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littlcdarlin · 7 days ago

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𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂

𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒆

summary: There is nothing more important to Joel than keeping you safe, and if you need a reminder, he'll oblige. warnings: dub!con, Joel keeps reader locked away “for her own safety” (reader consents), Joel fucks the desire to leave out of her, mention of reader having asked Joel to stop during past sexual encounters, daddy kink, confinement kink???, praise kink, breeding kink (mentioned once), girthy age gap (unspecified), knowledge imbalance, overstimulation, sort of free-use but not really

note: Part one of a six part series in celebration of Lana’s upcoming album The Right Person Will Stay! Each part takes inspiration from lyrics from one of the songs that have been confirmed to be on the album — hence the title. Enjoy reading <3

Although nobody says it out loud, it is an unspoken truth that survival equals a varying abandonment of morals. You don’t walk into the apocalypse and come out the other side without blood on your boots, without a skeleton or two (or plenty) to hide. Joel certainly didn’t – didn’t even want to. Not after the wounds that were ripped open, and aren’t ever going to close again, because some things cannot be overcome. They can be pacified, stitched up, bandaged, but that’s it. The throbbing can be dulled, but it won’t stop.

The closest thing he’s come to a remedy is you: you, with your syrup smile and scarless skin, with a knack for pretty things in a world spilling over with ugliness and terror. The throbbing doesn’t stop, but you make him believe it might. Tommy can bang his fists on the table all he wants, can shatter the wood and pick the splinters from his palm, it won’t change Joel’s mind about you.

Sure, in a different world his brother might be right – that he’s a dirty old man tainting your innocence, sucking it out of you because he lacks it himself, reveling in your youth for all the wrong reasons. Not now, though, when there’s worse things outside the wall than the loss of innocence, not when nobody else is looking out for you. What is a twisting of societal morals if it keeps you from picking up a gun? From firing it? From being fired at? Is his name on your lips at night not a small price to pay for that untainted smile you still smile, for your eyes that haven’t seen all that he’s seen? The truth is if he didn’t care for you the way he does, your life would turn out the same as his, would result in bloodshed and cruelty. He can’t have that – if you can be spared from it, you should be.

So Joel doesn’t listen to Tommy, or his own conscience, or the tears you sometimes shed when you’re overwhelmed by solitude and restlessness. He knows waiting around for him all day without leaving the house can’t be easy on you, but he’s willing to make that sacrifice to avoid the gruesome alternative. Yes, Jackson is relatively safe, but there is not a single person inside these walls Joel trusts. Except for Tommy, but even he is a man. He has to see what Joel sees when he looks at you, so really, there is no way Joel is going to take the risk.

Your backtalk and petulance are rare, anyway, usually you’re quite content with your life. He keeps you happy, makes sure you have a full belly and pretty things to entertain yourself with. When you do act up, he sets you straight, not so much with violence as with an abundance of pleasure, as if to say this is how good I make you feel, don’t make me turn it painful. Sometimes he has to, though, and when your cries of too much, I can’t do it again turn into incoherent whimpers, he tries hard not to examine the particular slosh of pleasure in his gut.

No, you’re certainly not innocent anymore, Tommy is right about that – but you’re free of the sort of sins the end of the world would ask of you under any different circumstances, so Joel accepts it. He’s reminded it’s not a price he’s willing to pay whenever he’s on patrol – one foot in the apocalypse and one in the cotton-soft oasis he returns to every night. Perhaps it would be good for you to get out more, and he might let you, if he didn’t know how bad it can get, how much worse than how you are now. He’s played this game for more decades than you’ve been alive, is playing it still, which is the very reason why he needs to keep you as far away from it as possible. When the whole world has turned inside out, the only thing to do is to turn outside-in, and that’s what he does to you, for you, even if Tommy calls it confinement.

And anyway, you’re able to leave if you really want to. He doesn’t lock the door, because he doesn’t need to. He probably would, if it came down to that, but his rules, his unrelenting hands on your body, are more effective than any lock and key anyway. You’ve never yet tried to leave, although you express that desire from time to time – the only times Joel doesn’t chase away the shame in your voice. Sometimes he’ll talk to you, then, tell you about the lengths to which he’d go to to keep you out of harm’s way, and if that doesn’t work, he’ll fuck you deep and long, to remind you that even if your soul might be able to bear the thought of being anywhere else, your body isn’t. When you’re fucked out and sleepy, you’ll murmur an apology he doesn’t need into his chest, and he’ll stroke your hair and wonder which holds more truth, your initial proposition, or its consequential apology.

