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strang3lov3 · 24 days ago

Text

Let Me Try

Benji makes you cum when you can’t do it yourself.

Tags - sexual frustration, finger fucking and clit rubbing, ruined orgasms, benji talking you through it, softest of soft dom!benji, hint of somno at the end, blue balling a gentle n patient Benji :’) he forgives ya tho

A/N - for my soft and sweet dearly loved court :) cum hard, my friend.

Benji’s not deaf, and he’s not an idiot. He knows what you’re doing in there. Or rather, what you’re trying to do. It’s obvious in the way your mattress squeaks and how each of your whines are stuttered out and broken, whimpery. Every so often you groan in frustration, too. There’s never that beautiful symphony of moaning that signals your release. And it’s been hours.

Days, even. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You feel fucking broken like this, unable to make yourself cum, and isn’t that fucking stupid? It’s one thing to be with another person and be unable to get there - there’s a lot of things at play, of course. Are you comfortable with them? Are they doing everything to your liking? Are you anxious about something, got some stuff on your mind, maybe?

While alone, you should be able to just…cum. You know how to do everything, after all. How to turn yourself on and how to rub your fingers on your clit and pump them in and out of your cunt. Been doing it since you were a kid. So why the fuck isn’t it happening? You feel like your body’s failing you, and you feel like you’re failing yourself. The cycle of defeat is making you grow weary. Pissed off.

Your hair is mussed when you finally come out of your bedroom, cheeks shiny with a light sheen of sweat. Benji notices the way you pout and glare at nothing, crossing your arms when you sit opposite him on the old, torn, navy couch.

“Have a good nap?”

You shrug and mumble something under your breath, frustration still painted over your features. You can feel Benji glancing at you, his brows raised in concern. “I didn’t sleep,” you mutter, looking out of the sliding glass patio door. It’s rainy outside, and there’s a couple of birds jumping in and out of puddles. Benji’s got some pancake scented candles lit to mask the smell of his weed.

“Yeah? Why not?” He’s focused on his Nintendo switch, deftly moving his fingertips on his controller. Another shrug from you as you watch him play the game - Unpacking, which you bought for his Switch. You can’t really keep track of whose shit is whose anymore, though. Yours and Benji’s lives have bled into each other so much at this point, it’s hard to tell where yours begins and his ends when you’re sipping tea out of his favorite mug or when he’s eating Lucky Charms with your favorite little spoon that you stole from some shitty diner. Whatever you and Benji are, it’s nice to have him by your side. “Don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” you answer.

Benji offers you a warm, sympathetic smile and then lifts up his oversized knitted blanket, inviting you over. You crawl over and snuggle up to his side, but Benji doesn’t want that. He turns and wraps both of his strong hands around your hips, then grunts as he pulls you into his lap, spreading his legs to make room for you. Benji would cut himself open and put you inside his ribs if he could, but this’ll have to suffice for the time being.

You’re watching him unpack his digital boxes, and you like all those quiet, satisfying little noises the game makes, as well as Benji clicking the Joy-Con’s buttons and joysticks. You could fall asleep listening to it, sort of like you did when you were in school. Laying your head on your desk during some downtime, listening to your teacher reply to emails on her laptop until the bell dismissed you. Always on a warm spring day for some reason, close to when school lets out for the summer. The breeze pouring in from the open window. It gives you the same sort of feeling.

“Do you wanna play?” Benji murmurs quietly, gently tapping your side.

“Mhm,” you mumble, taking the Switch from him. Benji adjusts and sits more upright against the couch, but you stay lying against his warm torso. He’s got such a welcoming body, like all of him was made just so, for you alone. His belly is soft for you to snuggle, and warm for you to warm your hands against. His shoulders are broad and there for you to cry on, and his heart beats calmly to steady your own. His beard is there to tickle your inner thighs and your cheeks when he’s kissing your face or your pussy. His fingers fit in between yours like they’re puzzle pieces. He’s yours, in a way. Your Benji. You think he was always your Benji, always meant for you.

Benji lets you play the game for a couple of minutes, and he finds that as you get lost in it, you start to relax. He worries about you and the tension you carry in your shoulders and your jaw, you know. Because it’s always there, right? Always lingering, until he brings you close and you just…melt against him, just like you’re supposed to. Benji lures you in and relaxes you in these clever little ways, by having you play quiet, mindless games and by stroking your hair until you calm.

He kisses your head and notes the way your breathing slows, how your shoulders drop a little. Benji’s hands slide down your body and he tugs your shirt up a little, and rubs his palms over all that soft, bare skin.

Benji draws circles on your abdomen with his middle finger, with a hangnail gently dragging against your skin. His hands are like that, always. Overworked and rough and calloused, but so soft in their own way. Like a sweatshirt gone through the wash too many times, where the inside of the fabric is all rough and pilled but so fucking warm and cozy. Or a child’s stuffed animal, loved to the point of charming disfigurement. A missing tail, sewn on with thread that doesn’t match the color of the body. Eye paint rubbed off, drawn on again in Sharpie.

Benji’s hand slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, and you gasp when you feel him playing with your pubic hair. “Hey, wait - Benji.”

“Hm?” Benji hums softly. “Want me to stop? I can stop.”

You shake your head. “No, I want–” you begin, then trail off into a stutter. “I want it, I just - it’s - I can’t…y’know. Lately.”

“Can’t what, dude?”

You pause before answering. “Cum,” you admit, finally.

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, it’s true,” you argue. “I’m just…yeah, I don’t know. Broken or something.” Broken, yeah. That’s a good way to put it. Broken, like you’re a misfit toy or something.

“Okaaaay,” Benji drawls. “But I’m handy.”

You scoff. “Well yeah, sure, with opening jars and whatever but you can’t–”

“Let me try, though?”

You’ve heard those words before. Benji’s infuriatingly adept at fixing shit, because he is exactly what he says he is: handy. He’s great at hanging pictures and adjusting the screws in your glasses and whatever else. And usually how it goes is Benji finds you getting all huffy and pissy about something broken and fucked up, and you tell him you’ve got it, or that it’s fucked forever. And Benji goes ‘can you just let me try?’ and whatever’s broken is then fixed. Wrongs are righted, because Benji’s handy.

He’s a bit of a jack of all trades, and a whisperer of everything. Benji’s got this special way about himself where things just sort of go his way. He charms a lot of people, and even animals, too. There’s this feral cat that’s been coming around for the past seven months or so, and she wants fuck all to do with you, but Benji, well. She’s Benji’s girl. He sits outside with a can of tuna to lure her close, then gives her belly rubs in a patch of sunlight until she wanders off again. Benji says he’s playing the long game, that he’s gonna get that cat one of these days. He says he’s gonna bring her inside and turn her into his familiar or some shit.

You sigh and part your legs, making more room for Benji. He adjusts you so he can reach your pussy a little better, and you move the Switch out of the way to watch how he touches you. “No, don’t - don’t look at what I’m doing. I’m not here,” he tells you. “Just play your game.”

You sigh deeply. “It’s not gonna happen, Benj.”

“Uh huh, well, shut up. Positive mental attitude.”

Benji waits for you to start playing again, and then his fingers find your seam. He slides them low, feeling you out. You’re not wet yet, and not particularly warmed up, so he licks his fingers, and hums at the taste of you.

“Pervert,” you whisper, earning a chuckle from him. He touches you again with slick fingers, simply dragging them up and down your folds, sometimes passing over your clit. You wriggle a little and push yourself against him, letting out soft sighs as he touches you.

“Shh,” Benji whispers. “Relax, dude.”

Benji patiently works you up, and he feels satisfied with himself when he gets you to drip. You’re using your hips to follow his hand, and you’re sighing his name when he pushes his fingers inside your entrance. In and out, in and out, slowly teasing you.

“Benji,” you whine, arching your back a little.

“I got you.” Benji kisses the side of your head. “M’right here, dude. Not going anywhere.”

He fucks you on his fingers, then rubs your clit for a moment or two, alternating between both actions. He knows what your problem is, and it’s impatience. He can feel it in the way you chase his touch, and he can hear it in your frustrated little noises. You’ve tensed all up again, too. “Try not to force it, okay?”

“I’m not, I just–” you huff, restless and already annoyed.

“I know - hey, I know. It’s not a race and I’m not going anywhere, so just…yeah, yeah, perfect.” Benji smiles, happy when you settle against him again, all that strain melting away again. “Attagirl.”

You’re having trouble focusing on the game as Benji touches you, but you’re trying to follow his instructions. It’s all made worse as he kisses your ear over and over, drawing the tip of his nose over it, too. You’re close, and release is right around the corner if you let it come. So you drop your game and roll your hips in time with his ministrations, breathing heavily, chasing that special feeling. And it’s right there - you are right fucking there, and then it’s gone, like the memory of a dream vanishing when you open your eyes.

You groan loudly and cover your face, feeling tears prick your eyes. They build quickly and fall down your cheeks, and fuck - you feel so fucking pathetic, crying over this. You scoff when you watch Benji pull his hands away, but he pays your attitude no mind.

For fuck’s sake. It’s been hours - no, days, you realize. Because you couldn’t fuck yourself earlier, and not yesterday, and not the days before that and–

“C’mere,” Benji murmurs, pulling you a little closer against him. He tugs the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand and wipes your cheeks and your nose. “It’s okay, man.”

“It’s not, though,” you tell him, choking on a sob. You sniffle and gasp as you cry, feeling worse about yourself as Benji continues to dry your tears. He’s not mocking you, but it’s hard not to feel mocked when your own body is doing such a thing to you.

“I know, I know, I know. You’re all fucked up, huh?”

You don’t answer Benji, and he doesn’t mind. He lets you cry it out for a while, patiently, silently. Lets you have your little temper tantrum. You poor thing, all out of sorts. He scratches up and down your arms until you quiet yourself, and those wet sniffles of yours have spaced themselves out.

“Hey.” Benji taps you. “Look at me.” You turn and look at him, met with his kind and empathetic eyes. Benji pushes some hair out of your face and rubs your swollen, sticky cheeks with his thumbs. “I know you’re upset, but you can’t get all worked up like this,” he tells you quietly, noting how you look away. Benji turns your face gently, bringing you back to him. “Hm? Right?”

“M’guess.”

Benji nods. “Yeah, because that’s half the problem,” he says, matter of factly.

You’re annoyed at his tone, and you’re mad because he’s right. Angrily, you argue. It’s instinctual. “But you fucking–”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “Nope, cool the fuck off, dude. I’m on your side,” he says, encouraging you to take a breath for a beat. “We’re gonna figure it out,” he says softly, wiping the last of your tears away. “Yeah?” You shrug as you sniffle, hesitant to agree, so Benji tries again. “Hm? Yeah? You wanna keep being a baby or do you wanna party?” he asks, poking you in the ribs until you break into a giggle.

“Fine. But I’m not a baby.”

“Mm. Crying like one, though, aren’t ya?”

You say nothing as you flip back over, but Benji laughs behind you. His hands slide beneath your pants again, and he’s back to teasing you. You’re still nice and wet and swollen, and you’ll cum for him so long as you don’t get all in your head again. Just breathe, dude. It’s gonna be okay.

Benji’s got two fingers inside you, curling against your g-spot, and he’s using his other hand to rub your clit in tight, steady little circles. He can feel that sensitive part of you twitch, and he knows by the way you’ve gone quiet that you are right there. “I got you. You can do it,” he coos. “Doing so fuckin’ good, kid. Like that, just like that. Just let it come to you, let it happen...”

You squeeze your eyes shut as the pleasure builds, chasing that little spark until you feel it wash over you. Fuck, it’s everywhere, coursing through your veins and making your muscles tense and release, rippling through your body in waves. Benji fucks you through it, his fingers never faltering until you tell him you’re done, enough, enough.

You flip back over on your belly and hug him tightly, breathing heavily as you come down. Jesus, you’re fucking crying, still. You’re relieved to have cum, even more so to know that you’re not broken like you called yourself earlier.

“See? I knew you’d fuckin’ do it,” Benji says softly, rubbing your back. He laughs when you tell him to shut up.

