#riding

Not that anyone in King’s Landing would believe it—least of all your utterly loyal and even softer lady in waiting, slipping into your chamber ever so discreetly.

In her hands is a small vial wrapped in plain cloth and half concealed by the fall of her skirts.

“Your—ah, your tea, as you asked, princess.” Amara hands it over without looking at you because she’s polite enough to pretend she isn’t dying to ask, but you see the question flicker over her face anyway, and so you brace yourself for it. 

“Go on, Amara, out with it. you’ve been itching to ask.”

“Forgive me for prying, princess, but… must the Maester prepare it every month? His Grace would be so happy, I believe, if you were to give him a child. The realm would rejoice—”

You cut her off with a smile and take a slow sip of the disgustingly bitter brew. “I am not fit for motherhood, my sweet summer child. There are enough monsters in House Targaryen as it is. Best not give the gods more ideas, don’t you think?”

Amara blushes at your sardonic friendly tone. You know what she’s thinking—she probably assumes you mean your cousin with a known monstrous reputation (and to be quite fair, you do), but you offer her a wicked grin in return because it never once occurs to her that you might mean yourself.

Of all the masks you wear, being the realm’s darling is by far the most tedious of them all.

But what’s a Targaryen princess such as yourself meant to do when she’s Baelor’s one and only precious daughter and Valarr’s terribly adored gleaming little wife? These are roles the gods (or fate, or perhaps your father’s hunger for peace) chose for you that you play so well you almost convince yourself you are who they say you are. 

Amara — the closest thing you possess to a conscience (gods bless her foolishly tender heart) — is now halfway through recounting some spectacularly unflattering gossip about some Lord’s cock (allegedly as underwhelming as his sense of honor) and all you can do is smile like a sweet dove and nod as if your mind isn’t a thousand leagues away.

“—swore it on his honor, can you imagine?” Amara giggles giddily. “But truly, princess, what of you? Has His Grace been keeping you sated?”

Oh, dearest, sweetest lamb. If only she knew a tenth of the filth that fills your nights. She looks at you with such open admiration that you do not have the heart to tell her that this talk of cocks…? and bedding and ordinary desire bores you senseless. 

Though you do enjoy her company. She’s the only person left in this godsforsaken pit who makes you feel almost human, but that’s hardly a high bar. You care for her as much as you’re capable of caring, but loving you is a bit like cradling a starving wolf and praying that they do not lose a hand. Or rather a dragon, if one insists on being poetic. (And you always insist.) Still, you’d cut out your own heart before hurting her. You are quite as certain as your hair is silver that if Amara glimpsed even a sliver of what you have done, she would cross herself and flee to the ends of Westeros as she sobs for the Mother’s mercy.

Which is precisely why you lie to her. (And more so because that is what good princesses do.)

So you go on to tell her pretty stories about Valarr’s gentle hands and careful kisses, and you let her believe the bullshit that you truly are the perfect princess they call you to be — blessed by the Seven and favored by every godly old wife who’s ever prayed for a daughter with silver hair and untroubled eyes. 

“Dragons are never sated,” you say teasingly, and she thinks you are only being poetic and demure and endlessly loyal to your sweet, stifling, perfectly polite princely husband. “Valarr is… ever the gentlest, of course. He is a man who would never risk a wrinkle in my gown, let alone a bruise.”

Well, this much is true.

Valarr is golden and kind and dutiful to a fault. He fucks you as though you’re made of glass, and he worries amd frets and dotes and prays for you before he ever thinks to pray for himself, amongst other things—all of which is to say: he is everything a proper lady could wish for.

The thought alone is nearly enough to make you yawn.

“You are so blessed, princess,” she sighs, and you watch the naivete dance in her eyes. “To be cherished so dearly—surely the Seven watch over you. I hesrd he sent you a dozen flowers just last night?”

What you wish to say is: Is that not the true horror of it all? To be cherished and adored in a cage of silk when all you crave is to be bloodied and devoured.

What you actually end up saying, though, is:

 “Wasn’t it lovely?” You giggle prettily, and sip your wine as if you’re not thinking about blood on your teeth and the sound a certain someone makes when you drag your nails down his back. “He is ever so thoughtful. It’s as if I am in a dream.”

