spankings were a language all on their own. 

Over his knee in the living room, the fire crackling, his hand rising and falling with a rhythm that felt like a hymn. 

Each smack echoed through the old farmhouse. He'd count, but sometimes he'd lose track, stop, shrug, and start over. "Don't matter," he'd mutter. "You'll be red either way." 

By the end, your skin was heated, your thighs were wet, and you were crying on his flannel. He'd pet your hair, then his fingers would find your chin, tip your head back, and he'd spit into your mouth—a warm and slow act. 

"Swallow," he'd say, and you did. "That's it." 

Some nights he would only give you the tip of his cock—just the head, slick and warm, pressing against your entrance.

He'd lie behind you, half-asleep, one arm under your head, and nudge into you an inch, maybe less. 

Then he'd stop. "That's all you're gettin' tonight, puppy." He'd yawn. "Been real mouthy." 

And he'd fall asleep with just that tease inside you, leaving you clenched and desperate, your hips twitching against him in vain. He never stirred. He was dead to the world, and you were left in the half-dream of his presence, aching for more of a man who didn't even know he was torturing you.

Other nights, he'd take you slow out of pure meanness. 

He'd lay you out on the rug, spread your legs wide, and push into you with a patience that made you weep. 

Each thrust was a long, dragging press, his cock filling you inch by inch, then pulling back until just the head remained. 

"Beggin' without a sound, aren't you, girl?" he'd say, chuckling, thumb pressing into your clit just enough to make you gasp. "You want to come, puppy?" 

You'd sob out a yes. 

"Ain't that a shame." He'd speed up, just a fraction, enough to build that wave inside you—and then he'd stop. "No. Not happening." Over and over until you were a mess of sweat and pleadings, until you forgot your own name and only remembered his.

And when he lets you come (rarely), it's always almost an afterthought.

He'd be inside you, slow and deep, analysing your face, and you'd be wrapped around him, whimpering, and he'd sigh like he was tired of the whole thing. 

"Go on, then," he'd mutter, pressing his thumb into your clit. "Get it over with." And you wpuld shatter, and he'd grunt once, then pull out and spill all across your belly, his breath hot on your face. 

"Look at you, girl. Good puppy. Are you gonna thank your old man?"

And you did. You always did. 

Because under that meanness was a man who built his whole world around you—big shoulders and worn hands, a country house with a porch swing where he'd sprawl and let you curl at his feet like a cat. 

He'd stroke your hair and spit into your open mouth without breaking his gaze on the horizon, just because he could, just because you were his, and you'd swallow and feel like you were part of a story that had no beginning and no end.

This is not a story meant for other ears. 

It's a fairytale only you two know the ending to—a dream where the mean old man keeps his little pet safe, warm, and used under the same roof, and she wouldn't want it any other way.

The blood pumping in Joel’s ears aligned with the heavy vibration of his heart as it thumped against his chest. His footsteps were heavy as he ran, and when his feet would hit the ground, they were loud.

The mud was slick, and he did what he could not to fall. It would have helped to slow down, but he could not. The sky was getting too dark. There were muffled voices of FEDRA officers in the distance. He could hear the fuzzy sound of their radios as they updated each other on the unidentified smuggler running for his life through bushes and tunnels, ducking under pipes and hopping over cars. There were too many, and they were too close. He was in good shape, but it was in moments like these that he thought to himself, ‘I’m getting too old for this’.

The air was damp on his skin, the cool moisture mixed with the sweat on his face to overwhelm him further. He only knew that he couldn’t get caught. He needed to run, make it back to the tunnel, back home to his apartment. His mind couldn’t help but wander to all of the luxuries he always failed to appreciate until he wound up in the middle of nowhere, running like hell.

But, this wasn’t nowhere. No, he knew where he was, and there wasn’t much longer to go until he would duck soundlessly into a tunnel that led him back to the QZ, where he was free to go with time to spare before curfew. He could catch a shower, treat himself. He could smoke one of the cigarettes he had set aside for trading. He could surely use a fuck.

But now, he is panting even harder, his lungs starting to burn. It won’t be very long now, and the sounds of officers are fading into the rushing wind and the rustling of trees. The air is hitting his face almost violently, and his cheeks are surely redder than ever.

Joel’s speed has hindered by the time he dips behind a clearing and down a small hill, revealing to him the tunnel door, framed by leaves and vines. Breath heaving, his hot hand engulfs the cold metal knob and turns.

The air in the hallway is warm, stuffy, and moist. Despite having been through dozens of times, Joel still secures his mask over his face—the debris in the air looks like spores. He can’t be too sure.

His breath is still heavy as he walks, his lungs prickling as he holds back a cough. He tells himself that he won’t be doing any more late runs for a while.

When he steps, the sound reverberates off of the cracked concrete walls, and the hall seems to be empty, desolate. He doesn’t even hear the vicious groan of a runner—he is alone.

It feels like hours; the time it takes for Joel to pass through, from the empty and unfinished concrete halls and through fungus-coated rooms. He travels down the lift, emerges from behind the bookshelf and traipses tiredly through a final hallway, his breath steady now as he pulls off his mask, his muddy shoes leaving prints on the old tile of the building, and—oh, God, does the air feel good on his skin once he pushes open the double doors. The streets of the QZ are nothing particularly special, pleasant, or clean, but they are open. He’s breathing fresh air again, and he is safe.

Joel takes his time as he returns to his flat, and he doesn’t talk to anyone. His backpack is heavy and he is about ready to shrug it off, first chance he gets.

The streets are less busy in the evening, but people are still outside. Some smoke on street corners, others converse or clean. The occasional FEDRA officer will stroll along, shooting glances of distrust at inhabitants—Joel pays them no mind. His focus is on his home, what waits for him; not much, admittedly, but he will make do.

When he gets there, when he slides his key in the lock and closes the door behind him, he lets out a sigh of relief. His backpack is off first, then his shoes and socks. His sweat-stained flannel is peeled off of his damp skin next, and he unhooks his belt.

His first instinct is to chug a glass of water—so he does—and his second is to start running the shower. Joel enters the bathroom, his feet stepping onto the cold and battered linoleum. His clammy hand wraps around the old glass knob, and turns. The stream begins to pour, and he will soon find out if cold water is all he has in store today. It is rare that he can run a hot shower, for there are no new water heaters in an apocalypse. And his—along with that of virtually every other building—is a piece of shit.

Joel does not hesitate to shed his clothes. He pulls his dingy and faded white T-shirt over his head and tosses it carelessly on the floor. Next, he pops the button and pulls down the zipper of his jeans, dirt stained from the shin down. He has too much laundry to do. He’ll figure it out some other time.

Tugging down his boxers, he is finally bare. He runs a hand through his messy hair as he glances into the mirror at his appearance. He is disheveled and tired—more so than usual, his beard more overgrown and the lines on his forehead more prominent. Joel certainly feels older. He finds himself increasingly exhausted and his bones a bit more fragile, but his body is still defined by hours and days of labor—lifting, running, killing. He examines his abdomen, littered with scars and defined by a tough and tight pad of muscle. It’s no six pack, but he’s tough. From his belly button trails a line of hair that leads between his legs, a mess of curly strands that nobody has time to upkeep anymore. He runs a hand over his face and steps into the shower.

The water is cold—go figure—but, he’s just glad to have it at all. He needs to get clean after all this time; feel the sweat, grime, and dirt fade and wash away from his skin.

He submerges his head under the steady stream of water, rinsing away the filth. Joel has gotten used to the crisp and tingling feeling of cold water over time, and it has become a welcomed sensation. He’s had to learn to live with it, and it’s not too bad.

Joel scrubs at his skin with what’s left of his soap bar, dragging it along his arms, and then his legs. Suds form on his body—a sight he hadn’t seen in too long—and they wash away, gone as quickly as they’d come.

Soon enough, he was clean. He splashes his face with water, his hair fresh and dripping, his limbs cleaned with soap. He stands under the water a moment, and with either boredom or frustration—probably, a mix of both—his hand wanders down and takes hold of his cock. He sloppily circles a thumb over its tip and a finger down its base. For effect, his free hand splays over his abdomen and then moves down to cup his balls; and soon enough, he’s hard.

The water still beats down on his head as he gazes down at himself, the water working as slick as he strokes himself between two fingers.

Initially, his mind is empty, only registering the feeling of his movements and the stream of water on his shoulders. He lets himself relax, untensing his body. He feels a sore muscle in his arm twitch as he moves it up and down himself. Up and down… he feels, now, more pent up than anything. This isn’t enough.

Joel’s thoughts wander to you, and he wonders if you’re still awake. You surely are; it’s no later than eight. He thinks for a moment, contemplating. He debates whether it would be worth it, leaving his place and the comfort of his shower to seek you out at this hour. His hand is still stroking his cock.

Joel is pent up, and although he’s rather comfortable where he is, there isn’t anything he wants more now—after the day he’s had—than to fuck. The magazine in his top drawer certainly wouldn’t cut it. Both begrudgingly and eagerly—somehow at the same time—Joel shuts off the water.

With a towel from the floor, certainly unwashed, Joel dries off his body. He rubs his wet hair with the material, leaving it a damp and tousled sea of brown and grey. As he pats off whatever moisture from his skin that he can, he lets the towel fall to the floor before approaching his dresser.

He slides out the drawer, picking at random a T-shirt, pair of boxers, and some plaid pajama pants. One by one, he dresses in the faint light of his living room.

He steps into the boxers, pulling them up and hissing when he tucks his still-hard length into them. He is throbbing a little now, but he does his best to ignore it as he pulls his pants on over them. His T-shirt is last, and he hastily pulls on a pair of socks and slips on his shoes.

He scoops up his keys, and he’s gone. He clicks off the light behind him, locks the door, and sets off down the hallway. His feet tap dully on the carpet floors as he passes door after door—none of which were yours.

To get to your apartment, he’d need to take the stairs.

The stairwell air is stale and dusty, as always. He breathes in deeply anyway when he pushes open the door and begins his ascent up the steps. His legs are tired from his lack of sleep and their increase in activity, but he doesn’t pause. He counts one, two, three flights until he reaches your level, forcing the heavy door open and starting down your hallway.

He’s got it down, he knows where your flat is; but he still glances at the other room numbers, counting down to yours.

912, 913… 914.

Joel’s hollow fist raps on your door. The sound is firm, but not too loud. He doesn’t want to draw any attention, he wants you. ‘Get in, get out’, he tells himself.

He suspects you don’t hear him at first, so he raises his hand to knock again when you peep through the hole and open the door. You both look at each other for a moment; you’re wordless and run a hand through your hair.

“Hey.” You finally speak.

Joel doesn’t answer, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes. He closes the door behind him, turning the lock and glancing at your form as you lean back against the wall. He looks tired and restless at the same time, and it’s abundantly clear why he’s here. The two of you really only ever meet for one reason—which is fine by you—you just wish he’d stay a little longer.

“Hard day?” you ask.

A dry chuckle from Joel as he begins to remove his pants. He looks nice in the dim old lamp light. “Somethin’ like that.”

He approaches you as you rest against the cool wall, effectively trapping you against it and resting a hand on your hip. It rests there as his mouth assumes its position on your neck, kissing restlessly and eagerly.

“Tell me about it.” you insist.

“Got better things to do…” he replies, his lips moving rather fervently, and he assumes that you can feel his still-hard bulge against your front. It matters not. Joel’s hand rubs up and down your side before shifting its attention to your breast, kneading rather eagerly.

“But if you must know…” another kiss. “Got chased by a bunch’a FEDRA assholes. Got a good five miles of straight sprintin’.”

He doesn’t expect any kind of answer, and instead traps your lips against his. Joel’s mouth tastes vaguely like liquor, a tang that only strengthens when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. He seems to have so much energy and none at all, and clearly expects you to fix it.

His hand leaves your chest and finds yours, guiding it to the front of his dented boxers. “Feel that?” His question is rhetorical, and he follows up with, “And you know I’ve had a shitty day. Don’t have much time for this.”

With that, his attempts at working you up or growing the tension are gone. His hands find the button to your pants, and when he pops it open, you assist him, pushing down the fabric of your jeans and taking your underwear down next. Joel pulls on the plush fabric, hitching one of your legs over his hip and leading the panties down your legs and slyly tucking them into his back pocket. 

Once it’s all gone, your lower half is exposed and your core is glistening—it’s almost shameful, the things he does to you. You wrap an arm around him, pulling him close as he yanks on the waistband of his boxers, his red and ready cock springing against his clothed stomach and looking at you temptingly.

Joel doesn’t seem to have the restraint or the will to wait much longer, notching himself against you. A heavy breath escapes his lips and a hum from yours, as he gives your center a few slaps. It’s a nice feeling, but it isn’t enough—and he seems to realize that, too. When he rubs his cock against you a few more times, slickening himself between your thighs and he lets the tip rest right at your entrance, ready to plunge right in; and when your back arches slightly and your hips push forward with the contact, he finds his hips slowly pushing inward, and his eyes fall downward to watch as he disappears inside of you.

“Goddamn…” Joel mutters as his hips continue their movements. His movements are slow, but not measured. They aren’t controlled—he seems to lose himself in the feeling.

“Yeah…” he continues, one hand splayed upon your lower back and the other fastening your leg to his hip. His movements hasten, the feeling seeming to overwhelm his senses. He rests his chin on your head. “S’good. Real good, you lettin’ me have you whenever I need to.”

You don’t have an answer, or any kind of counter, it’s simply the truth. Even so, you wouldn’t be able to articulate a retort, anyway. The most you can offer is a pleasured hiss from between your teeth.

To accommodate the rising speed of his thrusts, he moves both hands to your hips. It’s up to you to keep your leg in place, and you do. Joel is concerned now only with his own pleasure, watching his cock appear and disappear into the warm, wet cavity between your thighs. The sensation is strong and tingling, splitting at the same time. Some kind of squeaking sound leaves the back of your throat and Joel chuckles gruffly, either at your noise or your disheveled appearance, your body rocking against the wall as he fucks you.

