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ollieofthebeholder · 2 months ago

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And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 18: Forbear her tears, forbear her blood

“—going to have to tranquilize him to keep him from diving headfirst into them,” Tim continued. “Or nail his tongue to the desk. Rowlf, heel!”

Rowlf, who was well-suited to his new family in that he was probably the most contrary thing on four legs, nearly yanked Tim’s arm out of its socket trying to lunge down the sidewalk. Tim planted his feet and stood still, waiting for him to give up pulling and come back. Gerry stood beside him, trying to look sympathetic but only succeeding in looking very much like he was trying not to laugh. “Maybe we should get one of those retractable ones they had in the pet shop.”

“Too hard to control, and as strong as he is now I don’t trust him not to snap it later on down the road.”

“You’re the expert. I was never allowed a pet growing up…how many real ones has he found so far?”

Tim grimaced. “Five that I know of.”

Rowlf evidently tired of straining on the lead and trotted back to Tim’s side. Tim waited until the chain slackened into a J shape before setting off again. Gerry reached over and laced their fingers together. “What do they involve? Do you remember?”

“The one I took off him hoping it was the only real one was the Buried. The fragment he used as a test recording sounds like the Dark, if you ask me, but I can’t prove it.” Tim stopped as Rowlf sniffed at a fire hydrant, then cocked his leg against it. “Don’t even have a name for that one. Two of the others are definitely the Stranger.”

Gerry was quiet for a few minutes as they strode along towards the Morden South station. Two nights before the summer solstice meant sunset was almost as late as it could be, which meant they had more time to get to some of the further-flung parks without having to drive and fight for parking, and Tim had successfully sold Gerry on the idea of spending an evening in Greenwich Park and letting Rowlf run around for a bit as a reward for how well he was—theoretically anyway—doing at learning to walk on a lead.

“Anything we can do anything about?” he asked finally. “Or at least anything…helpful?”

“Not sure,” Tim said slowly. “The one he’d already recorded, the one Sasha researched, it’s from up in Edinburgh. Something luring people into an alley and then…they just disappear. My best guess is that they’re taking sacrifices for the Unknowing, but I don’t know. It’s awfully spaced out. Maybe they’re just recruiting. Then there’s one from a woman who said she’s the only person who remembers her friend Graham suddenly looking—and acting—completely different.”

“Like a changeling type thing?” Gerry asked.

Tim nodded. “Gertrude said something to me once—did she ever mention the name Adelard Dekker to you?”

“Yeah, and then she got this look like someone had just stepped on her heart?”

“That’s the one. Never worked up the courage to ask her too much more about him. Anyway, she said something in passing about an encounter he had with something like that, she called it a Not-Them. I remember she said it didn’t affect magnetic tape for some reason.”

Gerry hummed. “What about the third? Rowlf, drop it.”

Rowlf casually let whatever unidentifiable thing he’d picked up fall from his mouth and kept trotting on his merry way. Tim snorted. “He sure listens to you better than he does me…uh, I’m not sure about the last one, actually. Sasha showed it to me, kind of a ‘can you believe this’ type thing, and it’s…iffy. Bunch of weird stuff that keeps turning up in trash bags. First it was a bag of doll heads, then a single coiled strip of paper with the Pater Noster written over and over again—”

“Isn’t that a kind of lift?”

“No—well, yes, but it’s actually just the Latin name for the Lord’s Prayer. Pater noster qui est in cælis—Our Father, who art in heaven—it’s the first line. The name got applied to the style of lift because it was similar to the beads on a rosary. And before you ask how I know that, I’m Catholic,” Tim added. Gerry laughed. “Anyway, after that it was a bag full of teeth, and then at the end one of the bin crew went missing and the guy who came to give the statement found a bag full of packing peanuts with a metal heart in the center of it.”

Gerry made a face. “That’s…weird.”

“You’re telling me? It—I dunno, Ger. I think it might be the Stranger, trying to figure out some things. Or it could be the Flesh, or it could be the Spiral. Could be a lot of things.” Tim sighed. “I just…wish I’d been able to look it up myself. The whole point of me setting those aside was so I could investigate them, see if they would help us, but now Martin and Sasha and even Jon are looking into them and…”

“Making a mess of it?” Gerry supplied. “I get it. And it’s not like we can just tell them everything.” He considered for a moment, then added, “I mean, we could, but Gertrude would be pissed.”

Tim bumped his shoulder against Gerry’s companionably. “This from the man who was pissed Gertrude didn’t clue me in.”

Gerry smiled, but his eyes were serious as he said, “That’s different, Tim. Gertrude was actively having you look into these things without telling you what it was you were really looking at. If she’d kept you to the fake stuff as much as possible, just used you to keep Elias off her back while she did the real work, I wouldn’t have minded so much. Well…I would have eventually, because it’s you, but I wouldn’t have pushed her so hard so fast if she hadn’t sent you to the Night Market the night before I met you.”

“To be fair, she only sent me to the Night Market because I found that statement about the last attempt at the Unknowing and started investigating it on my own. Otherwise I think she’d have been happy to leave me ignorant until it suited her purpose.”

“And she’d be floundering right now.” Gerry glanced towards the oncoming train. “Trying to do everything on her own. I know she can turn back the rituals on her own, but I’m sure she’s glad we’re helping.”

Tim didn’t say anything until they were on the train. Once they were sure Rowlf understood that he wasn’t allowed on the seats, he said quietly, “Are you sure?”

Gerry blinked. “That we’re helping?”

“That she’s glad about it. I know we’re helping, otherwise she’d have pulled us home months ago. But if we’re right, she’s been fighting these things off on her own for years. Decades, even.” Tim glanced out the window, wondering—for the briefest of moments—if he’d somehow see a sign from Gertrude if he did so. “Can’t imagine she likes the idea that she can’t anymore.”

“Gertrude Robinson isn’t one to let human sentiment get in the way of what needs to be done,” Gerry said. “I think that includes ego. She does what she does because there’s a job that needs to be done and she’s decided to do it, not because she’s some sort of all-powerful Chosen One or whatever. She wouldn’t have asked us to help if she didn’t need us, and she wouldn’t be trusting you now either.”

Tim sighed and turned back to face his partner. “I just wish she had left us a clue. A hint. Something.”

“You’ve got all her notes, right?”

“From up to the point where you went into the hospital. And I have everything I put together while you two were gone, and what we found on the trip after…but I don’t have what she found. And I get why, anyone could sneak it, but…” Tim sighed in frustration. “Something’s wrong, Ger. I can feel it.”

Gerry reached over and squeezed Tim’s hand. “I trust your instincts, but…I am curious as to why.”