Amara sighs and looks as if what you’re saying is the height of romance, and you wonder with viscous curiosity what she would look like if you told her what you truly dream of. Would she scream or simply crumple? Would she faint, or better yet, would this conversation finally grow interesting? 

The idea of it makes you smile.

The truth is, princess, you… oh, you are not so much the darling the realm believes you to be—and you rather like it that way. Gods, it truly is indescribably tedious, really. The only time you’re even halfway sated is with blood on your tongue with your hands wrapped around a throat and your lips shaped into a cruel smile as you watch a man beg for your mercy. What would Amara say if she knew there is a man who sees you exactly as you are and wants you more because of it? And that that man is not your perfect princely husband? 

You think about him, and something dark and delighted coils in your chest.

“I must leave you for now, sweetling,” you press a kiss to her brow as you stand. “I promised the gods a prayer before supper.” 

“The gods smile down on you, your grace.” she says dreamily and none the wiser.

Oh, you highly doubt the gods are smiling at all—considering the mere reality that the only prayers you’ve offered in years are whispered into the mouth of a monster with silver hair, and your good sense long since abandoned.

Poor Valarr. If only he knew. He will spend his whole life trying to love you, and as fate will have it, it will never be fucking enough. But not because he fails—oh no, it’s not his fault at all. It is just that love is a fickle thing for a dragon, much less a monster such as yourself.

But what your darling doting brother doesn’t know just makes your nights all the more sweeter.

After all, who else could ever sate you, if not another dragon with blood on his mouth and a hunger just as ugly as your own?

Aerion Targaryen is never in the habit of bothering with courtesies.

His idea of a greeting more so leans towards the clatter of a locked door and the snarl of your name as his hand mercilessly finds your throat. 

Tonight in particular, you are pressed to the bedpost with your gown bunched at your hips, and Aerion’s mouth is buried between your thighs as he devours your pussy like a madman. Somewhere beside you, the moonlight glints off a discarded knife—the same one he traced along your thigh minutes earlier, which was just sharp enough to sting but also just dull enough to leave nothing you couldn’t explain away. (Which is utterly disappointing, really, but there are only so many times you can explain away strange marks to your poor husband before he starts asking questions he doesn’t really want answered.)

You’ve already been at it for gods know how long, but your monstrous cousin is nothing if not a sadist who takes his sweet twisted time.

Aerion is far too entertained feasting between your thighs, licking into you with a tongue so wickedly precise it feels as if he’s trying to find the last traces of dragonfire hidden in your cunt. It feels entirely too incredible—except you’re also keenly aware that you’re running out of time before someone comes knocking, and you’re not sure you have another plausible lie left in you today.

“Patience, cousin,” he hisses against your pussy when you whine at him to hurry. "Didn't your septa ever teach you that virtue?”

“My septa died. Much like I’m about to of weariness if you don’t make fucking haste and learn to behave,” you snap, though you grind your hips up into his warm mouth and hiss as he bites your inner thigh. “Fuck— Aerion. I’ll have your head on a spike before morning if you fucking mark me again.”

Aerion flicks his tongue over a faint bruise he left the last time, all while making a show of humming. “You talk so prettily when you’re angry. Do it again.”

“I shall do worse than talking.” You yank at his hair so hard his eyes flash, but he only grins wider and does nothing to stop you. “Don’t. Mark. Me. Valarr’s not half as stupid as he acts.”

Aerion lazily smirks, though his face twists momentarily with something which seems to resemble jealousy quite a bit. “Come to think of it… Perhaps I should hold you down and carve my name into you right here, so there’s no mistaking who you truly belong to. Then we’ll have your brother come running to find you with my cock still inside you. You think he’d put up a fight, little dragon?” 

“I do not belong to anyone, least of all you. And stop smiling, you fool. I’ll cut your cock off and hang it above the—”

“Tsk. You’d mourn it, you impudent little brat,” Aerion cuts you off when he leans and bites at your throat quite harshly. 