You hear a deep groan from Joel, the movements of his hips slightly more erratic, and his mumblings more frequent and audible. “Fuck…”

His quick and desperate thrusts slow to a stop when his muscles get too tight and he gets too close. He couldn’t cum in your pussy—it was absolutely off the table—but he liked your mouth. Anywhere was fine, but today, he needed it.

Joel slowly pulls out his cock, slowly retracting himself, his length wet with you and still very much hard.

“Knees?” Joel’s question is less of an ask than it is a command. He knows you’ll do it, and he is right, like always. Soon enough, his back is the one against the wall, and you’ve ducked down onto your knees in front of him. The hard wooden floor is a bit painful under them, but you don’t mind.

Like they often do, your eyes admire him, your eyes level with his red and leaking tip, a hand wrapping firmly around it as you look up at him.

His eyes are intense; eager and expectant like usual, and he can’t decipher whether you are gawking at or scrutinizing him, but either way, it’s taking too long. His big palm covers the back of your head, nudging your mouth closer to him before it encloses around his tip. He hisses when he feels the sweet contact of your lips, pushing still on the back of your head and shoving more of himself down your throat.

What you can’t take, you stroke with your hands, your excess saliva functioning as lubricant, the occasional drop dripping on the floor. Joel’s hand is still pushing at your head, fingers laced into your hair and it has taken an extraordinary amount of restraint not to gag.

“Oh, shit…” Joel’s grunts and groans only get louder, and you’re convinced that he only has the balls to make such sounds because he’s in your apartment, and it’ll be your neighbors who complain about his filthy noises. His fingers tense and his hand presses harder, his eyes gazing down at you as your mouth takes him resiliently.

“Fuck… ‘m close…” Joel grumbles. “Gonna cum so deep, y’wont even gotta swallow. Ah…”

And Joel does keep his promise—although not really a promise—when his hips rut one last time into your face before the spring inside him snaps, his balls emptying themselves into your throat, with only the slightest salty taste left in your mouth as he pulls out. With a few deep breaths and a tap of his softening cock on your lips, he tucks himself back into his boxers and stands from the wall.

You stand, too, and you both slide back on your clothes. As soon as his pants are back on, his shoes are, too, and the door is closed behind him.

You sigh and for a few moments, your eyes linger on the door before wandering back to your forgotten book on the table.

Being Joel’s smuggling partner wasn’t easy. Hell, you had only begun to smuggle to get some extra money and trading cards. Doing business alongside Joel wasn’t your choice, either. He’d persuaded you into joining him. One, the reason being that a young girl getting into trading was a recipe for assault and black eyes. Two, Joel cared about you. Even if he would never say it out loud.

To you, he was the old grump who took you under his wing. To him, you were the fragile little girl who came sobbing to him after a FEDRA soldier gave you a palm to the cheek. You still remember the way Joel’s jaw clenched when he saw the red mark. He didn’t say a word, just handed you a cloth with ice wrapped inside and disappeared for the rest of the night. The soldier didn’t show up on patrol again. Ever.

And after that, Joel made it real clear: you don’t run jobs without him.

The weeks that followed were loud—sirens, shouting, curfews, lock downs. The QZ was tightening its grip and Joel had started keeping a packed bag under the floorboards.

“You paranoid?” you asked once, seeing the extra rounds and ration cards he was tucking into a duffel.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you in that way he did sometimes—like he was already planning five steps ahead of you, of the world, of everything.

The final straw came when one of your regular drop spots got raided. You were late meeting Joel. You came back scraped up, coughing from tear gas, and Joel didn’t yell. Didn’t say anything at all.

Just handed you that same cloth-wrapped ice and started packing his bag again. But this time, yours too.

“We’re done here,” he said, voice flat. “We’re gettin’ out.”

Joel entered the rustic home with a slam of the door. You look up from your spot on the ground, fiddling with the frayed strings at the end of your dress.

He sits down on the warped couch with a thud. He rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s exhausted, you can tell. It’s only been about six weeks of knowing the man. You still don’t know him all that well, and yet; you let him take you out of the QZ, and into this small house in Maine. Somehow you trusted him, but there was a rooted fear of him. 

You still didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at you that first night after the raid—steady, unreadable. Maybe it was the way he hadn’t hesitated to drag you out of hell. Or maybe it was because, despite the rough edges and gravel-thick voice, he hadn't touched you. Not the way you feared.

Still, there was something heavy about Joel. Not cruel. But dangerous in a way you couldn’t name. Like he could hurt someone with his hands and still sleep through the night.

He’d warned you, time and time again, about the kind of men who’d take advantage of a girl like you. Too young. Too trusting. Too pretty. You weren’t stupid. You knew he hadn’t pulled you out of Boston just because he was feeling generous.

You just prayed his reasons weren’t the same as the ones he listed off like threats.

Your chin drops to your knee as you peek over at him, watching through the corner of your eye. He sat wide-legged on the couch, still rubbing at his face, the stretch of muscle in his forearms taut beneath rolled-up sleeves.

He hadn’t looked at you once since walking in. Not yet. And that made your stomach twist a little more than you wanted to admit.

The silence stretches on. The windows rattle from the wind outside, making you shiver. Though, it’s a small comfort to you, considering it’s far from the QZ. Here, it’s just Joel with the weight of what he won’t say. 

You shift on the splintered floor, hugging your knees to your chest. Joel hasn’t even taken off his jacket. He sits like he doesn’t trust the couch even.

“Are you mad?” You ask, quietly but clear.

Joel pauses the rubbing of his nose, his eyes flicking to you, then back down at his lap.

“I ain’t mad.” He says finally, gruff and low. “Just tired.”

“I didn’t mean to get into trouble with the guy at the checkpoint.”

His jaw tensed. The subtle tick. Not anger, just restraint. 

“I know.” He muttered.

You knew better. You’d been the one who made the smart-ass comment. The one who almost got you both caught. Joel covered it, like he always did, being mean and loud enough to distract the guards while fisting the contraband (you) out of sight.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” You mumbled.

Joel grunted, something between agreement and a sigh. 

Another pause. Joel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stares and the floor when he speaks again.

“You’re young.” He mutters, like the statement alone explains everything.

“You say that like it’s a sin.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It’s a danger.”

You nearly scoff, “What, to you?”

His jaw clenches again, he lifts his gaze to you, “To yourself.”

You rest your cheek on your knee, your eyes on him. “I’m not a kid.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to.” You snip, making Joel shoot you a warning look.

The moment slips back into silence. Again.

You’d freaked yourself out. Coming to the conclusion that Joel wasn’t a good man was hard for you. How did you come to it? You don’t know. But, you still find yourself in the woods, not far from the house, barefoot and your dress now muddy at the ends. 

Stupid escape. You didn’t even plan it. But seeing Joel put locks on the windows made you freak, memories coming back from before that you didn’t want to remember.

Suddenly, Joel became the bad guy in your mind, and you needed to leave. Him taking you out of the QZ wasn’t a heroic act, it was a scary one.

You run through the muddy woods, feet slipping beneath you, breathless. You stop when you hear a twig snap, backing up against a tree. 

It was nearly 4am, and you knew that Joel was asleep when you left. 

Despite being with him for over a month, living with him, you could never tell if he slept deeply or not. 

You facepalmed, realizing he likely heard you shut the window when you climbed out. You’re so fucked.

You look back towards the way you ran from. The house was still in sight, making you realize you hadn’t run as far as you thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“You’re not thinkin’ straight,” comes his voice– quiet, gravelly, just a few feet away.

You flinch, turning your head. He’s there, standing half in shadow, half moonlight, boots sunk slightly in the mud. His shoulders are tense, chest rising and falling as if he just sprinted. For you.

You don’t speak.

Joel takes a step closer, “You runnin’ out barefoot like that? What the hell were you thinkin’?”

Shame crawls up your throat, “I wasn’t– I just-”

“You think I dragged you all the way outta Boston to hurt you?” His voice is sharp. He almost sounds hurt. “You think that low of me?”

“I don’t know what to think.” You mumbled.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, exhaling hard. “You scared the shit outta me.” 

You blink tears, “You locked the windows.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “To keep people out. Not to keep you in. You’re not a damn prisoner.”

You stare at the ground, seeing the mud squishing between your toes.

His hands are on you– not rough, not angry. Just firm.

“You don’t gotta trust me yet,” he says quietly, tilting your chin up, “but don’t run from me in the damn woods in the middle of the night. You could’ve froze, broke your ankle, got snatched–”

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

He sighs heavily. Something in his eyes changes. His hands tighten on your arms. 

“You wanna act reckless?” he asks, his voice low, “I oughta show you what happens when you pull shit like that.” He grabs you, putting you over his shoulder, fireman carry style. 

You kicked, yelping a bit. A sharp smack lands on your ass, which makes you flinch and stop resisting. 

He carries you all the way back to the house. 

You start to cry, panicking. He was angry, you knew. It shakes you to your core, wondering if Joel’s going to snap on you or not.

Once you're inside, he sets you on your feet. His hand slips to the back of your neck, warm and steady. Not rough–but there’s no mistaking the warning in his touch. 

“You know how close I was to thinkin’ you got snatched? That someone dragged you off while I was sleepin’?”

“I… I didn’t mean to scare you.” you stuttered.

“You did,” he snaps, then softens, “And now you’re gonna understand what it feels like when you do.”

He turns you gently, but there’s power behind it. You plant your hands on the wall beside the front door. He stands directly behind you, hand on your low back.

“You run off like that again,” He warns gruffly, “I won’t be so nice about it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding. Maybe you were right about Joel.

His chest brushes your back, his belt buckle pressing against your spine.

“What are you gonna do?” You sniffle, trembling.

“Whatever it takes to remind you that you know better.”

Your legs shake, both from trembling and exhaustion. Joel tsks, “Look at you,” he breathes, his mouth pressing against the back of your neck, “All muddy. Could’ve broken your fuckin’ ankle, runnin’ out there with no shoes. Killed yourself, even.”

“I didn’t think–”

“No, you didn’t.” his hand pulls up the hem of your dress, and the other comes down with a slap.

You flinch, pressing your lips together in a thin line. Memories of before flooding your brain. Joel wasn’t Joel anymore, in your mind. You let out a cry, “Dad, Please–” but he doesn’t hear you.

“You scared me.” he says again, more authoritative than before. “You know better.” he states again. “You learnin’ yet, or–”

“I’m learning, I’m learning!” you whimper, almost sobbing at this point.

Joel sighs, realizing he’s likely just scared you more than make you understand. He pauses, then shakes his head. 

He releases the hold he had on your dress, smoothing the fabric down. He steps back, giving you space. 

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled.

“I don’t need your sorry.” Joel shakes his head, “Need your trust.”

You still tremble. If he wants your trust so badly–which he almost had it, until you freaked yourself out, then he spanked you– why was he being like this?

“Why did locking the windows make you run?” He asked.

You didn’t want to answer that. Not when he just reminded you of the last person you wanted to think of. 

“Answer me.” He commanded.

“I’ve. I’ve-” You stutter, still shaken, “Been locked in before.” 

You feel him pause, even with you facing away. 

“Okay.” He says after a moment.

Everything is still. Joel looks at your shaking body again.

“Shit.” he mutters, rubbing his beard with his hand. “You should’ve told me.” he said under his breath, you barely heard it.

You lean forward against the wall, heart hammering. Your fingers digging into the wood. You don’t trust your voice, not in this state.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to scare you,” Joel says, his voice thick, quieter now. “I lost my goddamn mind when I saw that window open. Thought–”

He cuts himself off. 

Then, he’s pulling you back from the wall, gently. His hands around your waist, lifting you just enough to turn you around. Facing him. His expression is unreadable, to you anyways.

His thumbs rub at your sides, more grounding himself than you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. This time it’s him apologizing. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t’ve.. Jesus, I wouldn’t’ve touched you like that if I knew.”

Your eyes sting. You shake your head, feeling guilt. “I freaked out, I didn’t give you a chance to–”

“No.” he interrupts, sternly. “You were scared. You had a reason. That’s enough.” 

You sniffle again, your nose scrunched. He pulls you closer, arms wrapped around your shoulders. 

“I ain’t him.” Joel says. More reminding himself. 

You nod, your forehead tucked against his chest. 

“I trust you,” you whimper, “I just forget sometimes.”

Joel breathes deeply, “I’ll remind you better next time.” His chin rests on top of your head, fighting the urge to kiss it.

He pulls back enough to look at you. His brows furrowed, something in his expression has softened–less anger, more regret.

He mumbles something about cleaning you up. You nod, eyes still glassy, letting him guide you to the bathroom.

Joel is silent as he grabs a cloth, a bucket, and an old first aid kit from under the sink. You watch as he fills the bowl with warm water (as warm as it can be just coming from the tap). 

He sits you down on the toilet seat, kneeling before you. He doesn’t meet your eyes, only taking your left ankle in his hand, checking for swelling.

“Hurts?” he asks.

You shake your head, though the scrape on your heel stings when he brushes the cloth over it. Joel notices your flinch and goes slower.

You both sit in silence as he tends to your scraped and muddy feet. Once he’s cleaned the worst is it, he tries to disinfect the best he can with the expired (and dried out) disinfectant.

“You don't gotta explain what happened.” Joel says, his voice low. “Not until you’re ready.”

You only nod, still a bit scared to speak.

Joel finishes wrapping gauze around your feet, then sets the supplies back under the sink, then rests his hands on your knees.

“It gets too much,” he starts, not meeting your eyes, “You talk to me.” He says. A command this time, not a request.

You nod again, eyes still stinging from earlier. “Okay.”

It’s been two weeks since that night. Since you ran barefoot through the trees like something feral, stupid and scared, and Joel carried you back like you were something. Something his.