Tim leaned his head on Gerry’s shoulder. “We were due back on the thirtieth. She went missing sometime between the fourteenth and the twentieth—I mean, nobody’s said dates, and it’s not like that sort of thing got into the paper, it’d hurt the Institute’s funding if they knew people were getting murdered on the premises, but Elias said me having got those texts from her ‘added a new layer to things’, so probably somewhere in there. Best case scenario, it’s been three months.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“If she knew she was going to be away this long, don’t you think she would have left us something? Even just a way to contact her? She obviously thought she’d be back before now. That or that the Unknowing was going to happen sooner rather than later and that we’d know where it was and meet her there, but I really don’t think that’s ready yet.” Tim sat up and looked into Gerry’s eyes again. “Something’s wrong.”

Gerry stared back into Tim’s eyes. “Fuck.”

“Not in front of the dog.”

Gerry ignored him and ran a hand through his hair. It had grown out long enough that it brushed the tops of his ears, and while Tim had trimmed his own hair back in anticipation of the coming summer rise in temperature, Gerry was currently trying to train it to flop dramatically over one eye. “You think it’s the crew Elias assigned to the Archives? Maybe she’s not willing to come back because of them?”

Tim pursed his lips. “Maybe? I dunno. From what Sasha’s said, just in passing, I get the impression they know each other and Gertrude trusts her, although that could be just her manipulating us—”

“It’s not. Gertrude mentioned once, when I joked about taking over her job someday, that she was really hoping it would be ‘Sasha James in Research, who might be the only person in the Institute with the background to understand these things and the sense to keep away from them.’” Gerry did a pretty decent impression of Gertrude’s voice. “’Course, that was before you came along.”

Tim snorted. “I think Gertrude wildly overestimated Sasha’s sense, but okay. She doesn’t actually believe in any of this anyway. But still…if Gertrude is staying away because of someone in the Archives, it wouldn’t be her. Martin seems pretty harmless, but that could be an act, I guess. Jon’s an okay guy but he’s a terrible boss, and not much better of an archivist, and I’m honestly not sure if he or Sasha is the bigger skeptic.” He thought for a minute. “Maybe it’s just Elias.”

“Maybe we should bring our boy here to have a search for her in the Archives.” Gerry bent over to scratch Rowlf’s ear and was rewarded with a furiously wagging tail and a head in his lap. “Tell Jon you got called in over the weekend to give an exclusive behind the scenes tour to one Lord Leo Fortitude Lenox.”

Rowlf’s tail wagged even harder at the mention of his full name, or most of it. Tim understood why Gerry had left one part out of his mostly joking comment, though; Jon might believe that a real live actual aristocrat would name their son “Fortitude” but even he wouldn’t believe they would name one “Noodles”. “Spaniels are flushers, not hounds. They don’t track game. But…I dunno. I’d like you to come by the Archives sometime and help me see what we can come up with. There’s got to be something I’m missing.”

Gerry’s eyes went vacant. “She mentioned there’s a key somewhere in the Archives to a storage unit. Just before I went into the hospital, she said that if something got her first, there was something in that storage unit that would help. Up in Hainault. But since nothing has got her yet…”

“She probably took the key with her. Anyway, I’m talking notes. Backups. Maybe something on the computer, which I can’t get to during the workday because Sasha claimed that project and I can’t keep all of them.” Tim sighed in frustration. “I should’ve fought Elias harder on hiring new people. Not like he expects the place to be in any kind of order anyway. It wouldn’t have worked, but I should have fought harder.”

“How can you be so sure it wouldn’t have worked?”

“Because short of taking on the Archivist role myself, and Gertrude would boil me alive if I had, there wouldn’t have been any way to prevent it. Elias is convinced, or pretending to be convinced anyway, that Gertrude is really dead. Any arguments I made that she wasn’t would’ve just been chalked up to grief.” Tim tightened his hand around Rowlf’s leash without conscious thought. “He probably would have brought up Danny and I’d have had no choice but to beat him to death with a typewriter.”

“Manual or electric?”

“Depends on if it’s still plugged in or not.”

They dropped the subject and concentrated on the train trip. Greenwich Park was busy but not too crowded when they arrived, and they walked Rowlf until they reached a place where they could let him off the leash and throw sticks for him. “Throwing sticks for him to fetch” very quickly turned into “chasing him down because he got too excited to respond to the recall word”, and once they had managed to recapture him—thankfully before he bolted into the restricted part of the park—they headed by unspoken agreement for the train station again. Rowlf seemed to understand he’d done something wrong, and stayed practically glued to Tim’s side with his tail drooping and head down. Tim almost felt bad, except that he’d really brought it on himself.

As they were passing London Bridge, Gerry said suddenly, “Let’s do it tonight.”

“What?” Tim blinked at Gerry, a bit startled. It took him a split second to mentally page back through their conversations until he reached a more likely candidate for it than turning Rowlf into a throw rug. “Go through the Archives?”

“Yeah. It’s Friday, so we’ve got three days. Even if we just stop long enough to drop the boy off and go straight for the Tube, it’ll still be after dark by the time we get there, so nobody will notice us. And if we find anything, we’ll have more time to go over it before Monday the sooner we find it.”

Tim had to admit, he couldn’t really see a flaw in the logic. “Sounds good. I should make a backup of the research on the computer anyway.”

He took Rowlf for a run when they got off, just to tire him out a little bit—difficult, as the vet estimated he was only about seven or eight months old and still a puppy in a lot of ways, but Tim was up for the challenge—then shut him up in the room they had designated as his before pocketing the Institute keys. He and Gerry set off again just as the last rays of the sun slipped below the horizon, bathing the city in a blood-red glow.

Hopefully it wasn’t an omen.

As an extra precaution, they got off at Battersea and walked the extra half hour to the Institute and made it unobserved. It was well into twilight by then, and very few windows were lit along the Embankment, which told Tim that the people who lived there were either out or asleep. He listened carefully, hand dangling loose by his side. Finally, he was satisfied they were unobserved and slipped his hand into his pocket for the keys.

Gerry, who was as familiar with this process as Tim at this point, waited until they had closed the outer door before he clicked on the torch he’d brought. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “Where do you want to start?”

For a moment, Tim stood where he was, paralyzed with indecision. It wasn’t like it was the first time he’d been in the Archives alone after dark, but it was the first time he’d come in intending to look for Gertrude’s notes, not his own research.

“Right,” he muttered, more to himself than to Gerry. “I’m a paranoid old bat who’s been fighting against the forces of evil for the last fifty years. Something’s gone wrong and I have to go on the lam, but whatever went wrong is something that makes everyone think I’m dead, so I have to count on not being able to come back any time soon. I work for a paper-pushing pencil-neck who starches his underwear and gets off on bureaucracy, so I can assume he’s going to ‘hire’ someone to replace me, but he’s also probably evil and might be involved in whatever it is that just went wrong, so he’s almost certainly going to hire someone who’s going to be incompetent at best and actively working against me at worst. My assistant is probably going to stick around, but there’s no guarantee that if I leave a note on his desk, either my boss or my ‘replacement’ won’t find it first, or force him to read it out loud. So where am I going to hide copies of anything I’ve researched but not sent him yet where he’ll be smart enough to find it, but anyone else coming down here won’t be stupid enough to stumble over it?”