“Shut up.” you hiss, though your actions do not match your words as you arch into his touch and moan. “You find too much pleasure in your own voice.”

Aerion’s mouth curls into a twisted smirk, then he licks your slick off his thumb and pushes it between your lips. You suck his thumb and bite down just enough to make him curse, then you moan around his fingers and his eyes glint with hunger. 

“Fuck. Look at you, such a little filthy whore.” 

Your hand flies up and you slap him, and Aerion’s head snaps to the side as a wicked laugh breaks out of him. Anyone else would be dead for even daring to do so, but you’re the only creature in the realm who gets away with this, and you relish in it.

“You’re the only whore in this room, cousin,” you sneer. “Would you just fuck me already?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Aerion laughs as he drags his fingers ever so slowly over your slick, aching cunt. “Say please. Princesses should know their manners.”

You roll your eyes. “Just get on with it, Aerion. Or I ought to get my husband to do it for me.”

Aerion’s face twists with anger. “Careful. You know what happens to little brats who bare their fangs at dragons.”

Well, it’s a good thing you’re a dragon yourself then, isn't it? And though it is true that you’ve never seen a true dragon with your own eyes, you are well versed enough to know that dragons only ever listen when commanded in their own tongue. 

“Dohaerās, Aerion.” the High Valyrian slides off your tongue as sharp as any blade he has ever used, and the effect is instantaneous. Aerion’s eyes flare in the candlelight as he tilts his head, and for a moment he looks very much like the wicked little dragon he’s been accused of being. 

Obedience is not exactly known to be in Aerion Targaryen’s nature, but you’ve always been the only one who could ever tame him.

Aerion’s hand hungrily drops to rip your skirts even higher, and the next thing you know you’re properly sprawled across silk sheets which you’re supposed to keep pristine for your dear husband. Your head presses into the pillow so your crown of silver hair tumbles loose, and Aerion roughly spreads you out once more, baring your cunt to the candlelight as he frees his cock and fists it.

“See? All you had to do was ask nicely, little dragon.”

Aerion lines his cock up with no preamble or any hint of gentleness whatsoever. He’s bigger than any man has the right to be, and the stretch is always just on the edge of pure utter agony, but it is always your favorite part, anyway. He slides in all at once and steals your breath in a single brutal thrust, and as always, he does not even bother to wait for you to adjust before he starts snapping his hips into you relentlessly—and the filthy beast holds your gaze the entire time, and takes pleasure in your pain.

“Fuck—fuck,” you choke repeatedly as your cunt swallows him whole, and you are so full you can barely breathe. 

“Quit your whining,” he ruthlessly buries himself to the hilt in your glistening cunt. “You can take it. You always do.” He groans and thrusts harder, voice washing over with delight as he watches your already fucked-out face twist in pleasure. “Though… let’s see if you can still curse me and speak of my foolish cousin when you’re full of my cock like this.”

You try—oh, you really fucking try. But all that comes out is a noise that would get you sent to a sept for the rest of your life if anyone ever heard it.

“What a shame. You can’t even—ah—look at you, taking every inch like a whore. can’t even get a single word out, can you?” Aerion’s laughs as he thrusts in so deep your head tips back. The headboard bangs out a rhythm against the wall in time with the obscene slap of skin on skin, and it only gets louder every time he slams into you. “Fuck, you are clinging to me like some maiden at her first bedding. You feel that? Always such a perfect little cunt for me, princess,” 

“Harder, Aerion. Gods, fuck me harder!” you moan deliriously, raking your nails down his back hard enough to mark him as you utter a few words in High Valyrian as though you’re commanding a dragon.

He groans and obeys. The stretch is so utterly dizzying and filthy, and your words continue to sloppily choke out of your throat as he fucks into you. Every single thrust rocks you up the bed with your ankles caught around his waist. 

At some point, your nails find the knife by the pillow and you slash a line down his shoulder just because you can. Aerion hisses, then he grins while he watches his blood paint your fingers. You suck at the mark and drink his blood in when he leans over you, and he groans into the kiss when you crash your lips into his with your bloodied mouth.