Things haven’t changed in any loud, dramatic way. No tangled up nights anymore. Just… small shifts.

He doesn’t hover anymore, but doesn’t keep his distance either. When you sit too long reading in the chair near the fire, he tosses you his jacket without a word. When your hands shake trying to light the stove, his settle over yours. Just anchoring you.

You sleep in your own bed. Most nights. But sometimes, on the bad ones, you wake up and find his flannel jacket draped over the end of the mattress. He never says anything about it, and neither do you.

You find yourself starting to crave the quiet between you– the kind that doesn’t ask anything, doesn’t pressure. Just is.

This afternoon, he comes back to the house from the shed. 

Joel let you outside (with his supervision, of course), and you soaked up any bit of it that you could.

He walks up to you on the porch with something in his hand. 

It’s small. Square. Covered in dust and is probably as old as he is. 

“I found this in the shed,” he mutters, holding it out to you. “Think it still works.”

You blink down at it. Your brows furrow. 

“It’s a Polaroid camera.” Joel adds, noticing your confusion. 

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Just figured you’d wanna mess with it.” 

Your chest tightens in a weird, unexplainable way. You take it gently from his hands, your thumb brushing against his knuckle.

“There’s film in here,” he murmurs, “Two, maybe three shots left from what I can guess.”

He leans back against the porch railing, arms crossed. You can tell he’s trying to act indifferent. Like he doesn’t care if you use it or chuck it. But he brought it to you. That alone means something.

“A little sentimental for you.” you tease quietly. 

Joel scoffs. “Just figured you might want proof we made it this far.” 

You pause, looking up.

Those words settle. Low in your ribs, right where all the fragile parts of you live. You want to ask if he means you, specifically. If he thinks you made it. But you don’t. 

“I wanna take your picture,” you say instead, voice soft. 

“Me?”

You nod.

He raises a brow. “The hell for?”

“So I can remember you like this,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Not just the grumpy old man who dragged me out of Boston.”

The silence stretches as he looks at you. God, you look like just a little girl. Not in a weird way, but in the way that he almost feels paternal towards you. Almost.

Eventually, Joel exhales through his nose and walks over to the armchair near the window, the one he always sits in after dinner to drink his coffee. 

He doesn’t pose. Just sits, arms still crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You fiddle with the camera, eventually figuring out how to take a photo. You lift it, framing him in the viewfinder.

He looks good, you had to admit to yourself. Taking a bit longer to position the camera just to look at him like this. He looks rumpled, a little tired, but calm. Open in his Joel way. Which is to say: not open at all, but less closed. 

You press the button. 

Click. Shhh, shhh, brrr.

The camera makes a loud whirring noise as the film shoots out. You take it in your palm, seeing no photo. Just white film

“Shake it.” Joel says. 

“What?” you ask, confused. 

“You know, shake it like a Polaroid.” he says a bit of a song in his tone. 

You shake it hesitantly, and Joel nods. He doesn’t ask to see the photo. He just watches as you place it face down. “It’ll take a few minutes to develop.” Joel muttered, standing up with a grunt, nodding for you to follow him back inside. You grab the Polaroid from the porch.

Joel grunts, watching you walk inside, shutting the door behind you, then looking at you. You watch as he locks the door, then puts the key on the kitchen table. You swallow, but don’t say anything. You have gotten better with locks. Kind of.

You walk into the kitchen, placing the photo on the table, watching him look through what little food you had, and what has grown since you got here. 

Joel notices your proximity to him as he bustles around. He stops, looking at you. You’re in that little white night dress again. From the night he ‘punished’ you. Now, you don’t consider it punishment, you did deserve it, in a way. 

“Still stained, huh?” he asked, his hand fiddling with the strap on your shoulder. 

You nod, “The mud wouldn’t come out.” 

He looks at you for a moment, “It adds character.”

That alone made your lips twitch a bit. Almost a smile. Joel notices and he mirrors your expression. 

“Well,” he changed the subject. “I got about… four small potatoes from the garden. And,” he looks around then points to the door, “A small rabbit that I snared earlier.”

You frown a bit. You knew Joel had to kill animals so you both could eat, but you liked rabbits. Especially when they would hop around in the garden outside, their little noses sniffing. 

Joel pauses, “Hey,” he grabs your chin so you hold eye contact with him. You found out early on that that was important to him. 

“I’ll tell you when I skin it, you can… go in your room and do whatever it is you do in there.” 

You nod, a small frown still on your lips.

“‘Sides, you like rabbit stew.” 

You did. You didn’t get it often, but you did like it. 

“Yeah.” you mumbled, rubbing your collarbone.

He pauses again. “You still don’t like when I lock the door, do you?”

You glance over at it. Then back to him.

“It’s easier now,” you say. “Still… not perfect.”

Joel nods. “Alright. I’ll stop double-lockin’ it at night. Just one. You can check it if you need to.”

He doesn’t say “I trust you,” but you hear it in the space between those words.

You nod again, fiddling with your dress. “I oughta get you some pants. It’s gettin’ to be that time of the year.” Joel thinks out loud, peeling the potatoes with his pocket knife. 

You only hum, staring at his hands as they work. The blade glints every so often as it slips under the skin of the potato, curling it off in ribbons. He’s done this before, with the amount of potatoes you’ve got. You can’t help but admire the way he handles the knife, slow and steady, it makes your heart beat a little faster.

Not because you’re scared. Not anymore. 

But because there’s something in the way Joel moves– like nothing surprises him, nothing shakes him. Though you might’ve.

Regardless, he carries himself like if the world ended all over again, he’d still know how to cook dinner with whatever scraps are left. 

And maybe that’s what unnerves you now. The steadiness.

Maybe you’ve gotten used to him. Too used to the smell of his flannel when you sleep. The way he always leaves a cup of water out for you before bed, just in case. The way he says, “you alright?”  like it means more than it should. 

You blink. Joel’s still peeling.

“You’re starin’, sweetheart.” he comments. 

You feel your face blush. “I’m just tired.”

He nods. Doesn’t push. Just goes back to peeling the potatoes, like he didn’t just catch you ogling his hands.

Dinner is quiet. Not awkward like in previous weeks. Just warm, simple. Joel serves you first without thinking. You don’t comment on it, but it makes your stomach flutter. 

You eat, curled into your usual spot at the table, with Joel sitting across from you. You were staring at him, a little too long to brush it off. He doesn’t mention it this time. 

“Feet off the chair.” Joel snaps his fingers at you. 

You uncurl yourself and sit up at the table. Though it was just you and Joel, he still taught you manners. He didn’t take it lightly when you sat like that at the table. Any other time was fine, but not during dinner.

You find yourself hunching again as you eat. “Slow down.” Joel said. 

“This is slow.” you say, your mouth full. 

He bites back a smirk, but reminds you again of posture at the table. 

“Didn’t teach you to be a damn hunchback.” He grumbled. 

You listen anyway, straightening up again, and he nods in approval.

You tossed and turned for what felt like hours. It was likely just half an hour, but how would you know? 

You stare at your bedroom door. You huff, getting up. You don’t plan to move, but your feet do anyway. 

You see Joel’s door is cracked open down the hallway, light flickers faintly from the inside. He’s still awake. 

You knock softly, even though it’s stupid. Like asking permission to cross some invisible line neither of you has fully acknowledged yet.

Joel’s voice is low. “Come in.”

You push the door open gently. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, flannel draped over his lap, socks off now, his short sleeved t-shirt on display. He looks tired, and it hits you suddenly,-- how safe he looks. Safe in a way that makes you ache a bit.

“I can’t sleep.” you say. 

He nods understandingly.

“You can sit if you want.”

You do. The bed dips slightly beneath you as you settle beside him, knees close but not touching. For a while, neither of you say anything.

Then Joel shifts, lying back with a quiet grunt. His arm stretches behind his head, the other resting across on his stomach. His fingers flex once, his knuckles cracking.

You don’t move from your spot. 

He glances up at you, looking at your back. You’re wearing the only set of pajamas you have. A shirt about a size too big, and shorts a size too small.

“You layin’ down, or you gonna sit there all night?”

You huff under your breath. You lie down anyway. Not quiet touching Joel, but not quite separate.

The room smells like wood. The mold smell subsided the longer you’ve been here, but maybe you’re just getting used to it. 

You shift as subtly as you can, laying on your stomach, a few inches between you and Joel. You turn your head to look at him. He’s still staring up at the ceiling, the dim candle light shadowing his face. 

He shifts–barely–but his fingers brush yours between you, a soft touch that lingers longer than it should. 

You don’t pull away. 

And neither does he. 

You close your eyes. 

Minutes pass. 

You feel it when he breathes your name–not a question, not a warning. Just your name, spoken like a habit he never meant to form. 

You answer by curling your pinky around his. Sleep takes you like that.

Over the next few weeks, Joel starts to teach you more, and you.. Well, you yearn more for him. Like a lamb following its shepherd around, not leaving his side. Joel doesn’t comment on it. Though, he makes the mental note of changes in you. Back in Boston, you did fend for yourself more. Only came to him in desperate times. Now, you come to him when you get a splinter. Boston you would’ve just toughed it out. 

You think back on the past few weeks, little moments that you and Joel shared. 

Like the first time Joel handed you a knife. 

He didn’t make a speech. Just stood behind you in the garden, the weight of it pressed into your palm. 

“You hold it like this,” he murmured, voice close to your ear, rough with sleep. “No tighter than you have to. Don’t choke it.”

His hands covered yours for a second, guiding the grip. Then they were gone. 

You didn’t cut anything that day, but you kept the knife. 

You think about the night you left one of your dresses to dry by the fire and he tossed you a clean shirt without looking. 

“Didn’t know if you had another,” he’d said, eyes fixed on the stew pot like it might combust if he blinked.

The shirt hung boast your knees. It smelled like cedar and something older– something like home.

You think about the way he says your name now. 

Not sharp. Not in warning. Just… when the room is too quiet and he’s trying to make sure you’re okay. 

You remember burning your hand on the kettle and how he didn’t yell, didn’t scold– just took your hand gently and ran it under water, his thumb rubbing soft circles over your wrist. 

“Gotta be careful,” he said. “Can’t fix you if you break.” he’d joked. Which made your tear stained cheeks smile a bit. 

And lately, he touches you more. Not a lot. Not in a  way that means too much. But in ways that settle you. 

A hand to your  lower back when he brushes past. Knuckle grazing yours when he passes you the plate. His flannel jacket, draped over your shoulders when you’re out in the morning air.

None of it was asked for. 

But all of it, you retained. You find yourself almost grateful for him.

Tonight, when the candle light burns low and the wind scratches soft at the windows, you lie beside him in silence. Again.

Lately you’d abandoned your room since you slept in Joel’s bed that night weeks ago. In his fashion, he doesn’t comment on it, or ask why you sleep in his bed. If anything, he’s a little smug that you choose to do so. 

The distance between you is familiar now. Not far, but not close enough. Your hands rest over your stomach, the tips of your fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do. 

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress dipping with his weight. You hear him exhale, long and quiet. He’s not asleep. 

Neither are you, clearly. 

Maybe it’s the warmth of the room. Or maybe it’s everything you’ve remembered–all the ways he’s touched you lately, soft and steady.

Whatever it is, your hand moves before your mind can catch up.

You reach out and press your fingertips to the back of his hand. 

Joel doesn’t move. 

Not at first. 

Then his fingers turn beneath yours, so his palm faces up. 

You hesitate, But then you slide your hand into his. 

 He curls his fingers around yours. Firm and grounding. 

No one says a word. 

But you can feel what is unsaid. 

In the steadiness of his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

He’s still Joel. 

But right now, he’s your Joel.

You stare at the ceiling, your heart thudding louder than it should.

“I used to think you were just mean,” you whisper, your voice barely heard in the dark. 

“Back in Boston. You never smiled. You never looked at me too long. Though you hated me.”

Joel doesn’t move. Nor speak.

You breathe in through your nose slowly, then out your mouth.

“But then you’d fix things. Bring me ration cards. Trade for batteries when my flashlight died. Clock anyone who’d clocked me.” you almost chuckle. 

You turn your face toward him–eyes adjusting now, just enough to make out the rise of his chest.

“I think I get it now,” you say, gently. “I think it’s just how you are.”

Still nothing from him. Not a shift. Not even a breath you can track now. 

You swallow, noting at his silence, but he didn’t move from your hand in his. 

“I don’t-” you start, then stop. “This is the only thing that doesn’t scare me.” You meant him. He’s the only thing that doesn’t scare you anymore.

And then, after a long pause, you continue.

“Uh, I’m okay with being yours. If that’s something you’d want.”

You don’t expect an answer. Not now. Your eyes close, then the weight of your exhaustion pulls at you. 

You’re almost asleep–drifting at the edge of it–when Joel finally speaks.

“I ain’t ever stopped.”

You blink, but don’t move. His thumb brushes along your knuckles once, twice, and you know–without question–that he meant every word.

You wake up warm. 

Too warm. 

Your cheek is pressed to a shirt– Joel’s chest, slow and rising. His arm is heavy across your back, his hand splayed wide like it’s been there all night. He’s not asleep. But he doesn’t move. 

Neither do you.

Eventually, he shifts, his hand brushing your side. Not possessive. Like he’s reminding himself you’re okay. 

When you sit up, he lets you go without a word.

The kitchen is bright. The light outside is gold and soft, the kind that makes everything look gentler than it is.

You’re standing by the counter, barefoot in the shirt Joel gave. It hits mid-thigh, worn at the sleeves. Joel moves behind you, not touching, but close enough to feel. 

“Coffee?” he mutters, reaching for the kettle beside you. 

You nod, rubbing at your eyes. “Please.”

He grabs the grounds from an old jar, then lights the stove to boil the water. 

He slides a mug to you, as you both wait for the water to boil. 

He leans against the counter, a few feet away from you, arms crossed. 

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Then: “Did you mean it?”