And you stay like that for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. Drifting off into a well-earned nap as Benji strokes your hair and scratches your scalp. “Hey, you. You gonna return the favor? Aren’t you supposed to - I don’t know, you pay it forward or some shit, right? Hm?” He adjusts so that you’re not putting so much pressure on his cock, left all stiff and aching. “No? Just gonna leave me high and dry to nap on me?”

“Mm.”

“Ohhkay, you fuckin’ dick. That’s fine. Just don’t be all fuckin’...whatever when you wake up and my cock’s in your–”

You’re already snoring, you fucking asshole. But whatever. Benji giggles and kisses the top of your head, then picks up where you left off in Unpacking.

you know the drill :) reblog and dirty talk me in my inbox. love ya :)

#kieran culkin #kieran culkin smut #benji kaplan #benji kaplan x reader #Benji Kaplan smut #Benji Kaplan x reader smut #a real pain #kieran culkin x reader #kieran culkin x reader smut

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dovenskin · 2 days ago

Note

Love your work!

Could you do an all x reader ask for the Eltingville club where they take turns on the reader and try to one up eachother?

⋆

eltingville ep. ノ

✦ Title: Glory Hole

cw : gangbang (m!4 x gn!reader), semi-public sex, reader-insert with neutral genitalia, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, overstimulation, biting, bruising, and knife play, canon-level misogyny, fatphobia (Bill toward Josh), incel-coded dialogue, and general toxic masculinity, multiple creampies (implied)

an : bill is unfortunately my favorite 💔

Bill’s basement always smelled like stale soda, BO, and melted plastic. The couch was sticky, the table cluttered with Magic: The Gathering decks, grease-smudged dice, and crumpled fan letters. Pete was already scowling, slouched against the busted pinball machine.

“I’m just saying,” Pete grunted, arms folded, “none of you are doing it right if they’re not screaming your name.”

“Oh please,” Josh snapped, red-faced under his Dune tee. “You don’t even last long enough to make someone scream. You just cum and quote Cronenberg.”

Pete shot him a glare. “You think jackhammering with approval issues counts as skill?”

From the couch, Jerry mumbled, “It’s not about being rough. It’s about being attentive. Like... making sure they’re comfortable—”

“Comfortable?” Bill barked from his metal lawn chair, swinging his head around, half-eaten Slim Jim in hand. “This isn’t a fucking spa day, Jerry! Christ. No wonder people avoid you. They don’t want a heated towel—they want to be ravaged. Dominated. That’s why I’m the only one in this club who’s had actual sex.”

He puffed out his chest like he expected applause.

Pete rolled his eyes. “We’ve all done it, Bill. With the same person, too. The difference is some of us do it better.”

Bill opened his mouth to fire back, but that’s when you came down the basement steps.

You hadn’t expected to walk into this. You were dressed for comfort—maybe a little too warm for a basement this humid—and when all four of them turned to stare, you froze.

“…What?”

Bill’s smirk came first, slow and curling like a lit match. “Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jerry sighed.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” you asked.

Josh cleared his throat. “Hypothetically. Performance stuff.”

Pete shrugged. “Just wondering who’d fuck you the best.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“C’mon, friendly competition,” Pete said, grinning. “No harm, no foul.”

Your brows knit. “There is harm. And there will be foul, because you losers don’t know how to act. Am I just a fucking toy to you?”

Bill started to speak, but you cut him off with a sharp glare. “Don’t answer that. Not one of you better say a word or I’m going home.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Can we do this or not? Quit your bitching already.”

You shot him a look. Jerry stepped forward, voice gentler. “We promise not to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

That small, tentative smile of his made you hesitate. Made you cave—just a little. Which is how you ended up here: half-naked in a filthy basement, your skin prickling from the cold and four sets of eyes crawling all over you like vultures at a con table.

“I’ll go first!” Josh declared, already halfway upright.

Bill groaned. “If you don’t crush them with all that fat, it’ll be a miracle.”

Pete and Jerry laughed. Josh ignored them.

“Keep laughing,” he muttered. “I’ll be the one to satisfy while you three sit there with limp, lopsided dicks.”

He placed a hand on the small of your back and guided you to the futon like he was offering you a Star Trek captain’s chair.

“Lie down, will ya?”

JOSH

Josh stripped like he was defusing a bomb. His fingers fumbled at the buttons of his gray blazer, yanking it off like it had insulted him. The black shirt underneath clung to his round belly, pits stained and soaked. You caught the unmistakable whiff of sweat and knockoff cologne as he tossed it aside and stared at you like you were a rare mint-condition variant.

His khakis strained at the zipper. Converse laces flopped loose. His brown ponytail clung damp to the back of his flushed neck. Glasses slid halfway down his nose as he drank you in—sprawled on the futon, legs open, breath hitching.

He looked like someone watching a forbidden scene from a fan-edited VHS. Reverent. Horny. Horribly sincere.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. His voice cracked halfway through. “You’re… I mean, fuck. You look…”

His eyes traveled your body like it was a treasure map.

“You look better than anything I’ve ever jerked off to,” he breathed. “And that includes the Slave Leia bust I keep under my bed.”

You smirked. Barely. He was already gripping your thighs, maneuvering you like a wrestling coach setting up the “victory position”—which, apparently, meant knees to chest and Josh on top, breathing like he’d just finished a 5K.

His cock was flushed and thick, twitching in his hand. He lined himself up, trembling like a joystick during a boss fight.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Oh my god, you’re real. You’re really letting me—fuck—”

He pushed in, slow and shaky, like he was afraid he’d blow too soon. You were tight, warm, wet—and he felt everything. His whole body shuddered as he sank deeper, big hands under your thighs, gasping like he’d leveled up in real life.

“Holyshitfuckholyshitfuck—you’re tight—you’re so fucking tight—Jesus—”

He started thrusting, but it wasn’t coordinated. It was frantic, sweaty, slapdash fucking—powered by adrenaline and sheer nerd desperation. His belly pressed against you, glasses fogging with every grunt. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest.

“Bet none of them’ll fuck you like this,” he panted. “I’m giving you everything. All of it. I’m gonna make you scream my name—gonna stretch you out so good they won’t even fit after this—”

His pace was sloppy but overwhelming, hips smacking with wet, anxious urgency. You moaned—and his eyes widened.

“Shit—did you just—did you clench? F-fuck—”

You clenched again. He twitched.

“I’m coming,” he gasped. “I’m—I’m fucking—oh my god—fuuuuck—”

Josh came like it hurt—loud, trembling, choking on every sound as he jackhammered through the orgasm. He rutted into you helplessly, groaning into your neck, stomach slick and pressed to yours as every spurt dragged through you like a death rattle.

Then he flopped to the side—half on the futon, half on the carpet—gasping like he’d just respawned.

He adjusted his glasses with one shaking hand and grinned at the ceiling.

“Top that, assholes.”

PETE

Pete didn’t wait for an invite. He rolled his eyes, walked over, and shoved Josh off the futon with a grunt and a boot.

“Move. That was pathetic.”

Josh landed with a thud and a winded “Hey!”

Pete didn’t respond. He was already undoing his belt, smirking like he’d been waiting for this moment all week. “Let me show you how a real man does it.”

He slapped your thigh—loud and sharp—earning a side-eye, but you turned over anyway. Pete grabbed your hips and pulled you up, flush to him. His cock was already out—thick, flushed, twitching—and you barely had time to brace yourself before he spat. Hot. Messy. It hit your lower back and slid down.

Two fingers shoved the spit in, fast, rough. No finesse. Just brute prep and attitude.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at you. Already wrecked… guess Joshzilla wasn’t completely useless.”

You whimpered as his fingers curled, tugged, then withdrew.

“You like that, huh?” he said, voice thoughtful but mocking, like he was inspecting a new action figure. “Didn’t expect you to still have anything left.”

Then came the pressure. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance—and without warning, he slammed in.

You yelped. Pete grunted, fingers bruising your hips as he held you in place, buried to the hilt. He stayed there a beat, panting, then leaned over you—his hoodie brushing your spine, his breath hot on your neck.

“This what you wanted?” he sneered in your ear. “Bent over for a bunch of basement freaks? Getting stuffed full like some kind of fan service side quest?”

You moaned. His hand cracked down on your thigh again. Stinging heat.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Good.”

Then he moved.

No teasing. No rhythm. Just raw, mean, relentless thrusts—hips slamming into you like he was trying to leave bruises. His jeans were halfway down, belt buckle clinking every time it slapped your ass. Sweat darkened the collar of his hoodie. The whole basement stank of arousal and effort.

And then he did something that made your blood run cold.

While still inside you, Pete reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and flicked something open with a soft click.

Your breath caught.

Cold metal kissed your back. Thin. Dull. But unmistakable.

A pocket knife.

He didn’t cut you. He just dragged the flat side up your spine. Slowly. Deliberately. Until the tip rested at the base of your neck.

“Could slice you open right now,” he murmured. Calm. Cruel. “Just one little push.”

You were trembling. He loved it.

“Bet you’d taste as good as you feel.”

Then he bit you. Hard. Teeth sunk into your shoulder, your neck, your back—deep enough to leave marks, maybe scars. You moaned, helpless, and he groaned into your skin.

“You sound so fucking good like that,” he breathed. “Like someone who gets it.”

Another slap to your thigh. Another punishing thrust.

He kept fucking you like he was punishing himself for liking it too much. Every breath came out through clenched teeth. Every motion was laced with something unstable. He muttered filth under his breath—too low to catch all of it—but you caught pieces.

“Fucking perfect.”

“Should’ve gone first.”

“God, this hole—tight—tight—tight—”

You started clenching around him. He twitched.

“No—don’t—fuck, don’t do that—”

You clenched again.

He growled. A full-body shudder ran through him.

“You little—fuck—”

He slammed in hard, deep, and stayed there—hips flush, cock twitching as he came. Hot, fast, angry. His teeth were still at your shoulder. One hand twisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he wanted to pull you apart.

Every pulse of it poured into you.

When it was over, he pulled out with a grunt and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes lingered on your back—on the bite marks, the knife track, the twitching heat between your legs.

He didn’t say thank you. Just zipped up and muttered:

“Should’ve saved the knife for Bill.”

Bill scoffed from his lawn chair. “Thought you said a real man would do it right. That was weak.”

Pete flipped him off without turning around. “Stick it up your crusty ass.”

“You wish.”

Bill nudged Jerry, who was watching you with flushed cheeks and his hands in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’ll let Romeo go next,” Bill drawled, tossing his Slim Jim wrapper at the table like a smug bachelor. “I’ll clean up after.”

Jerry stood, hard in his jeans and pale as printer paper.

Pete rolled his eyes. “Have fun writing them a sonnet while you’re at it.”

JERRY

Jerry had been quiet the whole time. Watching. Red in the face, thighs clenched, hands folded like he was in a church pew instead of a basement full of sweat, spit, and ego. When Bill waved him forward with that condescending smirk, Jerry hesitated—just for a second—then stood.

Obvious hard-on straining against his jeans.

He stepped toward you with shaky hands and wide eyes, like he was approaching an altar, not a mattress. He didn’t touch you right away. Just knelt between your legs, sweater sleeves rolled up, fingers flexing like he was warming them before a delicate job.

You looked down at him. He looked up at you.

“Can I…?” he asked, voice quiet. “Can I take my time?”

You nodded. His whole body relaxed with a sigh, like he’d been holding his breath since you walked in.

He touched you carefully. Reverently. His palms skimmed your thighs like he was memorizing you through texture—thumbs stroking circles into your skin, breath trembling. Then a kiss to the inside of your leg. Soft. Then another, closer.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud. “I—I mean, you always are, but…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard. Slid his fingers between your legs.

First one. Then another. Then three. All slow. Measured. His touch wasn’t bold or skilled like Pete’s. It wasn’t desperate and sloppy like Josh’s. It was… careful. Grounded. He studied your face with every motion, like he was waiting for a signal, a sound, a twitch to tell him what you needed.

“You’re still so sensitive,” he breathed, almost apologetic. “Does that feel okay?”

You moaned, and he flushed brighter. His hand moved smoother. More confident. Then, when he was sure you were ready, he pulled his fingers away and stroked himself—already flushed, leaking, twitching in his palm.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Then he pressed in. Slow. Inch by inch. Face twisted in awe.

