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signoraviolettavalery · 1 year ago

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Finally posting what is (sort of?) the next part of vampire!Bojan and hunter Jan - I'm skipping over the bits where they're brooding and missing each other after the Big Reveal. I'll post those later but for now I just want to get this posted. It rewrites a scene from an earlier part because of the way it resonates with a later scene (this is what happens when you serialize your work and post in installments as you're writing!)

this part is dark, with trigger warnings for blood and torture, so, ya know, proceed at your own risk

[Kris has noticed the bite mark on Jan’s neck and realized that Bojan fed from his neck]

“It’s fine, I can wear a sexy little scarf,” Jan says.

“that’s not the point and you know it,” Kris snaps. “We have rules for a reason.”

Bojan starts agreeing with him, he got carried away, it was irresponsible and dangerous, he shouldn’t have – but Jan won’t hear it.

“Don’t even start,” he snaps back. “I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions. I chose to trust him, and I was right.”

Kris opens his mouth to argue but Jan plows on. “And I don’t understand why you think Bojan is a ticking time bomb in the first place! He’s never lost control, never hurt anyone, never fed on anyone without permission. Ever. He’s the most disciplined person I’ve ever met, and acting like he’s a second away from killing us all the time isn’t doing anything for his self-worth!”

A heavy silence follows this.

“Jan has a point,” Nace ventures. “I know I’m the newest to all this, but I’ve never been afraid around Bojan.”

“We’re all new to this,” Kris insists. “We don’t know everything about vampires, and we’re under so much more scrutiny now with all our success. If we make a mistake it could end very badly. I just don’t want us to lose what we’ve worked for so hard, or for anything bad to happen. I’m just trying to take precautions.”

“There’s taking precautions and then there’s treating him like he’s radioactive. Maybe let’s act like we’re all adults with self-control and the ability to make our own decisions?”

“Okay. What would you suggest?”

[following this, Bojan discovers Jan is a hunter who originally came undercover to kill him, but then came to care for him. He feels betrayed, asks for space, they're both sad and brood and miss each other].

Jure gets kidnapped, and Bojan gets a very direct message: they’re hunters, and they’ll let Jure go if he surrenders himself.

Bojan doesn’t even give it a second thought. He writes a note to the group, telling them not to come looking for him but to call Jan if Jure doesn’t return safely, and he goes where he’s told.

“Do you think your friend will come? I’d wager 50-50,” one of the hunters ask Jure.

And, as if on cue. Bojan appears. “I’m here,” he says. “Let him go.”

“Guess you lost your bet,” Jure mouths off, despite the knife that’s appeared at his neck. They’re clearly not taking any chances.

“You first. You surrender peacefully and don’t try any funny business, and then we let him go.” The hunter directs this at Bojan, pressing the knife more firmly to Jure’s throat. A bead of blood appears.

“If you kill him, you lose your leverage, and I’ll tear you two to pieces,” Bojan points out. “Let him go.”

“You’re right,” one of the hunters says. “He’s no good to us dead.” He takes the knife away from Jure’s throat – Bojan breathes a sign of relief – and plunges it into his stomach instead.

Jure screams. (It’s a sound Bojan’s never heard before and never wants to again). Bojan screams too. Wants to tear them to pieces, but knows he won’t even get close. There’s two of them, and even with his superhuman abilities, he has no chance of subduing them before the knife does something a little more permanent to Jure.

“This won’t kill him immediately. He’ll bleed out slowly, but your blood can save him. You surrender peacefully and we’ll give it to him. It’s you or him. Choose.”

“I already did!” he practically shouts. “I’m here. What else do you want from me??”

The other hunter – the one who didn’t do the stabbing – throws a pair of silver handcuffs at him. “Put them on,” he says. “Behind your back.”

He knew it was too much to hope for that they’d merely kill him and get it done with. Still, he winces as he picks up the shackles. Silver burns, and though he’s wearing long sleeves, they don’t fully protect him. It’s bearable for now, like a low-level current on his skin, but it’ll get worse with time.

It’s funny how he doesn’t feel different as he manacles click shut. Yet the silver also tempers his abilities, rendering speed and strength like those of a normal human. Practically harmless, with men as trained as these.

He turns around, showing them that he hasn’t cheated, turns back.

“Come here,” they order, and he obeys. Lets himself be shoved unceremoniously to the floor and chained to a pole. Lets them rip open his button-down – the buttons go flying, and a hysterical part of him remembers ripped sleeves and delighted screams – and a knife slices open his chest. He bites back a hiss. The hunter is holding a vial, but the wound heals itself before he gets more than two drops into it. Not nearly enough.