“Vicious little bitch,” he pants through bloodied lips, and his balls slap harshly against your ass as he thrusts his hips harder into you.

Then he shoves two fingers into your mouth, and he groans when you bite down on them. Your eyes roll back as you suck and moan around his knuckles, so utterly drunk on the way he fucks you that you can barely remember how to speak.

“Dokimavorse,” the command falls off his tongue in eager High Valyrian, dragging you back from the edge just so you’ll look him in the eye. “Say my name, princess. Say it.”

You gasp as he pulls his fingers out. “Aerion,” you moan.

He rewards you by pulling all the way out slowly, just to slam back in so hard you are quite sure you could swear you feel it somewhere in your soul.

“Again,” he snarls, “Louder. I want them to hear you in the sept.”

“Aerion. Aerion. Aerion,” you scream this time, and you don’t care who hears, not even when you know Valarr is somewhere in this keep, being the terribly oblivious fool he is. 

With a growl, you put your whole weight into twisting out from under him and flipping him onto his back with a force that makes him laugh. The feel of his cock dragging along your walls as you lower yourself onto him makes you both hiss, and the stretch is even more obscene from this angle. 

“Gonna ride the dragon, are you?” 

“Only a dragon can handle a dragon, isn’t that right?”

“Of course it is,” Aerion’s head falls back as he grins, and the sharp line of his throat gleams in the candlelight. “Go on, then. Show me.”

You let out a blood-curdling moan as you feel him pressing up into your deepest parts, and he latches his mouth onto your breast and bites at it. The two of you moan in unison as you begin to bounce on his cock, and his palms are utterly unrestrained as they clamp bruisingly tight to your hips as you set your pace riding him. 

“Tell me what I am. Tell me who you’re fucking. Say you want the dragon.” he demands.

“You’re my dragon,” you gasp into his mouth as you ride him harder, feeling him throb inside you. “Only mine. no one else’s.” You throw your head back and moan. “I want it, I want you, I want to break you open and eat your fucking heart.” 

“Good girl—ride your dragon.” He grins as though you’ve bewitched him, so stupid and awestruck and so madly and desperately in love with every inch of your wicked soul, even if he’d rather cut out his own tongue than say so.

Aerion is damn near weeping with pleasure as he pants your name like a prayer, bucking up into you all while you bounce on his cock and wetness squelches obscenely with every slap of your bodies. “Fuck,” He slaps your ass and then he does it again and again, the pain oh so sharp and sweet. “You take me so well. Ride me, wicked girl, ride me till you can’t speak.”

“Gods, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah? Too much, is it?” He fists your hair and yanks your mouth down to his, and he bites your lip until it bleeds. Then he groans and slaps at your ass again. “Fuck, you are mine. My dragon.”

Aerion’s eyes are wild as he watches you with his mouth dropped open, and your cunt squeezes around him as you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. He must feel it too, because he grabs your hips and takes over entirely. He jackhammers up into you, and your moans grow higher and more desperate. “Gods, I want to fill you up. Make you round and see your pretty belly swell and let that idiot wonder why his heir looks nothing like him.”

The thought of it makes you clench around him harder, though the bitter taste of the moon tea still clings to the back of your throat.

You collapse on his chest as your thighs begin to tremble. “I will gut you. Don’t you dare cum in me again—”

“Or what? You’ll slay your dragon?” Aerion grins all too cruelly and cuts you off with a brutal snap upwards. “Try and stop me—”

Whatever else he says is lost upon you as heat coils tighter in your belly.

“Fuckfuckfuck. GODS. Aerion. Aerion, I’m—”

A scream tears out of you as your orgasm hits you like fire, and your cunt clenches so tight you see white as you squeeze the life out of him. Aerion follows right after and groans your name over and over as he spills inside you anyway, filling your sensitive cunt up with his seed deep inside until it’s leaking out along his cock ans onto Valarr’s pristine sheets.

After, you both lie there in the ruined mess of your stupid sheets and bruised bodies and smeared blood, both of you entirely too stubborn to speak first.