He ponders this as he makes his way home through the crystal-cold snow, heavy leather boots leaving prints the size of kayaks – that’s what you call them when you see your shoes beside his. Not that you wear yours much, not inside. His are dotted in a dark substance, something washed away by rain and time, but he still remembers how the spots got there. The raider deserved what Joel gave him, although even Tommy had a hard time justifying his brother’s violence. He wonders if you guessed what the spots on the soft leather mean and hopes you never will.

You mentioned leaving again this morning, just a fleeting, off-beat comment about what the rest of your life held in store for you, and Joel wanted to dissect your words then and there, but he had to leave for patrol, or his brother would have had his head. He remembers your little Bambi eyes, staring up at him almost apologetically. He never gets mad at you when you say these things, because you need his understanding for him to be able to drive the desire out of you.

He opens the heavy front door, is greeted by the smell of whatever dinner you made him – he doesn’t eat in the dining hall down the street, but with you. In the beginning, it was what bothered you the most, it’s so much work, Joel, why can’t we just eat with everyone else, but he patiently explained the dangers to you. The lingering gazes of men who knew what hunger meant, and felt some remnants of their starvation whenever they looked at you. You understood that, even if it annoyed you. He got you a cookbook, urged you to look at it as a creative project rather than another way of laying down your freedoms at Joel’s feet for him.

"Hello," you say softly, spoon still in hand, that pretty forget-me-not-blue apron wrapped around your body. He got it for you from a kind woman who sews all kinds of wonders out of old scraps of fabric. It suits you, brings out the flush in your cheeks.

"Hi, angel," Joel answers, pulling you towards him and tilting up your chin with one finger. It’s your little ritual, his lips, and attention, and hands on you the second he steps over that doorstep. You taste of the spices you must have added do dinner, the coffee he allows you to drink – one cup a day.

"How was patrol?" you ask him, putting his jacket on its hook when he slips out of it. So attentive, like you didn’t mention leaving this very place the last time you spoke to him. It seems like you slipped right back into the role he assigned you months ago, but he knows you can always do with a reminder of how much you want this life, how much you want him. So instead of answering, he takes the spoon from you, puts it on the little dresser right next to him – a smear of sauce on the dark cherry-wood. When he turns around, there’s a pout on your pretty face, and he’s half torn between chuckling and frowning.

"I’ll clean it up later. You ’n I have a bone to pick, young lady."

You know what he means, know he can only mean one thing, and you look down at your feet covered in the pretty socks the old lady who made your apron knit for you last winter.

"I’m sorry about this morning," you say softly, voice laced with genuine regret. He almost lets it slide, then, your widened eyes staring up at him. But he can’t. The reminder is for your own safety.

"You say that every time, darlin’."

"I mean it every time," you answer, gaze still lingering on your spoon, but far off somewhere Joel can’t get to. It drives him mad – it’s the one place he can’t keep you from going, your own head. Not that he doesn’t try.

"You know the rules," he says softly, as if they’re God-given, as if he didn’t make them himself. Part of him trusts you’d obey him even if God told you to do the opposite, though, that’s how deep your devotion runs, and he can’t risk any part of this fact changing.

Your head tilts forward in acceptance, and a warm feeling spreads through him. You have doubts, urges to leave this safe haven, but you voice them and ultimately decide to ignore them — you stay every time. It means more than if you didn’t have them in the first place. Any remnants of fear at the thought of you leaving are washed away by your submission, relief light and airy, spreading through his body.

"Five minutes," Joel says and pinches your chin gently to make you look at him. You do, and he smiles at you. The pout disappears from your face – already his reminder is working. You nod, and he lets your lack of a verbal answer slide. You go back to the kitchen to put away your apron, and Joel takes off his heavy boots, puts them next to the shoes you haven’t touched in months. Their dryness and cleanliness cause satisfaction and a deep contentment to settle on his old bones.

When he walks into the living room with a heavy gait, you’re lying on the couch the way he trained you to – hands folded over your stomach, stark naked. You always were a fast learner, and he’s proud of how adept you are at obeying him. There was a time this would have made you blush and hide your face, back when you were still fighting this dynamic, still caught up in the outside world. Joel smoothes one hand up your leg when he reaches you, ankle to thigh, feels your plump and young skin under his. As much as he does this to protect your mind from the horrors he’s seen, whenever you’re naked in front of him, he sees your body littered with scars behind his eyelids and knows he’s doing the right thing, protecting you like this.