“Hmm. I don’t think the silver tempers healing ability. Let’s try this.”

The next knife is a silver one, and Bojan grits his teeth as it slices him open and burns. This one takes longer to heal – long enough to fill the vial with precious liquid. Which they make no move to give to Jure.

“You have me, just give it to him.” He tries to sound less pleading and more forceful.

One of the hunters shrugs. “He has a few hours left. He’s here to ensure your continued cooperation. But don’t worry, we’ll give it to him before we finish you off.”

“You fuckers. He’s human. Do you get off on this or something?”

They don’t answer, just proceed to what they probably think of as their experiments, which start with a knife in his shoulder, over and over again. It heals every time, but as soon as it does, they plunge it again into the tender, perfectly healed skin until he’s screaming.

And Jure’s still here, across the room, bleeding. Bojan can hear him trying to bite back his whimpers. Wishes he could comfort him.

“He’s dying,” he tries to reason with them. “Please. Just give him my blood.”

“Cooperate, and we will.”

“I am, what else do you want – “

He’s silenced as a silver knife replaces the regular one in his shoulder and he screams again. Soon enough, he’s going to completely lose his voice from the screaming, and the part of him that’s a singer can’t help lamenting it, while the other part of him reminds him that it doesn’t matter anyway, because soon he’ll be dead.

“How’s that feel?”

He just groans.

“You agreed to cooperate. Tell me how that feels.” And he did, and Jure is behind them, lying on the ground now, curled up and whimpering and -

“Like you’re stabbing me with a poker, how do you think it feels?” he spits out. It’s too many words, what with a knife in his chest, and he groans, the room swimming. Blissfully, it’s over for now. He leans his head back and wishes desperately for it to be over. He can feel the wounds healing, slowly, but the memory of the pain stays vivid.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Begging already?” One of them sneers.

“Please. Let him go.” If only Jure is safe, this won’t have been for nothing.

They probably exchange glances – he can’t spare the effort to open his eyes and look – but he can hear footsteps, and a body being unceremoniously shoved.

“Brought you a little treat,” the hunter tells Jure. “Drink up.” The sounds of Jure drinking, presumably healing, and of course, a knife undoing Jure’s bonds.

“Go. Walk a mile west, you’ll find a road and a rest stop. And don’t you even think about playing hero. You’ve seen what we can do. You try to get back in here, we should you in the head.”

Bojan forces his eyes open and his head up.

“Go,” he tells a wide-eyed but definitely no-longer-bleeding Jure. “Leave me. Tell the others I love them, and not to play hero, okay?”

“You fucking monsters,” Jure snarls instead. “Does that look like a monster to you?”

They only shrug. “Go. Or stay, and join him where he’s going. Your choice.”

Bojan’s relieved when Jure chooses the former option. Sinks back, both relieved and resigned. There’s nothing to fight for anymore. If only they’d end it.

“Just finish it already,” he says as they pick up another knife.

“You want a quick ending? All the people you killed didn’t get one, did they? They got to die slowly, while you drained their blood. This is justice for them.”

“I’ve never killed anyone!” he protests uselessly, because clearly his stubbornness will die along with him.

It gets him a knife in the ribs. It’s silver, like a poker inside him, sheer agony, and they leave it there. The room swims again, and he wishes he’d just pass out. He hates his fucking pain tolerance.

“I think you have. Tell me how many.”

“I haven’t – I – fuck – I haven’t.”

He twists the knife and Bojan doesn’t have it in him to be ashamed of how pathetic his scream must sound, ending in a whimper.

“How many?”

“Zero, I swear, zero, I feed but I’ve never killed anybody!”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” the other one pipes up. The one with the knife doesn’t seem to agree, but he at least takes it out. His body doesn’t heal, can’t heal anymore, but at least he’s no longer on fire from the inside.

He slumps sideways and wishes he were dead.

Somewhere, an alarm blares, which doesn’t make sense.

“Someone found the perimeter,” the first hunter says, before there’s footsteps and then –

“Don’t shoot. I’m one of yours.”

Jan’s voice.

Jan. Is he, finally, fully delirious? Has the pain driven him mad? And if he’s imagining Jan, why has his mind conjured up a Jan that’s on their side? Is that what his subconscious really thinks?

There is probably clarity in death, he thinks.

“What are you doing here?” one of the hunters demands.

“Heard you were having some fun with a vampire I’d been tracking. You’re having the party without me?”

“You should’ve gotten to him first,” hunter two sneers.

“Or maybe you could let me join for the last bit of fun? This one and me have a bit of a personal history.”