Joel lifts a brow, “Mean what?”

You look at the kettle on the stove.  “What you said. Last night.” Had he lost his memory? Old man.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I meant it.”

You nod, swallowing around the heat that rises in your chest.

Your eyes meet his. 

His drift down. Your bare legs. Then the hem of his shirt. The red imprint of his shirt soft on your cheek.

His jaw clicks. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” You murmur into your head as you rub your lips.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

He tilts his head, then scratches his beard, “You said you were, didn’t you?”

You blink, then part your lips to speak-

The kettle steams, and it jerks both of your attention back to it. 

Joel grabs his mug, then yours, pouring coffee into it. As if a borderline love confession didn’t just take place. Maybe not love. You don’t love Joel. Right..?

You take the mug when he slides it back over to you. You stay still, cup warm in your hands, stomach flipping in a way you can’t name.

Because maybe you want him to protect you. 

And maybe… you want more than that. 

But he doesn’t say anything else. 

And you know he won’t. Not yet. 

Joel is freezing, shaking like a goddamn leaf. It’s ironic, given his disposition. You should have tried to retrace your steps back to Jackson hours ago, but the winter was unforgiving, and the two of you have found yourselves in a real pickle; a frozen one.

“I told you that we were going to end up getting lost out here, Joel.” You grumble alongside him with your arms crossed over your chest. Your teeth are chattering, and it’s grinding his gears.

“We ain’t fuckin’ lost, sweetheart.” He gruffs back and adjusts his rifle strap along his shoulder. “I know where I’m goin.’”

You scoff at this because if he did know where he was going, you wouldn’t be fucking lost in a fucking blizzard right now!

“Right. I’m sure you do know where you’re going, Joel.” You mutter sarcastically under your breath.

He whips around to face you, cheeks speckled in red from the cold and even in the lowlight, you can see individual snowflakes sticking to his lashes.

“Alright, miss ‘I know everything.’ Which way do you think we should go?” He awaits your answer with a cocked brow and his lips pursed together. They’re severely cracked and on the verge of bleeding from the bitter cold.

“Not the direction we’re currently headed, that’s for damn sure! Let’s just fucking turn around and retrace our steps.” You bite back and watch the way that his jaw ticks from your tone. God, you’re a real thorn in this man’s side.

“Retrace our steps?” He laughs, shaking his head to the side and sucks in a harsh cold breath of air into his lungs. “The snow has covered up our tracks, you idiot.” He’s so fucking condescending, and you’ve just about had enough with his shit attitude for one day. Your blood is positively boiling under your thick layer of clothes, and you’d much rather succumb to Mother Nature and her wrath than spend another minute with this insufferable, annoying, mean, and painfully handsome man.

“Fuck you, Joel. I’m retracing my steps whether you have a say in it or not!” You snap and turn on your heel before you feel a rough, gloved-clad hand grasp your upper arm and yank you back towards a hard and very solid presence at your back.

“Quit your fuckin’ yappin!’” He barks against the shell of your ear. His voice is rasped, crackling like a roaring fire. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere without me, you got that?!” His grip around your arm only tightens when you tried to shove him away, but he’s built like a fucking steel fridge, and you’re no match for him.

“Then stop being a fucking asshole, Joel! I’d rather freeze to death out here than spend another minute with you!”

You mean every word. Well, you think that you do.

He sneers at your attempt to wound him with your words, as if a man with a heart made out of pure concrete can possibly be affected by the means of your figurative little daggers. They ricochet off his body and fall to the snow, disappearing under a sheet of white. “I wouldn’t have to be an asshole if you would just fuckin’ listen for once in your life! God, when we get back, and we will, I’m tellin’ Tommy that I ain’t ever goin’ on patrol with your ass again.”

His steel-like grip loosens when you don’t immediately bite back like he expects you too. He wants you to fight back, to call him names and send his own blood boiling because at least then he feels alive.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.” You nearly whisper and bite down on the inside of your cheek, tasting harsh copper on your tongue.

“Fine.” He agrees and finally releases your arm. “We’re gonna wait out this damn storm for the night, and then tomorrow we’ll retrace our steps home. Who knows, sweetheart. Tommy might have already sent out a search party for us.”

“Let’s fucking hope that’s the case. The sooner this storm lets up, the better.” You think you’re going to cry, but you push your tears down as far as you possibly can. You have to conserve your energy, after all. Besides, Joel Miller isn’t worth your precious tears. Not even close.

He begins to survey the surrounding area. The woods offered some reliable cover with the thick evergreens acting as a shield from the treacherous wind. The snow is still falling in large flakes, but he might be able to get a fire going if he’s lucky.

“We should..probably y’know, share a sleepin’ bag for extra heat.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, feeling kinda silly in the moment because what did he have to be nervous for? His reasoning for sharing warmth was logical. It was just his survival instincts kicking in, right?

You, on the other hand, were unfazed by his request. Sure, it made perfect sense to share body heat with this man. Why the hell did he look so distraught over it - weirdo.

“Did Bear Grylls teach you that, Miller?” You look at him with a smirk playing on your lips. “If that’s the case, then we should probably sleep naked.”

That feeling that had laid dormant for so long, was beginning to reawaken and defrost at the thought of your warm, pliant, soft body being tucked up around him in close proximity. You were annoying, sure, and he could hardly tolerate your presence, but he couldn’t deny that you were a thing of beauty, and neither could his cock.

“No. Some reality TV star didn’t teach me the survival skills that I know, sweetheart. I’m jus’ that good.” He sounds cocky, full of himself and perhaps there’s a bit of eagerness detected in his tone? Maybe the dead giveaway is the way his cheeks flush, and this time it isn’t because of the cold.

You shrug and drop your pack and sleeping bag at your boots. “Whatever you say, Joel.”

He clears his throat and drops his hand from where it was resting against the back of his neck. He stares at you for a second longer than he would have liked to, and then announces that he’s going to go find some wood for a fire, and for you to stay put.

You wave him off and unroll your sleeping bag with a huff and begin to mentally question how the hell is this grizzly of a man going to fit inside of your sleeping bag? Oh well! Time to defy all the odds that have been stacked against you.

When Joel returns, he finds you already tucked away under the sleeping bag with your clothes neatly folded on top of your backpack. He managed to find a few fallen tree branches that would make good kindling, and some thicker logs for the base of the fire.

He avoids making direct eye contact with you as he crouches down and constructs a fire that he hopes to god will keep the two of you warm throughout the cold night ahead.

You already have taken notice of his suddenly quiet and almost docile demeanor with just your head visible and peeking out of the sleeping bag

“Are you sure that fire is going to last the night, Joel?”

His shoulders and back immediately tense from your question and you can already picture him clenching his jaw and muttering under his breath.

“Ain’t no tellin’ if it will last the night, sweetheart.” He stokes at the ember glowing logs with the end of a spare stick before looking over his shoulder at you. “Y’comfy in there?” His voice rasps, dipping down an octave and sounding much, much, lower.

“Yep.” You chirp. “Nice and cozy in here, Joel. Did I mention it’s very, very warm?”

He snorts under his breath, tearing his gaze away from you and focuses back on the fire. “Yeah. I bet it is.”

What you really want to say is: and it would be even warmer if you were here with me. But you refrain, and instead bury your face further into the contained warmth emitting from the sleeping bag.

Joel is hesitating, and that part couldn’t be anymore obvious based on his tense stature. Maybe he could just accept losing feeling in his fingers and toes instead of crossing that boundary with you. Or, he could man up and deal with the immediate feelings that would come as soon as his hands would inevitably touch your warm skin.

“Joel?”

Your voice tears him away from his thoughts briefly. “Hm?”

“Aren’t you..cold?”

Freezing. My cock and balls are about to fuckin’ fall off.

“M’fine.” He insists.

“So goddamn stubborn.” He hears you mutter under your breath followed by the sound of the sleeping bag zipper being pulled down. “Get in here before you freeze to death. I’m serious, Joel.”

“Fuck off. I said m’fine.” He grumbles and turns over his shoulder to look at you once more. His eyes catch a sliver of skin, a nipple peeking out from under the fabric as you were sitting up. His head whips around so fast he swears that his brain just got rattled around in his skull.

“Would you just be a fucking man and take your clothes off and get in here?”

So impatient, he thinks.

“You jus’ wanna see me naked.” He quips back.

“For fuck sakes, Joel. I just don’t want you to freeze out here. Is that so hard to believe?”

Yes.

“Jus’..don’t peek. Alright?” He slowly stands up from his place alongside the fire as he starts to shuck his heavy coat off his shoulders.

“Fine. I won’t peek, okay? Scouts honor.” You promise him and bring your hand over your eyes to cover them.

He’s grumbling to himself the whole time as he begins to undress. He bitches about the cold, his cock, and his nearly frozen toes as you listen quietly to the sound of his belt buckle being undone. He does not fold his clothes neatly like you did and instead they are left in a pile near the fire. He dashes for your sleeping bag, yanking the zipper down in a fury and climbs inside.

It’s a tight fit indeed with barely any room for him to squeeze in but he makes it work.

“Fuck!” His yell is muffled as he struggles to make himself comfortable in what little space he has. “Fuckin’ cannot believe I actually listened to you.” He rubs his hands together, blowing hot air between them.

“Oh, shut up, you big baby.” You stifle a laugh which earns you a displeased glare. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you just would have—”

“Do not start with me, sweetheart. Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” His brows furrow and his jaw is clenched so tightly, you’re shocked that it hasn’t shattered.

“You’re all bark and no bite, Joel.” You mutter back and roll over onto your side so your back is facing him. You close your eyes and fully intend to get some much needed and deserved sleep, but the man beside you is squirming and making a big fuss.

“Darlin’ I know you ain’t want anythin’ to do with a man like me, but it was your idea for us to get naked under here..so all I’m askin’ is—”

“Just do whatever it is you need to do, Joel. Can you just be quiet about it? All I want to do right now is sleep, and your fussing about is making that really fucking difficult for me to achieve.” You snap.

“Are you givin’ me permission, sweetheart? Cus’ the last thing I want is for you to bite my damn fingers off if I touch you. So as long as it’s alright with you..” he trails off and you take matters into your own hands by reaching behind you and finding his cold hands and yanking them around your body. You couldn’t help but yelp from the stark difference of temperature from your body heat to his hands.

“You’re fucking freezing, Joel.” You state the obvious and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I didn’t exactly have time to warm them up, sweetheart. My apologies that my hands aren’t at the right temperature for ya.” You think you hear him snicker under his breath, but maybe it’s just his close proximity that makes you hear things.

“Whatever. It’s fine.” You reassure him.

His hands are big, huge, and the skin on his palms and fingers are rough. The feeling overall is quite pleasant, and soon enough his hands don’t feel like an ice block - quite the opposite actually.

He grunts softly as attempts to make himself comfortable without pressing himself into your back. It’s proving to be a challenge as it is, and he has this feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, that this challenge is going to get the best of him.

“What’s wrong now, Joel?” You try to ignore the way his thumbs are gently stroking the space between the curve of your breasts and under your rib cage, and how his touch on your skin is beginning to light a fire in your belly, and between your thighs. His touch is gentle and it’s making your head spin with need and desire.

“I jus’—I don’t wanna make y’feel uncomfortable s’all.” He admits, voice rasping deeply. “I’m fuckin’ freezin’, darlin’ but I don’t wanna—”

“Just shut up and stick your dick in me, Joel. You’ll be warmer then.” You surprise both yourself and him.

His meaty palms squeeze you gently, fingertips kneading the flesh as he inhales a shaky, yet audible breath. The tight confines of your shared sleeping bag suddenly feel ten times tighter, and hotter. It’s suffocating in a delicious sense that you and Joel are stuck here together in this rather..unfortunate situation. You hate him, and he hates you, yet the thought of his thick cock nestling between your thighs sounds like absolute heaven on a plate right now.

Joel thinks he’s on the verge of passing out from your vulgar statement. It’s been god knows how long since he’s felt the warmth of a woman’s body around his cock. It’s been too goddamn long, he thinks.

“..well, if you’re askin.’” He whispers as his hands maneuver your body to press back against him. One strong arm anchors itself around your waist, engaging you in a warm hold when you feel his hard, broad chest pressing against your back. You haven’t even seen his cock, yet you already can tell that he’s big. The word big might not even be able to describe the massive size that is Joel Miller.

“This doesn’t mean anything. Right, Joel?” You ask through the thick growing tension that coils itself around you and the burly man beside you like a snake.

“Doesn’t mean nothin’ at all, sweetheart. Jus’ sharin’ body heat for survival, like you said.” He rasps and blows a hot puff of air against the back of your neck as his strong thighs wrap around your own. Even this man’s feet are fucking huge in every sense.

Y’know what they say about big feet? An even bigger—heart. I was going to say heart.

“Okay.” You squeak out as you relax further into his hold around you.

“Can you jus’ let me know if you’re uncomfortable at any point? Cus’ if that’s the case, I’ll slip right out. No questions asked, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his apparent nervousness. It was sweet, in a Joel-like fashion. Hell must have frozen over right then and there because the Joel you had grown so accustomed to, was anything but sweet.

“Wow. You sure know how to romance a lady up, Miller. Did Tommy teach you how to do that?” You couldn’t help but wiggle your ass back against him. The thought of reaching down between your thighs and touching yourself crossed your mind, but you refrained.

He laughed, and it sent a wave of arousal gushing like a river because his laugh was beautiful. It was music to your fucking ears.

“Shut the fuck up.” His teeth grazed at the spot where your neck meets your jaw. He bit down, drawing blood to the surface of his indentation in your skin. “I taught Tommy everythin’ he needs to know on romancin’ a woman. Don’t get it twisted, sweetheart.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, big boy.” You nearly purred. Your back arched towards him, a suppressed moan desperate to be set free when his teeth marked you.