You were warm. Soft. Tight.

He made it halfway before groaning out, “Holy shit,” and resting his forehead against your chest.

Once he was fully inside, he just… stayed there.

Breathing. Feeling. Soaking in the closeness.

“Okay?” he asked, eyes darting to yours. You nodded. He kissed your collarbone, then began to move.

His rhythm was steady. Gentle, but deep. Each thrust was measured—focused. Intent. Like he wanted to carve the feeling of you into memory. His hips rolled smoothly, pressure just right, pace gradually building as you gasped underneath him.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered. “You take me so well. It’s like… like you were made for me.”

He adjusted your hips just a little, and it changed everything—angle, pressure, depth. You moaned louder. He sucked in a breath, moaned right back, and leaned in to kiss you. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t horny. It was grateful. Like you’d given him a gift he didn’t deserve.

“You feel incredible,” he panted, pressing into you deeper. “You—you’re everything.”

You clenched around him, and he whined—not high-pitched, not embarrassing. Just raw. Needful.

“Say my name.”

You did. His hips stuttered.

“Again.”

You repeated it.

He threw his head back, fucking harder now—pace losing control, sweat dripping down his chest. The sound of your bodies slapping together filled the room. His grip tightened. His face twisted like he was fighting not to break.

And then he broke.

He gasped—deep, desperate—and came inside you with a cry. You felt every pulse, every twitch. He held you through it, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He just stayed there. Close. Warm.

When he finally slid free, he kissed your cheek. Soft. Almost bashful.

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then Bill’s voice cut through the air like a fly buzzing in a light fixture:

“How romantic,” he snorted. “Jesus, can we move it along, Romeo?”

Pete and Josh were already back on the couch. Pete cracked open another Mountain Dew, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “This oughta be good.”

Jerry helped you lie back gently, then stood—adjusting his jeans, still flushed, still dazed.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, ignoring Bill’s theatrics. “Do you need water, or…?”

You didn’t have time to answer before the metal chair screeched.

And Bill stood.

BILL

Jerry had barely pulled out when Bill shot up like someone lit a fire under his ass. His metal lawn chair crashed behind him, forgotten. He was already peeling off his flannel, muttering curses under his breath like he’d been holding back a volcano the entire time.

“Jesus Christ,” he spat, pacing once, twice. “Are we done reading fucking sonnets to their holes now? What is this, a Hallmark special? You guys treating this like a sleepover when I’m about to redefine their goddamn spine curvature.”

Josh snorted from the floor. Pete cracked open another soda.

Bill ignored them.

His glasses were fogged from sweat and fury—he ripped them off and tossed them onto the cluttered table, knocking over a Mountain Dew can in the process. His black tee rode up over his pale, sweaty belly as he shoved his jeans halfway down his thighs, boxers bunched awkwardly beneath.

Acne across his chest. Damp hair sticking to his forehead. The distinct stench of Axe body spray and bitterness.

“This is the main event,” he muttered, climbing over you like a storm cloud with a hard-on. “This is real.”

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t prep.

He just shoved in.

One long, rough thrust that knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“Fuuuuck—” he gasped. “Jesus fucking CHRIST. You feel better than I ever—fuck—”

Your body clenched on instinct, still sensitive, still aching—and he twitched hard inside you, already panting like he’d run a marathon.

His hands were under your knees, spreading you wide, forcing eye contact. His pupils were blown out, glassy, like he was drunk off you. Off the idea of you. Off the conquest.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You better fucking look. I want you to see who’s wrecking you.”

You did.

And it wasn’t pretty.

His thrusts were frantic—angry. Like he was trying to erase the memory of every other guy before him. Like every slap of his hips was revenge. He leaned in close, nose almost touching yours, hair hanging limp around his face.

“You think Josh made you cum?” he hissed. “Think Pete’s little psycho routine gets you off? Think Jerry—fucking Jerry—knows how to make you feel like this?”

He bit down hard on your neck. Not sexy. Not playful.

Possessive.

“You’re squeezing me on purpose,” he growled. “You think that’s funny? Trying to make me lose control?”

You clenched again.

He yelped—and slapped his palm against the mattress.

“Shitshitshit—don’t—don’t do that! I swear to fucking god—”

He snapped his hips forward. Again. And again. Brutal, desperate. He was unraveling by the second, sweaty bangs sticking to his cheeks, mouth hanging open in something between a grimace and a moan.

“You think you’re in control?” he panted. “You’re not. I am. I’m—fuck—I’m in control—”

He wasn’t.

Not even a little.

His thighs were trembling. His rhythm was breaking down. He was panting into your mouth like he needed your breath to survive.

And then—

He broke.

Bill came with a choked, wet gasp—biting your shoulder as his body locked up. You felt him twitch and pulse inside you, loud and unfiltered, rutting like a dog in heat even as his legs gave out. His breath hitched with every thrust, like he was trying to keep it going, trying to prove a point.

Even as he was falling apart.

When it was done, he collapsed on top of you. His sweat slicked between your bodies, breath hot on your neck. He didn’t move for a long time.

Then he shoved himself up, muttering, “Whatever. Fucking—told you.”

He reached for his jeans with shaking hands. Didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. His voice came out hoarse and low, almost sulking.

“I still won.”

He jammed his glasses back on, crooked and smeared, flannel tossed over his bare chest without bothering to button it. He turned away like he didn’t care—but the tension in his shoulders, the pink flush across his ears, the way his hand curled into a fist near his thigh?

It said everything.

He wanted to win.

And he wasn’t sure if he did.

126 notes · View notes

almostempty · 11 months ago

Text

self esteem part 2 - want you bad (joel x f!reader)

wc: 4.8k | masterlist | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 |

part 3 ⎯ part 4

Summary: Joel ignores you at the lake until he can't. Loosely inspired by the song Want You Bad by The Offspring (to stay on theme, ya know?).

tags/arnings: fuckboy!Joel, dub con, smut, pwp, unprotected piv sex, fingering, creampie, dirty talk, public sex, reader is still sippin' on some dumb bitch juice for Joel (me), smash and dash, get railed against a truck, emotionally manipulative but sexually proficient Joel, toxic breadcrumbing Joel fucks, dirt, no use of y/n, AU no outbreak,

a/n: please leave feedback! open to constructive criticism or delusional inspiration

thanks: major thanks to everyone who read part 1, as well as my muse @auteurdelabre , and my co-chair of the horny4joel club @lovely-vamp-princess for encouraging me

Your fingers hover over the brightly lit screen of your phone. Your friend, Katie, invited you to a barbecue at Toad Lake and assured you it would be a relaxed group. Just food, drinks, sun, and swimming. But how can it be relaxing if Joel is going to be there? If he was even invited. If he even shows up. He drives you insane. It’s her fault anyway.

Katie’s boyfriend was friends with Tommy. Tommy invited Joel to some karaoke night at a bar a few months back. That was the catalyst for your personal hell. You don’t even know why he showed up; he refused to sing anything. But he did offer to give you a ride home so Katie could leave with her man.

You were surprised by the gesture. The way he’d barely said anything to you all night made you think he wasn’t interested in remembering your name. But the way his shoulders filled out the green flannel he wore and then when he rolled up the sleeves? He was like The Brawny Man come to life. And that paper towel mascot lookalike was so your type. In fact, the way he nearly flat-out ignored you was also a turn-on but not one you thought your therapist would approve of. So when he offered a ride, you accepted.

You tested the waters on the ride home, attempting to make some small talk. He was different one on one. Charmed you with his sharp wit and some flirty compliments. You couldn’t tear your eyes off him, his hands, his arms, his profile, and his dark features in the glow of the streetlights. You lingered when he pulled up to the curb in front of your place.

“I’m glad you drove me home,” you said, “it was nice to get to know you a little bit.”

“Was nice,” he agreed dragging his thumb under his bottom lip, pulling your attention to his mouth, “I’d like to get to know you a little more.”

You felt your cheeks warm at that and smiled back. “Would you like to come inside?” you floated the offer, and the look on his face sealed the deal.

But today, you haven’t heard from Joel in over a week. He doesn’t usually last much longer than two weeks before you find him at your door. He disappears just long enough that you start to build up the courage to tell him off for being a flake. The only reliable thing about Joel, though, is that when he does show up, he always leaves you feeling completely spent. What’s the harm in enjoying what he can do with his body? You don’t think you spend an unhealthy amount of time daydreaming about him.

You don’t want to anticipate seeing him at the lake and get disappointed if he’s a no-show. Instead, you’d rather your chest constrict with anxiety until Saturday while you debate sending him a text to ask him yourself. You decide against it. You don’t want to double-text since he never answered your last message anyway.

Saturday arrives quickly, and it’s the perfect day to be at the lake. Clear skies and hot sun. Your car is an oven as you slide your beach bag and cooler backpack into the backseat. You sit in the driver’s seat and roll down all the windows. You flip down the visor to look in the little mirror at your reflection.

It’s casual, you remind yourself. Just friends, food, and floating in the lake. You put on some waterproof mascara anyway, definitely not because Joel might be there. You look casual. You found your favorite black bikini last night and tried it on to make sure it still fits the way you like. Basic triangle top and bottoms with strings that tie on your hips. It still fits snugly but without cutting into your back or shoulders. It hugs everything in the right places and displays all the right skin. For your friends. At the casual barbecue.

You stare at yourself, practically pointing a finger at your reflection to drill the idea into your head. If he’s there, it doesn’t mean anything. If he wants to be nonchalant, you’ll be nonchalant even harder. And you’ll look good as you do. Give him a taste of the same rejection you keep experiencing.

Toad Lake is almost a secret. It’s small, outside of town, and private except for one small area with access to swimming and a small dock. When you and Katie lived together, you used to hit it up after work. Jumping off the dock unless there were people fishing. Or just floating near the shore with pool noodles while debriefing about the day.

You pull off the main road onto the winding gravel road that takes you to the public access. It’s dense with trees and full of potholes. You bounce along in your car, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires.

Parking is tight. The first lot only fits five or six cars on the gravel spots, and past that, maybe another seven or eight would fit in the dirt spots. You recognize most of the cars already parked as you pull into one of the furthest spots. You don’t see Joel’s truck, and your stomach drops with a wave of disappointment as you pull in between someone else’s truck and a jeep. You don’t want to think about him or feel let down.

There’s a short but steep and winding path that leads to the water. You round the corner, finally able to see through the trees to the beach, and recognize him immediately. The unmistakable frame of Joel Miller. The shape of his body and that signature stance. You’d recognize him by the back of his head in a crowd with one eye closed. Butterflies stir in your stomach, and at the same time, your throat feels dry.

He’s such a dick, you think as you trudge down the path in your sandals. Maybe you should ask him if his phone still works. No. That would blow up in your face. You’d just be broadcasting that it hurts when he rejects you. You do not want to face that fear. Maybe coming here was a total mistake. Regret and fear claw viciously at your throat with each step you take.

Joel seems to dance around you, just avoiding being on your path as you greet everyone and catch up. Tommy is friendly and chats with you for a moment before getting Joel’s attention, forcing you to interact.

“You remember Joel, right?” he asks.

You laugh brightly. “Of course, the one and only,” you say with a smile.

Joel nods at you. Doesn’t even say a fucking word. His dark brown eyes just bore into you for the longest second before giving you a curt smile. Tommy laughs at something while Joel turns away to find something to look busy with. Or someone. You gawk briefly as you watch him turn to chat with some woman you don’t know.

Blowing you off on your attempts at dates is one thing, but acting like he doesn’t even know you? What the fuck is with this guy? Who’s the woman he seems so friendly with?

You remember how to close your mouth and decide to set up your spot along the beach. You strip off your T-shirt and adjust the straps on your bikini. Rifling through your bag for some sunscreen, you find the lotion first. Smiling to yourself, you imagine asking Joel to help get your back. Would he refuse? Would his lady friend be jealous? You actually don’t want to know. You dig around until you find the spray sunscreen. You don’t need a man applying any cream to your back.

