marblehazel
3 posts
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Teething
dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader
Joel was crowned as The Trusted Adult to accompany you to your wisdom teeth extraction appointment. Chaos ensued.
Tags: no outbreak, age gap, most likely exaggerated effects of sedation, sexual themes
Word count: 3.1k
The skies were painted with shades of copper and lilac when you arrived home. A familiar pickup truck was parked in the driveway next to your dadâs own F-150, and you slipped your way through the narrow passage between the two to get to the backyard through the narrow side alley of your house, sticking twigs of overgrown shrub brushing against your arm.
Laughter bounced against the pillars supporting rusting canopy adorned with vines and wildflowers, echoing around the tiny dining area. Around the table were three men you could discern blindfolded: your dad and his friends, Joel and Tommy Miller. The three looked pretty scruffy, which made sense since they most likely just got out of work before they decided to have some beer and smoked ham time at your house. As usual.
Tommy made a comment about a boat and your dad and Joel burst out laughing again, almost shaking the earth with the lethal combination of old menâs simplistic jokes and immense vocal cords abilities.
They hardly noticed your presence until you put both hands on your dadâs shoulders, kissing the top of his head. He smelled like barbecue smoke.
âWhatâs so funny?â you grin. Joel greeted you with a polite nod, while Tommy put down his beer can to wave at you. âHi Joel, hi Tommy.â
âSweetheart!â your dad slightly twisted his torso to meet your gaze. âTommy was telling us about his recent fishing trip. How was today?â
âOkay-ish,â you patted his shoulders once more before letting go and starting to make your way towards the backdoor, leaving the men to their fishing jokes again. âHave fun, guys.â
âOh, before I forget!â your dad clapped. âI am so sorry, but I wonât be able to take you to the dentist this Thursday. They want me in San Antonio to overlookââ
âDaaad,â you groaned, although your face showed nothing akin to annoyance, just sorry. âIâll see if my friend can take me.â you tried to comfort him, even though knowing your friends, youâd have a bigger chance of losing your teeth in a car crash than in the operating room.
âWhatâs happeninâ?â Tommy furrowed his brows. âYou okay?â
âIâm having my wisdom teeth removed,â you pointed at your cheek, the approximate area where the third molar of your upper right side of jaw was growing sideways. âOne popped out and itâs growing weirdly, so I got an x-ray and it turned out all four of them are developing in such shitty positions, so, theyâre taking them all out.â
âAll at once?!â Tommy gasped, to which you nodded as you purse your lips.
âMore cost-effective, or whatever.â
âOuch.â
âIâll take her,â all eyes went to the source of the voice: Joel. He was staring directly at your dad. âIâm free Thursday.â
ââPpreciate that, man, butââ
âReally?â you beamed, prancing your way towards his seat and kissed his cheek. âThank you, Joel!â
The man raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat while Tommy laughed. Your dad shook his head slowly at your endearing antics, his eyes meeting Joelâs as they silently said âThank you, and sorryâ.
The next time Joelâs gray Ranger pulled up in front of your house, you had been waiting on the porch with a smile worthy enough to be on a billboard advertising toothpaste.
.
The fog in your head started to clear just enough to let you notice the figure sitting by your side. Joelâs broad shoulders took up half the roomâor at least it felt that way in your dazed state. His arms were crossed, and his brows furrowed as he watched you with what looked like mild concern. You blinked a few times, your vision wobbling like you were looking through a fishbowl. You couldnât really register where you were or how you ended up here yet.
âHey,â he straightened his posture up the second he realized you were awake.
âWhoa,â you slurred, pointing a wobbly finger at him. âYou look good.â
Because he did. That was the first thing you noticed about him. You couldnât remember if it was exactly true, but a voice in your head told you that Joel always looked good. You believed it. And he did right now, with clothes all ironed, beard trimmed, hair combed. Joel wouldnât admit it, but heâd even put some styling powder on his hair today.
His lips twitched, and he scratched at his beard, unsure of the appropriate response to give. âUh, thanks. How are you feeling?â Â
You ignored the question. âDoes my dad know youâre here?â Â
âYeah,â he said slowly, leaning closer. âHe was there when I said Iâd take you here, remember?â Â
âNo.â You deadpanned, voice thick and blunt. Your tongue scraped against your gum, and it touched some soft, fibery, wet cotton balls. You almost gagged.
Joel sighed. âAlright. Uh, pain anywhere? Are you comfortable?â Â
You tilted your head, as if trying to access some hidden inner truth. Then, with startling conviction, you announced, âSweaty.â
He quickly raised from his seat, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket to wipe your forehead with when you suddenly choked into tears. You could barely get the words out through the swollen jaw, numb tongue, and spiky throat. âI miss my daddyâŠâ
You felt like the saddest child in the world. You didnât know where your dad was, but most importantly, your brain wasnât able to assess where he might be. But he wasnât here. And that alone was enough to send you spiraling into agony.
Joel looked around awkwardly, clearly out of his depth. âSweetie,â he said, reaching out to pat your cheek gently. âIâm here.â
You blinked up at him with wide, glassy eyes, your bottom lip trembling. âWhere is he? Did he sell me to you?â Â
âWhat?â if only you were sober enough to see the expression on his face.Â
Tears continued to pool in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. âWhat am I supposed to do, being sold to a person like you?â Â
âPerson like meâWhatâs that supposed to mean,â Joel withdrew, seemingly offended momentarily before he realized he was talking to a group of at most six brain cells, half of them blackout drunk.