Bojan doesn’t even open his eyes. Doesn’t want to see him, that beloved face looking back at him with empty eyes and a look of hatred.

Why is he surprised? Jan was a hunter above all. And yet Bojan feels his heart break a second time.

It’s a shock when he feels arms shove him upright; his eyes flutter open. And there’s Jan’s face, so dear to him, those deep, dark eyes, but they aren’t dead and full of hatred like he’d feared. They’re not full of – anything.

“You’re late to the party,” he says, bitterness coloring his voice. After everything they’d shared, he wants to throw it back in Jan’s face. “Couldn’t stomach it? Or did you just come to do the honors?” It would be poetic, after all, if Jan was the one to kill him. It’s what he’d intended to from the beginning, wasn’t it?

Jan doesn’t respond. One of his hands is on Bojan’s shoulder, holding him upright as he appears to examine his injuries, but the other is slipping something cold and metallic into his hands.

The key to his handcuffs.

Bojan’s eyes widen in surprise. Surprise that seems to make Jan’s eyes cloud with pain and confusion. Because Jan – Jan thought he’d just been playing along?

He stands, turns to the hunters. “So, what’s next on the menu?”

Bojan desperately undoes the handcuffs while Jan keeps them talking. It’s blissful relief to have the silver off. It doesn’t heal all his wounds, but it gives his body the strength to heal some. Gives his body back strength.

Jan’s eyes meet his. There’s a moment of acknowledgement.

Jan takes one hunter while Bojan lunges desperately at the other with the last of his strength. Grappling with each other, they roll to the ground and stumble back to their feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Bojan sees that Jan has dispatched his opponent quickly.

Bojan’s opponent, however, has a gun that he’s pulled out.

Beyond that, it’s a blur. He registers movement out of the corner of his eye before the gun goes off, the bang too loud in the silence. Then Jan’s body is in front of him, and he’s falling, and Bojan smells blood, and –

With his last ounce of strength, he uses the seconds Jan has bought him to tackle his opponent again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to snap his neck. Not when Jan’s life is on the line, Jan is bleeding out next to him, and Bojan has spent the last of his strength. He has this one last chance, and beyond it, neither of them will be in any state to fight back.

So, now he’s killed. Ironic, he supposes.

He makes a beeline for Jan, who is on the ground and very much bleeding from a shoulder wound. Cradles his head and mumbles nonsense, Jan’s name and “you’ll be alright, you will, why did you do that?”

“Had to – keep you safe,” Jan mumbles, head lolling.

“No no no, don’t you dare pass out on me, you’re going to be fine, you’re going to take my blood, here – “

“Can’t – need to get the bullet out first – “

“Okay, how do I – “ he looks around. This place is hardly sanitary. There’s certainly no anesthetic, no tools. If there’s an infection, can his blood heal that?

“Get me home,” Jan mumbles. “Nace – getaway car – call him.”

It turns out Jan has a phone on him, and Jan – who’s parked a mile away – is there in minutes. Bojan collapses into the backseat, holding Jan, while Nace disregards all speed limits.

“Why did you do that?” he asks hysterically, though Jan is hardly lucid enough to give him proper answers. “I can heal. You can’t.”

“Not from a silver bullet, and he’d have aimed for the heart.”

Which means – Jan saved his life. Jan threw himself in front of a bullet without thinking, and it saved his life, and now Jan might not – might not –

“You’re going to make it,” he says firmly. “You’ll be fine, we’re almost there.”

“I know,” Jan agrees. “’s just a flesh wound.”

Nace joins in with the hysterical chuckling at that.

When they arrive, it’s Nace who picks Bojan up, carrying his injured body – so small by comparison to the bassist’s tall frame – bridal style. Jan insists he can walk, stumbles out of the car, and promptly faceplants. It’s Martin who runs forward to support him.

Martin. The last thing he’d said to Jan had been “I don’t care what you do, but bring him back.”

“He’s safe,” is all Jan says to him.

Martin hums in acknowledgement, clearly distracted. He gets Jan inside, but his first priority is Bojan, who’s been deposited on the couch and is attempting to sit up while wincing. And Martin takes it all in - the unbuttoned, bloodstained shirt, and all the still-bleeding wounds scattered around his torso, the angry burns from holy water.

“Mother of god,” he breathes. He’s on his knees, Bojan’s face cradled in his hands. “What did they do to you?”

“Don’t worry, chicks dig guys with scars.” Bojan tries to give a cheeky grin that makes Martin bite back a sob.

“Here.” He offers a wrist. “You need to heal.”

