#pine's fic

You and your watercolor eyes straight out of a painting. You and your sweetness, handing out smiles to everyone at every turn, harvesting the same in exchange. The goddamn spring of his winter. Oh, how he was fancying you. He hated it, though, being so easily troubled by you. Relying on someone is taking the risk of getting betrayed. Getting attached is not a good thing. That's what he had learned, this mantra burned into the convolutions of his brain. These two contradictory realities existed within him at every moment, incompatible and hostile, ice and fire.

And living with this literal antithesis wasn't easy. Especially not after he had heard you.

It was on a summer night. You had let every window of your house open, probably because of the heat. He just wanted to give back the awesome CD you had lent to him a few weeks before. Because of course, on top of everything else, you had to have perfect taste in everything. He hadn't planned on getting struck by your smothered little cries. Just before knocking, feet glued to the ground, he had frozen on your doorstep, at first unsure of what he was hearing. But it was unmistakable, the way your voice was ragged, jerky, emitting those high-pitched little moans at regular intervals. Every each of them had made a beeline to his crotch, as he enjoyed this forbidden melody. Were you alone? Was there someone with you? He didn't know what to think about it; all he knew was that he wanted to hear you whimper like this forever.

It's only after a particularly loud crescendo that the silence fell on your house again, followed by a muted ruffle inside.

He had been quick to walk away.

It's now September. The leaves, just like the temperatures, have fallen precipitously. Yet time seems to slow down. The pace of life became more tranquil, harvests became scarcer, and so were infecteds. As the days grow shorter, they feel less intense. Yet another paradox.

This pace does not help Joel, who is still desperately craving action. He could have killed for any semblance of a situation to manage, signing up for every patrol he could. And yet, it is never enough. No matter how exhausting his activities during the day, they do nothing to quell the wild imaginings that fill his mind once night falls.

Just like right now, during one of those evenings. He has tried to read one of his books about space to please Ellie. Two hours have already passed after he had put down his glasses and turned off his bedside lamp. Nothing works. Sleep won't come. Sleep never comes. He always has to go out to it and drag it back to him like a stubborn enemy.

But this time, it is you who comes to him.

The memory of that day he had caught you suddenly fills his mind. Without even thinking about it, the sweet melody imposes itself like a nice song someone would play in the back of his mind. He doesn't even know how he managed to keep himself from jerking off thinking about you before. It feels irresistible.

There is no long moment of hesitation, no internal monologue of his morals to fight his impulses. The promise of a good rush and a peaceful night is way too tempting. Only sleeping with a boxer on, he pulls it down carelessly, getting out his member already gorged. It's a familiar and well-known gesture, one he had performed so many times in his life, and yet it seems entirely new in this particular context. After this hiatus of several years, during which all notions of dreams, fantasies, and even hope had left him, even this simple gesture feels so distant.

He takes his cock in his right hand and instantly begins to rub it. It's quick, it's efficient, it's like every aspect of his life. He doesn't want to wait and build suspense —screw that. He lets your cries fill his head, whispering in his ears. His dick twitches as he does. Jesus, what he could have done to be the one responsible for them. His fist his moving up and down his hard length, the veins on his biceps getting more visible, pumping his blood like his hand is pumping his pleasure. And he sees you, he can see it; your naked body, the way your breasts would prickle in the fresh air of those fall mornings, even curled up under the blanket next to him. The way the golden lights from outside would wrap around your curves, how it would light up your gaze when your eyes opened as you said “hello” to him.

The sheets would slowly slide with the movements of your body as you slipped underneath them. Your head would hover over his crotch, knowing it would make him mad with desire. One of your hands, so different and tiny, would grab his base, and then finally. Heaven, your lips, welcoming him in the velvet of your mouth, his cock plunges in a hot and mellow heaven that could bring down even the greatest tyrants.

Oh, you would suck him just like he dreams to be, just like he needs to. Deep and fast, engulfing him entirely in a banquet worthy of Dionysus. And you would praise him, oh, you would praise him so good.

"It's so big." You'd babble between two dives. "You're doing so good for me, honey."

His dicks fucks his fist fast, his bed cracking slightly, but he doesn't care. He can't stop living this daydream now, those images of you glued to his eyes as if they had been painted with stencils directly onto his retina.

Your throat would feel so good around him. And you would know just how to drive his appetite: by teasing it. You'd suck hard, two or three more times, before removing your divine mouth from him completely. He sighs in frustration, even though in reality, he's doing all that to himself. You'd look up to cross his gaze, a slightly cocky grin on your face, before finishing your duty with both of your hands.

"You gonna come for me, Joel?"

He groans, unable to keep quiet. The repercussions of all this stupidity and how ridiculous it was would hit him later, once he had come —for now, he wanted only one thing, to continue.

"Fuck yes, darlin'." His jaw is tight as he groans out the words. A single drop of sweat leaks on his forehead, its silvery reflection in the night contrasting with the dark tone of his short hair.

"Then say you're mine."

"I'm-" His cockhead is starting to get too sensitive, his calloused hand attacking it repeatedly and making him moan in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure. "I'm yours." His words are blurted through his tight jaws, beard barely muffling their vulgarity.

"Thaaat's it, let it go now."

It doesn't come straight away. Something in him is still fighting against it, still convinced he shouldn't be allowed to do that, still holding on. His body is tensed, hard like a statue, his senses completely on alert. He forces himself to focus back on you. On those perfect little noises he had heard. It's a conscious and difficult exercise, like concentrating for a particularly tough test. He pushes away all the horrors that wait hidden in the dark. He focuses, focuses, focuses. On the way your skin would feel wrapped around him. On the feeling that would spread in his chest if your eyes were really looking back at him like he fantasizes they would. On the sensations of your hands jerking him so fast he would have come instantly before the Fall, when he was still a normal guy.

"I can't, I…"

"It's okay. You can do it, honey. Nothing is coming to get you. There's just us."

His throat closes up in an almost panicked gasp as he feels his cock fill up, on the verge of exploding.

"Just us, Joel."

His guts seem to be spilling out the equivalent of ten years of anxiety as his spend finally spurts violently from his abused cockhead. Out of the ocean, his breath finally relaxes, lungs as empty as his balls. And fuck it, it feels so good. And he had missed it. That slow descent after a climax, his heart beating from ecstasy and adrenaline, but for pleasure and not danger. It feels… right.

It feels right.

After a few minutes of distilled silence, savor it like a delicious nectar, he finally gets up and cleans himself with some dirty clothes of his lying around. He can't believe this has just happened. He takes an anxious peek at his clock, 3 a.m. Exhausted, he lies back on his bed and finally closes his eyes.

For once, sleep has been brought to him by something else, not his own struggles. His breath calming gradually, he slowly drifts, his thoughts merging and mingling in this incoherent, blissful state of letting-go peculiar for falling asleep after hours of agitation.

A last notion crosses his mind as his body mellows like the marshmallow in a s'more pressed between two chocolate-covered cookies: crossing your eyes after that won't be an easy task, even for the pinnacle of stoicism that he is.

Silence falls in his room.

There was nothing more than the light patter of raindrops from a passing autumn shower outside.

Perhaps, just like the trees dropping their leaves in golden hues after carrying them for months, letting go wasn't such a bad thing after all.