âHot,â you sniffled. âHot like you.â
Joel freezed. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he muttered, âOâŠkay. Uh, letâs call for a nurse, okay?â He stood up and looked toward the hallway.
âI donât even know how to be a housewife!â you lamented, gesturing wildly toward a painting of sand dunes on the wall. âYouâre going to dump me in the middle of a desert!â Â
âHoney,â Joel said, his voice strained but calm. âNobody is dumping or selling anybody, okay? Justâwait here. Iâm gonna go get a nurse. Iâll only be gone for, like, five seconds.â Â
You watched him disappear behind the wall, your lips quivering as you began counting on your fingers. âOne⊠two⊠three⊠four⊠fiveâŠâ You looked up at the hallway, waiting for Joel to come back as you realized how alone you were in the room. You didnât want to be alone. The fluorescent light was hurting your eyes and the air smelled like a dentistâs office. You were in one, but you didnât really register that. Panic set in like a tidal wave. âJoel?âÂ
âJoel! JOEL!â You thrashed in the chair, trying to swing your legs over to touch the ground, ready to bolt after him like some kind of lovesick lunatic. It was hard, like you were learning controls for a video game for the first time, and your limbs didnât move the way you wanted them to. Joel returned with a nurse moments after. She was holding a clipboard and if not for the mask hiding her expression, Joel would have seen that she was wearing a smile that looked dangerously close to a laugh.
âYouâre back! I thought you were leaving meâŠâ your voice cracked as you reached out toward Joel with snot running freely down your upper lip. âIâll be a good wife from now on, Joel, I promise.â Â
âOh,â the nurse said sweetly. âSounds like someoneâs still a little loopy.â Â
Joel ran a hand over his face, mortified. âSorry about that.â
âItâs alright,â she smiled at him before checking on you. âDefinitely not the worst Iâve witnessed. Youâll be okay, wonât you, sweetheart?â
You nodded.
She asked you to open your mouth, and you attempted to talk to Joel the entirety of it, moving your heavy tongue around, making barely coherent noises. At one point you reached for his hand and he took it.
âHoew, wa ho hayhee hee hahee?â which would translate to âJoel, was our wedding in Bali?â, like Joel wouldâve been able to decipher it. He just played along in hopes to shut you up.
âYes, yes, of course.â he cupped your hand in his.
âOkay, now bite down with pressure, okay?â the nurse said softly after pulling the blood-soaked cotton balls out and replacing them with new ones. You did as she said. âThatâs good. Thank you.â
âNo, thank you.â you smiled at her. âYouâre so nice.â
âAnd youâre so nice, too.â she said as she gathered her clipboard and metal tray. âWeâre all clear here, you are free to go home. If you prefer to wait out until sheâs not so disoriented anymore, please use our waiting room since we have to clean this one before the next patient.â
âThank you.â Joel nodded politely at her.
âAny more questions youâd like to ask the doctor?â
âI think weâre all covered. Thank you for everything. Letâs go, sweetie.â he helped you stand up, and the second he let go your body leaned, craving to touch the floor. Both him and the nurse reached out to you, crashing their heads in the process.
âOw!â she yelped.
âSorry, sorry. I got her. Iâm really sorry.â he slightly bowed down as he held you steady, one palm planted on your ribs just below your breasts.
âSorry,â you parroted, utterly oblivious to what just happened.
âItâs alright,â she laughed lightheartedly as she reached down to fix your shoelaces. âThere you go.â
âThank you again. Weâll stay out of your hair now.â
.
After what felt like eighty years, Joel finally got you on the passenger seat. He could feel his lifespan shortened significantly, and his back hurt so much trying to crouch to your level as he guided you across the parking lot. He shouldâve just carried youâwouldâve been much quicker and better for everyone involved.
You touched the dashboard, feeling the texture underneath your fingers like it was the first time you got in a car. Joel closed the door next to you and scurried his way around the car hood to the driverâs side, sighing when he got in.
âJoel, whatâs your favorite pie?â you asked as he leaned over to put your seatbelt on, hand fiddling with the belt when it got stuck and you instinctively ran your fingers through his hair.Â
âPecan,â he muttered, body getting tense under your casual yet intimate touch.
âOh, I had pecan pie at my house recently.â you withdrew your fingers as Joel straightened up and put his own seatbelt on. âWeâre like, soulmates, or something.â
Joel started the car. âYes, that was me. I brought the pie to your house.â
âWow, youâre so kind.â you smiled, eyes tearing up, as if bringing you pie was the equivalent of saving all kittens in the world. Joel rolled his eyes and shifted the gear from neutral, and the two of you slowly moved out of the office parking lot to the road.
You cupped your own swelled cheeks, feeling the spherical cotton balls nested between your jaws. âI donât like these, Joel.â
âYeah? Wanna take them out? Do you think the bleeding has stopped?â his eyes ran between you and the road in front of him back and forth, getting ready to merge onto the highway.
âMy mouth is so full,â you whined, and you fished one cotton ball out, all wet and slightly red, before rolling the window down and throwing it out. It bounced on the dry concrete behind you briefly before it got run over by another car.
âHey, no littering! And keep your arm inside, my fucking god, dâya wanna lose it?â Joel yelled, one arm leaving the steering wheel to pull your hand into the car and close the window back up, almost taking up the lane next to you. A semi-truck passed through and the driver honked their horn, deafening. You snarled at it while Joel mouthed a quiet âfuckâ.
âI still got more inside,â you pointed at your open mouth, like Joel couldnât tell from your slightly muffled voice still.