“Wipe up your mess,” you finally mutter, glaring at the crimson stain you just seemed to notice alongside his leaking seed on the white silk. “If Valarr sees that, he’ll—”

“He’ll do nothing,” Aerion cuts you off with a sneer as he pushes the ruined sheets under your hips. “Speak of him once more and I swear by all the gods, I’ll sneak into your chambers and fuck you while your dear husband sleeps beside us.”

You shove at his shoulder, and he grabs your hand and kisses your bruised knuckles reverently.

Seven hells. You truly think you might kill him someday, and you know he hopes you try it.

You blow out air, shifting to get closer, and before you can stop yourself you’re pressing the needle into his skin. Joel tenses, his nostrils flaring and his head bows, forehead pressing to your shoulder as he internalizes the pain.

“Sorry,” you whisper, because what else are you supposed to say as you stitch him up, but you continue, pulling the thread through. “Sorry, Joel.”

“Don't apologize. Just... keep goin'. Ain't your fault I'm too damn stubborn to stay outta trouble,” He lets out a slow, controlled breath, fingers digging into his own thigh to distract from the sting. “You're doin' fine.”

You press in and through his skin, tugging it tight, his forehead staying leaned into your shoulder. He smells like smoke, probably from making the fire last night. The fire that had attracted the clickers. The fire he had made to keep you warm.

Biting your lip, you focus on the needle, on the light weight of it between your fingers. It might leave a scar, and you wonder what he’ll remember when he sees it. The pain or the chill, or the hands that did the stitching.

“Almost done.” you murmur, and he doesn’t respond. You pull it taught again, ignore the shake in your pinky finger when you press in, your left hand squeezing the inflamed flesh together.

He lets out another low grunt, the kind he always makes when he is trying to hide the pain, as if somehow you won’t know it hurts. When he speaks again it's tight and pained, his face still hidden against you.

“How long's it been since you done this?” He asks, one hand dropping to your waist, a light grip that's probably meant to comfort you more than him.

“I’ve never done this,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the task at hand. “I’ve never…stitching wasn’t my forte.”

You pull the string taught again, holding it with your left hand while your right hand grabs your pocket knife. Slicing the thread, you drop the blade and tie off your work. The skin puckers and you wonder if it’s painful, if the blood seeping through means you did a shit job.

“Alright,” you whisper, patting his upper thigh gently. “All done.”

He hisses through his teeth as you pat his leg, the touch more pain than comfort. But he doesn't say anything, just raises his head and looks down at the stitches with a grimace. They're ugly as hell. Jagged and messy. But they'll hold.

“Damn, you weren't kiddin’,” he mutters, a hint of dry humor in his voice. “You really ain't got a skill for this, do ya?” His hand doesn't leave your waist, his fingers tightening fractionally as he looks up at you.

You smile a fraction and shake your head. “Guess not.”

His mouth twists as he inspects the work again before nodding at his pack. “Gauze.”

Leaning backwards you dig inside the backpack, pulling out a roll and handing it to him. You’re quiet as you watch him slowly wrap his leg, the red seeping through the white and he continues to wrap until no red is visible.

“When we get back we’ll get you looked at,” you say, propping your elbows on your knees. “Make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He grunts in response, his fingers working the gauze around the wound with a practiced ease that speaks of too much experience. There's no doubt this isn't the first time he's patched himself up like this. His gaze flicks up to you, eyes narrowing slightly, as if he can sense your worry. “Don't need someone fussin' over me. I'll be fine.”

“Joel,” you make your voice hard. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not.” He drops the gauze roll into his pack and shifts, attempting to stand but falters, his bad leg still on the floor while his other leg is bent in a kneeling position. His face twists in pain.

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Yes. You are.”

You stand, holding your hand to him and he glares at it before slowly taking it, bracing his weight and standing up. He hops once, finds his balance with a sharp exhale. You glance at his exposed leg, the other still hidden by the denim of his jeans.

“You’ll need new pants too.” You murmur, and his hand is warm in yours despite the October chill.

“Pft,” he grunts, hoping once more. “No shit. Help me get these on ‘em.”

You bite back a grin before releasing his hand, bending to grab your bags. Your horses whine at you, as if impatient to get back to Jackson, and you untie one, bringing it closer to Joel. “Get on up.”