Bojan shakes his head stubbornly. “Is Jan okay? I have to make sure he’s okay.” He looks over to where Jan is being held upright by Nace, while Kris collects what they’ll need to remove the bullet. “Don’t we need anesthetic?” he asks.

Jan shakes his head. “Just give me the whiskey.”

Bojan wants to cry. “You can’t be serious, that’s not – you don’t have to be the tough guy and prove anything!”

“For fuck’s sake, can we stop talking and just get this over with,” Jan growls.

Kris – of steady guitarist fingers – does it. Jan, being a fucking hunter, makes no other sound than a valiant groan, and then passes out. Bojan tries to get up and run over to catch him, but only gets as far as attempting to stand up before he falls back down. It’s Nace who catches him instead.

“He’ll be fine,” Martin insists. “Now drink, because he won’t appreciate it if all his efforts have been for nothing.” He offers a wrist again. “Take as much as you need.”

Bojan takes it, clearly too worn out for protest, though he does add “I need more than one person can give.”

“Good think you’re surrounded by snacks,” Nace grins.

“Did you just call me a snack?” Kris demands.

“In more ways than one,” Nace replies, wiggling his eyebrows.

It’s the lighthearted banter, more than anything else, that soothes Bojan enough that he allows himself to drink.

It’s been a long time since he drank from Martin – now that he’s no longer part of the band – but the taste is familiar and soothing. It’s warmth, home, safety. He wants to drink and drink, and he’s in no state to stop himself, but thankfully Martin is, with that ever-gentle voice saying his name. It takes gargantuan effort, with his body craving the sustenance, but he drags himself away from that sweetness and warmth, only to see Martin looking shaky. It hadn’t seemed like he took that much, but in his state, his ability to judge that is off. And clearly he’s been drinking for long enough that Jan has regained consciousness in that time.

“Here,” Nace is quick to offer. “One gluten free dinner, coming right up.”

Bojan laughs weakly, but isn’t that something? He’s laughing. His friends are here, around him. He’s safe. Jan is safe. They’ll be okay. He feels that hope for the first time, as he takes the proffered wrist and feasts on gluten-free blood. He doesn’t even need Nace’s gentle encouragement to pull away. His injuries have knitted together, but his body is full of the memory of pain, and he doesn’t think that’ll go away for a while. But for now, he’s at least strong enough to walk, to take care of the biggest priority: Jan. Jan, who is still bleeding, teeth gritted, watching him feed attentively.

“Here.” He offers Jan a wrist, even though they still feel raw and he wants to wince as he bites it open, and watches as the healing blood does its work. Jan’s skin knits together perfectly.

“No sexy scar for you,” he says, and Jan chuckles.

Behind them, the others have silently and tactfully made their retreat, leaving the two of them alone for a much needed talk.

“You really thought I was with them? That I’d do that to you?” Jan asks.

“I - “ Had he really? “I was a bit delirious by that point. Thought you were a hallucination at first, and when you played along – “ he shakes his head. “After what they did to Jure, I didn’t have a lot of trust or hope left over.”

Jan takes his hands. “I’ll never hurt you. I swear. I will always protect you.”

Bojan laughs weakly. "Taking a bullet is an overdramatic way to earn back my trust. Maybe let's not do that again?"

Jan smiles cheekily. “No promises.”

And Bojan cries. The weeks of missing Jan, Jure’s kidnapping, what the hunters did to Jure, what they did to him, almost losing Jan – it’s too much. He buries his head in Jan’s neck and sobs, and Jan holds him while he gets it all out. He soaks Jan’s bloodstained shirt with tears, but what does that matter? “I missed you so much,” he confesses between sobs.

“I missed you too,” Jan admits. “But I’m here, and you’re safe, you’re always safe with me, and I’ll never give you a reason to doubt me again.”

Bojan refuses to let Jan out of his sight that night. They’re all exhausted, worn out, and nothing seems more tempting than collapsing into bed. Bojan refuses to sleep without Jan next to him, curling around him and passing out into a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Jan wakes up first. Bojan is still wrapped around him, tight as a barnacle, nose buried in his neck. A year ago, he’d have been terrified by the thought of a vampire’s fangs so close to his jugular while he was unconscious, but now, all he feels is warmth and familiarity and relief. Bojan is here, safe. He hadn’t failed.

He shifts slightly, and Bojan mumbles something in his sleep and clutches him tighter. Jan smiles.

“You’re not a monster,” he tells a sleeping Bojan. “You couldn’t be if you tried. You’re the best man I’ve ever known, and I love you.”

Bojan’s lips curve in a smile. “You love me?” he repeats.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Jan admits.