"Remind me why we’re doin’ this," he asks you, not unkindly, as he takes of his own flannel shirt. You told him months ago you like for him to be naked, too, and although the contrast of having you bare while he just pulls down his jeans and y-fronts is delicious, he knows you respond better to positive reinforcement.

"Because I’m safest with you," you breathe, eyes trained on his hands as he drags down the zipper of his fly, "and there’s nothing out there worth the risk."

He nods, satisfied with your answer. His jeans are crumpled on the floor now, he’ll fold them later when you’re sleeping. He watches you for a second, taking in your smaller form, so defenseless and vulnerable in front of him, and feels all of a sudden a violent gratitude that he was the one to take you in before someone else could, someone who wouldn’t have your best interest at heart.

He settles over you, body heavy, but he knows you like it – the reminder of how strong he is, how solid and real. He strokes your stomach, your waist, your thighs, takes his time looking at you and for a fleeting moment he tells himself to remember this, in case you ever do leave.

"That’s right," he says, "if you’d seen what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t doubt me."

You swallow – you know this, he’s told you of the violence, though never in detail. He doesn’t even like you watching gory movies. There’s enough of that out there, why bring it into a home meant to protect you from that very same violence?

"Yes," you say quietly, "I’m really sorry, Daddy."

That name. He never asked you to call him that, and he knows you’ve never seen porn, had no opportunity during your sheltered, short life before him. It means you mean it, probably have no idea how laden it is, charged with clips of women in primitive school-girl outfits and nurse uniforms, feigned innocence that becomes perverse in its falseness. There is something pure about the word when you say it, regardless of the context – whether he has you crying on his cock, or after a soft good-bye kiss in the morning, you say it with such love and devotion, it makes Joel think of himself as good. Nobody else would if they were to hear you, but nobody else knows what it signifies – complete and utter safety and care under his guiding hands, your faith in someone wiser leading you through life. It speaks of your trust and devotion more than anything.

"I know you are, sweetheart," he answers, and softly traces your clit, feels the way you twitch under his breath of a touch. He smiles – you’re wet already, your body incapable of denying him even if you wanted it to, which you don’t, never have.

"I love you too much to allow the risk," he says, although he knows you understand, just to force the words into your head until the thought of leaving scares you as much as it does him. "You know I’d give you everythin’ you want in a heartbeat. It’s the only thing I ask of you."

"Yes," you say again, breath hitching when he presses circles into your clit, "you’re right, Daddy."

"Why do you doubt me, babygirl?" He hears the pain in his own voice, but doesn’t try to keep it out of it. "You’re livin’ the best life you possibly could on this earth, and you still wanna leave."

"No," you whine, "don’t wanna leave, Daddy."

He holds down your hips with one hand, your control over your own body already slipping with the pleasure he’s dragging out of you.

"No?"

"No…ah, I just…I get curious, D-daddy, when I remember my old life."

He can understand that. It’s the one thing he regrets the most, that there was a time in your life when he wasn’t around to keep you safe, when you could have gotten hurt in ways he finds physically painful to imagine.

"Oh, baby," he drawls, feels you tremble under his hand, "if you’re curious, you ask. I’ll tell you all you need to know, hm?"

"Yes," you agree, and Joel speeds up his movements just slightly, until your voice grows high-pitched, and you shake under him.

"See how good I make you feel? You wanna risk this?"

No, you want to say, but the word dies on your lips when he pinches your clit between his big fingers, and you come with a shout. There was a time he made you ask for permission, back when he thought the withdrawal of pleasure was the way to make you learn, but now that he’s figured out you respond best to too much, he doesn’t bother with that anymore. You don’t ask, and neither does he – just keeps rubbing no matter how you twitch and thrash. You don’t ask him to stop anymore, either, know it’s no good. As long as you’re able to come again, and he wants you to, you will.

"There you go," Joel mumbles, and slips two wide fingers into your tight body, curling them upwards. Your eyes are glassy, breathing quick, muscles limp and pliant. "Don’t this feel the best? I give ya all you need, babygirl, and still you wanna leave. You’re breakin’ my heart here."