You swear you feel his eyes burning into you, but when you look around, he’s turned and talking to her. Whatever. You figure it’s safest for your sanity to head straight for the water. You grab your pool float and start to blow it up. You feel that burning sensation again, but you turn, and he’s busy swigging down a drink. You grab one for yourself, and with a drink in one hand and the pool float under the other arm, you march right into the water. It’s perfect. Just warm enough, it doesn’t shock your system. Cool enough to ease the oppressing heat of the sun.

“The water is perfect! Why am I the only one in here?” you call to Katie.

“Alright, I’m coming!” she calls back.

You laze in the water for most of the afternoon. Chatting with friends, cheering on a wobbly friend learning to stand on a paddleboard, and just resting peacefully.

Joel sits in a beach chair, observing. You stare back under your sunglasses, hoping it’s not noticeable. Your thoughts spiral again. What is his issue? You aren’t good enough? He doesn’t wanna get caught talking to you? You consider cornering Tommy to dig up some dirt, but it’s too late. Joel is pulling his shirt over his head. You’re locked on. You fight to keep from reacting. His sun-kissed frame strolls towards the lakeshore. You watch as he gets waist-deep before he pushes off and glides through the water. When his head re-emerges, and he shakes the water from his hair, you feel your mouth drop open. You quickly fill it with the beverage in your hand.

You keep staring. Watching the beads of water roll down his shoulders. You’d like to sink your teeth into the skin on his neck. You’d like to wrap your legs around his hips under the water—“oh, shit!” you yelp.

A kid swimming behind you got a little too excited, kicking water and splashing it all over your face. You grimace. You didn’t mean to swear at the kid. It was just the shock of it. No big deal. Since your hair is wet now anyway, you might as well get all the way in the water.

You drop off your floaty and empty drink on your blanket. Tossing your sunglasses off, too. You walk back into the water and dive under yourself. It’s refreshing. You’re close to Joel when you pop up again. He looks at you this time. Acknowledges you’re a real, live human in front of him.

“All wet now, huh?” he smirks.

“Oh, fuck off, Joel,” you scoff at him. You swim away before he can say anything else.

You lay out, letting the sun dry your wet skin. Until you’re ready to leave. The idea of a shower and aircon sounds pretty good to you. You gather your things, say your goodbyes, and hike up the path to your car.

With your bags in the backseat, you grab your towel. Your bikini and hair are still dripping wet. You squeeze your hair with the towel when you hear someone approaching. You look over your shoulder, and of course, it’s him. You turn away, continuing to towel at your hair. You can feel his body hovering behind yours.

“Hey, baby,” he says, low and syrupy.

“Are you joking?” you spew incredulously, not bothering to look at him. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“My what?”

“I didn’t catch her name.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, baby. It’s not like that.” His large hands wrap around either side of your hips. “Y’look nice in this,” he coos, ignoring your spite and toying with the strings tied at your hips. You turn and shove at his chest. He leans against the truck behind him.

“Why are you up here, Joel? You want to ignore me around our friends, then follow me to my car like a dog? You’ve got fuckin’ problems, man. Why are you looking at me like that?”

He’s smiling at you like it’s endearing that you’re telling him off.

“Oh my god, let me guess. You think I look sexy when I’m mad?”

“No,” he defends and steps closer. He runs his fingers under the strap on your shoulder. His touch burns white hot against your skin, branding you. You shiver. “You always look sexy,” he rasps. It’s not charming. He’s still an ass. But it feels so good when he says it. He’s so close you can smell the sunscreen and sweat on his skin. Everything about his presence chips away at your defenses.

“Could barely stand watching you in the water,” he adds. When did his mouth get so close to you? His hot breath runs over the shell of your ear. “Want you bad.”

“Liar,” you argue with less venom.

“Am not,” he hums. A hand slides up your neck, thumb under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. His eyes are heavy with lust. He’s still smiling. You wonder if that’s how he’d look if you woke up next to him. A dreamy smile with his tousled hair and scruffy cheeks.

He takes your hand, so delicate compared to his. Slowly, he brings it towards his body and wraps it around the stiff bulge in his swim trunks. “Feel like I’m lying?” He watches the tiny muscles in your face twitch as you suppress your reaction. Then your brows pull together, and you glare.

“You think you can just follow me up here, get your hands on me, and then what? You’ll have me on my knees in the dirt for you? You think I wanna catch some dirty lake water disease from your cock in my mouth?”

He squeezes your hand harder like his dick will argue for him. Maybe you’d hear it out.

“You gonna tell me you don’t want this?” he asks, narrowing his eyes, “bet you’re wet from more than just the lake, pretty baby.” He’s not wrong, but you’re not going to admit it. Wait, did he say pretty? A laugh, shriek, and loud splash from the lake below breaks you out of his trance. Your tunnel vision expands. You pull your hand from his grip.

“Why are you up here, Joel?”

“Couldn’t just watch you leave.”

You scoff at him and whip back around. You’re quick, but he’s bigger and stronger. His hands pull at your hips, slamming your body back into his. The damp skin of his chest sticks to your back.

“We’re not fucking in the parking lot,” you snap. You can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the curve of your ass. His swim trunks and your wet Lycra bikini are the only barriers between you.

“Maybe s’what you get for being a filthy fuckin’ tease,” his gravelly voice rumbles in your ear.

“How am I a tease?” you squirm against him, but the friction only makes both of you more pathetic as you gasp and he groans.

“Wearing this.” He pulls at the string of your bikini on one shoulder and lets it snap back. “Laying on that towel, ass up, like you were waiting for me to fill it,” he squeezes a cheek for emphasis, “floating in the water with these perfect tits barely hidden.” He pulls at the triangles of fabric covering them, sliding them apart until your breasts pop out. Exposing you under the shade of the trees.

“You’re delusional,” you accuse. But all the venom is gone. The words come out breathy. His body is wrapped around you, constricting. His hand travels down your stomach, slipping under the bikini and between your legs. His fingers find exactly what they were searching for. Your slick folds part easily, welcoming his fingers deeper.

“Doesn’t feel like a delusion to me, baby.” Wretched man. Always has to prove a point. You’re running out of the mental fortitude to argue. You also feel ridiculous, standing between someone’s truck and your car, tits out, his hand between your legs.

“Isn’t someone gonna wonder where you are?” you try to find a reason you should stop.

“No, said I had to make a call.”

“A call? So your phone does work,” you chide, using your last brain cell. He plunges two fingers into your aching pussy, effectively shutting you up. A moan is the only noise you can form.

“Thought I already taught you to quit arguing with me.” His irritation is muffled by his lips pressed into the skin of your neck.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

“You wanna try askin’ nicely?” he goads in your ear. His fingers curl as he drags them in and out of you. You let yourself focus on the sensation. Your head falls, chin to your chest, and you watch the muscles and tendons in his arm flexing and rippling while he works you into a needy mess. It’s hot. His arm is firm and tan from days spent working in the hot sun. Against the soft, cushiony flesh of your curves, it’s almost menacing, but it provides you with support. Like he could balance you forever against his one arm. He might have to if your knees give out.

The noises coming from you both are obscene. You feel his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades, slowing down time. Joel moves shamelessly, his hips roll and grind into the swell of your ass. He’s curled around you like a wild beast claiming his prize in the forest. It gives you some kind of sick ego trip; he hurt you, but now he’s here attached to you with desperate want. You slide a hand behind your head, feeling for his soft, damp hair on the back of his head, confirming this whole perverse scenario is real. You tug at his hair, eliciting a rough groan from his lips. He seems to have forgotten his own question, entranced by you.

Joel watches the sweat beading on your chest and runs his hot tongue up your neck into the hinge of your jaw. He savors your sweat-salted taste with a deep hum that vibrates from his chest into your spine. It lights sparks along your nerves.

You grind back against him as his palm presses firmly into your clit, and his fingers keep stroking at just the right spot. The pressure building feels overwhelming. He’s all consuming the way he surrounds you. The sound of his breath, his scent, the way your skin sticks against one another, it floods your senses. Your breath quickens, and your muscles coil tight with tension, buzzing with need.

“Give it to me,” his words scrape across gravel. The tension in your core snaps, abdomen spasming, and your pussy clenching at his fingers for more. The hand you have on the back of his neck clings tightly for support. He loosens his grip around you and slows his movements as you start to take deeper and deeper breaths of air. Fresh air. Because you’re in the parking lot at the lake. Your senses sharpen, and your vision clears. You fix your bikini top in a rush, adjusting the fabric and straps fighting through your tangled mess of limbs crossed with Joel’s.

You can hear other footsteps on the path. Turning to face Joel, you flash a smile on your flushed face at him.

“Good timing,” you quip as you look beyond Joel and past the bed of the truck to see who’s coming up the path. You wave at a couple of friends as they carry their bags to their vehicle. Joel doesn’t turn to look. Doesn’t seem to move a muscle. You look back at his face.

One brow raised; he looks like he knows something you don’t. A frown pulls at your face. He executes his maneuver before you can devise a retort for his expression. He yanks hard on the ends of the bows that tie your bikini bottoms together. Your jaw drops as the fabric falls. Your hand flies out to slap his chest at the audacity, but he grips your wrist in his hand.

“Not nice to hit people, baby,” he condescends as if you were the one in the wrong. You’re fuming. Blood boiling.

“What–” you’re cut off by his other hand grabbing your jaw with a vice grip.

“Quiet,” he snaps. You hear the sounds of the car backing out and pulling away. Tires kicking up a cloud of dust. You can’t see past Joel’s wide frame as he holds your head in place. You grab at his forearm, but it’s useless. You’re defenseless in his grip. Vulnerable between the vehicles and the trees. Why does that make your cunt ache and throb? You squirm. “You gonna behave?” he asks, but you know it’s not a question.

“Uhuh,” you respond through your clenched teeth, your lips unnaturally squished and parted between his fingers and thumb. You give up on prying at his arm and run your hand down his bare chest towards his swim trunks instead. Your touch brings a smirk to his face.

“Yeah, you are,” he agrees. Reading your sordid motives like a love letter, he carries on. He drops your jaw and readjusts your positioning. Joel moves you with ease. He lifts you and backs you into the window to the backseat of the truck, his hands under your thighs. If you had any sense left, you might consider it vulgar to be fucked wide open in a parking lot, but the animalistic expression on Joel’s face wipes your mind blank. You lock your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck as if he were the one caught in your trap. He looks at you like he’s trying to etch all the details of you in this position into his mind. It stirs that depraved sense of pride in your chest.

“Take it out,” he orders. You obey. Snaking a hand between your bodies to free his cock from his swim trunks. Both of you watch, chins tucked to your chests as your hand wraps around his stiff shaft. The sight makes your mouth water. He seems similarly affected. You think you’ll have hand-shaped bruises on the back of your legs the way his grip tightens and his fingertips dig into your skin. He leans closer, seeking your slick, wet entrance. You guide his leaking tip with your own pleasure in mind instead. He watches as you use him like a toy. You swirl the head of his cock around your swollen clit. The pressure and heat blur your vision. You slip him through your folds until he’s coated in your glossy arousal. You keep playing, creating lewd noises between your legs. He’s talking to you, you realize, and tune back in.

“Keep teasin’ like that. Gonna fuck you til you can’t walk. Give it to this needy little pussy the way no one else can, right, baby? Stretch you out and fill you up. Send you home dripping.” He rambles on with his threats. They make you dumb.

“Fuck, please, please, please,” you respond with tight exhales.

His head shoots up.

“You hear that?” he asks, and you freeze. Straining to listen. You can hear the birds in the trees. The muffled voices down at the lakeshore. You listen for voices or footsteps getting closer, but they don’t exist.

“Hear what?” you pant.

“The sound of you begging for my cock.”

Your face heats. You feel another surge of arousal flood your already-soaked center.

“Fuck off, Joel.”

“It’s a pretty sound, baby. Want you to be bad.” His words light something fierce inside of you. You need him inside you, now. He doesn’t help as you wiggle in his grip, trying to slip him inside of you. He exhales a puff of air in amusement at your struggle.

“Do it again. Beg.”

“Please, Joel.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, fuck me. Need you to fuck me hard.” A twisted wave of humiliation and need for approval courses through you. Begging for him, trying to tug him closer. You’re a mess for him.