âI know, but either keep it in your mouth until we get home, or find someâI donât know, plastic bag to keep it in, alright? Try the glove box.â he points at the compartment in front of you. You fiddled with the handle, and when it opened it revealed a little toolbox, a pocket knife, a folded map, and two dusty condoms from God knows when.
âJoel, what is this?â you pinched one out for Joel to see, voice thick with betrayal. âYouâre cheating on me.â
Good fucking god. Joel snatched the thing out of your hand, shoving it back into the glove box before slamming it closed. He shouldnât have been panicking like you were actually his bride and heâd been two-timing you after work, because you werenât, and the only thing that had been in touch with his dick in the past six months was his fist. âI donât know how it got there. Itâs from a while ago.â
But the damage had been done. You covered your face with your hands, eventually took the remaining cotton balls out and let them go onto the floor mats. Joel winced.
âWhat should I do? Is my blowjob not good enough?â
Joel was the most uncomfortable he had ever been his whole life right now, and he once witnessed his friendsâ parents hitting it crazy style with the same banana pudding that was served at dinner smeared everywhere when he was there for a sleepover, so that was saying a lot.
âYou have neverâwhat are you fuckinâ doing?!â
You had leaned over as much as your seatbelt allowed you to, fingers reaching to unbuckle his belt. âIâm gonna show you how good I cââ
Joel lost control of the steering wheel as he tried to shoo you away, but you latched your palm around his bulge like leech. He accidentally turned the truck too much to the left, switching lanes without warning, and abruptly hit the brakes for a split second when he thought he was going to crash into a Camaro, almost slamming you forward if not for the seatbelt. Three cars honked at the two of you as they passed, one was generous enough to give you the finger.
He pushed you back to your seat, both of you huffing and puffing. There was silence for about thirty seconds until Joel composed himself.
âWhat the fuck did they put you under, because I need some,â he muttered under his breath before speaking clearer. âPut your hands on the dashboard. Now,â he commanded, eyes flicking between you and the road.
âWhy?â you mumbled, your fingers twitching like they might reach for Joelâs belt again.
âBecause I said so,â Joel grunted, shifting in his seat to try to hide his hardening length, jaw tense as he kept one hand firmly on the wheel. âYou wanna be a good wife, donât you?â
You blinked slowly. Joel was right, you wanted to be a good wife.
âYeah,â Joel continued, eyes narrowing slightly, still focused on the road. âOnly good wives put their hands on the dashboard.â
âReally?â you laughed, the sound drifting lazily out of you. But you planted both palms on the dashboard anyway, sunlight pouring on the back of your hands, warming them up.Â
âYeahâyeah,â he muttered. âLook it up.â
âI canât, my hands are on the dashboard,â you frowned, chin pointing towards your splayed fingers.
Joel rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. âYou just have to believe me, then.â
You thought of it for a second before nodding. âOkay. I believe you.âÂ
He glanced at you, eyebrows lifting. âYou should. Youâre my wife.â
Your head tilted, a lazy grin spreading across your face as you processed the words. Youâre my wife. Somehow that was the most beautiful string of words you had ever heard. âAm I a good wife?â
âSure. You got your hands on the dashboard. Guess that makes you a good wife,â Joel said. Your loopy grin was infectious despite his best efforts to stay stoic.
âIâm a good wife,â you repeated to yourself, beaming.
There was a beat of silence before you leaned slightly toward him, eyes bright, head swaying with the motion of the truck. âAre you a good husband?â
Joelâs grip on the steering wheel tightened for a split second, his gaze flicking to the side, then back to the road. â...I donât know. Do you think Iâm a good husband?â
âYeah,â you said immediately, so sure of yourself as you gathered the evidence in your hazy brain. âYou took me to the dentist. You got me pecan pie.â
Joel scoffed, his hands tightening on the wheel. âDriving and pies, guess thatâs the key to a successful marriage.â
.
By dinner time you were already out of your groggy state, although the pain started to creep back in despite the painkillers that you just sat in the living room with a frozen pouch of CapriSun pressed against your cheek. Joel hadnât said much but he did stay until your dad got home.
He had hoped you blacked out and didnât remember anything from earlier. He wasnât sure if he could live knowing you were able to remember that you were so eager to put your mouth on him, on top of you calling yourself his wife, on top of you casually admitting you found him hot.
And because he got hard in the car. He didnât know if you saw it but for his own peace he would like to believe that you didnât.
Joel was a little bit grateful that Tommy wasnât there because he would never let this die.
He would never let this die himself.
When your dad set some burritos for Joel and applesauce for you on the counter, Joel was ready to go home and get drunk while pondering in the shower.
âYouâre leaving already?â you licked the applesauce, tasting it innocently, and Joel had to remind himself that licking applesauce was not a sexually enticing act.
âYeah, working early tomorrow. Get well soon.â he stood awkwardly as he pocketed his keys.
âThanks a lot, man,â your dad got up to give Joel a hug with his back facing away from you, and you stared Joel dead in the eyes as you mouthed playfully: âHusband.â
His lips twitched. Seemed like he would never know peace ever again.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#dbf!joel#dbf!joel x reader#dbf!joel miller x reader#tlou#the last of us#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller oneshot#dbf!joel miller
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A Lesson

raider!Joel Miller x f!reader
Joel just wants you to listen to him for your sake, keep yourself out of trouble while heâs away for the day. But of course you have to slip up, putting yourself in danger. Now heâs going to teach you a lesson.