Bojan blinks his eyes open. “You don’t want me to know you love me?” he asks. He’s sleep-ruffled and gorgeous and how could Jan ever deny him anything?

“No, I do,” he admits.

It’s strange, to wake up here like this. As if they were simply lovers, nothing chasm between them. Like they did this every morning. The moment hangs heavy between them, and to lighten it, Jan asks “how do you feel?”

Bojan groans, stretching and wincing slightly. “Like I got to be a hunter pincushion a few hours ago,” he admits. Now that Bojan’s not curled around him, Jan can see what look like scars from where he’d been injured, over and over. Perhaps they’ll fade with time – or maybe there’s a limit to even vampire healing.

“In that case, can I offer you breakfast in bed?” Jan suggests, extending a wrist.

Bojan frowns. “You got shot yesterday.”

“And you fed me your blood, so I feel literally better than ever. But you could clearly use some help in that department.”

And for once, Bojan gives in without protest. Leans forward to bite, but by then Jan’s made his decision. He pulls his wrist away, and Bojan pauses, frowns in momentary confusion before he sees Jan tilt his head back, offering his neck.

The moment hangs heavy between them. The last time they’d done this, there were secrets between them. Now, Jan knows Bojan is a vampire, Bojan knows Jan a hunter who’d come here intending to kill him, and they both know Jan offers freely.

Jan can read his face like a book: the hope that this time, this is real. How badly he wants it to be real. He can see the moment when Bojan lets himself have what he wants for once.

He feels the fangs sink into his neck and closes his eyes, relaxing. The bite hurts – nothing a hunter can’t handle, of course, and certainly nothing compared to a bullet through the shoulder – but beyond that, he feels blissfully calm and safe. He likes this, trusting Bojan with his life. Being at his mercy. Bojan will know when to stop. He doesn’t have to worry about it, can just lie here, in the warmest bed he’s ever known, and let the vampire take.

People always think that when a vampire feeds, they’re unaware of how much they’re taking, consumed by the bloodlust until their victim is beyond saving. That’s not true. The blood in Jan’s body sings to him, and as he drinks, there is that savage bloodlust, yes, but he knows how much is still there, calling to him. Can feel the blood pumping through veins, the pulse growing sluggish, unconsciousness coming.

It’s an intimate thing, to feed on someone. The hunters never realize that.

Bojan takes Jan to the edge of consciousness. He can sense it, the lethargy of the limbs, the feeble protests of a human body trying to protect itself. Jan’s eyes are still closed, the hand in his hair making no move to pull him away.

If he kept going, Jan would let him. Would trust him with the point of no return.

That is a moment of revelation. That this is real.

He pulls away and Jan makes a sound of protest. His eyelids are sluggish, slow to open, as Bojan licks the last drops of blood from Jan’s neck– the wound closes neatly, leaving a day-old bite mark – and licks his lips. Jan just smiles dumbly at him.

“I’ve missed this,” he admits.

Bojan frowns.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Jan gives a small shrug. “Little bit. Worth it, though. I’ve missed being someone you trust enough to show that part of yourself to. Missed trusting you with myself in return.”

And that – that is another revelation. He’d always hated feeding on his friends, felt so guilty about it that he went too long without feeding. The fact that Jan seems to like it is almost incomprehensible to him in this moment. He’s not a burden. He’s loved, trusted – accepted for everything that he is.

“I think it’s your turn for breakfast. Get some vitamins in you after that.”

Jan makes a half-hearted protest, but Bojan’s already out of bed. “I’ll be right back,” he says, making his way to the kitchen with vampire speed.

Where he happens upon Martin, Kris, Jure, and Nace. He’s already opened the fridge and pulled out half a breakfast by the time he registers their presence.

“How are you?” Kris asks.

“Good,” he says, and feels it. Yesterday’s memories are like a fever dream, and he has no doubt they’ll come back to haunt them, but for now he’s clearly repressing them. He probably looks better, too, less pale and half-dead (ha); he can see the others take in his obviously improved appearance, the makings of breakfast he’s holding, and put two and two together.

“Ah,” Kris says. Martin just smiles.

“Yeah, I’ll just – “ Bojan gestures, then speeds out of the kitchen, blushing. Why does it feel like he’s brought a girl home without asking his roommates?

Later that day, he makes his way into the kitchen again, climbs gingerly onto a stool. It’s obvious there’s a lot to discuss, but they wait for him to broach the silence.

“I forgive him,” he says tentatively.