“Depends on who you thought was going to come down here,” Gerry said slowly. “Let’s start with Sasha James. Arguably Gertrude knew her best.”

“She’s a snoop. If she thinks something’s being kept secret from her, she’ll ferret it out just to say she knows it,” Tim replied. “She’s hacked the personnel records, for God’s sake. I don’t think she cares what the secrets are, just that they exist. So that’s a paradox. If she wanted Sasha to know it, she’d have locked it away somewhere, but somewhere it was super obvious something was hidden, so she’d be tempted to look into it and see what it was.”

“So not the file cabinets, not the locked case in Document Storage, and not in the computer. Where would she put it that Sasha wouldn’t be interested, then?”

“Mm, maybe the computer? That’s complicated. On the one hand, it’s tied into the Institute’s network, but on the other hand, it can’t hold anything on the computer.” Tim thought for a minute. “If it is, it’s metatext in a code somewhere. Gertrude wouldn’t make it blatant.”

Gerry shone the torch under his chin, illuminating his face like a preteen boy at a slumber party. “But we’ve established she doesn’t want Sasha to know.”

“She might. You said she’d tapped Sasha as a possible replacement—maybe she figured she’d be able to help. Hell, maybe this was her only way of possibly getting Sasha down here without also getting Martin—he’s a hard worker, and he’s probably better at the work than either Jon or Sasha, falsified credentials notwithstanding, but she doesn’t know that. Anyway, maybe she figured Sasha would find it sooner or later.”

“Would she have told you if she did?”

“Dunno. But whether she did or not, it’s probably where I should look.”

Gerry pursed his lips, then nodded. “Tell you what. You try and see what you can find in the computer. I’ll try and look through all her hidey-holes.”

“There’s nothing in the desk,” Tim told him. “I know that for sure.”

“Yeah, that would have been too obvious.” Gerry paused. “Have you found any of her tapes?”

Tim shook his head. “Nope. She must have those with her, wherever she is.”

“Shame. That’s probably the most likely place for them. Right, let’s see what we’ve got.”

He navigated Tim over to the computer, then, once the familiar thrum of the CRT monitor had started up and was spitting out enough light him to see by, gave him a kiss and moved off into the bowels of the Archives. Tim hummed to himself quietly, then made himself go silent and instead pulled over the notebook they’d used as a combination manual and usage log. Sasha and Martin had obviously kept using it, so he could at least skim over it and get an idea of what they’d done, and what they knew.

By the time the boot-up sequence had completed, he had enough of a picture to mentally pat himself on the back for putting the disks into the case in a more or less random order. Sasha hadn’t touched the statements; Martin had looked at a couple, apparently, and he was smart enough to figure out the system they’d used for notating what statements they’d pulled out, but he either hadn’t looked at enough or didn’t have enough background or both to figure out the careful color-coding Tim had used for them.

Gertrude knew it, though, and he flicked through the case of floppy disks to see if he could find one that broke the pattern. Black, black, red, blue, red, yellow, black, black, black, red, yellow, black, blue, green, green, red—bingo. Triumphantly, he pulled out a translucent purple disk, labeled in Gertrude’s familiar handwriting: 0151403.

That had to be it. It was the day she’d summoned him back to London, surely that was a clue. He loaded the disk into the slot and waited patiently for it to load. To his mild surprise, there was a statement—or at least there appeared to be one—as well as a secondary file for the follow-up.

He clicked on the statement first. If it was unique, it was likely to hold a clue, or maybe it wasn’t an actual statement. The more he read, the more he suspected—or hoped—it wasn’t. He also really, really hoped that if there was a paper version of this one floating around the Archives, it would record on Jon’s laptop. The statement giver was claiming to have foreseen Gertrude’s death.

Tim hesitated, the cursor over the supplemental file. Did he really want to see what Gertrude might have had to say about this? Was he sure it was useful? Yes, he decided, it had to be. The mysterious Antonio Blake—and if that was a real name, Tim would unravel his hat and eat it like spaghetti—had come in to give his statement on the fourteenth of March. He’d said he’d been having the dream for three days, and he was betting on it happening within ten days. Gertrude wasn’t dead, of course, which meant the dreams were fallible if true, but…that would have been the day of the eclipse. Either the dream had been contingent on the Dark’s ritual succeeding, or it had assumed she would bring all the death upon herself rather than let it rain down on the rest of the world. Either way, she wouldn’t have had time to do any actual follow-up, so this had to be a hint.

He clicked on the file.

A string of numbers with the occasional random letter greeted him, which told him he was definitely onto something. He’d teased Gertrude about this code once—what kind of nerd makes codes in base fourteen—and she’d responded by challenging him to learn it himself. It had taken him about an hour, which, as she had pointed out, didn’t make him much less of a nerd himself. The fact that she’d coded her “supplemental” meant that she didn’t want anyone else to figure it out, and also meant that it was, as he’d suspected, important. It was short, but it probably packed a lot of punch.

Tim quickly spaced down a couple of lines and began translating the numbers back into letters—that was the easy part—and then deciphering the substitution cypher she’d used for the letters, which was a bit harder. It took him two false starts before he realized that she’d coded it based on the End, not the Dark. Once he had that, though, the rest fell into place.

“Gerry,” he hissed into the darkness.

Like magic, Gerry appeared over his shoulder, torch pointed at the ground. “I haven’t found anything,” he whispered. “She must’ve taken it all with her. What did you find?”

Tim twisted his head to look up at Gerry. “Statement that apparently came in right before she called us back to London. Guy claiming he had a dream that foretold Gertrude’s death—it’s complicated. And I don’t think she believed it, even if he did. But this was her follow-up notes, look.”

Gerry bent over to peer at the screen. Tim, too, turned back to reread it, even though the words had already burned themselves into his memory.

Ten days from the night I seemingly appeared in his dreams is the twentieth or twenty-first, depending on how good his math is. Tallies with the eclipse, which means the climax of the Extinguished Sun. Can’t Know the future, but if there’s a chance this won’t work, need Tim and Gerard near enough that I can protect them in a pinch. They’re foolhardy enough to try and turn it back.

“She doesn’t think there’s a way to,” Gerry said softly after several moments. “If one of them gets through. She reckons that’s it and we’ll all be trapped forever, until we eventually die.”

“Like she said, she can’t Know the future,” Tim said, just as softly. “And patterns are more the Web’s thing, so she can’t even say she really sees the shape of it. There’s always a chance. And she’s right, we would try and turn it back. Sia la luce.”

“That’s ‘let there be light’, right?”

“It seemed appropriate.” Tim drummed his fingers lightly on the tabletop. “There might be more in this. In the code, or in the metatext, or if I up the contrast or something.”