Tags: Explicit MDNI, pre-boston qz, established relationship but questionable dynamics, d/s undertones, dubious consent (!!!), punishment, degradation, face slapping, pussy slapping, fingering, orgasm denial
Word count: 3.5k
a/n: This piece contains descriptions of murders and dead bodies (brief), and physical abuse, mainly slapping. Joel also says cruel things in this, not directly calling you names, but there are derogatory lines. Please take care of yourself :)
Youâre fucked.
Your life flashes before your eyes. The sins youâve committed, the chances you didnât take, all pounding at the door of your consciousness. You can feel death closing in, its cold embrace beckoning. If you had one chance to go back in time, you would give anything to go back to exactly thirty six minutes ago. Not an hour ago, not before the outbreak, just thirty six minutes prior to this second. When you still had the choice to be a good person, or a surviving one.
Joelâs been gone since the crack of dawn. Heâs meeting up with some raidersâa trade, a few miles northâand scouting out a safer route for the two of you to head north. You canât afford to stay in one place for long, not with the way things are going down here. The farmlands used to offer more, but theyâre nothing now. You have to keep moving.
Joel wouldâve taken you with him, but itâs not about easing his own mind. Itâs about keeping you out of harmâs way. He doesnât trust the people heâs meetingânot enough to risk you. Not with the way things are. You never know whoâs looking for a fight, or what kind of deal theyâre pushing. Thereâs no room for mistakes, not in this world. Not when every day is a damn gamble.
Before leaving, Joel orders you to stay low, keep your presence unknown inside the farmhouse you have been staying at for a week, and kill anyone who dares to approach the doorstep. You say yes, of course.
But, as usual, you always have to blow everything up.
It isnât long before you see her. A girl, maybe nine or ten, walking toward the farmhouse. She looks exhausted, her steps sluggish. She doesnât look like sheâs infected, at least not yet. Her clothes are torn, and there are smudges of dirt on her face. You hesitate, instinctually reaching for your knife and the gun Joel had left you.
But as the girl comes closer to the porch, you get a good look at her eyes. There is something fragile about her. Maybe itâs the way she winces at the sun or the way her shoulders slump, as if the weight of the world is crushing her. The girl reminds you of yourself. Lost, vulnerable, a survivor in a world that doesnât give a damn. You canât help but feel the urge to help. To give her a chance.
You let her in. And that is your first mistake.
She appears to be mute, silent in the face of your questions. As you check her over for bite marks or concealed weapons, she does nothing but stare at you with wide, exhausted eyes, as if she might faint at any moment. You grab one of your clean shirts, handing it to her with a silent offer of warmth, trying to figure out how to communicate. You arenât sure if sheâs deaf too, but you ask anyway, in every way you can think of. Gestures, simple words. But she remains silent. Only stares.
You give her a few crackers, still pushing for answers. Who is she? What is she doing here? The questions hang in the air, unanswered as the seconds tick by, and the next thing you know, the door slams open.
A man and woman are upon you in an instant, knives drawn. Their words are sharp and demanding: supply, weapons, food. You barely have a moment to react before the girl shifts, hiding behind the woman, and she runs her fingers through the kidâs tangled hair. It dawns on you. The girl is only a bait.
So, youâre fucked.
Your instincts kick in first. As the man lunges for you, you grab the gun, hammer already cocked, your heart pounding as you aim. The gunshot rings out, the sound deafening in the tight space. It hits his shoulder, blood spurting in a quick spray as his scream fills the air.
Before you can get another shot off on the woman, her fist collides with your temple, sending you reeling. The world tilts, your vision blurs, and for a moment, you thought the darkness might swallow you whole. Youâre a goner.
But then there is a crack, a gunshot that isnât yours.
The woman drops to the ground, her body slumping lifelessly as Joel emerges from the shadows, his presence cutting through the chaos like a knife. His gun is steady in his hands, his eyes cold as he surveys the scene. The man, still clutching his shoulder, barely has time to react before another shot rings out, and he crumples.
The girl tries to runâtired, slow, desperateâbut Joel is quicker. Another shot, and she falls on the porch, lifeless before she even has a chance to flee.
Joelâs eyes locked onto yours as he steps forward, his movements sharp, calculated. No words were needed between you. He has seen enough. There was nothing left to say.
.
The next hour is spent lining the bodies inside, checking their pockets and if they still have some friends around the farm waiting to strike. You find a bag with not much in it in the back of the house, some jerky and a half-empty bottle of water. They were desperate.Â
You ask Joel if you should dig a grave for them, even a shallow one, at least for the little girlâs body, but he doesnât answer. The farmhouse feels suffocating, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood that hasnât yet had a chance to fade. The bodies lie there, still and turning cold, while the bloodstains seep into the floorboards. The room, once perhaps a place of quiet refuge for you and Joel, even for a brief period, now reeks of death. Every corner holds the memory of what happened. What you allowed to happen.
âWeâll stay in the barn tonight,â Joel mutters, his voice low, as he gathers your things. His hands move methodically, purposefully. His eyes donât meet yours. âAnd we head north first thing in the morninâ.â
You follow him wordlessly, the weight of the day pressing down on your chest. As the barn door creaks shut behind you, the cold air rushes in, but it doesnât seem to touch the heaviness in your chest. You donât let Joel see the tears pooling in your eyes, but you canât help the tightness in your throat as you turn away from the farmhouse.
The barn is cold and messy, layers of dust covering everything inside, but itâs a roof over your head and walls closed around you, and thatâs enough. Joel rustles through the hay, forming a thin, uncomfortable bed. Youâre about to lay down when his voice cuts through the silence.