Predictably, Kris frowns. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re not thinking clearly – “

Bojan shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. I stopped being mad at him a long time ago. Mostly I was just grieving, because I missed him and I didn’t know if any of it had been real for him like it was for me. But now I know it was, and I don’t want to waste any more time not having him in my life.”

“Okay,” Nace agrees. “If you can trust him again, I can too.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of trusting anyone after what I’ve been through,” Jure admits softly. “But I missed him too. And I do want him back.”

“I told him to bring you home no matter what he had to do, and he did,” Martin says. “I’ve seen how happy he makes you, how it broke you when he was gone, and what he’s willing to do for you. I think you deserve someone like that in your life.”

“I know he took a bullet for you,” Kris says. “I don’t think he’d hurt you. But that’s not the same as not lying to you. In that department, as far as I’m concerned, he’s on thin ice for now.”

“That’s fair.” Jan’s voice comes from behind them. He’s appeared with catlike silence, but stands in the doorway, hunched and small. He’d clearly showered, hair damp, and is now wearing one of Bojan’s white t-shirts, which leaves the bite mark on his neck starkly visible.

Bojan can see Kris’ eyes find it, his inaudible “oh,” the shift in his expression.

“Welcome back,” Jure offers.

“It’s good to be back,” Jan says. “I missed all of you. I know I didn’t show it the right way, but you’re like family to me. And I’ll earn back your trust.”

#vampire!bojan #poor bojan I feel so bad putting him through all this #this is so rough and unpolished but i just wanna get it posted honestly

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emptywwwriting · 4 months ago

Text

Brat

Paring: Joel Miller x reader

Summary: After you make a stupid call and get you and Joel into a bad situation he teaches you a lesson

Joel fucks some sense into you over a table.

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, Joel is mean, Joel calls you names, reader is high on pain pills lowkey but everything is consented to, it makes sense I promise just read, Joel pushes you around, age gap

WC: 2.5k

A03: Brat

Notes: This is nasty asf im so sorry, feel free to leave feed back. also send asks if u have ideas for future fics. Anyways I have had this written but unpolished for a while, and im lowkey unmotivated with my age gap Jackson fic rn so I wanted to give y'all something until then

Edit: I finally edited it! i hope it sounds a little better, and tysm for notes :)))

“What the fuck is your problem?” Joel yells slamming the door harshly behind him.

“My problem? What the fuck?” You throw your bag down in defeat.

“We could have brought back all that fucking supplies and you just blew it all up.” You’re yelling at him now.

“Yeah,” He huffs. “real good it would have done us dead!” He's taking steps towards you.

Your throat tightens.

“That loss was on fucking you. We could have just slid by and not started nothin’, now we're down on supplies even more and you have a fuckin hole in your side.” He’s seething and growing closer.

“Yeah, I would've had a real good fix if you had listened to me!” You're shaking, and taking steps towards him, finger in his face.

It's a screaming match, but you're losing steam, the wound on your side is manageable but painful, the stitches pull at your skin and you're still a little dizzy from the blood loss, but the pain pills Joel had shoved in your mouth should kick in any moment.

You and Joel had just stumbled into the middle of a hunter's base while traveling. It was filled with supplies like ammo, guns, and food. The two of you disagreed on whether to get the supplies or not, Joel thought it was too risky but you disagreed. Your stubbornness led to a massive shootout, and shortly after the first shot was fired, the two of you were cornered. Joel had to throw a pipe bomb, which inevitably killed the hunters and blew the supplies to pieces. You barely escaped the fight after a bullet grazed your side. Now you were left with no ammo or supplies, and a pissed-off Joel.

“Listen to you?” He retorts, shocked. “You nearly got us killed!” He's gaining on you, backing you into the wall.

“I was thinking ahead! If you would have just followed me and not made a fuss, we would have been fine!” Your voice starts to falter as his tall frame devours you.

“Thinking ahead my ass, you were only thinkin’ bout yourself!” He furiously spat.

You back up slowly, as he continues to yell. You can't think of anything else to say, and your throat feels raw. His eyes are filled with rage, brows pinched together tightly. His hand lands on your shoulder, and with a firm shove, your back instantly hits the wall. Before you can process what happened, his hand flies up, grasping your jaw harshly and pulling your head to look up at him.

“If you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ idiot again, don't drag me down with you.” He says carefully.