“There she is,” he smiles. It’s devious, but it makes your heart flutter and your pussy throb even harder.

You line him up with your entrance, and he fills you in one motion.

“Fuck,” you mouth as your head slides back against the truck. He fulfills his threats and splits you around his cock over and over. His hips snap into you with a force that sends shockwaves rippling across your body. Joel fucks you like a man possessed. Driving into you brutally, rocking the truck behind you. You try to stifle the cries pouring out of your throat, focusing on breathing, squeezing your eyes shut, and digging your nails into his shoulders. Pinning you with his body frees his hand, and he wastes no time using it to grope at every inch of you he can.

He slows and rocks into you more tenderly, confusing you. He peers around the cab and waves at someone. Oh, shit. They can’t see you through the cab windows, right? Fuck.

“Hey, put me down,” you hiss.

“It’s just Tommy,” he replies. How is that better?

Then you hear him calling to Joel.

“Hey, you see my sunglasses on the dash?”

Joel looks through into the driver’s window as if you didn’t even exist.

“Yeah, you want ‘em?” Joel calls back to Tommy.

“Yeah, you comin' back down?”

“Yep, be there in a minute if you want me to bring them.” He calls back to Tommy. Still rolling against you, just grinding at a mind-numbingly slow speed.

“You’re sick,” you whisper at Joel while you grind back into him, and Tommy shouts a thank you in the distance. Joel thrusts up into you more harshly. Your breath catches as his eyes lock onto yours with his full attention.

“Felt to me like you enjoyed the risk.” His voice sounds like a taunt, but he’s not wrong. Joel talking to Tommy like you weren’t wrapped around his cock sent a rush through your veins. You decide not to admit that out loud.

“This is Tommy’s truck?” you ask between gasps.

“Yep.”

You had some snarky comment to make, but you give up as he resumes his pace, and your thoughts fade away. Joel’s filthy stream of consciousness starts up again between low grunts and groans. His voice and the noises he makes bounce around in your skull. He makes you feel weightless.

Each time his hips meet the cradle of your pelvis, you nearly burst, complimenting his movements with an enthusiastic rhythm. You arch your spine, angling just a little deeper, chanting out breathy prayers of fuck, fuck, fuck, and yes, yes, yes, when he slips a hand down to draw circles around your clit.

“That’s it. Let me feel it,” he demands as you writhe.

You give in, and it drives him crazy. The way your nails dig into his shoulders, your brows pinch, your mouth hangs open, and your body involuntarily shudders against him. He feels the way you start to relax, but your body jerks and clings tighter to him a few more times. He can’t slow down. It fuels his unbridled urge to come inside you as deep as he can.

“That’s my baby,” he husks. My baby? You feel butterflies as you try to catch your breath while he ramps up his force.

“Gonna fill you up. Fuck you full.”

“Yes,” you reply, not sure he’s even listening with the intensity of his look as he barrels towards his release. When he stills, and you feel it, you can’t stifle the sounds in your throat. You feel his cock pulsing inside you, and his hips lurch into you as if he could fuck his come any deeper. He smothers you as he comes down. With his chest crushing you into the truck, you can feel when his breathing starts to slow. You rake your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp and breathing him in. Your pussy might be sore for a day, but your ego is full, and you feel sated.

Joel pulls out of you with a barely audible pained noise and asks if you can stand before releasing you fully from his grip.

“I still have two legs,” you joke. But you look like you might topple over if he lets go. He hugs you into him for a tender kiss; it’s quick, but you drown in it. He props you up and presses another kiss to your sweaty temple.

Then it’s happening again. He pulls his shorts back up, opens the truck, and grabs Tommy’s sunglasses. You grab your towel to wrap around your naked lower half. The truck door slams, and you turn. He’s already walking away.

“Drive safe,” he calls over his shoulder while you pick up your bikini bottoms from the dirt.

An empty feeling starts to shroud your satisfied glow as the sound of his footsteps fades away. He did call you “my baby,” though. He doesn’t say that to just anyone, right?

-> NEXT

467 notes · View notes

alanaaii · 2 years ago

Text

Hot boxin’ w connie.☆

!plug connie │ yall jus best friends

“where is my mfn’ gloss?”

you were searching through your makeup bag before you heard your phone ring. You look over and see nothing but a big red heart—it was connie— as the facetime connected you set your phone up, still looking in your makeup bag.

“what’re you doin right now ma?”

you lift your head to look at the screen. you see connie in his car, windows tinted and led lights on blue. “im looking for my lipgloss i just bought..where you going?".

“coming to pick you up. be ready.”

before you could say another word he hung up. leaving you speechless.

But you knew connie drove fast and you had to get ready quick.

you slip on some black shorts. Your undercheeks very visible. Adding a light pink tank top. you admired yourself in the mirror before sitting down and fixing your lashes and edges nothing too extra. to top it off you put on some shiny lipgloss—not the one you was looking for but this will do. As you sprayed yourself with perfume you get a text.

outside

you feel those butterflies in your tummy and tingling in your panties. connie was your best friend so why did he make you feel like this? you two shared kisses from time to time but that was it. this nigga got you in ya feels. you texted back with a simple ok.

you grabbed your small telfar bag and slid on some slides. you walk out and lock your apartment door behind you. connie was waiting outside of his car, opening the door for you. looking GOODT.

“you just get finer every time i see yo ass”

your heart was doing backflips. you gave connie a hug and smelled his strong cologne with a hint of weed. “thank you connie” you said as he led you into his car. the smell of weed literally punching you in the face. you hopped in the passenger seat and reclined the seat a little.

“thank you connie”

connie shook his head.

“naw i jus wanted to see you mama”

mann you just wanted to hop in the back seat and let this man twist your insides like a pretzel. he always knew how do make you smile.

Connie took his car off of park and began to drive. he gave you his phone to put some music on. you played a song connie only knew because of you.

playing : Leave em alone by quality control ft..

(u can replace that w any song.)

you smirk at connie knowing this song put you in your feels. you started singing acting like you was in a music video. touching connie n getting up and throwing some ass.

“fat butt sit down before you get us pulled over”

you two laughed together as you sat down.

connie soon pulled into a almost empty parking lot.

“get in the back” “what?” “you heard me”

connie got out of the car to get in the back while you just crawled to the back.

his seats in the back were comfy and warm. he pulled out a small bag and started to roll up.

“get comfy ma, you with me”

you slid your slides off as you put your legs over connie’s. you never felt scared around connie, you knew he would keep you safe no matter what. once he was done licking and wrapping, he lit it up and took the first hit, then giving it to you. you put your glossy lips on the blunt but connie didn’t care. his mind was on something else. he was focused on rubbing your thighs n feet.

you and connie talked for a while, going back and fourth with the blunt. But the car was getting hot and smokey. “con i need some air”

connie just ignored you and suddenly pressed his lips on yours. desperate whines coming from you as his tongue slithered into your mouth.

in between the kiss, you straddle him as you snake your arms around his neck. You could feel connie get hard under you. you knew where this was going. you hear connie inhale. “you smell so fucking good.”

in one quick motion connie flipped you on your back. dropping his head between your thighs. “let me taste you”

you were already soaked from the touching n kissing you didn’t want nothing more than for connie to make you cum. you slid your shorts and panties off, throwing them into the front. Legs open in front of connie. he used two fingers to spread you open, your slick lubricating his fingers as he went down on you. his pink lips kissing your pussy before he started to lick your clit. you were drowning in pleasure and ecstasy. connie was eating like it was his last meal.

“fuckkk” was the only word you could let out. as his warm wet tongue flicked your bean , your mind went blank. your legs began to shake-you knew you were coming to your breaking point. you bucked your hips on connie’s mouth as he swirled his tongue over your pussy. he held onto your thighs stopping you from moving. if the car wasn’t hot before, it was extremely hot now.

connie slid two fingers into your hole, hitting the right spot over and over again. Your orgasm building up in your core. You came all over connie’s fingers. “conniee” you cried out. he did not stop , over stimulating your cunt. you shakily pushed his head away. his chin and lips just glistening with your cum. “round 2?”

Likes, reblogs and follows are always appreciated! ♡

#connie x black reader #connie x reader #plug connie #plug x black reader #aot x black reader #connie x you #aot x reader #connie x black y/n #aot connie #connie springer #x reader #black reader #lanaworks

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slimybeth69 · 2 months ago

Text

Hungry Man

Chapter Two: God The Animal

Series Masterlist | Chapter One

Chapter Summary: “…made me think about what it would be like if God the animal bit me with his razor-sharp fangs. God has huge poisonous fangs and he loves to bite people who follow the rules. If you follow the rules, God's going to kill you with his long teeth ; and I love knowing that.”

warnings/tags: DDDNE, smut, overstim, extreme dub con, coercion, lying, dubious ethics, Mister-man being sneaky as hell, reader is struggling, hearing voices.

a/n- hello, this chapter is mostly smut but with lots of little things important to the story. I hope you all enjoy <3

Mister opens the front door of his home for you with his hand pressed gently into your lower back. The smell of him hits you, like you hit the ground after falling out of the rafters– how many days have even gone by since then?

That happened yesterday– earlier this morning, technically.

That doesn’t even make sense and you refuse to process that information because it’s ridiculous. That all happened days ago, maybe even weeks ago. You are actively fighting the memory of being inside your favorite, most safe and special place less than twenty-four hours ago.

Why did you ever stop fighting him?

He adds weight to his touch on your body, and carefully forces you inside. Your feet shuffle along the hardwood floor just inside the entryway, his warm hand guiding you.

The door closing makes you shudder, and a cold sweat beads at the nape of your neck. His house looks like a normal house. It looks like a house you would have seen before the outbreak, before the loss of everyone you had ever known. Before the infected, the terrible living conditions in the quarantine zones– before the real monsters emerged from the rubble of what was civilized once.

Mister-man’s house looks…

Safe.

It does look safe. It looks warm, inviting, and familiar. It’s like you’ve been here before and know your way around even though you’ve never once stepped foot inside a house in almost 12 years. The closest you’ve gotten was a dry goods storage shed the raiders used to lock up shelf-stable food products.

Look at you, been in two houses today and you’re perfectly fine.

They’re all trickin’ you, and you’re fallin’ for it.

There is a fireplace and it's already lit, keeping the house nice and warm. There are stairs that lead to a second floor, and you wonder what’s up there before your eyes wander into the kitchen area.

Joel lets his hand fall from the small of your back. “Y’like it?” He shrugs the coat off his shoulders and hangs it up on a coat rack by the door.

You shrug your one working shoulder silently as he stands in front of you to unzip your jacket. Your eyes don’t meet his, they can’t right now because they’re too busy taking in everything else.

Joel slips your coat off carefully and hangs it up beside his, “Go on and take a look around. Get familiar with it all,” he motions for you to keep walking, go further.

Curious feet carry you deeper into his home to inspect what Mister-man has. “Where is Puddin’?” You still don’t look at him, you just keep wandering and taking in the sounds of the logs crackling in the fireplace and the texture against your fingertips as you brush them along the wallpaper.

His kitchen is uncluttered and smells like it’s been cleaned recently.

Make a mess. Ruin his things. Burn it down.

“Somewhere ‘round here. Hidin’ probably.” Joel explains from behind you. “Makin’ a mess, I’m sure.”

Puddin’s probably gone. Ain’t ever gonna see him again.

“Where’re ya’ thinkin’ he might be?” Your blood pressure rises at the thought that you’ve been lied to, that Puddin’ isn’t here and was let go in the woods shortly after you left with Maria.

Or worse.

The dining room smells like him too, and you wonder if there is a part of the house that doesn’t. His table is big enough to seat four and all the chairs match. There is a china cabinet with nothing in it. A few decorative pictures and knick-knacks on the wall.

It’s a normal house. The bad ones didn’t look like this, or Maria’s.

Traps don’t always look like traps. Tricks don’t always feel like tricks.

“I dunno. I ain’t really pay attention to where he ran off too when I let him off leash,” Joel sighs while he follows behind you only two or three paces. You can feel his eyes boring holes into the back of your head.