Gerry hummed. “So what are you going to do?”

“First, I’m going to trust that Sasha doesn’t pay attention to the statements and that Martin isn’t a handwriting expert.” Tim took the torch from Gerry and headed to the supply closet.

It didn’t take him long to find the box of candy-colored translucent floppy disks and select another purple one. Returning to the computer, he saved the file, closed it, and popped out the disk, then laid it down next to the blank one and carefully, meticulously duplicated the label in the exact right spot.

“Wait.” Gerry plucked the blank one off the table, slid back the drawer, and fished something out of his pocket. Tim realized it was a magnet. He rubbed it over the opening, then winked. “Even if they do check it, this way they’ll think it just got corrupted.”

“Brilliant.” Tim kissed Gerry, then tucked the disk into the spot before pocketing the other and shutting down the computer. “Once this shuts down, let’s get out of here. We need to get some rest before tomorrow.”

“Why, what’s tomorrow?”

Tim patted his pocket. “Tomorrow we go see if we can find anyone else in this damned city that will sell us a computer with a working floppy disk drive.”

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #and if thou wilt forget #tim stoker #gerard keay #denial #idle threats #mention of the Stranger #secrecy #snooping #innuendo #semiserious death threats

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pearlessance · 6 months ago

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Watch Duty - Idle Threats [i]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

There are certain, non-negotiable ways of post-apocalyptic life. For instance, food must be rationed, and in most cases water, too. Energy is to be conserved for necessary things. Looting is for food, water, medicine, and weapons first—then for things that improve the way of life. Everyone must be willing and able to shoot to kill. And in a commune like Jackson, someone must always be on watch.

Joel Miller knows these things. He’s been living in the end of the world for years now, has grown accustomed to this cutthroat way of life. Sometimes he even convinces himself he was meant to live in a world just like this one.

When he settled in at Jackson a few short weeks ago with Ellie and was assigned his job, he was grateful to be a watcher in the homemade tree blinds. Simple, easy, to the point. And, most importantly—quiet.

There’s always two people on the south side of the commune and two people on the north side. Joel is thrilled to learn he’s been paired with Mike, a middle-aged man with a penchant for crossbows. Mike is a man of few words, which just so happens to be Joel’s favorite thing about him.

Every night, they’d relieve the daytime watchers, nod to each other once, and start their shift. Mike brings a large thermos filled with hot water, and Joel smuggles in a plastic bag of instant coffee in his pocket. A rare commodity these days—but he’s willing to share it with Mike in appreciation of his silence.

Joel enjoys his nights of quiet. Especially after he and Mike make an agreement to allow one another to sleep in rotating shifts. It’s a blessed routine. Simple, easy, to the point.

So, when Tommy lets him know that Mike will be going out on a run for a few weeks, Joel isn’t exactly happy to hear it. He tries to convince his brother to let him be on watch alone—but Maria puts a stop to that before Joel even finishes getting the words out.

It’s too dangerous. What happens if you're ambushed?

Joel is capable of handling himself. They know it, he knows it, but Tommy agrees with his wife. And once the two of them decided on something, there was no use arguing.

His dread escalates when Tommy tells him you will be taking Mike’s place. Joel’s hardly ever spoken to you—has gone out of his way to avoid you, in fact—and anxiety spikes in his chest at the idea of being in that tree blind, stuck with you, completely alone.

The third day he spends in Jackson is the first time he sees you. He and Ellie are sitting at a table in the dining hall, eating a peaceful breakfast, and you waltz right up to the table where Tommy and Maria sit. Flakes of snow cling to the ends of your hair and your long lashes, making you look a little ethereal, like some vengeful snow goddess. You’re wearing tight jeans that leave little to the imagination and a white, low-cut, long-sleeve shirt that’s drenched and left completely transparent.

Joel has to force his eyes away from the sight of the black lace you wear beneath because the feelings it evokes are so wrong.

There’s something clutched tightly in your hand. Joel can’t see what it is, even as you slam it on the table in front of Maria. You lower your head to look her right in the eye, hands braced on the wood between the two of you. “The next time you have a craving for bullshit, go and get it your goddamn self. I’m not your fucking errand boy.”

Tommy raises a hand. “Hey, now,” he reasons. “Everyone’s got a job to do—”

“I almost died! I almost died for this!” If your near nakedness didn’t command the attention in the room, your shouting certainly does.

Joel tries to ignore the fury lashing at him from the inside. You’re just a girl—a young girl, and you might as well be naked for all that wet shirt covers. Was everyone in this town so fucking nosy? They should be turning away from you, not toward you.

Never mind the fact that Joel, it seems, is incapable of doing just that.

You pick up the item and throw it at Tommy’s chest. It’s only as his brother catches it and sets it back on the table that Joel recognizes the foil package of barbecue flavored chips.

“You’re a runner,” Tommy tries to reason. “That’s what you’re supposed to do; go on runs.”

But you don’t hear him and his calm logic. You point a finger at Maria, whose face has gone crimson in embarrassment, and bare those pretty white teeth in a snarl. “Go fuck yourself, Maria.”

She opens her mouth to respond, to offer an excuse. Only she never gets the chance before you turn away and storm back through the dining hall, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattles the windows.

When Joel asks his brother about it later that night, Tommy explains that that’s just how you are. Explosive, defiant, easily provoked. But you’re the best runner Jackson has, which was why you specifically were assigned to Maria’s task for her pregnancy craving.

But the run had gone south, and you’d narrowly escaped an encounter with a small group of men who’d happened across you on the way back to Jackson. Tommy doesn’t explain what exactly happened, but he mentions the jacket you returned wearing that was so soaked in blood you had to burn it.

The next time he sees you, Joel and Ellie are walking through the streets of Jackson. Ellie is poking fun at him, cracking some joke about Joel being old, when you come barreling out of one of the buildings in the middle of town.

Mike’s wife owns a bakery, Joel knows. And it looks like you’ve just done something that’s made her real mad—because she’s standing at the threshold, shaking her fist and yelling your name.

You’re running fast, sweet sounding laughter falling from your lips. You nearly run right into Ellie, but stop yourself a moment before you crash into her. “Hey, kid,” you say, a grin stretching wide across your pretty face. “You ever had a strawberry scone before?”

Joel snorts when her mouth hangs open as she shakes her head, eyes starry as she stares up at you. “Uh…no—no. Never.”

You pull a plastic-wrapped scone out of your pocket and peel off the cellophane packaging.

Joel watches eagerly as you carefully split the pastry in half. Your hands are small and smooth. They look soft, so soft , and he wonders what they’d feel like against his back, his hips, between his legs.

Ellie takes the halved scone with a smile, and it’s reflected back on your face as you watch her tear into it with her teeth. Her eyes widen as the sugar reaches her tongue.