âWho allows you to lie down?â
You freeze, a sharp chill sweeping through your body as his gaze locks onto yours. He steps forward, the space between you vanishing until his towering frame looms over your trembling form, casting a shadow you canât escape.
âWhat did I tell you about stayinâ low?â His voice is sharp and low, an edge of fury curling beneath each word. âWhat did I say?â
The shove comes without warning, light but firm enough to send you sprawling to the floor, your body colliding with the ground before your mind can catch up. Before you even have a chance to process it, he grabs you by the collar, hauling you up like a ragdoll, his grip like iron.
âYou think this is a game? That Iâm just here to clean up after your mess every damn time?â
Then his palm connects with your cheek, a slap so hard it rings in your ears, leaving a sting that lingers, deep and raw.
Heâs never slapped you before. In fact, heâs never laid a hand on you with the intention to hurtâuntil now. The sting of his palm shocks through you, and you can feel your breath catch in your chest, panic creeping up your throat. You start to hyperventilate, the air too thin, too tight, but before you can steady yourself, his hand crashes against the other side of your face, the back of it leaves a burn deeper than the first.
âWhatâs next? You gonna invite a horde of infected to this goddamn barn?â
Your heart pounds in your ears. Before you know it, tears are rolling down your cheeks, but from the slaps or the words, you canât be sure.
âI was tryinâ to get us outta this bleak, shithole of a place, and you canât even follow a simple order?â His words are harsh, each one a jab that sinks deeper into your gut. But he isnât done yet. He forces your cheeks together with one hand, the pressure so brutal it feels like your jaws might snap. Your lips tremble, slick with tears, unable to escape his grip.
âMaybe I should leave you to die out here. Teach you a goddamn lesson.â You flinch at the venom in his tone, but itâs the next thing he says that truly breaks you.Â
âYouâre a goddamn liability.â
Joel still goes on, something about how he has to worry about you all the time, but you barely hear the words anymore. You donât even feel the cracking twinge of your muscles when your body hits the floor again as Joel lets go of you. Seems like your legs stop working altogether.
He crouches next to your splayed body, and you instinctively defend yourself using your forearms in front of your face. âIâm sorry!â you choke on your own words. âSorry, Joel, Iâm sorry.â
ââS a bit too late for that.â Joel scoffs, his hand pushing your forearms apart, revealing your teary eyes and quivering lips. âQuit this.â
Your trembling pupils find his eyes, and under the dim light of dusk filtering through the barn, for the first time since he arrived you see fresh little cuts on his face. Some bruises on his jaw and neck, hues of blue and purple. The trade didnât go smoothly, it seems like, and when he came home he had to deal with your bullshit. Of course heâs mad.
He nudges your crotch where your pants are stained crimson of the womanâs blood. âIs this the only thing youâre good for? Pussy?â
The words stings. Far worse than the slaps, the shovings. You know itâs not true. You know Joel knows itâs not true. But heâs angry right now, so you swallow it.
âTake these off,â he tugs at the fabric. âReeks of blood.â
You comply, quickly pulling your pants off, movement stuttering. Under them are your panties, and while theyâre pretty much clean despite how much you want to wet yourself, Joel yanks them down your legs, too, the stitching rips from the force.
âThis is the only thing valuable of you, huh?â he hurls the fabric to your face, the fiber absorbing your tears and sweat before you toss them to the ground, shaking.
âIs it?â he presses a palm to your chest, denying you of air. If you were a little bit more fragile he wouldâve cracked your ribs. You shriek, nodding out of fear, just so heâd stop.
âYeah? Fuckinâ say it then. Do I really have to do all the work around here?â
âYes, Joel,â you cry, desperate.
âYes what?â
âIâmâ I,â the words are stuck in your throat. You donât want to say it. You donât know how to say it.
He lifts the hand from your chest and slaps you again, softer this time, like how you would wake a person. âYouâre what?â
âIâm only good for myââ you stutter, and even though youâre sure youâre already crying, you break down sobbing, and almost intangibly continue, âPussy,â
âSounds like right to me,â Joel nods, satisfied. âCause surely there ainât nothing up there.â
Another sound of hefty thwack fills up the room, but it doesnât come from the skin of your cheek this time. Joel just struck your cunt with his open palm.
If it werenât just you and Joel within a mile radius, the yelp you let out wouldâve had raidersâor worse, infectedârunning. The sudden pain has you fight with all your might before you know it, hands swatting against Joel. But heâs so much stronger than you. Even when he isnât pissed off.
âKeep squirminâ,â he says, his voice low and dangerous. âSee what happens.â
Another slap. His calloused fingers do nothing but worsen the pain. Your tear ducts flood your temple, the salty fluid collecting between the curves of your helixes.
âDo I always have to fuck your brain out to keep you outta trouble?â he taunts. âWhat do I look like, baby, do I look like I got a lot of time in my hands? Nothinâ else to do but babysittinâ ya all day?â
Another strike, each one seemingly more powerful than the last. He cups your cunt, the meat of your lips pulsing from the pain under his touch. Youâre gasping, hands balled into fists next to your torso.
âYeah, reckon it hurts, donât it?â he points at your cunt with his chin. âMaybe youâll get it this time, since you seem to do all your thinkinâ with your pussy and not your head.â
He strikes again, and this time you scream. It hurts. You canât see yourself but youâre pretty damn sure the skin of your cunt should be blooming red by now. You reach for his arm, but he wonât budge. Instead, he pins both of arms, folded on top of your chest like youâre praying. Maybe you should be.