“I think someone is a bit too eager over this whole arrangement that we have found ourselves in.” He comments in a low rasp and his hand drifts down from your hip and nudges your thighs apart with a practiced ease. His heavy cock pressed firmly against your lower back as he let out another praising grunt from between his lips.

“Stop playing with me, Joel. I don’t want to be played with.” You hiss under your breath when you feel the backside of his knuckles slowly drag through the seam of your cunt.

“Y’sure about that, sweetheart? If you don’t wanna be played with, then what do you want?”

Frankly, he’s taking too long for your liking and you decided then and there to take matters into your own hands; literally. You reach between your bodies before he even has a chance to protest as you blindly search for his cock. Your warm palm barely fits around the girth of him.

“I want you to take your cock and stretch me open, Joel. Think you can handle that? Best not keep a lady waiting. It’s awfully rude.” You tsk under your breath.

He growls as his hips buck upwards into your hand like he’s never felt the touch of a woman’s palm before in his life.

“Fine. I like a woman that knows exactly what she wants, anyway. Won’t keep ya waitin’ any longer, princess.”

Joel Miller is a man of his word and just when you think he’s bluffing, you feel the thick press of the head of his cock sliding through your slick folds and notching at your entrance.

He groans against your ear, jaw clenching, and teeth grinding because you’re tight and hugging him like a fucking fist.

“Jesus fuck. That’s a tight cunt if I’ve ever felt one.” He rasps as you slowly pull him in further at the rate that he pushes his hips. Soon, he’s bottomed out with his hips firmly pressed into your ass. His legs stay tangled through yours as his arms come to wrap you up in his hold once more.

“Fuck.” You breathe, lashes fluttering as he stretches you open. He fits snuggly, almost as if your pussy was making a home for his cock to stay there awhile, all cozy and warm with you. “See? Was that so fucking difficult?”

He shakes his head and you swear you can feel him grinning against your skin. “Nope. It wasn’t difficult at all, sweetheart. In fact, I think I’ll stay here awhile.” Yeah, he’s definitely enjoying this.

You smile at this, burying your face into the solid muscle of his bicep, pressing the lightest kiss there. Maybe you even nibbled on it, and maybe he chuckled and pulled you in even closer.

“Stay as long as you’d please, Joel.” You whisper softly.

Come morning the embers from the fire had long since died out, and the storm had since passed. You and Joel were still a bunch of tangled limbs and connected warmth by the time Tommy and the rest of patrol had found you.

Joel had since grown soft with his cock still buried deep within your warmth and his face was buried in your neck with peaceful snores slipping past his plush lips. His eyes barely peeked open when he heard familiar voices muffled, yet nearby. Tommy had just brushed a bit of snow off the top of the sleeping bag and pulled the zipper down when he was met with a sight that he wasn’t expecting.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckled and shot his big brother a cheeky wink.

Banners made by the lovely @saradika 🤍

You’re in your sleeping bag on the couch and Joel is on the floor. Most times you two will sleep next to eachother while on a supply run, especially if there’s a bed, and always after he fucks you. When back in the qz, it's a little more complicated.

You roll over onto your side to face him, the moonlight casting just enough light into the room to see that he’s laying on top of his sleeping bag with his back to you. A quiet sigh leaves your lips as you watch his body move with each inhale and exhale. You won’t be able to sleep unless you talk to him. 

You sit up, contemplating for a second if this is a good idea before unzipping your bag and standing up from the couch. It feels like your heart is about to beat out of your chest as you slowly walk towards him, a knot forming in your stomach as you get closer. He hasn’t moved so you’re assuming you haven’t woken him up as you kneel beside him on the floor. You stare at him for a moment before speaking, eyes trailing over where his flannel is stretched over his broad shoulders. 

“Joel.” you whisper. He doesn’t even flinch. “Are you awake?” Your voice is still hushed. 

You reach your hand out to touch his bicep but freeze before making contact, afraid of what his reaction may be. Your hand finally rests on his arm, shaking him lightly. Now you can see that his eyes are open, but he still hasn’t turned to look at you. 

“Please talk to me…” you bite at your lower lip waiting for a response. 

A lump starts to grow in your throat as your mind replays the events of earlier that day. He was angry at you for not listening, there was no doubt about it, but you want nothing more than for him to talk to you now. 

“I’m sorry, what do I have to do for you to forgive me?” Your voice cracks slightly, trying to hold back your emotions as you speak.

Your chest starts to feel tight, the pain of him not saying a word is too much. You can handle him being angry with you, he sure as hell has been before, but if that means not talking to you at all you’re not sure how much you can take.

You take a deep breath and remove your hand from his arm before moving to lay down behind him. His body is radiating warmth as you lay only a few inches from him. Slowly you start to snake your arm around his torso, chest flush against his warm back. He still doesn’t say a word as you lay your cheek against him and start to rub your thumb back and forth over his soft, flannel covered stomach. 

“Joel.” You feel like tears could spill from your eyes any second now, hoping he’ll say something. Anything. 

You slowly move your hand lower, not worrying about what the consequences might be. All you want now is some sort of reaction from him, anything to show that he’s listening. Anything to get him to look at you. Your hand continues to move lower down to the waist of his jeans, just wanting to feel him. 

Suddenly, before you can even process, you feel his large calloused hand quickly wrap around your wrist. His head snaps towards you as he props himself up on his elbow, glaring down at where you lay. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He sounds pissed, maybe even more than earlier. He just stares back at you, your eyes wide in surprise. 

“I- I just-” you stutter, struggling to find words. 

“This isn’t how it works. Did you forget?” His jaw ticks as he lets go of your wrist, shoving it back towards you. 

He fully sits up now looking straight ahead and you shrink back into yourself, tears welling in your eyes, afraid of what he might say next. 

“I decide when and if this happens.” He’s breathing heavily. “You should know that by now.” 

“I know I-“ he cuts you off before you can finish your thought. 

“You obviously don’t.”

You swallow back the sob threatening to leave your throat. 

“Go sit on the couch.” his head falls to look at his lap as you scramble to stand up.

You don't dare to look back at him as you quietly walk back over to the couch. You take a seat in the middle with your hands on your lap as you wait for his next move. This is how the game usually goes. 

He shakes his head slightly before looking towards you, a darkness behind his eyes. “So now you want to listen?” 

He slowly gets up from his spot on the ground and turns towards you, standing there for a moment with his hands on his hips. His eyes are glued to the floor as he stands there for a moment thinking, but you can sense the anger behind them. As he looks up, walking towards you and stopping right in front of where you're sitting, you feel your chest start to tighten even more. You just stare down at your hands in your lap waiting for him to speak.

“Look at me.” His voice is low. 

Your head snaps up without hesitation to look into his eyes.

“Lay back, keep your hands above your head.” His accent sounds thicker than usual, voice gravely as he speaks. 

You do as he says, leaning back into the couch and raising your hands to grab the back of the couch. As you do so, Joel kneels down in front of you on the floor causing your legs to naturally part for him. He takes a deep breath before wrapping his arms under your knees, hands gripping your jean clad thighs before pulling you forward so your ass is at the edge of the couch causing you to let out a small yelp.

He keeps one of his hands on your thigh, the other moving to hover over your covered core. As he rests his large hand over your covered sex, warmth spreads through your lower stomach from the contact. He looks up at you through his lashes, dark eyes burning into yours. You feel a jolt of arousal through your core. 

His thumb grazes over the seam of your jeans, immediately finding your already sensitive clit. He knows you, knows your body even fully clothed, and that fact turns you on more. He lightly applies pressure with his thumb, rubbing in circles over your jeans. The sensation of the seam rubbing against you and the pressure of his thumb causes a moan to slip from your lips. 

“Joel…” he removes his hand from your clothed core, moving up towards the waist of your jeans. 

His rough calloused hand moves under the hem of your shirt, brushing lightly against the soft skin of your stomach. You shudder at the feeling, goosebumps covering your skin as you buck your hips up towards him. 

“Stay still for me.” He glances up at you again, it’s a warning, and your chest flutters. 

The anticipation is killing you. He moves both hands to unbutton your jeans, slowly sliding them down and off of you, leaving them in a pile at your feet. His eyes immediately lock onto the wet spot growing on your panties and a smug smile forms on his face.

“Already so fuckin’ wet, haven't even touched ya yet.” he hums, leaning in closer to your core.

He wraps one arm under your leg again, the other grabbing your waist to keep you from squirming. His nose rubs against the wet spot on your cotton panties and you bite the inside of your cheek, holding back a moan as you lightly clench your thighs around his head. Joel looks up at you again, the sight of him between your thighs so heavenly. You want nothing more than to reach out and bury your hands into his graying curls.

“Gonna listen and stay still for me baby?” His voice sends a vibration through your core as he tightens his grip on you. You struggle to keep still, nodding your head in response.

“Good, wouldn't wanna have to stop.” He's teasing you. 

He slides his hand from your hip down to hook a finger onto your underwear, tugging them down as he lifts your waist off the cushion. You suck in a breath as the cool air hits your soaked core. Joel doesn't waste any time, his hands are immediately back on you, fingers slotting through your glistening folds. He watches intently as his fingers easily slide up and down, covered in your slick. His face moves closer to you, warm breath fanning over your sensitive skin before replacing his fingers with his tongue. 

The feeling of his warm tongue darting out over your clit causes you to let out a moan. His tongue runs small circles around your nub, teasing you slowly before he licks through your folds. As he removes his mouth from you, you let out a gasp at the loss, but he quickly makes up for it by inserting two fingers into your cunt. 

“Oh god.” your head falls back on to the cushion, eyes squeezed shut and fingers gripping the edge of the couch harder.  

His pace starts to quicken, fingers curling to hit that spongy spot inside of you just right. He’s focused on his motions, mesmerized by the way his fingers disappear into your tight hole. His thumb starts to swirl in circles against your swollen clit and a soft whine escapes your mouth. 

“That feel good?” You don’t have the strength to answer. 

His free hand finds its way under your shirt to meet with your breast, fingers tweaking with your hardened nipple. Your eyes shoot back open, looking down at where he’s between your legs. His mouth is slightly parted as he watches you, watches your reaction to his movements and the way he’s touching you. You clench around his fingers, trying to hold back the urge to reach out and touch him. Trying to keep yourself still. The coil in your stomach is going to snap any second and he knows it. 

“Wanna come, baby?” He asks sweetly, so soft. 

“Please Joel, please.” You’re practically begging. 

He removes his hand from your breast and swings your leg over his shoulder, quickening his pace. His hand rests on your thigh lightly squeezing as he urges you on. He applies pressure with his 

“Close.” It’s all you can get out. 

The coil in your stomach is about to snap, Joel still isn’t slowing his pace, fingers hitting all the right places. He feels you clench around him one last time, and then suddenly you feel him pull away, the loss of his fingers causing your hips to buck forward. You let out a gasp as he abruptly drops your leg from his shoulder and stands up. 

Your eyes shoot open. “What the fuck?” You’re trying to catch your breath. 

“Did you really think I was going to let you come? After the stunt you pulled earlier?” He shakes his head, a sly look on his face as he watches you. 

Your mind flashes back to the supply run earlier that day as you clench your thighs together, hands dropping to your sides grasping at the couch cushions. A tingling sensation travels through your body, mind hazy from overstimulation. You stare up at him trying to process what’s just happened, jaw slack as your eyes start to well with tears. Joel’s hand lifts to your cheek, gently brushing his thumb against your soft skin. He drops his hand and adjusts himself, turning away from you and walking back towards his spot on the floor. 

He’s never been this mean before. Never denied you an orgasm, and the feeling is overwhelming. You knew he was mad about earlier, but you didn’t anticipate him being this mad.

Earlier on the supply run you just kept fucking up. Being too loud, careless, forgetful, you name it. The two of you were sent to check out an old strip mall that had surely been raided at some point before, but not by the two of you. He had warned you that this could be an area with raiders or infected lurking nearby and that you needed to be extra cautious, but you took it lightly, after all this wasn’t your first supply run. You had ran into trouble with clickers before and handled it well, but never raiders. 

Of course when the two of you got there, you realized you forgot your gun. It was only you and Joel this time around, no Tess, so the fact that you forgot your gun of all things wasn’t great. That was the first thing to set him off.  

“Really? How the hell do you forget your gun?” 

“I don’t know, must’ve left it on the table.” You shrug. 

He sighs. “Hope your knife skills have gotten better.” 

“Sorry…” You mumble. 

He turns away and you follow him to find a way inside. 

Once the two of you started looking around the place, you found yourself tripping and bumping into things more than usual. Bumping into a shelf, knocking an old jar over while weaving in and out of isles. Joel would shoot you an annoyed look every time which only made you more on edge. 

When you got to what must’ve been an old hardware store, Joel had found a few salvageable things and the two of you started to dig around to fill your packs.  

“Alright let’s get out of here.”  He let out a low grunt as he stood up, lifting his pack over his shoulder. 

You glanced up at him before standing up, as you stood straight up slinging your pack over your shoulder your bag hit a metal rack behind you causing it to nearly fall over. Joel reached his hand out quickly, stopping it from falling. 

“Damnit.” He said between gritted teeth. “You need to be quieter I’m not fuckin’ around.” He gave you a stern look. 

“Quieter?” You gave him a playful look. “What, LIKE THIS?” You yelled out, giggling afterwards.

Normally he loved when you were like this, a little disobedient so he could put you back in your place later that night. Show you how to behave. But right now he wasn’t having it. 

There was the sound of branches snapping outside and Joel immediately looked up, wide eyes locking on the nearest entrance. In an instant he was grabbing you, spinning you so your back was against his chest and covering your mouth with his large hand. His other arm was snaked around the front of you, holding you close. 

“Fuck.” He whispered into your ear as he pulled the both of you into another room to hide. “You really had to do this right now?” 

The coil in your stomach is still tightly wound, and now you’re pissed. You’ll just do it yourself then. 