You and Joel both laugh at her reaction, but all amusement leaves him as you take a bite of your half and let out the prettiest sounding moan he’s ever heard.

No, Joel suddenly doesn’t think anything is funny anymore. He clenches his jaw and says, “I hope you paid for that.”

When you roll your eyes, Joel resists the urge to take your face in his hands and squeeze. “Oh, please,” you say, voice filled with sarcasm. “I’ve brought that woman so much sugarcane this last week, there wouldn’t be a bakery without me. I think I’m owed a little scone now and again.”

Joel is inclined to agree, but the blatant arrogance in your tone stops him. Don't you have any civility? Any manners?

You turn back to Ellie and say, “If you want another one, go on and give Stella some puppy dog eyes. She’s a real sucker for the kids.”

“No, Ellie,” Joel says, fixing a scowl on his face. “If you want another scone, we’ll pay for it. We don’t steal from our own people.”

You roll your eyes again and start to walk away. Joel wants to watch you, wants to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to get a full glimpse of the back of those jeans. But he knows he shouldn’t.

Ellie distracts him, an awestruck look on her face as she chews another bite of pastry. She looks up at Joel and says, “I think I just fell in love.” And then she’s clutching at her jacket like she’s having a heart attack. “Oh god—is that what this feels like? Holy shit.”

Joel just grunts in annoyance at her dramatics, but he ends up thinking about you for the remainder of the day.

It’s wrong, he knows, to find you so appealing. You’re half his age, so full of life you’re bursting at the seams with it. And Joel is nothing but a grumpy, old man. Your polar opposite, really.

He has to refrain from asking Tommy about you during dinner that night. But there’s so much he doesn’t know, so much he wants to unearth. How did you end up in Jackson? Why are you the only runner they allow out alone? What happened to you?

There’s something that happens to everyone these days. Joel’s is Sarah—and then Ellie. He wants to know what your something is. He wants to know why you’re so explosive, defiant, so easily provoked.

When he crawls into bed that night, he tells himself he’ll stop thinking of you tomorrow. He’ll put his curiosity to bed and allow you to continue wreaking havoc in the commune without any interference from him.

Except Joel dreams of you. He dreams about that white shirt, about those skin tight jeans. He dreams about the black lace. He dreams about what’s beneath even that. About your softness, about that gritty fight he sees in you. Joel dreams about taking you over his knee and showing you what discipline feels like, and he wakes up the next morning with sticky sheets like he’s some pillow-rutting teenage boy.

It’s embarrassing. Even though no one else knows, even though he’ll never, ever tell another soul, Joel feels shame at the realization that a mouthy, twenty year old girl is what does it for him.

Joel pushes his dreams and filthy thoughts far, far away as he makes his way to the tree blind that night. He’s running a little behind, and he can’t deny that the sole reason for his tardiness is you.

You make him nervous. Uneasy, on edge. He never knows what to expect from you, and it drives Joel just a little bit insane.

He expects you to arrive before him. But when he sees that both Bonnie and Greg remain and you’re nowhere to be found his jaw ticks. “She didn’t show up?”

When Bonnie shakes her head, Greg says with a shrug, “We thought she’d show up with you.”

The answer leaves Joel’s blood boiling. How could you be so inconsiderate? The two of them have been on watch for hours—likely counting down the minutes until they could be home with their families. It’s rude, Joel thinks. And he has a few choice words to say to you. He holds up a hand and says, “Give me five minutes.”

Jackson is small, and Joel is…observant. He knows you live at that little white house down on the corner. And he takes the steps of the porch two at a time, banging a fist on the door. You don’t answer, and so he’s hitting it harder, well and truly furious now.

“What the fuck?” You rip the door open, brows pinched together. You’re wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pajama shorts and a sweater that’s two sizes too big, and Joel’s hands shake at the sight of you.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a light in your eyes, he notices—excitement maybe, or mischief. Either way, it sends off warning bells in his head, loud and demanding. “I was trying to sleep, asshole.”

The curse word on your lips sends him into a blind rage. Joel grabs you around your bicep, hard enough to bruise. “You have a job to do. We all do. Your little attitude doesn’t make you exempt.”

You snort incredulously. “You’re talking about my watch duty,” you infer, seething. “That’s such bullshit. It’s just Maria’s way of trying to get back at me for that day in the dining hall. I’m not doing that shit.”

“Yes, you are,” Joel states. He’s not sure why, exactly, it’s so important to him all of a sudden. Hadn’t he nearly begged Tommy yesterday to let him be on watch alone? “Even if I have to drag you down there myself.”

With a hand on your hip you say, “Then drag away, because I’m not mov—jesus christ!”

Joel’s got his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you out of the house and onto the porch. It feels like silk between his fingers, and he wants to wrap it around his fist. But, more than that, Joel wants you to take this seriously, to take him seriously. He pushes you towards the steps just enough that you stumble. When you look up at him, there’s surprise, anger, and something a little more heated in your eyes. “Go,” he orders, leaving no room for negotiation.

Much to his delight, you actually listen. You turn away from him and lead the way through Jackson, toward the edge of the commune. Joel realizes you don’t have shoes on, either, and the smallest bit of guilt weeds itself into his chest as he watches snow melt beneath your fuzzy pink socks.

When you dismiss Bonnie, she offers you her coat. But you mutter under your breath, “No, thanks.” And the words themselves aren’t rude, but the tone you use is, and Joel wonders where the fuck your parents are. You’re not old enough for them to be gone, but even if they are, they’ve done a real shit job at teaching you to be respectful.

As Bonnie and Greg walk away with apologetic looks on their faces for Joel and what he’ll have to endure for the remainder of the night, he holds the rope ladder to the tree blind steady. “Ladies first,” he says.

A wicked smirk tugs at your full lips. You take a step back and sweep an arm out in front of you. “By all means, ma’am.”

Joel doesn’t laugh, but it looks like you might. And your childish stab only serves to rub him raw. “You’ve got about five more seconds before I force you up there myself. And, believe me, little girl, I don’t make idle threats.”

You raise your brows in astonishment. “Fuck you, dude. Seriously.”

“Four,” he says sternly, eyes fixed on yours. He enjoys the way your mouth parts just slightly. “Three.” And the way your sweet, pink tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“You think that’s gonna make a difference? You’re not—!”

“Two.”

“Okay! Jesus,” you huff, shoving him out of the way hard and starting up the ladder.

Joel holds it steady for you, ensuring you make it up nice and safe. And, yeah, maybe he does it for his own benefit, allowing himself to marvel at your thighs, at the swell of your ass poking out of the bottom of your shorts, the sight of all that bare skin.

He climbs up after you, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. The tree blind isn’t spacious, and Joel finds himself wishing that it had a little more room because you and your sweet-smelling skin take up too much of it. You’re sitting in one of the wooden chairs, arms crossed firmly over your chest and a glower on your face.