âWhatâs wrong? Canât handle it, huh? Thatâs the problem, ainât it? Youâre used to gettinâ what you want, when you want it."
You shake your head. The last part is not even close to the truth. Youâve been fighting for every scrap of life for years now. You donât get what you want, not by a long shot. Youâve killed. Youâve hurt and been hurt more times than you can count. Youâve clawed your way through an endless hell to get here. But refuting it, setting the record straight, is not your priority right now. You shake your head because you, in fact, canât handle it.
âJoel,â you beg, your voice cracking. âIâm sorry. Please stop, please, I canât take it. Iâm sorry.â
He scoffs.
âFrom the day I spared your life, youâve been nothin' but trouble. Hell, I donât know what I was thinkinâ, lettinâ you stay with me all this time.â he pulls his hand from your cunt to pinch the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply before continuing, âLettinâ myself get attached to you.â
He sounds hurt, almost betrayed for a second, but he quickly composes himself and prepares to blow once again. Your knees are close to each other in an attempt to suppress the pain, and he pushes one away, opening you up, just to find that your reddened cunt is slick with arousal.Â
He runs his middle finger through your slit, collecting the slippery glaze, and you arch your back because itâs unexpected, but also almost painful.
âYouâre wet?â he questions, as if he doesnât have the proof right on his fingertip.
You raise your head and shake it, mumbling things about how youâre taking this seriously and you are not titillated in any sense in fear of Joel getting angrier. Which is the truth. You didnât know. You are feeling millions of different feelings, mainly scared, and you are pretty sure aroused is not one of them.
âYou learn new things every day,â Joel shakes his head in disbelief. âHere I got a woman who gets off being slapped and screamed at.â
Maybe you are. You donât know. You donât have enough headspace to think, not when Joel slaps your cunt again, the blow sends your hips up to the air. You intertwine your fingers together, pressing them so hard your knuckles turn white.
âPoor thing,â he heaves. âDonât know what to do with herself. Probably needs to come so bad, huh? After a long day of messinâ shit up and almost gettinâ herself dead, now she needs to come before bed? Greedy, greedy little cunt.â
He smears your own arousal all over your cunt, like heâs applying shea butter on sunburned skin. His finger grazes your clit, and you twitch under him, whimpering.
âSensitive?â he asks, somehow softly this time. You say yes, and he nods in mock sympathies before finding your clit again and pinching it between his thumb and index finger.
You scream. A full-blown scream. You kick your legs, knowing damn well it gets you nowhere. You yell for Joel to stop, to spare you, that youâre sorry, again and again until it sounds like a jumbled cassette tape.
âLetâs get it over with, yeah?â He pats your cunt as your chest expands and shrinks as much as it could under the pressure of his other hand. âSay it. Beg me for my fingers inside you.â
âPlease,â you squeak. âPlease, Joel,â
He stays still, waiting for you to utter the whole thing. His gaze is relentless upon your mess of a face. You realize this, and begin to gather your words.
âPleâease fuck me with your fingers,â you stammer. âI need to come, need you toâ to play with my pussy.â
The words might have been forced out of you, but when Joel pushes two digits inside your drenched, sensitive cunt, a little part of you is grateful. Joel isnât gentle with it, he isnât tender and loving like he used to be as he pumps his fingers into your walls, but fuck if that doesnât cloud your brain with bliss-laced pain. Good kind of pain.
This continues for a couple of minutes until he realizes that you are starting to curl up beneath him, the muscles of your calves and stomach tensing up. Just before the swelling pleasure start to leak, Joel withdraws his fingers, earning a whimper in protest from you.
âJoel,â you whine. âI wanna come. Please.â
âNot yet,â Joel pants. The sight of you desperate and struggling seems to arouse him as well, although he doesnât pay much attention to himself. âNot done with you.â
Itâs killing you. But you nod anyway, playing along, relaxing your jaws when you realize youâve been grinding your teeth forcefully the whole time it made your head hurt. You wiggle your hands, wrists all sweaty and almost bruised in Joelâs grip. Joel notices this and instead of letting go tightens his clutch even more.
His thumb hovers over your cunt, brushing against your sensitive bundle of pleasure intermittently, making you squirm each time it does. Every time you begin to enjoy yourself, heâll throw a slap, eventually turning the pain into pleasure.
He fingers you again, still with two fingers, and stops exactly when youâre about to finish. The way he accurately reads your body language and knows the precise moment to deny you your release is scaring you. It is as if youâre nothing but an instrument to him. He follows your rhythm and cadence, knowing where and when to strum, but ultimately how to delay the final movement to his liking, building anticipation.
Youâre nothing but a puddle of mess and desperation by the time he denies you for the fourth time.
âEnjoyinâ this?â Joel asks as he shifts his position. His legs are killing him.
You nod. You hate this, you want this to end, but you would be lying if you said you didnât also enjoy this. Being so small under Joelâs boots, kissing the earth for his mercy. Nothing in your brain but him, how you let him treat you as he pleases.
He chuckles. âYeah, I bet. Only this kind of thing can make you think, huh? The other things just pass by your brain or something.â
Your head inclines again. You both know itâs not entirely true. Sometimes youâre just too pure, too naive for your own good. Always optimistic, always seeing the good even in a pile of crap. Maybe thatâs why Joel was drawn to you, too.
Joel is satisfied. He rubs your cunt and inserts two, before eventually working three fingers inside you. He simultaneously curls and pulls upwards, like heâs trying to dig his way up a mine with brute force. He doesnât stop even after you come undone, writhing, your foot tapping the dirty floor like a rattlesnake.