Your hand finds its way to your puffy tender clit, running your fingers over it as you slowly start to move through your slick folds. Joel still has his back to you as he stands over where his sleeping bag lays on the floor, hands on his waist. Your fingers find their way back to your swollen clit, lightly rubbing circles. Your eyes rake over his form, his broad shoulders and the way his flannel is rolled up exposing his forearms. You bite your cheek, trying to stay as quiet as possible. As you apply more pressure, a soft moan escapes your mouth causing Joel to turn back around. 

His eyes immediately fall to where your fingers are picking up speed between your legs and his eyes grow dark, hand flexing by his side as he watches you. You don’t stop. His eyes meet with yours and your mouth falls open, pace never faltering. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” His brows pinch together forming a crease as he waits for a response. 

You can see his chest starting to heave as you look at him through heavy lidded eyes. Now you’ve done it, you think to yourself. 

He slowly walks back over to you, stopping in front of you, staring down at the way your fingers move so smoothly over your soaked core. He reaches his hand out to lightly grab your jaw, tilting your head up towards him. You let out a yelp as your eyes meet his, growing darker by the second. 

“Hm?” His jaw is clenched as he squeezes yours lightly before he speaks through gritted teeth. “Answer me.”

“No.” You croak out, stopping your motions and reaching to pull your underwear back up. 

“Well, don't stop now.” Your brows knit together in confusion. “Since you want to come so badly around nothing instead of my cock, keep going.” you let out a small gasp. 

“Rather have you.” You say breathlessly.

A smug smile forms on his face as he removes his hand from your jaw and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Hm, not what it looks like.” He’s teasing you now, wanting you to beg. And you will. He knows you will.

“Joel…” You whisper, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “It’s been too long.” 

“Should’ve thought about that earlier,” He huffs. “when you were touchin’ yourself, when you were acting up on the supply run.” 

“I know, I wasn’t thinking.” You start to sit up straight, scrambling for the right words. “I said I was sorry, just need you.” It comes out just above a whisper. 

Your eyes dart to the growing bulge in his pants then back to his eyes. He’s standing right at the edge of the couch between your parted legs and you can feel heat radiating off him, drawing you in closer. He shifts his weight and his hands fall back to his sides as he contemplates what to do next. 

“Prove it.” 

You stare up at him with wide eyes, dumbstruck. “Wha-“

“If you need my cock so badly, prove it.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he subtly juts his hips forward. 

Your bottom lip disappears between your teeth as you soak up his last words. Without your eyes leaving his, you reach up slowly to rest your hand over where his cock is straining against his dark jeans. He takes a deep breath through his nose as you start to gently apply pressure. You inch your hands up to the hem of his jeans and swiftly undo his belt, unbutton them and pulling the zipper down in one motion before tugging them off his waist so they’re resting around his thighs. The sight of his thick cock only restrained by his cotton underwear causes you to let out a small gasp. 

You look back up at Joel for reassurance and he nods, expression never faltering. Your hands rest on his lower abdomen right above the hem of his boxers, running over the sparse hairs leading down past his boxers. As you hook his fingers into the fabric, pulling them down, his fully hardened cock springs out causing your mouth to salivate at the sight. 

Without thought, your hand immediately wraps around the thick base of his cock causing him to let out a low groan. You lightly squeeze, teasing him as you lean in closer. Your tongue darts out from between your lips to lick at the precum leaking from his silky smooth tip and he sucks in a breath. 

“Jesus.” his hand moves to rest on the back of your neck, the other caressing your cheek.

You look up at him through your lashes, tongue still on his tip as you flash him a daunting smile. You release his cock from your grip and run your tongue from the base of his tip, along the bottom of his length back to his tip before sucking him back into your mouth. The salty taste of his precum still on your taste buds as you swirl your tongue in circles and take the rest of him into your mouth in one go. Tears start to rim your eyes as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. 

“Good girl.” Joel praises you as he wipes away the tears starting to form at the edge of your eyes. 

Your head moves back releasing his cock from your lips with a popping sound before bringing your lips back to rest on his tip. His grip on the back of your neck starts to tighten as he begins to lightly thrust his hips forward. You slowly open your mouth, giving him access and wrapping your lips around his warm cock again. Both your hands grip onto his thighs, holding yourself still as he slowly thrusts forward again. He lets out a low groan as your mouth encloses around his thick member and your motions stop, allowing him to take control. 

“God damn baby.” Joel huffs as he begins to pull back. 

His hand caresses the back of your head guiding you as you open up wider and your nose buries into the sparse curls at the base of his cock. The tip of his cock prods at the back of your throat and you swallow trying to get some sort of relief. He holds your head there for a moment, relishing in the warm, wet feeling of your mouth wrapped around him before pulling back. Your cheeks hollow, sucking harder and he stops before the tip of his cock leaves your mouth.

As he pulls out, you watch the string of saliva connecting to the tip of his flushed cock break before he pulls you back in, swollen lips immediately parting for him once more. 

“Look at me while I fuck your throat.” His hands move to your jaw, tilting your head as far as it can go until your eyes land on his.  

You can feel tears rimming your eyes again as you dig your nails into the warm flesh of his thighs, the back of your throat is already raw. His thumbs caress your cheeks before he roughly fucks into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat once again and your eyes squeeze shut allowing the tears brewing in your eyes to finally spill over. 

“You can take it.” He continues the thrust into your mouth as he speaks. 

You open your eyes and look back at him, he tilts his head to the side as he looks down at you, and mocking pout on his face. His pace doesn’t falter, the only sound in the room is his deep voice and the filthy wet sound of his thick cock relentlessly fucking your throat. 

“This the only way I can get you to be quiet, huh? Gotta have my cock stuffed down your throat for you to shut the fuck up?” The last word comes out just as he thrusts his hips, large calloused hands nearly digging into your cheek as he lets out a low grunt.

His words cause you to let out a low moan around his cock as he hits the back of your throat one last time, and you feel him tense. His head falls back, a deep growl leaving his throat before his eyes snap back to you.

He pulls his cock out of your mouth, and before you can even focus he’s pulling you up from the couch and spinning you to lay on your stomach. You flop down, holding yourself up on your forearms as he pulls your underwear the rest of the way down, and you swear you can hear the fabric lightly tearing before he discards them somewhere on the floor. Next he grabs the hem of your long sleeve, pulling it up over your bare tits. You frantically pull it over your head and off before throwing it somewhere. He quickly pulls you up so that you’re on your knees and grabs your wrists, pinning your arms behind your back as your cheek buries into the couch cushion. 

“This what you were hoping for?” he nearly grunts as he holds your wrists in place with one hand, positioning himself over you. “Hm?” you can hear his breathing as he leans down closer to your face. 

You can’t speak, a low moan leaves your lips, but that's not enough of an answer for him. He lands a small smack on your ass and your body jolts from the contact.

“Answer me.” he says through gritted teeth. You feel him lay some of his weight against your back now and his still fully hard cock presses into you. He leans down close to your face and you feel his lips touch your ear as he speaks. 

“This what you were hoping for when you were acting up earlier?” His deep voice sends a shiver through your body, igniting the heat blooming in your core. 

You feel his weight shift as he pulls away from your face. “Hoping I would teach you a lesson?” His hand wraps around his cock, guiding it towards your tight hole, already soaked in anticipation. 

Your hips push back into him and you attempt to open your legs wider, making room for him to guide himself to your entrance, and without a second thought he thrusts into you. He places one hand on your hip holding you up, as the other keeps your arms pinned behind you. It’s fast and rough, and you can hear the sound of skin on skin as his hips snap forward, thrusting into you with all his force, taking out his anger from earlier on your cunt. This is how it always goes. You piss him off to get what you want, then he fucks you senseless until all his anger and frustration is gone, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

A small moan escapes your lips as he grips you tighter, pumping his large cock in and out of you hard enough to jolt your body forward with each thrust. You can hear him grunting above you, pace never faltering. 

“Take me so well,” he huffs. “this tight little cunt is all mine. Made for me.” His voice is deep with lust as he speaks, and it sends a burning heat through your core as a moan escapes you. 

He moves his hand from your hip, snaking his arm around your torso and grabbing onto your left tit as he pulls you back against him. He has your arms still pinned behind you as you arch your back and your upper body meets his chest. Your head falls back over his shoulder, eyes falling shut. 

“Say it.” He speaks against your cheek, lips ever so lightly grazing your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yours.” You choke out. 

He releases your wrists and wraps his arm around your waist, your arms rest over his, gripping his forearms where his flannel is rolled up as he continues to fuck into you. You turn your face to look up at him, and you find him looking down, his eyes fixated on the way he’s pumping in and out of you. Mesmerized by the sound, the way you take him so well and the way his hips snap against your ass with every thrust. Your chest flutters and the coil in your stomach that’s been building is ready to snap any minute. 

“‘M close.” It’s barely audible, his eyes snap away from where your body’s meet to look into yours.

“Think you deserve to come this time?” His mouth is slightly parted, eyes flickering to your lips and back as you nod your head. 

“Yes, please Joel.” You breathlessly beg. 

“Did you learn your lesson?” One of his hands creeps towards your sensitive clit, your hand still gripping his forearm. “You be quiet when I tell you to, and you don’t touch yourself unless I,” he grunts as he thrusts into you. “say so.” The last part is said through gritted teeth, punctuated with a hard thrust and the sound of his hips snapping against you. 

His fingers meet your clit and he applies pressure, rubbing in tight fast circles. Your head falls back and he nips at your neck, teeth just barely brushing your skin as his tongue sets your skin. 

“Say it.” His warm breath fans against your skin. 

“I’m quiet when you tell me,” his lips latch on to your skin, lightly sucking as you gasp and your hips jut forward. He uses the hand on your mound to pull you back into him. “and I don’t touch myself. Unless you say.” 

“Good girl.” His fingers pick up speed, you nearly let out a scream as a white hot pleasure pulses through your body. 

Joel keeps moving his fingers over your clit and one of your hands flies up to bury in his hair. You lightly tug, causing him to grunt, as your body starts to feel limp. His hand wraps back around your torso, holding you up against him as he continues to fuck you, panting into your neck. He thrusts into you two, three more times and you feel his pace falter then still as he releases his load with a low moan. 

He gently falls forward onto the couch, still holding onto you as he gently lays atop of you. You can feel his warm body pressed against your back, chest rapidly rising and falling as he catches his breath. You catch a quick glimpse of him, eyes closed, lips parted and damp curls lightly sticking to his forehead. His cheeks are slightly flushed and he looks divine. 

He stays inside you for another moment before lifting off of you. You hear the couch creek as he gets up, then you hear his zipper and belt as he adjusts his pants before walking back over to his spot on the floor. You don’t move, laying there with your eyes closed as you catch your breath. After a minute or two you start to sit up, looking over at where he’s laying with his back to you again. You grab your discarded shift from the floor and slip it back on before searching for your underwear, picking up your jeans along the way.

 After a few minutes you give up and slip your jeans back on, whatever. You look down at your sleeping bag spread open on the couch, then back at Joel. It might be a bad idea, but you walk over to where he’s laying and lay behind him again, wrapping your arm around his torso and pressing yourself against his warm, broad back. You let out a sigh and he doesn’t move, and as you start to drift asleep, you feel his arm rest on top of yours. 

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Joel looks down at you, watching your eyes move behind the lids while you sleep. Your breathing is slow and steady. He wonders if instead of your usual nightmares that maybe tonight you’re dreaming good things. 

While he’s lost in thought, you make a soft, sleepy sighing sound and wiggle your body closer to him, snuggling against him as tightly as you can. Joel wipes a stray eyelash off your cheek carefully, and then ghosts his index finger across your forehead. 

You sigh again, but don’t wake up. 

Why doesn’t he hate you? You took from him– took his time. Took the precious, unpromised time he had with Ellie and JJ, with Tommy and his nephew Ben. 

He should hate you for that. Should hate you for the way you treated him– kept him tied up and chained like a dog. He mindlessly rubs at his neck while the thoughts race– while his feelings swirl around like a tornado inside him. 

You don’t hate her though– you understand her. 

He does. He understands you more than he would like to admit. He’s had so much time to think about the things he’s done, and the kind of man he is– and he understands why you did what you did. 

Joel has done things he wouldn’t have normally done for the sake of caring about someone. The hospital plays in his head over, and over again. The night he lost Sarah. 

He thinks about the person he helped shape Ellie into– and he wonders if it’s a good thing. Joel thinks about the things Ellie did with Tommy after the attack. Joel wonders where she would have ended up without him around. What kind of person she might have turned out to be if he hadn’t ever agreed to take her to Salt Lake. 

She’d be dead– no doubt about that. 

Ellie had been a kid– she is just barely not a kid anymore in his eyes. 

You’re grown– set in your ways and clearly traumatized. Joel wonders if he’s doing the right thing by bringing you here. 

He wrinkles his nose at the scent of you– he hadn’t noticed it much before with everything going on, all the emotions. Now that everything is settled, and he has a little time to think, let things register, the smell of his brother and his brother's house and the soap his family uses wafts through his nostrils and it makes him angry.

Joel wants you to smell like you. 

No, you want her to smell like you. 

Something wicked grows inside Joel because that voice inside him is right; he does want you to smell like him. He wants everyone who comes close to you to recognize you as his because you are– he meant what he said and he hopes you know that. 

There is too much thinking happening. Too much noise inside his head and too much silence around him for his body and mind to relax. He wants to get up and go look for something to drink, something to settle the storm and ease him into rest. 

He knows that if he leaves and you wake up to an empty bed, all hell is going to break loose, so he stays next to you and lets you sleep. Lets you get your much needed rest because he knows that you’re capable of going an ungodly amount of time without sleep. It used to scare him how long you would be awake before crashing out for eighteen to twenty hours at a time. 

This next week is for you– getting you used to being in a house and a schedule. Getting you used to being around people. Then he’s going to get you working– he’s already thought about how you’ll like working in the barn. You like animals, seem to be good with them and know more about them than he does– and there is a whole building full of them. 