Instead of taking the seat beside you, Joel walks the perimeter slowly, trying to find any disturbance outside. It looks quiet tonight, though, the only movement born from the two patrolmen walking the outer walls and the song provided by the wind in the trees.

Twenty minutes in, you let out a frustrated sigh that’s a little too loud for his liking. “How many times are you going to check before you realize that nothing is happening out there?”

It’s true, but he can’t bring himself to sit that close to you. “I’m just being cautious,” he says. He’s worried about wandering thoughts, about wandering hands. Joel’s sure you hate him, and if you didn’t before tonight you most certainly do now. But that look you’d given him after he’d pulled you by your hair is what keeps him standing. Because Joel Miller has morals, but at the end of the day he’s still a man. And he’s self aware enough to know that all it would take is one look—one fucking look that gives the smallest bit of permission and he’ll be throwing caution to the wind.

“Cautious,” you mock. “Of what, the wind?” His brows pinch together, a little unnerved at how parallel your words are to his inner thoughts. “Better be careful. The universe might huff and puff and blow this blind right down, huh? Fuckin’ stupid.”

“You watch your mouth,” he snaps. He’s tired of the disrespect, of the attitude. You’re a goddamn brat, Joel thinks.

You turn in your chair, facing him with your shoulders squared in challenge. “Fuck-ing,” you repeat, annunciating every letter. “Stu-pid.”

Joel can’t help himself, morality be damned. He crosses the small space in one step and wraps a calloused hand around your neck. You try to pull him away, clawing at his wrist, hissing in pain at the force. But Joel holds firm, leaning over to look you in the eye. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says lowly. “You might be able to pull this shit with Tommy and Maria, but it’s not gonna work on me. It’s in your best interest if you just keep silent. You understand?”

There’s something on your face that gives him pause; something more than amusement, more than gratification. It’s hot and heavy and needy. And as you stare up at him through those long lashes, your grip on his wrist loosens in submission.

He leans down, lips inches from your ear. Joel feels you shiver in his hands as he repeats, “Do you…understand?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. He can hear it stutter, can hear you swallow nervously. Good, Joel thinks. He likes that he makes you nervous, edgy, restless. He feels you lean slightly to the side, pressing your cheek against his greying stubble. “Yes,” you whisper, and the submission is so sweet sounding in his ears that he feels himself growing hard.

It’s that particular realization that has him pulling away from you, nearly outed by his own body. Joel finally takes the seat next to you and stares pointedly forward, out at the far end of the perimeter. He’s thankful when you slowly turn back around and remain quiet.

This he can handle, Joel thinks. As long as he doesn’t look at you, as long as you’re not spouting off at the mouth…he’ll be just fine. He’ll remain a man with his morals intact.

You pull your legs up to your chest, holding them against your body. Even though the tree blind provides a fair bit of shelter, it’s still the middle of winter in Wyoming. And Joel suddenly feels guilty about dragging you out here like this with nothing but shorts and fuzzy socks on.

He shrugs off his coat and lays it across your legs without a word.

But you have something to say about it, of course, suddenly forgetting your agreement of silence. “You’re real chivalrous for a brooding asshole.”

“What did I just say about that goddamn mouth of yours?”

Your eyes round and your mouth hangs open in hilarity. “Do you hear yourself? I mean, really, Joel. Seriously?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said his name, and it sends a shock of delight down his spine. Even if you do say it in annoyance, it’s still his name in your mouth, and fuck, his resistance falters. “C’mere.”

“You can’t just tell me what to do,” you say, defiant. But you stand to your feet and set his coat on your chair. “I’m not just some little girl you can boss around.”

Joel spreads his legs wide, allowing you to stand between them. Even though he’s sitting and you’re standing over him, you look so small. Joel smirks up at you and asks, “Liked that, did you?”

“No,” you answer, too quickly for it to be true. “I didn’t like it. Not…not even a little. I don’t know how you got it in your head that you’re the boss of me but…but you’re not.”

He doesn’t speak. Instead, Joel takes a selfish minute. He lets himself drink you in real slow, raking his eyes over your face, down the smooth curve of your shoulder. Your sweater is too big, but Joel can tell you’re not wearing a bra beneath, can see the hardened peaks of your nipples through the material. Your hands hang loosely at your sides, but they tremble just a little. Joel thinks it’s real cute, how you’re pretending not to be afraid. Your legs are smooth, thighs thick and delicious.

Joel raises his hand, letting his fingertips ghost across the soft skin. He waits a couple of seconds, staring up at you, giving you the opportunity to run far, far away from him.

But you don’t. Of course you don’t. You stay firmly planted between his legs, chest heaving with each ragged breath.

He searches your face for any apprehension as his hand begins to move, knuckles running along the top of your thigh. He finds nothing but heat in your eyes, and Joel ventures a little further. When he presses his hand between your legs, he watches as your eyes flutter closed and you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

Your skin is searing, so hot he wonders how plumes of smoke don’t emit from you in the cold night air. He squeezes your flesh, delighting in the peaceful little sigh you give in response. He does it again, a little higher this time. And then the side of his index finger is pressing hard against the seam of your shorts, and you raise a hand to cover your mouth.

“Joel,” you breathe. “Joel, you—”

He stops, hand freezing between your legs. He expects you to shake your head, to take that opportunity of fleeing once and for all. He’d allow it. Encourage it, even. He was no good, proved even further by the fact that he’d touched you even knowing he shouldn’t.

But you do none of these things. You only press your fingers against your mouth and squeeze your eyes closed real tight.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

Defiant as ever, you keep your mouth sealed firmly shut for once. Instead, you use your free hand and reach for his wrist, turning it so his hand is cupping the warmth between your thighs. Your hips shift forward slowly, experimentally.

It’s the hottest thing Joel Miller has ever fucking seen. You’re so needy, so desperate that this little bit of friction has you moaning.

The sound is so much sweeter when it’s him making you feel good instead of some pastry, Joel thinks.

And as much as he wants to let you use him for your own benefit, as much as he wants to see you fall apart just like this, rutting against his hand, right here, right now—Joel wants to teach you even more.

He pulls his hand away, grabbing your hips and pulling you close. You stumble towards him with a gasp, eyes snapping open. You put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as Joel pulls you down, forcing you to straddle his thigh. He places one hand on the small of your back and tangles the other in the hair at the base of your skull, gripping just tight enough that it hurts.

“Gonna listen real good now, aren’t you, little girl? Hm?”

You’re nodding frantically, and Joel can feel how wet you are even through his jeans. When you start to move your hips, grinding against his thigh, Joel pulls your hair hard.

“Did I say you could move?”

You stop moving, even though you spit through gritted teeth, “I didn’t ask.”

That fucking mouth on you. He has half a mind to fill it up to quiet you once and for all. But Joel’s a patient man, and he wants to see you squirm, wants to hear you beg. He tilts his head menacingly and orders, “Apologize.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he answers. “You said you’d be good. Now, go on.”