He eyes the horse like it's personally offended him, but he doesn’t argue. With a muttered curse and more effort than he'd ever admit to, he swings himself onto the saddle, only barely managing not to faceplant in the process. His jaw clenches hard enough you can see it from where you stand.

Once settled, he shoots you a glare that's meant to be intimidating but just makes him look like an irritated preteen. “Happy now?”

You don't even try to hide your smirk this time as you mount your own horse beside him. “Ecstatic.”

The corner of his mouth twitches with some sort of amusement before he nudges his horse forward with another pained sigh. “Just get us home before I bleed all over this damn saddle.”

The entire ride is quiet, and you prefer it that way. You aren’t sure what you should say to him, because all you want to say is sorry. Sorry for the fire, for the clickers that came and almost took your lives. Sorry for being partnered with him, that you’re a crummy replacement for Tess.

Sorry that no matter how hard you try, he’s the last thing you think about when you sleep, and the first thing when you open your eyes.

Surprisingly Joel stops at the clinic first thing when you get back to Jackson, and hands you the reign’s of his horse. “You mind?”

You don’t at all, and you lead both horses to the stables, stopping by the town center to hand over all the goods you had scavenged. You walk home alone, and the chill is bone-shaking by the time you make it to your room. You know it isn’t really that cold outside, that the cold you feel is more than skin deep, but you push it away, showering in silence. You wash away Joel’s blood and the feeling of his forehead pressed to your shoulder. When you finish, you half expect him to be sitting on the foot of your bed, asking you what this pull is. Because he has to feel it too. It can’t just be you.

Toweling off, you’re curling into the mattress when the door knocks so hard it rattles. You get up, annoyance creasing your brow as you tug open the door and stop dead.

Joel looks down at you, exhaling through his nose in the quiet of the night. You glance at his leg and then back to his face and you feel too exposed in just your sleep shirt and shorts. Crossing your arms over your middle, you nod at where his injury is, hidden beneath new jeans.

“Get that checked?” You ask, and his chin dips to look down as well.

He seems to hesitate, his gaze flicking down to the way you hold your arms in front of you like a shield. Your bare legs and the soft curve of your hips are just visible through the thin cloth of your shirt, and for the briefest moment he feels like he shouldn't be seeing you like this. Then his eyes are on your face again, his expression schooled into his usual tight mask.

“Yeah,” he affirms, shifting his weight off his injured leg. “Doc said I'll have a nasty wound, but I'll live.”

“Ah,” you click your teeth. “That’s my bad. Maybe next time it’ll be straighter.”

He chuckles, grinning a little before it melts back into his face, features a mass of serious curiosity. He whispers your name and it nearly knocks the wind from you. “Look- I-”

His words stutter, and part of you wants to close the door in his face. He’s breaking down the wall you both have built, the safety that was carefully constructed after the end of the world, and you aren’t sure you want him to.

“Joel,” You rasp, shaking your head. “You don’t- it’s okay.”

“No,” he says quickly, one hand moving from where it was resting at his side to press against the doorjamb by your head, “No, it ain't. I need to say this.”

He's so close now, all broad shoulders and quiet strength. You can see the shadow of a pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat, can smell the faint scent of firewood and sweat that still clings to his skin. Your eyes rise to his again, drawn to the intensity in his gaze like a moth to a flame.

“You helped me.” He mutters, and you shrug.

“You would’ve done the same.”

“Would I have?” He questions, dark brows furrowed. “I don’t- after salt lake, I-”

You interrupt him because you know he beats himself up enough already. You step forward, shaking your head. “Yes. You would have.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, as if you've taken the wind right out of his lungs. His hand drops from the doorframe and for a moment he just stands there, looking at you. His fingers brush against your arm—barely there, hesitant—before curling gently around your wrist.

“Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head once before pulling you into him without warning. One arm wraps around your back while the other comes up to cradle the nape of your neck. He holds onto you tightly, like maybe this is all he knows how to do now, hold on so nothing else can be taken away.

You freeze for a second before melting into it, pressing closer until his scent envelops every inch of you and warmth spreads from where his body presses against yours.