Silently, he boasts about how smart he is for thinking about it. He isn’t going to stick you in the kitchen where he knows you’ll be miserable. And he isn’t going to get you on patrol duty until he knows you won’t run away. 

She’s gonna try. 

Yeah, you will try. You’re scared now– won’t admit it– but you’re scared. The second you get an ounce of courage– which you will– you’ll try and take off. Joel will come look for you, and he will find you– and you will not like how he makes sure you don’t run off again. 

He might never let you leave. He hasn’t really decided yet, but he’s thinking about it. 

Joel settles down beside you again, and this time you stir, sleep clinging to your panicked voice as you ask where he’s going. He nuzzles his nose into the side of your face and splays one of his hands across your stomach, resting it there innocently. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he reassures with his lips pressing softly against the corner of your mouth. 

You hum quietly with your eyes still closed and place your hand on top of Joel’s and hold him there– lightly encourage him to keep touching you. “Good,” you yawn quietly and melt back into the bed. 

With his eyes closed, he thinks maybe getting you acclimated won’t be as hard as he thought it was going to be. You’re here in his bed, sleeping like you have no worries in the world while he sits up awake, fearful and anxious of the future. 

----

“Mister!”

Joel’s eyes shoot open, heart already racing because he can hear the fear in your voice. He doesn’t have time to ask you what’s wrong when a loud, heavy pounding on the front door makes you flinch. 

Joel sighs loudly. He shouldn’t be annoyed at people coming to visit, but it feels like it’s too early in the morning for company. The thudding doesn’t cease, and Joel looks at you regretfully, “Gotta go see who–” 

Your hand darts to his, gripping it tightly. “Please don’t let’em take me,” you plead with him, eyes wet with tears before he has time to ease your worry. “I’ll be good! I promise! I’ll be g-good, just don’t make me go with’em.” 

The bangning on the front door wont stop– that paired with the sound of your begging and the fact that Joel only three, maybe fours of sleep is making his head spin. 

Joel shakes your hand off of his and climbs out of the bed, waving your worries away with a flick of his wrist as he heads to his dresser. “No one's gonna take you,” he has much less patience for all of this today than he did yesterday. 

You’re out of bed, following close behind to the dresser with your fingers worrying at the hem of his t-shirt. “Like I ain’t heard that before,” you tug desperately at the fabric as he pulls on a pair of jeans. 

Joel swats your hand away, the annoyance seeping in while the front door nearly gets knocked off its hinges downstairs. “Would you cut it out,” Joel swats at your hand once again and tucks his shirt into his jeans. 

“Who is knockin’ like that this early!?” You exclaim, holding your right hand towards the bedroom door. “Someone who sounds like they want somethin’!” 

Joel shakes his head at you and combs his fingers through his hair to look somewhat presentable. “You comin’ down like that or do you wanna get dressed?” He looks you up and down, still wearing all of his boxers and t-shirt from last night. 

Your eyes go wider than Joel thought possible and now he has to hold back a smirk. “Comin’ down!?” 

“Could stay here…’n wait for me–” Joel reaches out to run his index finger between your slit, to tease you for a moment through his boxers, but you’re pushing his hand away, closing the distance between you and grasping at his shirt again in desperation. 

“Joel!” The muffled, female voice coming from out front sounds angry. “I know you’re in there! Open the fucking door!” 

Your head whips around and you look at the door that leads out into the hallway. “Who is that?” You ask, the fear replaced with new piqued curiosity. “That don’t sound like Maria– who is that lady?” You turn to look at him again, brows pinched together tight. 

Joel can’t hide the smirk, he can barely hold back the chuckle you force out of him. “‘Cause it ain’t Maria,” he gently grabs you by the scruff of your neck and places a chaste kiss to your forehead. 

“Who is that woman tryin’ to barge in here so early in the–” 

Joel grips the back of your neck a little tighter and you scowl up at him but go silent. “Sounds like y’might be a little jealous–” 

With your right hand, you ball your fist into Joel’s shirt and pull yourself closer to him. “Don’t like other ladies knockin’ on your door like that,” you growl at him, the fear from your voice and plastered all over your face is gone. 

There she is.

Joel snorts softly to himself, shaking his head from side to side. “You’re somethin’ else,” he massages the side of your neck with his index finger and thumb gently. You soften slightly against him and he kisses your forehead again and lingers. “Go shower– you smell like my brother's house,” he grumbles against your skin. 

“Who is–”

“It’s just Ellie,” Joel lets his hand slide down your spine and over the curve of your ass. “No one you need t’be jealous of,” he teases as he palms and squeezes your ass playfully. 

You look him up and down suspiciously, eyebrows still furrowed, lips in a tight line, “You sayin’ there are ones I should be jealous of?” 

Joel laughs and gives your ass a good smack, pushing past you gently. “Take a shower ‘n you can come down after. There is stuff for you in the dresser,” he points to his dresser and then leaves the room to attend to the constant knocking downstairs. 

----

“The fuck have you been?” Ellie pushes the door open before Joel can even greet her. “Been knocking for almost ten minutes.” 

“I’m fully aware how long you been makin’ that racket,” Joel shuts the door behind her as she barges into the house like she still lives here. “S’nice to see you too, I guess.” Joel scoffs softly and shakes his head. 

He hadn’t expected a welcome back party, Joel hadn’t even received one smile since he’s been back. Not from Tommy– he never expected one from Maria– and now Ellie. 

“What the fuck do you expect me to say, Joel?” Ellie’s headed into the kitchen and Joel follows close behind. “Been gone for eight months and then you come back and don’t even bother coming to see me?” 

Joel grabs the glass jar of coffee beans he put in the cupboard after Tommy left last night. “Got in pretty late– didn’t wanna wake you and Dina and J.J.” 

Joel goes about making coffee while Ellie softens, changing her tone quickly. “You okay? Look like you been through some shit.” 

Joel nods his head, staying quiet. He’s listening for the shower upstairs but he doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t hear any noise and he wonders what you’re doing. 

“Thought you were done gettin’ yourself into shit,” Ellie chuckles but Joel doesn’t really hear her. He’s too busy thinking about how there is a pistol tucked into the pocket of a jacket he has hanging up in his closet. He wonders if you’re looking for something like that to use on him. Come down here blasting– taking everyone in the room out so you and Puddin’ can make your great escape. 

“Joel?” 

His train of thought is derailed, and so he turns to look at Ellie, “Sorry kiddo.” He’s greeted with a look of worry- like something bad could happen to him at any minute. Like he’s fragile and could break. He doesn’t like that. “I’m fine,” he sighs. “Just did a lot of walkin’ yesterday and didn’t get a lot of sleep.” 

Ellie sighs loudly and leans back in the chair she had taken a seat in. “Shit, and I come over banging your door down first thing in the morning,” she’s shaking her head. “I’m sorry– Tommy came over this morning and told me that you were back–”

“What else did Tommy tell you?”

Joel’s bathroom is different from Maria’s. Less welcoming– more plain and sterile looking– but your soaps are here. The little bottles and bars of the things that make you clean and smell good. Some of them make you feel soft after you use them. 

You’re warm from the inside and the tips of fingers tingle as you run them along the worn and water damaged label of one of the bottles. You notice that he brought his soap from the mall- the one you found for him shortly after he came to stay with you. 

You don’t shower. You choose to stay in his clothes instead and inspect what he has for you in his dresser. You start at the bottom drawer, but it’s only his things. The next drawer is the same– only Mister’s clothes. 

The next drawer, the one second from the top has significantly less clothes in it– but they’re yours. The ones you had at the mall, folded and tucked away neatly under the cash register in the mattress store– they’re here in Mister-man’s dresser, in a drawer just for you. 

The tingles creep up your hands and wrists and into your forearms as you shut the drawer and turn around, taking in the bedroom that you slept in last night. 

Felt good to sleep– it’s been a while. 

Miss out on things when you sleep and you’re at risk– it’s dangerous. 

It did feel good though. It felt good to sleep with a door between you and the outside world, and to have a roof over your head that didn’t have holes in it. There was something nice about being in a house again– but it still made you feel so uneasy, and your stomach was tied so tightly into a knot that it made you feel like you could be sick. 

A pink snout peeks out from under Mister’s bed, and sniffs rapidly. Then a gray and white furry face follows and his beady little eyes stare up at you. 

It shouldn’t be as dramatic as it is, but you drop to your knees with a thud and Puddin’ runs out from his hiding place and jumps into your lap. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you press your face into his fur as his little scratchy nails dig into your shoulder and cheek. “Mister took real good care of you?” 

The small marsupial doesn’t respond, he just continues trying to burrow into the neck of your shirt so he can curl up and go to sleep. You bring him into Mister-man’s bed and curl up with him under your shirt. 

Safe. He’s downstairs with his daughter, probably making his horrible coffee. Nothing bad is going to happen. 

He’s tellin’ her what you did– he’s gonna tell everyone what you did. They’re all gonna hate you. Gonna talk ‘bout you ‘n laugh at you. Judge you. 

It’s been so long since you’ve had to worry about what anyone thought about you. You didn’t worry about doing things the normal way, or being normal, or anything other than what made you happy and feel good. 

Last night you had no time to think about anything before sleep overcame you. There were no worries when Mister and his endless, perfect body heat kept you warm and comfortable. 

Now you’re alone because he’s downstairs with his daughter. You think about how lucky Ellie is that she gets her dad and didn’t lose him. A different kind of jealousy pangs deep inside you. Another reason being alone was so easy was because you weren’t constantly reminded that everyone you had once known is dead. The one person from your past had turned on you, treated you like a tradeable form of currency that he could pass around to keep the people who fueled his addictions happy. 

You miss your dad and your mom. You miss the home you knew and the room you had with your books and things in it. You miss life the way it used to be. 

Wouldn’t have Mister-Joel though. 

Meeting that liar is the worst thing that ever happened to you. 

That’s not true. There had been worse things to happen to you– worse people like Christoper and Theo. The worst of them all had been Elias. 

With every ounce of mental strength you have left, you pull yourself out of your head and settle back into Mister-man’s warm, safe bed. You press your face into his pillow and inhale deeply, taking in the intoxicating smell of his sleepy, musky scent. 

The image of your clothes in his dresser flashes into your head again. Your face gets warm, and your insides feel like they’re vibrating. 

He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to make space for you in his life like this. You wonder what the plan is, or if he even has a plan to begin with. 

He just wanted you here. Just wanted you close to him. 

He’s going to chew you up until there ain’t nothin’ left.

The voices go back and forth with each other for a while; you stay quiet and listen to them bicker about knowing what Mister wants. How they know best. 

You think you might not know anything anymore. You had been so smart and so independent out in the woods because there had been no one else around to tell you that how you did things was wrong, or stupid, or that you could do it better this way or that way. Now– thinking about doing anything without Mister-man around makes you want to cry. 

----

“S’just me,” he whispers into your ear as he slips into bed beside you. His voice calms you before you have time to panic. “Y’never showered,” he rubs his hand up and down your upper arm. “Still smell like Tommy and Maria’s house.” 

“I found someone,” you yawn, lifting your shift a smidge to expose Puddin’, who makes his own sleepy sound, peers around the room with tired eyes, and then curls himself into a ball, wrapping his paws around his tail. 

Joel groans quietly in displeasure, “Not in my bed– critters don’t sleep in my bed.” He doesn’t force Puddin’ out, or make you put him on the floor. He wraps his arm around you, careful of the opossum, and settles in, sighing contently. 

You smirk, eyes still closed and sass him playfully. “Ya’ didn’t have a problem with it when it was my bed.” 

Mister snorts softly against the side of your face and pulls you closer. “Shut up and go back t’sleep. We ain’t doin’ this again tomorrow.” 

“Doin’ what?” 

Bein’ free.

“Bein’ lazy,” Mister-man yawns tiredly. “We’re all gettin’ up early ‘n doin’ chores,” he very gently and playfully jostles the sleeping animal under your shirt. “You too.” 

Puddin’ lets out a squeak, and shifts away from Mister to continue snoozing under the dark fabric. 

The next time you wake up you’re cold, and alone. Even Puddin’ is gone. 

The room looks different. It’s the same room but everything looks… gray and dull. 

Maybe it isn’t the same room. 

How terrible would it be if it had all been a dream? All of it– the mall, the Mister-man, Puddin’! What if none of it was real, and you’re back in the bad house, with the bad men who hurt you. 

Hide. 

The door in the corner of the room looks like it leads to a bathroom– it feels familiar. There is a lock on the door you can see from here, and there might be a small window that you should be able to squeeze out of if you try hard enough. 

Smart girl. 

Joel will be right back! He’s coming back! Don’t panic! 

The dark voice is too late– the anxiety has set in and now you need to move, need to be somewhere where no one can get you, because Joel isn’t here. He’s probably not even real!

Your brain and body aren’t in sync yet, and your legs move swiftly, but nowhere near gracefully. You fall out of bed and land on your chest. Pain shoots through your shoulder and up your neck, down your spine. You whimper, and start to crawl towards the door only a few feet away. 

There is a sound downstairs, a clattering, and then footsteps. Fast, heavy footsteps that you can follow by their thudding through the house until they’re racing up the stairs, possibly taking them two at a time. 

Comin’ to get you. Gonna take everything from you. 

It's as if you get to the bathroom at the same time the footsteps enter the bedroom. You slam the door shut, and turn the lock.

The door begins rattling violently in its frame. The voice on the other side sounds angry, but you can’t even make out what it’s saying over your own hysterics. 

“Go away, go away, go away,” you sob softly, covering your ears with your hands despite the searing pain in your shoulder. “Please go away.” 

The banging on the door doesn’t stop, it doesn’t soften or slow. It gets louder, and faster. More demanding. The door handle turns from left to right uselessly.