You suck your teeth rapidly several times and then call out, “T’mere Puddie-boy. T’mon,” you call in a high-pitched voice. He doesn’t come running to you like he normally would, but he’s probably just as scared as you are in a house. Puddin’s never ever been inside one!! You try not to think about it– just hope that Puddin’ is hiding, and will come out soon.

The kitchen opens up into his living room where the fireplace is. You can see the door that leads outside where you and Mister-J had just been standing just a moment ago.

Run.

The couch faces the fireplace, and there is a wooden rocking chair with an overstuffed cushion to sit on adjacent to it.

A nice place for you and Joel to sit and talk.

Which is exactly what you wanted in the first place. All you wanted was someone to talk with, not at, or to, but with. Someone who would show interest in the things you wanted to show them, and that was Mister-J.

“Do you wanna see the bedroom?” He asks as the backs of his fingers ghost against the curve of your ass. “Finish what we started earlier,” he adds, an octave lower than just a moment ago.

You do want that.

Mister and his incredible cock, his large, strong hands that grip you and pull and pinch your skin while he thrusts into you. His facial hair scratching at your inner thighs, warm and muscular biceps and forearms wrapped around your middle.

You turn to face him, eyes finally darting up to meet his gaze. “Do I get to sleep there,” you pause, expecting him to start laughing at you for having such an absurd thought, but he doesn’t, he’s quiet and waits for you to keep talking. “...or do I have a different room– my own room?”

Somehow, for whatever reason, you want both. You want to sleep with Mister and also, have your own room away from him to go to whenever you want.

Just like at the mall.

The idea that you could have both makes your heart skip a beat.

He’s not goin’ to give you shit.

With the way he’s acting, you’re not so sure about that.

He looks slightly amused, but not annoyed, and then he slips his fingers into the waistband of your jeans, using it to pull you closer into him. “You can sleep with me,” he leans in until his lips are almost pressed against yours. His and your breaths mingle momentarily before he says, “I could make up the other room for ya’,” he growls and kisses you quickly. “I’d rather ya’ sleep with me though,” he finishes with another kiss, but this one lingers a moment longer than the other, and there is force, and pressure that hadn’t been there with the first.

It feels like there is something behind the kiss, but that doesn’t make sense. There isn’t a word you know to describe what it feels like because it’s foreign. It makes you shiver– the little hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up.

It’s all a trick. Just wait ‘n see, stupid girl.

You stare at him inquisitively during the entire interaction, “Whaddya doin’?” You tip your head to the side and wrinkle your nose, one eyebrow raised after a minute of trying to learn his unspoken, untranslatable language silently in your head.

It feels foreign because it’s new, no one has cared about you in a long time. It doesn’t feel normal, but it’s okay.

Joel snorts, shakes his head once and then grabs your right hand, pulling you gently in the direction of the stairs. “Gonna show you the bedrooms,” he’s explaining as the two of you climb to the second floor.

You ain’t ever leavin’ this house again.

That sweet voice is laughing at you, almost cackling. It feels horrible to be laughed at, especially by the voices inside your head. The ones that got you into this mess in the fucking first place. Without that sweet and lighthearted voice, you might not have done the things you did out in the woods. That voice was your courage, your enabler, the one who told you that you could do anything.

Thought you could, sug. Guess I was wrong...

You’re only human, honey.

The hallway upstairs is dark, and long and feels more ominous than you expected it to. Part of you is screaming to turn around and leave, the other part of you is morbidly curious about the outcome if you stay. So you freeze, yank your hand out of Joel’s and stay glued to the spot at the top of the stairs.

Mister whips around, his stance looks like he half expected to take off running, knees slightly bent and arms twitching like he’s ready to grab you. But he relaxes when he sees you standing still, your one working arm wrapped around yourself.

“Why’s it so dark?” You ask nervously, glancing around for the light switches on the wall but you see none.

Mister glances up, and then points to the ceiling.

Your eyes follow, and notice the broken light fixture above you. “Oh.”

There isn’t a sense of urgency, which you’re surprised about. You expected him to rush you, to want to get you into a room as quickly as he could. Instead he moves slowly like the snails that lived on the banks of the river near the mall.

“You scared of the dark or somethin’?”

You can’t tell if he’s taunting, or playfully teasing, or being serious. Nothing really makes sense anymore– one side of you is pulling towards the stairs again, itching to get to the front door; not before lighting Mister-man’s house on fire.

The other side of you, the side closest to Joel feels like it’s magnetized and he’s your polar opposite. It’s hard to escape the draw that is Mister-J and his half-smirks and deep voice, the way his arms feel wrapped around you.

“I ain’t scared,” you lie sassily, the words stitched with apprehension. “Just can’t see where m’goin’.” You are frightened by what could be hiding behind these doors in the darkness.

Probably a lil prison just for you– ‘n Tommy helped him fix it all up for ya’.

That is a possibility. This wouldn’t be the first time that you’ve been tricked by someone being kind to you. Mister-man and his nice tone, and his kisses. His sultry voice talking about fucking– he absolutely might be trying to trick you.

You wait for some reassurance from the dark voice– but it doesn’t come.

Stupid girl. Why did you ever stop fighting him?

Mister snaps his fingers in front of your face and it makes you flinch.

Instinctively, your right hand swats his fist away but he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you close to him again.

“Where were ya’ just now?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. His grip on your wrist tightens as you try to pull away.

His question confuses you because you haven’t moved from this spot since you got to the second floor. Before you have more time to think about what he could mean, he adds on more words that continue to puzzle you.

“You do that a lot,” he adds as he begins to take steady but deliberate steps backwards, further into the darkness, closer to those mysterious doors. The void starts to envelope Mister, the shadows licking and dancing across his face as he pulls you further down the hallway.

It’s ya’ last chance, Sug.

It’s hard to breathe, and Mister-man is crowding your every sense. His once welcoming, comforting smell is now overwhelming and makes your mouth hot. Saliva pools under your tongue and you can’t remember how to swallow.

Gotta make a run for it.

Where is the dark voice!? You need it now more than ever to calm these nerves, to make this boulder in your stomach revert back to the pebble it was only moments ago.

You just have to trust, honey.

Can’t trust not one thing, not nobody. ‘Specially not a Mister-man.

There are too many sounds inside your brain, and too many feelings happening in your chest. Your heart and lungs and everything else hidden behind ribs, tendons and flesh have been replaced with a hive of angry hornets. You’re buzzing, and in the worst way.

“Hey,” Joel’s voice sounds like it’s so far away, like it could be coming from the atmosphere.

The sound doesn’t grip you, or pull you back from floating away from him. The darkness is suffocating; too much and taking over.

Joel watches you slip further and further away, his eyes adjusting to the dark quicker than yours. He’s more accepting of the things hiding in the dark than you must be. Joel isn’t afraid of the dark. He’s afraid of what he can see, once a brain processes something– it has to work hard to get it out– and some memories are etched so deeply that they never leave no matter how hard the brain works.

Some memories are never forgotten.

“Hey,” Joel cups your face with one hand, your chin resting on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Your brow crinkles, but you don’t respond otherwise– you don’t see him and you’re not trying to. You’re disappearing back inside of yourself and it’s strange the way it happens so fast sometimes. “Hey!” He tries again. This time he lets your wrist go, and your arm falls limply to your side and dangles there.

Joel snaps rapidly in your face.

You flinch and retract from him, trying to free your face from his grip but he holds you tight enough to keep you from backing away.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t–” you’re mumbling, barely audible. “I can’t, I sh-should, I won’t, I want to. I c-can’t. I ca-can, can’t.”

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” He wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you close to him. Two stumbled steps and you’re crashing into him; he has to hold you upright as your legs betray you like a newborn foal’s would.

“Trust him. I can’t trust him-” You’re on the verge of tears. Your eyes are wet, red and distant; looking right at Joel, but not truly seeing him.

He doesn’t know where you are inside your head, or what you’re putting yourself through, what you’re forcing yourself to relive. “Trust who, babydoll?” He knows. He knows before you tell him, he can feel it dripping out of your pores in the form of a cold sweat. He needs to hear you say it, though. He needs to hear your sweet, soft voice say it.

“Ca-Can’t trust… anyone,” you snivel quietly. “‘Sp-specially not a– a M-Mister-man,” you’re hiccuping now, unable to catch your breath.

Joel comes to a stop with his back against something solid, he keeps you held against him with the arm still around your waist, the other slips behind him and he searches blindly for the doorknob. “That ain’t true. You can trust Mister-man. He ain’t ever gonna hurt ya’.”

The door opens, and light spills out into the dark hallway, illuminating your terrified face and bleary eyed stare.

The light snaps you out of it, the light brings you back to him, but you stiffen and push your right hand against his chest, brows pulled together angrily.

“Get off me! No, no, no, no, no!” Your once sadly sweet voice is now deep and angry, eyes once again, looking right at Joel but it’s like he’s not even there, looking at someone else possibly. “Get off’a me! Don’ fuckin’ touch me!” You shriek.

Oh, someone is gonna be hearin’ all of that– wonder what they’ll be thinkin’...

His body reacts before he can think about what else to do, how else to calm you down. Joel spins you around in his arm and then slaps one hand over your mouth as you continue your loud protesting.

Whatever was holding you together, snaps… and violently. Your arms punch and flail in every direction, legs kick and slam into his shins as he drags you further into his room.

Joel is too old for this, too tired to be dealing with this shit. “Enough’a that,” he’s straining as he’s pulling you closer to the bed. “

From behind his palm your loud muffled objections are now only his to hear.

You know what she needs. You know what’ll make her your pliant lil pup.

The back of Joel’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he sinks down into it, bringing you with him. Joel presses the side of his mouth to your ear as he pushes himself further up the bed with his boot clad heels until his back touches the headboard. “Here we go,” he murmurs to you as he settles. His palm still rests over your mouth, his other wrapped around your waist.

You sob silently behind his hand, your fists are pathetically punching against his thighs and hips in protest, body slowly going limp in his grasp.

Wonder when the last time she slept was…

He feels like that’s slightly condescending- you’re not a baby that needs a nap to stop being grumpy. He knows that you’ve been through things that have traumatized you, that have helped shape you into who you are today– good and bad.

“Hey– ya’ sleepy? Need a good night’s sleep next to Mister?” He mumbles against the side of your face.

It’s been something that’s been eating away at him for days. Since he broke the news to you about Harley Quinn and Joker, and how their love wasn’t what you thought it was– you had skipped out on him.

For almost a week you had been gone, or hiding somewhere that Joel couldn’t find you. There had been nights in the mall that he had sworn he could feel you there with him, but you weren’t in the bed or even the mattress store at all. You were avoiding him, and that made him feel two things.

Furious. So angry that he was sure the next time he saw you– he was going to kill you no matter if it took his life too. How could you just leave him with no weapons? No extra supplies, a fucking opossum to look after. Where the fuck did you run off to?

He felt something else too, but he’s still not exactly sure what it was; he wasn’t just furious, something else was woven into the fibers of that anger, and he just couldn’t identify its origin- or reason.

He kisses the top of your head as he adjusts the two of you to sit more comfortably, with you in his lap rather than just laying between his legs with your back pressed against his stomach.

Now with your back against his chest, his legs pinning yours between together gently. “You gonna be a good girl for Mister? Remember where we’re at?” He rubs his hand across your stomach slowly, moving it up to tease the valley between your tits and then over your collarbone before repeating the motion back down your body. “Ain’t no one gonna hurt ya’, or get ya’-- not while I’m here, ok?”

With scrabbling fingers starting to grip his jeans under your thighs, you nod your head slowly, and Joel removes his hand over your mouth. You don’t tell or scream, or start to fight him, but you don’t make any other sounds or move at all.

Joel wasn’t sure what to do now– he honestly hadn’t really expected all this to happen. He had expected you to explode once you found out how many people were really in Jackson, he expected you to act crazy once the patrol people found the two of you. He had expected you to fight when Maria and Tommy wanted to split the two of you up.

He thought once he got you inside, through the front door– he was in the clear. If you were going to fight him again– it should have been outside his house.

Now he’s got you back, and he had planned to fuck you into this mattress, make you love him again and then, just keep you preoccupied enough until you forgot about the mall completely.

