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pedgito · 1 month ago

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𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.”

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks.

Figure them out.

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid.

They’ve never called you a kid before.

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment.

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure.

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.”

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with.

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore.

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit.

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way.

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet.

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings.

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly.

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to.

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards.

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds.

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him.

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept.

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it.

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again.

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react.

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded.

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes.

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth.

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit.

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape.

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece.

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit.

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment.

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least.

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies.

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin.

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall.

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull.

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act.

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again.

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push.

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either.

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract.

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart.

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.