You squeal, brain failing to conjure the words to ask Joel to stop, but even if you did, Joel wouldnât have done it. He keeps moving, stirring your insides up, until he hears a familiar squelch building in your lower abdomen. He coerces it out of you, the release spraying onto his forearm, the rest leaking down his hand to the concrete flooring, trapping the layer of dust on it.
You donât remember when he stops exactly, just when he wipes your tears with his sweaty hand that was used to hold you down.
âSorry, baby,â he does look sorry, cupping your cheek as he bends to kiss you. âGotta teach you a lesson every once in a while.â
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#tlou#the last of us#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#raider!joel#raider!joel miller#raider!joel miller x reader#raider!joel x reader
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dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader
Youâre spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your fatherâs buddy, sent by him to check on you.
Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving)
Word count: 6.8k
âDad,â your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.
âSo like, Iâm⊠sick, kinda, but itâs not really bad, soââ A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. ââsorry about that. Itâs nothing. Donât worry too much, donât even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.â Another coughing fit. âOkay. Have fun, I love you.â
You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your fatherâs ancient block of telecommunication. Itâs 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because itâs their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.
âWill you be okay?â your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom doorâs frame while you were unpacking your backpack.
âYeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.â you laughed lightheartedly.
âItâs just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish youâd said yes and come with us.â
âAnd third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?â you giggled. âDad, itâs okay. Come on. Weâll still have the weekend together when you come back.â
You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.
âMe and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?â he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. Youâve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?
Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. Itâs broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if heâs going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your fatherâs medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.
You second-guess your decision to let your father know that youâre unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.
Itâs dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.
You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you canât pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.
You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Canât sneeze or cough if youâre knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. Youâre too tired to reach for the remote.
Maybe youâll feel better when you wake up.
You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.
âEasy, easy,â
If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.
Itâs Joel Miller.
Of course itâs him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.
He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.
Well, just your father. Not Joel though.
You havenât seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.
He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.
âJoel,â you chirp. âHi.â
âHey.â he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV. âHow are you feeling?â
âIâm okay. What time is this?â you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.
âOne-thirty. Sorry, didnât mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.
âYour front door was unlocked when I came in.â says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. âYou shouldnât do that.â
âSorry,â you say sheepishly. âAnd sorry my Dad made you come here. You didnât have to, itâs not so bad.â
âCome on, itâs only a ten minute drive. âS okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, yâknow. You took the Nyquil?â
The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldnât breathe through your nose. Man.
âI did.â you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.
âGood,â Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmerâs glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.
You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesnât let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.
âSpit.â he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon youâll realize how foolish it is to grab someoneâs wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.
âThanks,â you blink rapidly, still processing.
âYou wanna go to urgent care?â Joel asks.
âNu-uh,â you shake your head. âIâm okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.â
âItâs probably just a bug,â he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. âHow long has it been going on?â
You wait until he comes back because you donât think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didnât hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, âUh, it got progressively worse last night.â you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, âBut not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,â
âAnd before that?â
âJust a scratchy throat.â
He looks like heâs mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. Itâs the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You canât really make the colors out, but heâs wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. Heâs keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You canât help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.
And his eyes. Theyâre rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.
The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where youâre sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.
All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.
Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. âDid you eat?â
âIâm okay,â you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.
He chuckles. âYes or no?â
That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. âYes, Joel. Iâm okay.â
Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. âIâm starvinâ, actually,â he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.
âMind if I take a look in the fridge?â he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.
You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as firemanâs poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you canât conclude.
Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.
You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.
âSo, howâs school?â Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. âAnd donât just say okay, please.â
âYou got me there,â you laugh. âNothing really amusing, really.â
Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. Itâs fun and familiar.
âDid you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?â Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. âYou used to be so nice and polite.â
âI was like six!â You snorted. âAnd you canât even pay me to call you that again, Joel.â
Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. Youâve heard some of them from your own fatherâs mouth, but you still listen to Joelâs versions eagerly anyway.
At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You donât complainâit means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.
When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.
âYou should stay the night,â you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?
Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. âEh, weâll see,â he shrugs. âI donât mind drivinâ through a storm, but I canât just leave you alone if you donât feel well.â
âDad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.â You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you canât really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.
âOh, yeah, that.â Joel chuckles. âI was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.â
He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.
After the very late dinner, the two of you retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.
âHeadstrong, ainât ya?â Joel sighs. âOkay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?â
âNot really sleepy,â you shake your head. âFeel free to take Dadâs bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?â
âNah, Iâm alright by the couch.â Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesnât even recline anymore near Joelâs feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.
The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.
You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesnât seem to really care about the TV.
âI donât know what to watch,â you admit. âDo you wanna pick the movie?â
Truth is, Joel canât give a single shit about no goddamn movie. Heâs been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway. âLetâs see the trending ones.â
You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.
âThis one looks excitinâ.â Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You donât recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.
The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but heâs looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.
Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.
âWoah,â you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adamâs apple moving awkwardly.
They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.
You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.
Joel clears his throat. âUh, maybe we shouldnât watch this,â
âYouâre the one who picked the movie.â you say, eyes fixated on the screen.
âWell, it didnât say nothinâ about eatinâ a lady out in the summary.â
He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.
âHey,â you whine. âThatâs not nice. I didnât say yes.â
âItâs late. Go to sleep.â Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because heâs so flustered he doesnât know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well heâs far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.
âWeâre both adults anyways,â you mutter, but Joel doesnât move. Heâs probably actually tired.
Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesnât look like heâs sleeping in peace right now but heâs still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. Heâs gorgeous.