The glare you give him in response brings a depraved smile to his lips. But then you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his neck. The touch sends a shiver down Joel’s spine, and his cock throbs in his jeans, begging to feel your wet mouth. You kiss him again, just below his ear, and then run your tongue along his pulse. “I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper.

And then the hand on the small of your back is pushing you forward, forcing you to grind against his thigh again. You let out a moan at the friction, nails digging into his shoulders through his flannel. He’s weak, so fucking weak. Completely at your goddamn mercy, desperate to hear the sounds you make.

He lets you move a little faster, lets you grind yourself against his leg at whatever pace feels best. A dark spot forms on the denim spread over his thigh, and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

You nestle your head against the crook of his neck, your breath warm and wet against his collarbone.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “See how good it feels when you behave? See that?” You’re so soft, so pliable in his hands. It’s such a stark contrast to the unruly girl you were just moments ago. Joel could tell, even before he ever set his hands on you, that you were capable of being good. It just took a little discipline, that’s all.

The hand he has on your back drifts down, over the curve of your ass, even lower. When he snakes his hand below you and you drag your hips backward, his fingertips brush up against your entrance. “Oh, god,” you whimper, grinding against him even faster now, more desperate. “I’m close, please don’t stop.”

He almost listens. You sound so fucking pretty when you beg, and Joel thinks he’d be perfectly content to listen to you for the rest of his life.

But no. No. You could apologize and beg all you wanted. That doesn’t mean the lesson is learned. Joel pulls his hand away and forces you off him, back onto stumbling feet.

“What the fuck, Joel?!” Your hands are clenched into fists at your side, but your fury only proves his point.

“What did I say about that mouth? Hm?”

Your lips part, and Joel has no doubt there’s another insult on the tip of your tongue. But the threat in his eyes must be enough to dissuade you because you’re rendered silent, deciding to close your sweet mouth and clench your teeth instead.

“Not so hard, was it?” Joel shifts in his seat, settling lower, very much enjoying the glower on your face. “Don’t worry, little girl. You won’t forget your manners anymore when I’m done with you. Take off your shorts.”

The muscle in your jaw feathers, but you do as told. And Joel is proud of you, really. So, so proud of you. He watches as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and pull them down, kicking them away with your feet.

Seeing you bare before him is magnificent, so beautiful it hurts him. Your face turns a sweet shade of pink as he takes you in; memorizing the way your pussy looks. Joel adjusts himself through his jeans, cock aching painfully. You don’t deserve an ounce of praise, not right now. Not after all the attitude you’ve given him. But the words escape him anyway. “You’re so pretty, baby,” he says. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Joel leans forward, presses his mouth to your belly. And again, lower this time. His kisses are slow and soft, his stubble tickling your skin. Your fingers thread themselves through his peppery curls, tugging softly, and Joel can’t hold back his moan at the sensation.

You feel so good, and Joel knows you’ll taste even better. He convinces himself that it’s for him, not for you, as he runs his tongue along the seam of your pussy. He does it again, licking desperately, wondering if he’ll ever get his fill of you. It’s just for him, he reminds himself.

You’re so wet that every soft stroke of his tongue makes an obscene sound, but it’s the sounds you’re making that keep his mouth between your legs.

“God, Joel, yes—mmm. That feels so good,” you moan, pressing his face against you harder. You start to tilt your hips against his face, spreading your legs wider. Joel glances up to see your head thrown back, goosebumps rising over your throat. He can’t tell if it’s the cold or him that creates them, but he selfishly hopes for the latter.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, circling it with the tip of his tongue, and he feels your legs begin to shake, hears your breathing slow. And then he pulls away, and the sight of your eyes as they turn glassy in desperation makes every bit of his own suffering worth it.

You know well enough by now not to scream in protest like last time, but he can see that you want to. You’re learning. Good, Joel thinks.

“Turn around,” he says. And you do, but he can feel the rage radiating off your skin. He pulls you back into his lap, laying your legs over his, spreading you real wide.

When you finally realize his intention, your whole body melts against his chest. And it’s trust he senses then, a warm feeling that cuts through him like a razor. You’re trusting him to make you feel good, Joel knows—and he has every intention of doing just that.

His hands are cold as they drift up the inside of your thighs. He drags them back down, and then back up even slower this time. He does this again and again, feeling you, tracing patterns into your skin, savoring the feel of you in his hands. By the time his fingertips ghost across your pussy, you’re trembling in anticipation. “Please,” you beg.

Joel presses one hand to your belly, just below your navel, and uses the other to slide his middle and index fingers through your wetness. He moves easily, gliding them over your clit, down to your entrance, circling it with the pads of his fingers but never sinking in. You tilt your hips towards them, desperate to feel them inside of you.

You’re so beautiful like this, Joel thinks. All needy whimpers and frantic movements. He swipes his fingers over your clit, back and forth, picking up speed as your moans grow louder.

“This all for me, little girl? You’re so wet. Look at you, makin’ a big mess in my lap.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck.

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the arms of his chair. “Joel,” you cry out. “Joel, please, I’m gonna—!”

He stops, pulling his hand away completely. He winds it around your trembling thigh instead, spreading you so wide your muscles burn. He clicks his tongue right next to your ear, and you can feel him smiling into your hair. “ Nuh uh, baby,” he says. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

You raise your hands to the back of his head, pulling on his hair, writhing in his lap like a woman possessed, grinding against nothing. Your slick drips down your legs, and even though you’re near to tears, Joel knows you’re enjoying this. Knows you need this. “Please,” you beg. “Please, please, just—!”

“Shh, s’alright,” he says. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m gonna take real good care of ya as long as you behave.” His words seem to relax you a little. Joel works the tension from your muscles, massaging slowly. He doesn’t touch you again until your breathing evens out.

Joel slips his hand beneath your sweater, palming your breast, squeezing the supple flesh between his rough hands. His thumb smooths across your nipple, hardens it into a perfect little point.

It feels so good that you close your eyes and lean your head back against him, so focused on the feeling of his calloused hands that it takes you by surprise when his fingers find your pussy again.

This time, he circles your clit once, twice, and then he’s pushing two fingers inside of you. He slides in easily, your body so worked up and desperate for him that it pulls him in. His fingers are thick, stretching you, pressing in deep. He hooks them upwards, searching, searching— there. “Ohh, yes —yes, please, Joel, fuck.”

He begins to slide his fingers out of you, but you grasp his wrist and push them right back in.

“Wait, no! No, no, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, god, just touch me, please, please, please, ” you rush out, all in a single breath.

Joel thinks you look like damnation as you fuck yourself with his hand, moving it of your own accord, whining when you can’t get enough pressure. “Oh, baby,” he says, wiping away the tear that’s spilling down your cheek. “That’s alright, hm? I know you don’t mean it. I can see what a good girl you are. S’okay.” He presses his thumb against your clit and begins moving his hand again, thrusting his fingers inside you, caressing that sweet spot you can never reach on your own.