You close your eyes, and press your palms against your ears as hard as you can, trying to drown out the overwhelming loudness. This room is going to close in on you, the walls get closer and the space itself gets smaller and smaller. 

Whoever is on the other side of the door is mad at you. The tone of their voice tells you that they’re angry but you still aren’t listening to what they’re saying. 

“I’m sorry!” You wail loudly, hoping the person trying to get you can hear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” You’re not sure why you’re apologizing, but you must have done something wrong for the person to be so upset. 

The door stops rattling, and for a moment you think your apologies worked, the angry entity on the other side of the door must have gone away. For a moment, you think you can breathe. 

Then there is one, loud thud against the door. The frame shifts slightly. 

“No! No! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You scream and shuffle backwards on the floor, jumping when your back touches the outside of the tub. 

The person either kicks, or slams their shoulder into the door once again, and you can see the wooden door bow inwards towards you ever-so slightly. 

This time the frame around the door splinters. 

Wonder what they’re gonna do to you when they get in here. 

You’re whimpering, praying, hoping that something will intervene, that something will save you. As you climb into the tub, trying to hide, wondering if the drain would open you up and swallow you whole if you wished hard enough– the wooden frame that keeps the door shut finally gives out as the person forces themselves into the bathroom, and pieces of wood go flying through the air. 

You scream in terror, the debris landing in your hair, and on your back. You grip the shower curtain in your right hand and tear it down off the bar above you accidentally as you pull yourself further away from whoever is behind you. 

The curtain falls down on top of you, cloaking you in darkness. This makes everything worse. The dark makes it all too familiar. 

You try to rip the fabric off of you, try and get yourself free but now there is another set of hands on you, groping at you– touching you. Getting ready to take things from you and hurt you. 

Gonna take all you got to offer, Sug.

You shriek loudly and kick out with your feet at your attacker. “Get off me!” 

A strong, calloused hand wraps around the entirety of your ankle and squeezes. Skin on skin, you can feel how hot and alive the other person is, and it makes you want to implode on yourself. 

“Pl-Plea–Please don’t,” you sob, already feeling defeated, already knowing what’s about to happen to you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

The hand slides up your shin and thigh, under the shower curtain, closer to your core– but it bypasses it completely and continues traveling up your torso. Fingertips graze your chin, then your lips and before you can stop yourself, you open your mouth. The thick digits slide between your lips, and then across your tongue. 

They start to pull away, but you bite down hard before they leave your mouth completely. 

Good fuckin’ girl, Sug!

The person howls in pain and you try to push yourself backwards, away from the sound but there isn’t anywhere to go. You’re in the tub, in a giant bowl and your back is pressed against the side of it. 

“Go away, go away, go away, go away,” You plug your ears with your index fingers, close your eyes. 

Honey, it’s okay. It’s alright. You just forgot where you were. You’re safe. 

It doesn’t matter. You’re nowhere, now. 

It’s just light. It’s just white, and bright light surrounds you. It feels warm, it feels comfortable and safe, and it feels like home. It also feels entirely like nothing at all. There is a voice repeating the same phrase over and over. It’s a soft, sweet voice that reminds you of good and love. It reminds you of hugs, and sweet things, and the feeling of your chest being full. 

You can’t make out the words, they’re all jumbled together, or sound like they’re being said backwards. It doesn’t matter, the voice is what feels good. The consolation of the voice alone is enough for some reason. 

In your heart, the one that’s beating so fast in your chest it feels like it could explode or give out at any second, longs to tell the voice you miss it. You wish you could hear it more. 

Then real light, not bright, warm, white light, but the soft yellow glow of the lightbulbs encompasses you, and someone tall and broad is standing above you. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” You shake your head, and hold your hands up to protect your face and neck. “I’m sorry!” 

You need to breathe, honey.

Don’t. Pass out. It’ll make it easier. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you can’t stop. You want to, you want to stop and take a breath, gather your thoughts– but why think when bad things are about to happen?

There is a sputtering, wet sound from above you and then you are being soaked with ice cold water. 

You gasp loudly– a long, deep breath in– and your lungs expand and your head stops spinning. Water gets in your mouth and you spit it out. It’s washing over your face and down your neck and chest. It’s already seeping into your clothes. 

A large mass is in front of you, and then kneeling– pinning your legs between theirs. A hand, calloused and strong, grabs your face, pinching your cheeks together. 

“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, look’it me!” It’s Mister-man’s voice, it’s his hand on your face, it’s his knees on either side of yours. 

You open your eyes, and he’s glaring at you, his brows stitched together angrily. All you can do is whimper. 

“What th’fuck is wrong with you!?” He releases your face, but mashes his fingers against your lips and then holds them up for you to see. “Fuckin’ bit me!”

They’re red, stained with blood. His middle and ring finger are bleeding. Now you can taste the metallic tang of it still lingering on your tongue.

“I- I d-didn’t mean to,” your eyes flash between his bloody fingers, and angry eyes. “I didn’t mean t’bite you. I really didn’t,” you can feel your sinuses starting to tingle, and your eyes burn. “I jus’ woke up all alone and– and it looked different,” you try to explain, but the words don’t make sense, not even to you. “I got scared.” 

Mister’s face softens and his shoulders slump forward slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. This time, when he reaches for your lips, he wipes them gently, cleaning off any blood that still remains. “Didn’t think you’d wake up ‘fore I got back,” he murmurs softly. 

The water cascades through his hair, soaking it and matting it to his forehead. There is a steady stream dripping off the tip of his nose, and his clothes are completely wet now, too. You pulse at the sight of him, wet and hovering over you this way. You feel guilty for hurting him, for biting him so hard he bled. 

“Where did ya’ go?” You ask mindlessly, not even really thinking before the words come out. Your brain feels like mush, like it’s been chewed up and spit out and then stepped on. 

Joel turns at the waist, and adjusts the knob for the water, and then turns back to face you. “Was gonna go get us somethin’ to eat,” he explains cooly.

Now the water is warm and getting hotter, and feels good on your skin. “You was gonna leave me here all alone?” You whisper in disbelief, mouthing hanging open slightly.

Mister-man helps you undress silently, and discards all your wet clothes outside of the tub; then follows suit. He stands behind you, pressing himself against you so you can feel the slight swell of his belly against your back. His hands snake around your midsection, and pull you close to him. 

“Ain’t got nothin’ to be scared of here, babydoll.” He whispers into your ear. “S’only scary up here,” he punctuates the last word with a gentle kiss to your temple. “Gotta stay outta there.” 

He’s right.

You lean back against him, try and relax your tense body. “I dunno how,” you sigh, and with that confession it feels like weight has been taken off of you. Like Mister-man is lifting you off of your feet, but he isn’t. He’s still just holding you, swaying you discreetly; it’s so soothing. You are small in his arms, he makes you feel tiny and fragile even though that isn’t always the case– you love it. 

Mister lets out a low hum from deep in his chest, “Have ya’ ever tried?” 

The honest answer is no, you’ve never really tried. These things don’t normally happen, you don’t normally get stuck in your head like this. That’s not what you tell Mister though. “It’s hard. Just get caught up in it all– sometimes so fast I don’t even know it’s happenin’.” 

Mister nods like he understands, and sighs. “S’long as I’m around, you’re safe. Remember what we talked ‘bout in the woods?” 

“But you weren’t around,” you snap at him, frustrated with his useless words. “You weren’t here.” 

“I was just downstairs,” he explains gently as he starts to work his fingers into your hair. The faint smell of your soap wafts through the air, and it makes things seem less scary. Just a little. He scratches at your scalp with his nails and doesn’t miss a spot. 

“Feels good,” you moan softly, leaning against him again for support while he massages all your fears and worries away. 

He turns you around slowly so you’re facing him. “I ain’t always gonna be right by your side,” he whispers, and keeps his index finger under your chin, shielding your eyes with his other hand while the water washes the shampoo away. “But if I’m breathin’...” he pauses to make sure you’re listening. “You’re safe. Promise you that.” 

You wrinkle your nose at his words. “How’re you gon’ keep me safe if you aren’t right here?” You hold your right hand out at your side. 

Joel raises one eyebrow as he continues to rinse the soap out of your hair. “Same way you did,” he shrugs his shoulders. He’s satisfied that all the shampoo is gone, and he reaches for the bar of his soap sitting on the side of the tub. 

You watch, expecting him to start washing himself, but instead he drags the soap across your skin, washing away all the sweat and sleep from the last several hours. It smells unmistakably like Mister. You’re perplexed, studying the lines in his face as he concentrates on making sure he doesn’t miss an inch of you. 

“I have my own,” you motion to your other bottles and containers of soaps and shampoos. 

Joel glances in their direction and shrugs, sliding the bar of soap along your lower stomach, and then down between your legs. He’s thorough, but gentle. His touch is innocent, moving from your core, down your thighs. He kneels in front of you, washing your shins and calves, then finally your feet. He holds your ankle, lifting each one a couple of inches, cleaning the soles and between your toes. 

When he goes to stand, he’s slow, and winces, sucking air between his teeth harshly. 

“You hurtin’?” You reach for him with your right arm, and let him use you to stand up fully.

Joel grimaces the entire way to his feet, and begins to wash himself with the same bar of soap, ignoring your question completely. “I know gettin’ used to this place ain’t gonna be easy for you,” he starts to explain again. 

For some reason, what says embarasses you. You want to crawl inside your own skin and hide from the rest of his words. 

Mister-man doesn’t seem to notice as you pull your chin into your chest, and stare at the bottom of the tub, watching the suds and water race down the drain. “M’ gonna help ya’ as much as I can, but we can’t be together every second of every day– we weren’t together like that at the mall.” 

You roll your eyes, thankful that he can’t see. “Wasn’t no one else ‘round at the mall,” you grumble quietly. 

Joel snatches your chin in his hand and tilts your head to look up at him. “What’d you say?” He growls, eyes narrowed directly onto yours. 

The muscles in your jaw tense, and you tear your chin from between his fingers. “I said there wasn’t no one else around at the mall.” 

Mister snorts, and shakes his head from side to side. He smirks as he goes back to washing under his arms, and then his shoulders and chest. “Think I’d let someone do something to you?” 

“How are you gonna stop’em if you ain’t around, huh?” 

Joel leans in so his face is only an inch from yours. “Ain’t nobody even gonna try,” he’s still smirking. “Wanna know how I know?” 

You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at him.

“‘Cause everyone here knows that I’d hunt’em down and fucking kill them if they did,” he continues, just barely a whisper. “You forget what I did for you in the mall?” He adds, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he stands upright. 

Part of you had forgotten in the tangled mess that was coming to Jackson. You don’t really remember what he had said– not exactly. 

Little scenes from the trip to Jackson play over and over again in your head, being shocked to the point of tears, Mister-man having to put the choke collar back on you when you wouldn’t stop trying to run. 

Finally, once you had exhausted yourself to the point of falling over, Joel told you the truth. Told you that it was a larger settlement, and that you would be expected to work, and have to talk to people. 

You do remember him whispering in your ear when he slipped his cock into you out in the woods, “Nobody’s gonna hurt my crazy lil puppy. Ain’t that right, baby?” 

You sobbed into his neck, “I ain’t crazy.” Clinging to him like you could be sucked into the center of the earth. You remember your clothes and hair being soaked, and clinging to your skin with a fresh layer of still wet mud; Mister’s hands were dirty with it when he tried to wipe your tears away. 

You remember that it suddenly sounded like thunder, and the ground was vibrating under your back. You remember the snorting of horses, and the authoritarian voice that shouted at Mister-man to get off of you. 

You remember that he didn’t get off of you, he actually thrust a couple more times until someone pulled and cocked a gun. Only then did he leave you with a sickeningly wet squelch, keeping you pinned underneath him while he situated himself back into his jeans.

You don't remember much else after that, really, not until you got to Maria's house.

Mister-man rinses his body and then reaches around you to shut the water off, and then he carefully dries you. He tuts quietly when he reaches your shoulder, bruised and swollen, but doesn’t say anything. 

Mister wraps the towel around you, and then wraps one around his waist and guides you into his bedroom. He goes into your one drawer, barely half-filled with your things, and picks out a shirt. He pulls it over your head, and is smirking down at you when you reemerge. 

“You up for a walk to the mess hall?” He asks, wiping a stray drop of water that is running down the side of your face. 

You blink up at him, wrinkling your nose slightly. 

He cups your face and rubs his thumb across your cheek, “S’where we can get somethin’ to eat.”

As if on cue, your stomach lets out a deep, loud rumbling sound. You are hungry– possibly starving. You can’t remember the last time you had anything besides a handful of raspberries and crackers. It’s been a while since you sat down and ate with Mister. 

He helps you into a pair of jeans, and then puts a clean pair of socks on for you, and helps you into one of his long-sleeve flannels. He rolls up the sleeves so they don’t overhang your hands. 

“Are there gonna be other people there?” You try to sound nonchalant, like you don’t care if other people were there. Inside, your heart feels like it isn’t moving at all, and your mouth is fuzzy and dry. 

Mister-man is tucking his shirt into his jeans when he looks at you, one eyebrow raised slightly. “Does it matter?” He sees right through you, and shakes his head as he zips and buttons his jeans. 

You shrug and sit down on the edge of his bed. “I was just askin’,” you mumble under your breath. 

He doesn’t hear, or chooses to ignore you as he finishes getting dressed. He walks back into the bathroom, and when he returns, his hair is combed back, away from his face. Mister-man’s face looks endlessly tired, like it’s been etched into his being. 

He stands in front of you with his hands on his hips, furrowing his brow at you. “What’s the matter? Y’still worried ‘bout them?” He tips head towards the door. 

You shrug again, looking everywhere but his eyes as he takes a step closer. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to avoid it, he pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and makes you look up at him. You force a closed lip smile at him, and shake your head from side to side. “Nah…” You blink up at him, the small, strained grin still on your face. “I know you’ll take care of me.” 

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