In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? Itâs both excruciating and foolish.Â
The movie you just saw doesnât help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you donât get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.
You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat âRelease me from this earthly desireâ in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.
Itâs not working.
Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lipsâŠ
You canât do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.
The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.
There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.
Oh, he is totally aware of whatâs happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.
And he totally understands. Heâs been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasnât hurting and his face hadnât been âgracedâ with crowâs feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.
So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.
That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping youâd catch the hint and stop for good. But you donât, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.
It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.
He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa.Â
You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. âYeah?â you croak.
âDo you think I donât know what youâre doinâ?â
You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.
âWhat⊠Do you mean?â you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.
Joel clicks his tongue. âMight as well hump me if you want it that much.â
Wait, what? Your eyes light up. âReally?â
Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possibleâlike telling a puppy she canât eat electronic partsâsighs, âNo.â
âOh,â you cover your mouth. âI thought you meantââ
âYeah, yeah. My bad.â he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.
Silence. You donât dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beepingâdesireâwill not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze ageâJoelâin your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?
âJoel,â you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.
âHm?â
âWhat if⊠I hump you anyway?â you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.
Joelâs jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, âThat fever is really messinâ with your brain, huh? Sit down.â
âYouâre bricked up, Joel.â you accuse. You donât actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.
âUnrelated to you.â he hisses in defense.
You scoff.
âJoel, please,â you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. âI want this so bad.â you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. âI want you so bad.â
âThis ainât right, kid.â Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and itâs worth pointing out that heâs shaking. âYou know that.â
Joel doesnât tell you that heâs battling demons in his head, and heâs currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.
He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.
But he knows he doesnât want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.
A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you donât need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.
Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. âYou can help yourself, thatâs all,â he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. âJust to make you shut up and get rest. Thatâs it.â
Thatâs an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.
You put your hands on Joelâs shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb âaccidentallyâ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.
The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joelâs name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesnât. If you werenât so absorbed in your own pleasure, you wouldâve noticed how shallow and rapid Joelâs breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.
Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that heâs doing what heâs doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isnât exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.
You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.
âThat feels good, doesnât it?â
You nod weakly. âSo good, Joel, so good,â
For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you canât cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.
âI want to see your face,â Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, âYouâre so beautiful like this.â
You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You donât know what to say, and maybe you donât have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.
âHold on,â he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. âI need to take these off.â
He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. âCâmere,â he says, âI need to feel you on me.â
You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. âFuck, yeah,â he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.
The contour of Joelâs cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again.Â
âJoel, Iâm gonna come,â you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.
âKeep going, baby,â he says through a smile. âDonât hold back. You sound so pretty.â
The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. Youâre close. So close.
âMakinâ me so hard all night, you,â
You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.
âThatâs it, thatâs it. There you go. Youâre so good.â
Joel holds the back of your head while youâre laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. âAttagirl.â
When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.
âDamn, kid, youâre practically a snail,â he points to it. âPoor thing.â
You wince. âWhat are you doing?â
âPuttinâ my pants on?â he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.
âBut you havenât even come yet!â you protest. âWhat the fuck? Take them off!â
âThatâs not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so youâll shut up and sleep. Youâve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.â he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.
âYouâre a sick person,â you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. âYouâre literally still hard.â
âThat has nothinâ to do with anythinâ.â
You stare at the open space, like youâre trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?
âJoel, your line is âIâm going to fuck you so hard.â Now letâs start again from the top.â
Joel, whoâs struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head backâsoftlyâto the couch. âSleep,â he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.
âJoooooel,â
âYour line is âYes, Joel, good night.ââ
âYes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,â you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.
âWhat are your pants made of, steel?â
âWhat is wrong with you?â he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.
âNobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,â you reach for the TV remote again. âNow letâs watch something again and then sleep.â
âWeâre not watching the viking movie again.â
âWeâre not watching the viking movie again,â you repeat. âWeâre watching SpongeBob.â
Joel groans.
âWhat, you donât like SpongeBob?â
âNot my era,â Joel says. âI watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.â
âNo wonder you act like the heckling old guys.â
âI donât, but, sure,â
âOh, youâre more like the eagle. So serious all the time.â
Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that heâs at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.
On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joelâs lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.
You shift so that youâre on your back, legs resting on Joelâs lap. He gives you a look, but doesnât say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.
They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way youâre consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joelâs bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like youâre captivated by the TV. Itâs hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.
Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired. âI know you were going to do this,â
But he doesnât push you away. And that excites you.
You donât say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandyâs treedome as background noise to amplify Joelâs restrained grunts.
You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.
You stare at him, bold. âWould you like my mouth?â
Joel nods.
You donât even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better youâd see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.
âThatâs it,â Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely donât act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.
The only downside of this is that Joel canât really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You canât help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.
Joel knows he wonât last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. Heâs surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.
âJoel,â you whine. âFuck me. Please.â
âNo can do,â Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.
Just like in the movie.
You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.
âJoel, Joel,â you grasp his hands with all your might. âThis is fucking unfair, Iâm soâ Iâm gonnaââ
Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that itâs time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later youâll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.
âFuck you, man,â you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. âI was supposed to make you come.â
Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. âYou did.â
âI meant technically,â you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.
âWhat now?â you ask when he hands you your clothes.
âSleep. Itâs four in the morninâ.â he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you canât drive me mad anymore, he says.
You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. âBlowjob first time in the morning?â you offer before letting yourself drift off.
âThought you were sâpposed to be sick.â Joel shakes his head. But he grins.
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