His chest is rising and falling quickly fighting aginst the constaints of his flannel The breath has been ripped from your lungs as you stare up at him anticipaitingly. You can't break eye contact, and silence is starting to take over, only both of your heavy breathing fills the air. His eyes are black, staring so deep into your own you feel like you can't hide anything. His grip on your jaw loosens, only for a moment before you are yanked towards him. His lips crash into yours messily, capturing you in a violent kiss. His body is pushed into yours, knee slotting in between your legs, pressing you even further back into the wall. You feel his teeth graze your lips, biting and nipping at anything he can. You try to keep up with the frantic kiss, but can't. His hands move from your jaw to your neck, to your shoulder and back, like he doesn't know where to go. Your own are frozen at your side, balled into fists. The fast pace is bruising and your jaw begins to ache from his force.

His lips leave yours, as he brings your head up further craning it. Just as you are finally able to take a breath, he reconnects to your neck. Sucking on every inch of skin he can, it's fast and almost narotic, anamiliostic even, but it doesn't stop you from trying to squeeze your legs together. His bites become more harsh and you can't help but let out weak groans. He pushes his knee up into you more and your legs go numb. Your mouth is wide open, eyes screwed shut.

Joel is littering kisses and merciless bites down the column of your neck, hands feeling feverishly up and down your sides.

He trails to your collarbone, biting it gently then making his way back up. He kisses his way to your jaw and over to your ear before standing up completely. His leg disappears from under you and you have to catch yourself from falling.

Looking down at you, his eyes are still dark.

“Go stand in front of the table.” His voice sounds scratchy and out of breath.

You stare at him blinking dumbly trying to make sense of everything that just happened. Your mouth opens to say something, but the thought is lost as soon as it had come to you. His hair is disheveled, sleeves are rolled up exposing his aged yet muscular forearms. He is so tall and so brooding, it's so terrifyingly attractive. Something about his rage is just turning you on more and you know its wrong but it feels so good.

“You stupid or sumthin’?” He sounds mean, so condescending, and normally his talking down on you enrages you, but right now, everything in your head wants more of him. His kisses, his smell, the way his knee felt pushing up against your most sensitive part, you feel high.

He tilts his head at you warningly, and you slowly push yourself off the wall and walk shakily over to the table in the middle of the dusty room. You place your hands on the edge of the table standing up straight and facing away from Joel. It's quiet for a minute before you hear the thudding of his boots growing closer to you. They stop just behind you and you're shoved over the table by a rough hand. You whine at this quietly, hands braced against the surface. Once again he makes contact with your back, pushing you slowly yet firmly into the piece of furniture, forcing your arms out to the side of you.

“You’re a fuckin’ brat.” His hands trail their way to your hips squeezing long and hard, pulling them against his own. He's kneading the flesh, you feel his eyes burning holes into you.

“Just a stupid kid, thinkin’ you always know what's best.” He trails off and starts pulling your jeans down and over your ass slowly. The cold air of the room gives you chills and you attempt to push your legs together.

You turn your head to the side.

“N-not a kid.” You are barely able to get out, your lungs still feel empty.

His hand makes contact with your now bare ass. Not hard, but enough to make you close your mouth.

“Shut it.” He's serious.

He sighs and continues.

“You're cocky, and young...” He pauses for a moment, maybe second guessing himself about to fuck a twenty year old girl, the same thought crosses your mind but neither of you really care at this point.

Your head is spinning out of control, a slight nausous feelings seeps into your gut when you suddenly recall the three multi-colored pills Joel had given you earlier. Your stomach drops for only a moment before you recognize the euphoria flooding your brain.

You barely notice the sound of Joel’s belt buckle coming undone.

“Should have listened to me ya know,” He says, grabbing your ass firmly and pulling it away from the table, and snapping you out of your thoughts.

“I've kept you safe for how many months now?” He grunts, prodding your entrance.

You gasp.

He leans to the side and makes eye contact with you.

“Listen to me next time and maybe you won't have a fuckin’ hole in your stomach again.” He stands back up straight again.

“Mhm sorry-” Your apology is empty, you feel like you're melting into the table, and all you can think about is the feeling of his dick at your hole. You're not really sorry, your just sorry hes not already in you.

You know this, and he knows this.

“Yeah, sorry don't cut it no more. Think you can look all pretty at me and I'll forgive you? I'm done with that shit.” He thrusts into you so suddenly you yell, or at least you think you do, but you're too dizzy and the feeling of his cock deep inside is all you can feel. He's saying something but you can't hear anymore, your eyes are shut and all you know is the weight of him inside you. His touch is like a mantra in your head.

Joel Joel Joel Joel

He pulls back quickly, then slowly sinks into you again. You're moaning over each inch, unable to do anything but take it. He pushes your ass apart, and pulls out slightly, sinking back in once more. He repeats this slowly a few more times, mesmerized by the sight of you sucking him in. Your moans come out strangled, and you stumble over incoherent words.