“Whaddya need from me?” He whispers, continuing his slow tracing movements across the front of your body, the tips of his fingers brushing along the waistband of your jeans mindlessly. He’d give you anything you asked for.

There is only the sound of both of you trying to steady your breathing, trying to slow your hearts pounding. He can feel yours with his hand every time he moves it across your chest, and he knows you can feel his thudding against your back.

“W-Wanna–” you hesitate, and you’re trembling against him now.

Joel has to push the unprovoked rage down because you haven’t said you wanted to go back to the mall yet, but he knows you do. It’s all you said on the way here, and if you start asking again after the deal he made with you– he’s going to lose it.

“What? Wanna what, babygirl?” His hand moves down one thigh and then back up, over your jeans covered mound, down the other thigh– an addition to the pattern he had been tracing before.

The trembling turns into full on shaking, he half expects you to start crying again, but he brushes the backs of his fingers of his other hand across your cheek gently, and he tips your head to the side, and leans forward to look at you.

“What’re you shakin’ for?”

Your eyes meet his, watery and red still, chin trembling softly. “Wanna know you’re not mad at me,” you say it fast, high pitched and strained, face twisting as the tears fall. “That you’re not trickin’ me ‘n aren’t ever gon’ let me go outside again, ‘n keep me all chained up—” you choke back a sob as Joel wipes the tears off your face, not saying a thing. “Th-That you didn’t hu-hurt Puddin’ or let him go–”

Joel interrupts you, “I wouldn’t ever hurt Puddin’,” he shakes his head and shifts forward an inch more when your sobbing takes over, the words no longer coming out. He wonders if you even heard what he said, or if you’re being sucked back into your own head again. “Puddin’ is here in the house somewhere. Probably in the basement– I’ll go look for ‘em if that’ll make ya’ feel better,” he offers. “Would seein’ him make you feel better,” he asks over your crying.

You’re trying to reel it in, piece yourself back together. You nod, sniffling. Joel pinches your nose together gently, clears your nostrils and wipes his hands on the back of his shirt. Your eyes meet again, “Yeah, that would make me feel a lil better,” your voice wavers, still unsure of the situation around you.

Joel hooks his index finger under your chin so you can’t look away, “I don’t wanna do any of that stuff to ya’,” he shakes his head from side to side. “Brought you back with me so ya’ could see what this place was like,” he rubs his thumb under your plump and worried bottom lip. “See that it ain’t like where you came from,” his eyes can’t help but flicker down to your pout before he’s back to looking into your eyes.

“What if I don’t like it?”

“I told ya’ what would happen if ya’ didn’t like it– but we haven’t even been here two hours,” Joel gives you a knowing look.

Your body shrinks back into his and your bottom lip starts to tremble again.

“You gotta give it a chance– a real one. Gotta try– ‘cause why?” He raises both eyebrows at you and waits. “What’re you gonna make a good effort for?

You blink once and then drone back to him, “‘Cause the only way Mister-man will love me is if I try.”

The deal makes complete sense to you. There wasn’t a thing that didn’t make sense. You still feel wrong as you speak the works back to him monotonously. “‘Cause the only way Mister will love me is if I try.”

‘Cause it ain’t ever gonna fuckin’ happen. He’s never gonna love you.

He was never going to love you at the mall, he couldn’t love you there.

Joel waits for more, waits for the rest as if you maybe had forgotten the most important part of the deal.

“And if I really don’t like it…” you trail off and wait for him to produce a collar with a lock on it, and a chain that attaches because you’re not sure if he meant it. It felt too good to be true. “We can go back.”

Joel looks proud, his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and he’s got his familiar half-smile that warms you from the inside, out. “Good girl,” he gives your chin a gentle pinch before he leans back against the headboard and pulls you into his chest again. “You wanna go look for Puddin’ with me?”

The idea of being in here alone, where he might lock the door on you once it’s shut– trapping you inside for however long he wants.

This whole time you had been in this room, fighting to be free, accepting your horrendous fate– whatever it may be– being comforted by the man you had assumed to be your captor.

He is your captor– are you fuckin’ thick?

His room looks normal and clean, it looks like something you’d see out of a catalog from the mall when you first got there. A nice comforter with corresponding pillowcases. Two bedside tables with matching lamps sitting on both. The walls were painted a familiar beige that made you feel small, and helpless for some reason.

Mister slides his hands down the front of you, exploring you, feeling you. Everything about it makes your head spin.

“We could go look for ‘em later,” he murmurs suggestively in your ear as he palms your tits over your shirt gently. “Never got my chance t’finish makin’ you feel good earlier.” Mister’s accent drawls on as he continues to grope and squeeze at your chest with insistent fingers.

When you had been ambushed earlier by the group of patrolies, Joel had been trying so hard to calm you down in the only way he knew how– to make you feel good.

All the emotions from the day- from possibly losing Mister-man, thinking you were going to die, then being dragged through the woods on a leash and being zapped to shit every time you tried to make a run for it, or fight him- boiled over right as the lights from the settlement or compound, or whatever it was fucking called, started to show in the distance. Then you fell apart.

Joel was just trying to put you back together.

Trying to trick you, play games with your head.

Mister presses his mouth against your neck, one of his massive hands sliding down your stomach and to the waistband of your jeans. “Just like makin’ you feel good,” he murmurs as his fingers slip between your skin and the fabric like he’s practiced this before. The pads of his ring and index finger trace the seam of your cunt slowly.

Your head lols back against his shoulder, legs instinctively falling apart as he dips those same two fingers into your entrance. “I know,” you’re whispering with a dry mouth, nodding in agreement. Your eyes flutter while he slides his thick digits into you slowly.

The both of you groan in unison at the way your body molds around him as he pushes deeper, the “Might be the only thing I know how t’do right anymore,” he almost growls into your ear. His forearm grips you around your torso, his hand still cupping and pawing at one of your tits as he holds you close to him.

You groan in displeasure as he withdraws from inside you, turning your head to look up at him with your brows pinched together. “What’re ya’--”

Mister’s lips crash against yours, and his mouth opens; his tongue licks at the inside of your cheeks the minute you part your lips like he’s late for an appointment. Then he’s moving between your legs, hovering over you, leaning you back gently against the pillows. He pulls away from the kiss and looks at you with dark, blown-out pupils that make his eyes appear almost completely black. His chest is heaving, and so is yours as you try to catch your breath, but he’s staring at you like he could tear you apart piece by piece.

He’s going to. Sink his fangs into you and rip you open.

Silently, his deft fingers pop open the button on your jeans, and his calloused hands push them down your thighs, and then he pulls them off your body completely. Now you’re bare– exposed to him from the waist down. He still says nothing while he takes in the sight of you like this, his knuckles ghosting along the inside of your thigh as he trails it up towards your core.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he speaks quietly, almost so low you can barely hear him while he gazes down between your legs. “She’s mine,” his eyes flash up to yours as two fingers find their place buried inside you, his thumb rubbing lazy circles around your now throbbing clit.

You respond with a quiet moan, and a slack jaw as he curls his fingers up towards your stomach, against that perfect spot nestled inside of you that makes you warm everywhere. Everything is right and incredible, and there isn’t anything that could make this bad– not one single thing.

That’s why he’s doin’ it– so you feel like this. Tryin’ to trick ya’, ‘n you’s fallin’ for it. He’s poison.

Mister thrusts impossibly deeper, jolting you, almost pushing you backwards with the force of it, demanding you to look at him, really see him while he pulls back and then thrusts forward again. “You heard me?” He questions as every muscle inside of you tries to keep him inside of you.

“Wha–”

He doesn’t let you finish. He pushes the heel of his hand against your clit while he curls his fingers rapidly inside of you, “I said,” he leans forward and braces one hand against the headboard just above your shoulder. “This pretty pussy is fuckin’ mine,” he growls and switches back to plunging his fingers into you again, as deep as he can.

It’s so hard to keep your focus when he’s making you feel so fucking good, your eyes close as the pleasure closes in on you- but Mister lets out a loud, sharp whistle that makes them snap open.

He’s shaking his head already, a mischievous smile on his face. “Nuh-uh. Y’know better– you look at me,” he pulls his fingers from inside you once again and sucks them into his mouth.

“M’sorry,” you whine quietly, desperate for his touch, desperate for that release that you’ve been denied for so long. Mister chuckles as he laps and sucks at his digits, ravenous for your taste. “She’s yours– you’re right. She is.” You nod in agreement as you babble.

Mister releases his fingers with a loud, wet pop and then reaches for his waist. “Oh, I know she is,” his belt jingles as he gets it open and he pulls his zipper down. “Needed to make sure you know,” Mister pushes his jeans to mid-thigh, watching you watching him in amazement as he lets his hard, angry looking cock slap against his lower stomach.

Your mouth starts to water at the sight of him, every vein is throbbing, and the dusky skin of his shaft now red and the tip of him is almost purple and drooling.

All for you. He’s yours, too.

“S’all for me?” The blood is pounding in your ears, and your eyes flash up to catch him nodding at you.

One of his thick hands grasps the base of himself and squeezes tight. He settles on his knees, your legs draped over either of his thighs as he scoots himself closer to you. His voice rumbles in your ear as he slaps his shaft against your folds, and you feel how thick and heavy– how ready he is for you.

What he says doesn’t register. How could it when you’re watching him drag is cock up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick. He rocks his hips back and forth, the friction on your clit is delicious and you arch your hips up to meet him.

Joel uses his free hand to hold your hip, and he squeezes, digging his fingers into your skin. “Y’aint fuckin’ listenin’ to me,” he barks at you, halting his movements and pushing you back down into his bed.

Your eyes meet him once again, and he’s unreadable- he’s not exactly the same man you met in the mall. There is something new, something unknown about him now. It’s like he’s taken a mask off and you recognize his voice and his touch but you don’t know him anymore. “Sorry–”

Mister stares at you while notching himself at your entrance. “No need t’be sorry,” he breathes out as your aching hole flutters around the tip. “Just listen to Mister,” he pushes in a fraction of an inch and you’re not sure if he’s teasing you, or trying to make it last longer.

A sigh leaves you as the burn from the stretch settles inside you, the pain mixed with the pleasure. The pleasure mixed with every other emotion. All of it is so good. “M’listenin’ now,” you nod your head, fighting the urge to look down at where you’re joined.

Joel nods his head in approval, and rubs circles on your hip with his thumb. “You’re mine,” he rasps out as he pushes forward again. “All of ya’.” He lets go of the base of his shaft and uses that hand to hold your other hip. He pulls you against him while thrusting into you, and bottoms out.

You let out a loud, filthy groan as the tip of him kisses your cervix immediately. Your right hand reaches for him, wrapping around his wrist as he keeps his grip on your waist. “Oh f–fuck.”

He is perfect.

“All mine,” he grunts and holds himself inside of you, allowing you to adjust to his size, to mold to him like you always do. “Ya’ hear me that time or do–” he cuts himself off with a low groan as he pulls back an inch and then pulls you back down onto his shaft.

“H–heard ya’,” you moan, nodding back at him in additional confirmation. “I’m yours.” Your walls clench around him, body reacting to the idea of being his. A new, wet wave of arousal coats his cock while he’s still inside of you.

Joel snickers, feeling your immediate ratification leaking around him. “Oh ya’ like that, babydoll? Like bein’ mine?” He growls pridefully, his hips picking up speed.

You barely recognize that you’re a real person when he’s inside of you, when he’s close to you like this. Everything makes sense while also meaning nothing at all. As long as Mister is here, as long as he wants so badly it feels like he needs you. “Uh-huh,” you babble, eyes finally closing and resting back against the pillows. “L-Love it.”

Joel leans over you, bracing himself on one forearm, “Yeah… I know,” his other hand keeps its grip on your hip as he continues his crescendoing pace, fucking you open for him and dragging the defined ridge of his cock against that spot– that place only he knows how to reach and touch over and over again. That place that makes you breathless and leaves you sometimes sobbing underneath him.

Tonight you’re moaning loudly, on the verge of potentially being too loud– but no more tears, no more fear inside of you. It’s just Mister making you feel like you’re weightless: he is the source of all your pleasure and you’ll never find a feeling like this again without him.