It’s unclear how long he holds you, but you don’t rush it. You revel in the feeling of his hand in your hair, his chest beneath your cheek, heart pumping just a bit fast.

When Joel steps back, it’s too soon and you feel cold, like your chest has been cracked open in winter weather. He clears his throat, shifting uneasily and you tilt your head.

“I don’t know if I can do this right now,” he whispers. “After- salt lake. I don’t…I don’t know if I can stomach it.”

You swallow, throat like sandpaper and you nod. “That’s okay.”

His eyes search your face like he's trying to find a hint, some sign that you don't believe him, but you force a reassuring smile. It's small, and it probably looks fake even to you, but you don't think you could manage anything more convincing right now.

His head dips a fraction defeat lacing his posture.

“I ain't good for you.” he says softly, staring at the floor.

“Is anyone really good anymore?” You murmur, and his eyes meet your own. “I’m not too sure.”

Joel hums, nods once. “When you stitched me up. It hurt like a bitch. But I knew I didn’t- I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to do it.”

“What about Tess?” you ask because you’re cruel to yourself. “She would’ve.”

“Yeah. She would’ve,” his reply is calmer than you would’ve expected. “But that don’t matter since she ain’t here. You are.”

You don't say anything. You don't know what to say, what response would satisfy both you and him right now. Instead, you stare at him, at the faint lines around his eyes, the tired set to his mouth. He looks worn, exhausted, and you wonder how much of that exhaustion is from the wound on his thigh and how much is from something else entirely.

“You’re something,” he murmurs, and you unfold your arms. “something I wanna…I wanna keep.”

His accent is thick, running over you like syrup and your joints loosen in his verbal hold. You consider him, the scarring on his knuckles and the short chop of his hair, and then you reach for his hand, fingers tracing over the leathered skin.

“Then have me,” you whisper, your lips twisting before you peer up at him. “Go on.”

His eyes grow dark and fixed on yours, drinking in the sight of you like a starving man. He takes a step closer, so much so you can feel the heat radiating off his body once more. It would be so easy to press up against it, to feel the solid length of his frame against your own.

Instead, he raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles.

Your lips part as you watch him, the careful display of tenderness, and when he drops your hand you’re stepping forward, into his space, and your mouth finds his.

It’s a deep kiss of tongue and teeth, slow as the rotation of the moon. Joel’s hand slips to your back, palm spread between your shoulder blades while the other cups the side of your jaw. Your fingers curl in his flannel, eyes shutting right as your neck arches to meet his.

He groans against your mouth the sound low and rumbling deep in his chest. His hand presses flat to your spine, pushing you closer still until you're molded against him, your bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces. His thumb brushes your jaw, his mouth open and hot against yours, claiming every inch of you as his.

And you let him because you can’t find it in you to stop him anymore, your back arching, fingers fisting tighter in his shirt. You could drown in this moment and you wouldn't care.

“Stay,” you murmur as his tongue slides against yours. “Stay.”

“If you let me.”

You’re nodding quickly, hands trailing up his chest and around his neck, and when he dips to pick you up, his arms around your thighs you don’t make a sound.

He's strong enough to carry you like this, holding you easily in his grip like you weigh nothing at all, and he takes a few steps before lowering you at the entrance to your bedroom. You take his hand, pulling him to the bed and he pushes you down gently, his body covering yours in a single movement as his mouth finds yours.

Slowly, almost torturously, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down the side of your jaw and to the sensitive skin of your neck. His teeth graze the pulse there, a ragged exhale shuddering through him as his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts.

“Can I?” He whispers, and you can’t tell his eye color in the dark.

“Please..” you choke out, heart racing as he tugs your shorts and underwear down. His fingers are thick as they circle your entrance, and your head drops back to the sheets, chest rising and falling in quick succession.

Joel's breath is uneven against your cheek as he drags his fingers through your slick heat, groaning when you arch into his touch. He spreads it over you lazily, teasingly, before dipping two fingers inside, slow at first, letting you adjust to the stretch.