“I always take care of you right?” His voice is low. His hands go to your hips again and continue at a slow pace. The wet sound is so disgustingly loud, that it makes you cringe, but just as with every other thought, it is quickly blurred. Your brain is foggy with lust, and probably the painkillers, but that doesn't matter right now, nothing but this amazing feeling inside of you matters.

You moan in response. He huffs out a laugh.

“You're never this compliant, this what I have t’do to make you listen?” His hands squeeze you harder.

You hum so brokenly in response he almost feels bad, but the way you're gripping around him lulls him in further, there's no going back now.

“Gon' be real good for me?” His southern drawl drips off of every word he says.

“Let me take care of you like I always do. You be a good girl and keep layin’ here.” You go to speak but your words die in your throat when he slams into you again.

His pace quickens so fast you can't move anymore. Your eyes are now wide open staring across the empty room, mouth open moaning non stop. He is hitting something so devastating inside of you that your knees go weak and hang loosely over the table. He's grunting, with each thrust, lost in the way you feel.

“Fuck, so good. Feels so good.” He's breathless, holding onto your bruised hips for dear life.

“Shoulda' done this months ago.” He slurs.

The thought of Joel fucking you, in the truck, in the woods, in dilapidated houses, really anywhere, is making the blood rush to your head. Your neglected clit is throbbing needily, and your stomach is beginning to tighten.

Your walls squeeze around him and his pace falters for a moment as he lets out a strangled moan, he sounds like he's in pain. You on the other hand are just yelling at this point, weak moans lace everything that comes out of your mouth. Your arms are gripping the flat surface as much as possible, bracing yourself against his violent movements. The coil tightens and you feel your orgasm approaching.

An “Oh god” leaves your mouth but it's so slurred and desperate it doesn't feel real.

“Come on baby girl.” He angles his hips down and you're blinded by the feeling.

“Fuckin’, god... Brat. Come all over me.” He sounds breathless, yet still furious.

You're so high on his everything, that the words only push you further and further over the cliff, and suddenly your whole body tenses so unbelievably tight you can't move. Your hips stutter back against Joel, locking him inside of you. He's sputtering your name, mixed with Fuck’s and You feel so good’s.

Your insides clamp down on him and he stops moving completely, now just grinding his hips into yours weakly. Each wave tightens your body even more than the last, it goes on for what feels like forever. Eventually, the final surge passes and you melt into the table, completely limp. Your senses are numb, and all you can feel is Joel's dick jerking in you rhythmically.

He must have come but you were so overwhelmed by your own orgasm you didn't even notice. He's breathing hard above you, your body is coated in sweat, soaking through your shirt. Slowly your feelings come back. Joel finally releases your hips and pulls out of you gradually. The feeling is deflating, and you feel even smaller than before. Your hole flutters around nothing, but you can't move off the table still. You feel Joel staring at you, and then you feel it start to trickle out of you, shame floods your mind and your face goes red. You feel him bend down to grab the jeans that were still hanging off your ankles, pulling them up and over your ass again. The dampness of his cum makes you shift slightly, and you try to push yourself up off the table. When you do your vision goes black, and you hesitate not wanting to pass out on him right after he fucked you.

Slowly now you stand, legs trembling under your weight. The euphoria of the painkillers is coursing through your body so intensely, that you had forgotten about the wound. Reaching down to feel it, it was dry still not bleeding.

That's surprising.

You turn to see Joel gathering his things from around the room, and throwing his backpack over his shoulder. He's running his hands nervously through his hair.

How does he look so composed?

Your hair is tangled and messy, dried tears crust your face, and your jeans are still not buttoned and unzipped.

“Get your stuff.” He says quietly, timidly, and not making eye contact.

He wants to leave now?

“We’re not-, I can't even-” You stutter, shocked at how he expects you to be able to walk back to the truck in this state.

“Get your stuff.” He says again, giving you a warning glance.

You blink at him, you're dizzy and weak, everything is sore in the best way possible but you genuinely don't feel like you can walk. You struggle over to your backpack and scoop it off the floor, putting it on. When you look up Joel has already opened the door and is scouting the area, making sure no one is in sight. Once clear he steps out, holding the door for you. You walk slowly, limping over to him not looking him in the eye, you're too embarrassed to. When you step outside he closes the door and begins walking in the direction of the truck. You feel frail and the idea of the half-mile walk back makes you feel even more fatigued. He seems weirdly unbothered by everything that just happened, while you on the other hand are a wreck.

The whole way back, you stumble after Joel, underwear uncomfortably wet.

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