"Daddy," you whimper, no sorry, no yes, no no, just that name. It’s all you need to say, anyway, conveys everything. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, presses against that special spot inside of you he forbade you long ago to touch yourself, before he forbade you to touch yourself at all. You pouted, argued, and he patiently explained his fingers were able to reach it much better than your own smaller ones, and he wanted you to always feel the best you possibly could. The next night you woke him up with a flaming red face, mumbled something about needing to touch that spot, and he felt so proud of you for telling him instead of disobeying his rules, he made you come four times just on his fingers, then fucked you back to sleep, an overwhelmed tear or two slipping from your pretty eyes.

This time, it doesn’t take you long to come again, and Joel basks in your lack of resistance, your body used to the pleasure after all these months. It used to take much longer, sometimes you even asked him to stop, tired and exhausted, and although he proved you wrong every time, showed you if he wanted you to you could come one more time, it thrills him to know you’ve grown accustomed to this unrelenting pleasure.

"You think you’d be happier out there?"

Your eyes are unfocused, when Joel pumps one hand over his hard cock. He keeps talking to you, knows you respond to his words more than anything.

"Think there’s somethin’ better than this outside these walls?"

"No, Daddy," you answer, and there isn’t a trace of dishonesty in your voice.

"No," he agrees, and lines himself up with your entrance. You twitch and clench around nothing.

"This is where we’re meant to be, angel," Joel drawls and puts one hand on your stomach, "right here is where you belong."

He pushes into you, almost curses with how hot and tight you are. Your eyes roll upwards, then flutter closed.

"Know you must think I’m a hypocrite for leavin’ every day myself," Joel chuckles, forcing his cock all the way inside, until he’s met with resistance and the greying hair at the base of his cock presses into your clit.

"No, Daddy," you whimper, "you’re not a h-hypocrite."

He strokes your hair, thinks you’re sweet for disagreeing when every coherent word clearly costs you a lot of concentration.

"The difference is I’m ruined anyway," he explains to you, his thrusts deep and slow, "but you haven’t been touched by this world. I gotta protect that."

Your agreement is muffled, but it’s enough for Joel.

"There’s nothing in the world I care more about than keepin’ you safe."

You twitch and tremble, thrust your own hips upwards until Joel presses them into the mattress.

"You understand that?"

"Yes," you breathe, and grasp at his shoulder.

"Repeat it for me, babydoll."

He knows he’s being mean, can tell you’re almost delirious with pleasure and close to your next orgasm, but he needs to hear you say it before he gives in.

"I…you’ve got to keep me safe," you say, face scrunched up in pleasure and concentration, "nothing more important than for me to be around you."

He fucks up into you, and feels your words spread through him like some sort of emotional pre-orgasm release. It’s all he needs, really, for you to say these words and believe them, mean them. He knows you need his cock for that to truly happen, though, knows it’s the only thing able to drive the doubt from your mind completely.

“Good,” Joel answers, “just needed Daddy to remind you, huh?”

You don’t answer, your breathing is short and shallow now, and Joel slows down his thrusts.

"Breathe for me, angel."

You do, draw in a raspy, choked gasp of a breath, and he smiles down at you, punches his cock into your tight hole one, two, three times, and sees your third orgasm in your eyes before it happens. You flutter around him, clench, then let go and positively gush.

"Good girl," he mutters, fucks you through it, before burying himself all the way inside of you as his cock pulses and releases. It won’t take, not after his vasectomy, but God, does he wish it did. He fucks his come up into you anyway, and you take it, happy and fucked out, and entirely free of any doubts about him.

When you curl up against him a while later, your body clean and limp now, he kisses your hair, lets you doze off, and traces the little marks and moles on your skin. He knows sometime’s he’s too hard on you, perhaps too strict, but when you’re this pliant and content, he finds it hard to regret his actions. Not when they’re this effective. He thinks he hears a soft Daddy on your lips, and smiles. If you’re dreaming of him, surely you can’t be thinking of leaving. And he knows, in that moment, if you ever tried to, he’d move heaven and earth to stop it from happening. in fact, he’ll use that key in the morning, just as a precaution— you don’t have to know.

part 2 of this series

#I need to be locked up royally #you too though it’s a case of supply and demand #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel x reader #Joel miller smut #lana del Rey #the right person will stay #tlou fanfiction #tw dubcon

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