“Fuck.” he grits out when your walls clench around him immediately. You bury a hand in his hair while the other grips at the sheets beneath you like they’re a lifeline. His free hand pushes up your shirt until it bunches under your arms and then dips back down to palm at one of your tits with bruising pressure.

His mouth finds yours again while his fingers curl just right inside of you; not fast enough for release but too good to want him to stop.

“Still okay?” Joel asks softly, brows furrowing as he slows the work of his hand.

“Keep going, feels good.” You whisper. He pauses, only hesitating for a moment before his fingertips push into you, stretching you more. Your lashes flutter and your thighs spread, allowing more of him in.

He helps you undress the rest of the way, hands soft and gentle against your skin as he peels off your shirt and then his own. When his bare hips slip between yours, he glances up at you.

“I don’t- have a condom.” He murmurs, and for some reason this makes you smile. You run a hand up his neck, to his face hovering inches from your own.

“S’okay,” you whisper. “Pull out okay?”

He nods, a barely-there gesture that has his hair falling across his forehead, and he looks younger this way. The age lines are smoothed out as he rubs his thumb against your hip, his gaze fixed on yours. He leans down to kiss you, his body slotting against yours as his hands slide up your waist, fingers splaying against your ribs, and when he pushes in you squeeze your eyes closed.

A gasp falls from your mouth, echoing into his and Joel groans at the first feel of you.

His hips set a slow, torturous pace; his chest flush to yours, lips skating the sensitive skin of your neck. You press your face to the underside of his jaw, gasping softly into his ear. Your hands rove restlessly up the expanse of his back, nails dragging across his shoulders, and he shudders against you. You feel the flex of his fingers at your hip, his breath hot against your throat. This is more than you expected from him, more than you're used to, and it's so much that you could cry.

He kisses your mouth, your cheeks. The space between your brows and your heart flutters. You’re so full in a way that makes you realize just how empty you were.

His hand moves between your bodies and he rubs at the nerves there, the action slow and careful. His eyes are open, watching your reaction and when you shutter around him he nearly chokes.

“Joel-“ Your voice breaks as his fingers continue their relentless circling, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you until you're trembling beneath him. His name tumbles from your lips again, half-plea, half-prayer. He groans when he feels your walls clamp down around him harder than before.

He keeps his rhythm slow but deep, just enough to leave you teetering on the edge of release without tipping over completely. His forehead presses against yours as he works both of you toward that same precipice with measured strokes until finally, you break apart in shuddering waves.

Joel gritting out curses between kisses while heat pools low in your belly before spreading outward like liquid fire through every vein, your toes curling and your arms around his neck go limp. He curses again before the weight of him within you is gone, and you’re panting as his hand travels to himself, pumping hard with grinding teeth until there’s a warm liquid on your thigh.

He shutters, his hips twitching before he leans to the right, slumping slightly but not crushing you. You blink up at the ceiling, your heart hammering inside your ribs and pumping loudly in your ears. Joel is still for a few moments beside you before he sits up, reaching for his shirt and he wipes at your thigh. The care of the act makes your heart sore.

It takes you another moment to manage the energy to speak, your muscles feeling like jelly. You roll to face him as he tosses the shirt to the floor. The sight of him, bare and flushed in the dark, makes the ache between your thighs worse. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair and stares at the ceiling, the rise and fall of his chest more even now. He says your name, but it’s so quiet it sounds like he’s repeating it to himself.

You sit up, covering yourself and your eyes flick to his thigh. Red leaks at a slow pace down his skin.

“Your stitches.” you whisper, and he glances down briefly before looking back at the ceiling.

“S’alright. Was worth it.”

You bite back a smile. Swinging your legs over the bed, you go to stand but his hand reaches for you, stopping you with a gentle tug. You glance at him and he looks…open.

“It- was worth it,” he murmurs. “Right?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes seem so dark in this light, at the vulnerability etched into the lines of his face. This is the most open you've ever seen him, raw and real, and a part of you is afraid that it'll disappear as soon as you answer. But you don't hesitate, because he needs to know.

“Yeah,” you say softly, gently squeezing the hand he still has on your wrist. “It was.”

X

ao3 link

Joel Miller ML