Silently, Joel begins to panic. Because you’re so tight, so wet, so perfect. His perfect little girl. And he knows this is wrong, knows that while, yeah, technically, you’re an adult, Joel fucking knows better than to touch someone like you. He knows what other people will think of him, what they’ll say behind his back, what they’ll whisper about in the dining hall. He should stop it right here, right now, while there’s still a sliver of redemption to be had for him.

But he can’t. He can’t. Not now, and he worries he’ll never be able to. Because no one, fucking no one has ever felt like this.

He picks up his pace, trying to push the thoughts from his mind. He feels you clamp down around his fingers, feels your walls tighten so much it makes a deep groan rumble through his chest. You’re close, he knows. He can see it, can feel it.

“ Joel,” you plead when he pulls his fingers out of you. Your tears are falling freely now. Big, fat, alligator tears on your flushed cheeks. You let out a ragged moan as he pinches your nipple beneath your sweater and for a split second, he thinks he’s fucked up. Thinks he’s strung you so tight that the little bit of pain and pleasure has you tumbling over the edge.

Thankfully, though, you’re only shaking in blissful agony.

“Oh my god,” you cry, hands trembling as you scratch at his arms. Every small movement of your hips has your ass rubbing against his erection, and it’s almost enough. Watching you shake, hearing you beg for him. It’s almost enough to do him in entirely. Almost. “Please, Joel, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, I promise.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw, licking the salt from your sweat-slick skin. “I know you will be, baby,” he says gently. “I told you, didn’t I? Told you you’d remember your manners by the time I was done. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You’re whimpering, so desperate for his hands, his mouth, for anything, that you don’t even notice what he’s doing as he reaches beneath you. No, you’re too busy grinding against his hand to notice as Joel unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out until he’s holding it against you.

He’s got his cock between your pussy and the palm of his hand, pushing it against you hard. You feel so good against him, so warm and wet, and Joel’s moaning right along with you. Your clit is so swollen he can feel it as you grind it against the head of his cock, delicate fingers wrapped around his bicep. “Ohh, yeah. Feels real good, don’t it, pretty girl? Jus’ like that.”

“I want it, Joel,” you say, voice sweet and whiny and angelic. “Put it in, please, please.”

“Gotta get you right on the edge first,” he says, palming your breast. “Gotta make it hurt. Haven’t you learned by now, little girl?”

“But it does! It hurts, Joel, please!”

Joel leans his head back and chuckles lowly. “I know it does, I know, baby. You can take a little more though, hm? Just a little more so you remember this lesson.” So you remember me.

The thought comes wicked and unwanted. But it’s there, it’s there, embedded in his brain. Joel swallows, can feel your exhaustion as the tremble in your legs returns. And then he stops. He pulls his cock away from your warm heat and taps it against your clit as you cry out for him.

“Shh, I know, sweetheart,” he coos in your ear. He wants to wait until your body calms back down, until you’re loose and pliable again. But he can’t wait another minute, not one more goddamn second. “Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” he says. Joel lines himself up against your entrance, so wet it’s already dripping down over him.

You’re panting as he pushes in slow, stretching you wide. You’re so tight that Joel’s not sure it’ll fit despite how soaked you are. But he works himself in inch by inch, and once he’s fully seated inside you he’s met with a wave of pride so intense he wraps his arms around your middle and rests his head against your shoulder. “Yes,” you cry, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s so big, Joel. God.”

“You take me s’good, baby.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple. “Gonna fuck you now, hm? Gonna fuck this little pussy real good, promise.” Joel pulls out almost completely and thrusts himself back in, slamming his hips up against yours. You let out a whine so loud he chuckles and uses a hand to cover your mouth. “Shh, quiet now,” he tells you. “Don’t want anyone getting any ideas about what we’re doing up here.”

When you stick out your tongue and suck his middle finger into your mouth, Joel’s cock twitches inside of you. Your mouth is so soft, so fucking soft he thinks he might die. Might have a heart attack right here, still inside you. You meet each of his thrusts by grinding down against him, moaning around his fingers, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Joel reaches his free hand down and rubs your clit, and two seconds later your pussy grips him like a vice. “Hold it,” he orders.

With a shake of your head, you bounce in his lap harder. “I can’t, I can’t, I—!”

“Yes you can. You can. Not till I say so, little girl. Hold it,” he says. And just because he’s decided he likes you, Joel grants you a little relief and lessens the pressure on your clit. Your walls flutter around him, and it nearly does him in. He wants to hear you, wants to fucking see you.

He straightens in his seat, allowing for a better view. He leans over your shoulder and watches where he disappears inside you, fucks into you a little harder.

With one last kiss against your forehead, Joel says, “Go ahead, baby. Come for me.”

That’s all it takes. You go silent for a moment, breath held in your lungs, And then you’re shaking in his hands, a whimpering mess, flooding his lap. You say his name over and over, a prayer, or perhaps a curse.

“That’s it, little girl. Ohh, it’s so good, hm? Feel so good when you earn it. Good girl, baby. Good fuckin’ girl. My good little girl. Yeah, there you go.” He’s talking you through it, watching it all unfold, watching you tighten around him so hard you’re nearly pushing his cock out. But Joel keeps it buried inside you, forcing it right up against that sweet spot.

It’s right then that he knows.

Joel will never, ever be free of you. Not now. Not knowing how it feels to be inside you, knowing how it feels when you lose yourself because of him. Whatever redemption there was for him is gone now, evaporated into thin air, never to be found again.

He pulls out with just enough time to spill his come onto your thighs, fisting his cock in his hand. It’s almost a painful end, not being able to finish inside of you.

But then you reach between your legs and run your hand through the stickiness. You bring it to your mouth and suck your fingers clean.

Joel watches every movement, hard again at the sight.

As you stare up at him, he knows you feel it, too. That energy shift, intense and wicked and damning.

Wisps of your hair stick to your forehead, the back of your neck. You pull your fingers out of your mouth, and your swollen lips curve into a grin. You look so beautiful that it pains him. You stand back up on wobbly legs, using his thigh as support while you pull your shorts back on.

Joel thinks you look even better as you slip your arms through his coat. It swallows you up, but it’s his and it’s on you and the sight feels like a kick to the gut. He stuffs himself back into his jeans before he can ravage you again, before he makes the situation even worse.

You pick up his rifle from the floor and settle back into his lap. Joel has half a mind to push you away, to get some much-needed distance, to give you your last chance at freedom.

But he’s a selfish man. So he doesn’t. He lets you lean back against him, even wraps his arms around your waist. You lay the weapon across your legs carefully. “If watch duty is always this good, tell Maria to sign me up.”

[part two]

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