Joel presses his temple against yours and you feel him; slick with sweat and warm like the day you met at the tail end of the summer last year. “Feel so fuckin’ good,” he half whispers, half grunts into your ear.

The room’s filled with the sounds of his ragged breathing and skin slapping against skin. There is something primal about the way he’s touching you tonight. His teeth graze the skin of your cheek, and then he nips at you, pinching the skin hard enough to make you whimper.

His hips never falter, sawing back and forth, cock slamming into you like this is a punishment, like he’s angry with you, like he hates you– “S’my turn,” he murmurs with his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. “Take care of ya’,” he grunts as his hips snap into yours, punching the air right out of you. “Keep you safe now.”

His words resonate with you, almost doing more for the intense coiling in your belly than the feeling of him inside you. “P-Please don’t stop,” His sentiments do more than the way he hitches your leg up on his shoulder and suddenly reaches parts of you that feel devastating in the most incredible and blissful way possible.

“S’my good girl,” he pants into your ear at your pliability. His deep voice praising you has your walls clenching around him. “Fuck,” he groans breathily, feeling you flutter around him.

His hand leaves your hip and slides it between your bodies to rub circles around your clit again, slow but deliberate, meaningful and precise movements that have your back arching off the bed. Ministrations he’s learned that you like– and remembered them so he can make you feel this way over and over again. That tight, hot ball of goodness is growing in your lower stomach, and it’s tearing desperate, ragged noises out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

“Don’t stop– Don’t stop,” your right hand slides up the curve of his shoulder and behind his neck before your fingers card through the thick mess of gray and brown curls. His voice is going to push you off the precipice.

Mister incredibly increases his speed and you worry for a moment that you’re going to be fucked up the headboard behind you until you feel his hand on the top of your skull, sliding down to cup your head close to him.

“Talk– please t-talk,” you plead airily against his neck. “Don’t stop talkin’.”

Joel presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, his hips hammering into you still. You can feel him grinning against your skin for a moment before he pulls his chest away from yours. He holds your leg against his torso. He suddenly looks like he’s in pain, but the grimace disappears from his face just as quickly as it had shown up.

“You–” You’re about to ask if he’s alright, if he wants to switch positions but he Mister cuts you off.

“Shut up–” He rasps, hand exploring your thigh and shin, lips pressing into your ankle. It’s a familiar picture. He kisses you there whenever he fucks you like this.

At the mall sometimes he would bite you there, nipping at the bone, and then the sensitive skin on the top of your foot before he pulled out to finish on your belly.

Tonight it’s different. Everything in the room feels charged– ready to zap you dead if you touched anything but Mister. He’s grounding you, keeping you safe right now.

“Lil pup needs me, huh?” He sounds like he’s teasing you, but the words go right to your core and you clench around him again, tighter and more rapidly your walls flitter and constrict.

You let out a pathetic whine because yes, you do need him. That scares you and makes your cunt throb at the same time.

“Say it,” Mister continues his touch on your sensitive clit, rubbing in faster, sloppier circles. It doesn’t matter how precise his touch is anymore because you’re so close.

Everything inside of you is taught and ready to explode. “Y-Yeah,” you pant nod your head rapidly.

“Need what?” Mister purrs deeply, seemingly already satisfied by the fucked-out look on your face, or the actual, desperate need behind your eyes that has been building for him and him alone. His thumb rubs furiously around your nub, his leaking tip pushes so deeply inside of you that you swear you can feel it in your stomach.

Your mouth hangs open silently as your impending orgasm shoots sparks from your lower belly to the rest of your body.

Joel’s palm connects with the side of your thigh hard enough to hear the smack echo off the walls of his room. The sting settles into your flesh, and you bite your bottom lip to suppress a whimper.

“C’mon– lemme hear your pretty voice say it” Mister’s voice is low and demanding– just what you needed to tip you over the edge.

Your chest heaves, and you sob loudly, “Need you, need you, need you!” Everything is hot, and good- your legs twitch as the waves of pleasure crash over you again and again. The stress and the worry that had been building up a hard shell around you being eroded away with each broken moan that leaves your raw and tender throat.

Mister-man doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop his brutal pace he set. He instead begins to rub your clit rapidly with four stiff fingers. “Atta girl” he growls into the side of your calf. Then he sinks his teeth into you.

“Oh fuck–” you groan, letting your head fall back against the pillows again as the bliss courses through all the nerves and veins you have. “Oh my god,” you keen loudly, back bowing off the bed dramatically.

Mister sucks on the spot where he just indented marks of his teeth into your skin. His tongue laves at the sore, tender skin like he’s hungry for your taste. “S’right– so fuckin’ pretty when you come on my cock,” he’s grunting, fingers working feverishly over your clit to bring you there.

Your shoulder hurts as your arm moves so you can try and sit up on your elbows to watch him, but you don’t care– it’s not nearly as bad as missing out on the view of him splitting you in half, watching the way you obscenely stretch open for him. You whimper at the sight.

Mister’s forehead is damp and his hair clings to it, the column of his throat is red and also stippled with beads of sweat that drip down behind the fabric of his flannel shirt. His forearm holds your leg close to his chest as he rests his head against the side of your foot, gazing down at you.

He’s handsome and loves to make you feel good.

It’s all a trick.

It doesn’t matter right now if it’s a trick, or if he’s genuine with why he’s doing what he’s doing- it feels so good– teetering on the edge of being too good. Too much. All at once it hits you like a tsunami.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok!” You’re squealing and half trying to crawl away from him, but he holds you tight by the thigh and keeps up the speed of his fingers on your clit, his thrusts pummeling you into near blurry vision.

He doesn’t care, he loves this, loves to see you like this. He whispered it to you once late at night in the darkness of the mattress store after he made you feel good over and over, again and again. Mister just chuckles at your useless, and half-hearted begging and his thrusts slow, but each one is deep and touches the furthest parts inside of you.

It’s going to happen– your legs are shaking and your fingers dig into the sheets below you to hold on to something because it feels like you’re about to float away and explode all over again in such a different way.

Joel grunts again, his thrusts becoming more erratic and clumsy, his fingers dip into the flesh of your upper thigh and you watch his knuckles go white. “C’mon– know ya’ got one more in there for me.” His voice is strained and you can tell he’s close too.

And of course you have another one for him, you always do and he knows it. He knows how to draw it out of you and make you gush.

The only sound you can make is a strained whimper as you come again, this time all over his lower stomach and pelvis. Joel groans loudly, and keeps his fingers strumming your clit rapidly while he knocks your leg off his shoulder and pulls out.

He strokes himself with his free hand a couple of times, chasing his own release now that he’s given you more than you could ask for. He drags the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, looking down at you with hooded eyes. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he groans again, his fingers finally give you some much needed relief as they leave your clit. The pad of his thumb presses into the top of your slit and he pushes up– pulling you taught as he rubs the tip of his cock against your red, puffy and swollen lips. He moans loudly, hips bucking forward, fucking his fist as he splashes his cum against your cunt.

You watch in fascination and adoration as he rubs the head up and down as he throbs with each release. He milks himself, and coats the outside of your pussy in his spend before he gives the side of your thigh another slap, gentler and more appreciative this time.

“You stay there,” he pants softly, and begins to crawl off the bed.

All the good feelings leave you immediately and fear rips through you again, “Where ya’ goin’?” You ask, scrambling after him, hissing loudly when your shoulder screams in protest.

Joel turns around, already stuffing himself back into his Jeans with his finger pointed at you sternly. “I said stay there,” he’s firm when he says it, and gives you a look to match.

You stifle the whine that builds in your throat as he stares you down– unblinking as he waits for you to lay back down. “You comin’ right back?” You ask, settling yourself back into the soft pillows behind your back.

Joel nods silently, and heads into the bathroom attached to his bedroom and disappears.

Then you are all alone in his room.

You hear the water turn on, and then off and he’s back in the doorway, his shirt partially unbuttoned with one hand still working on it and then a wet washcloth in the other.

“Open’em,” he orders gently, much more gentle than he had been only a moment ago. His tone is inviting, and calming– caring.

You let your legs fall apart, and Joel looks up at you, catching your eye as he rubs you clean, not too rough and careful of your oversensitive parts.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him, blinking slowly in admiration of his handsomeness, even with his messy hair and scratched face and black eye. That you gave him. “Sorry for hurtin’ ya’,” you add just as quietly even though you mean it.

Joel shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head softly. “Know you didn’t mean it.”

You nod your head, “Was just a lot goin’ on, ‘n I got all confused–”

“S’like you didn’t even see me,” he starts, finishing undoing the buttons on his shirt. “-but you were lookin’ right at me.” He’s done cleaning between your legs and tosses the washcloth into his hamper.

You feel the embarrassment crawling up your chest and neck– growing behind your cheeks. There isn’t anywhere to run to, or to hide. There isn’t a distance far enough away that Mister can’t reach you now, and that’s terrifying.

“Almost like you went somewhere else entirely,” he keeps talking as he pulls his flannel off, leaving him in a white t-shirt. “Did it earlier out in the hall.” He gives you a look, like he knows but he doesn’t really understand. “Where do you go?”

If only he knew.

Try and explain it to him.

He’ll think you’re crazy. Crazier than he already thinks you are.

You avoid his eyes, and look for something to cover your lower half with instead. Joel notices and goes to his drawer and tosses you a pair of his boxers.

“I had pants from–”

“We are very grateful for Maria and her charity but you don’t need it– don’t need her clothes, or her help. I’ll getchya everything you need, don’t worry ‘bout that.” He shakes his head as he watches you struggle to put the boxers on with one hand, and laying down.

“She was just bein’ nice–”

Joel cuts you off again, “She was very nice to let you shower ‘n borrow some clothes, yes.” He agrees with you, but you can tell there is more to come. And you’re right. “I’m fully capable of gettin’ you everything you could need, and so we don’t have to take nothin’ from Maria and her donation box–” he pauses for a moment and sighs. “--when it could go to someone who really needs it. Ya’ don’t really need it.”

That sounds very nice of Joel, very kind and protective– but there doesn’t feel like there is any truth to his words. It’s confusing.

Something in your brain is itching to ask why Maria doesn’t like Mister and why Mister doesn’t seem to care for Maria. But you don’t. You keep quiet and just nod your head.

“Do you wanna come with me ‘n look for Pud?” Joel asks, pushing his hair back away from his face with one hand. He looks tired, and you feel badly for him– feel badly for how you had treated him the last week before the raiders came.

“We can wait ‘till the mornin’ if you wanna go to sleep,” you offer softly, scooching over to one side of the bed to give him room.

Joel’s eyes flick between you and the space next to you and he sighs softly. “I know seein’ him would make you feel better- probably sleep a lil’ better too,” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting back to you after a second. “He’s here. I promise I didn’t leave him– or hurt him…” Joel shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do somethin’ like that to you or Pud.”

Those words sound genuine. He means it, and you know he’s telling you the truth and that warms something inside of you, eases some of the ache and tension.

“‘Kay. Can ya’ help me–” You don’t even have to finish before Joel is reaching over and helping you unclasp the sling your left arm is still in. He helps side your arm out, and then he unbuttons the shirt you have on.

“Got a shirt you can wear t’bed,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing against the curve of your tits as he slides the flannel off of you.

He tosses the shirt you were wearing down to the floor with the jeans and heads back to his dresser. He comes back with a plain black tee and helps you slide it on as painlessly as possible.

“Ready?” He asks, crawling into bed beside you– sleeping on the wet spot you made like it’s his preferred sleeping method.

You nod at him, and push the comforter down with your feet and let him cover the both of you back up. He turns the light off on his bedside table, and reaches over doing the same to yours.

When you sleep with Mister, you normally curl up into his side and he wraps an arm around you– but tonight that hurts and you opt to lay on your back.

He’s next to you, throwing an arm over your waist and draping his leg over one of yours, pulling you close to him gently. “This good?” He asks softly in the dark.

It’s more than good– but you still feel dread buried deep within you and it’s clawing its way through the fleshy parts inside. “Yeah,” you turn your head and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“If you try ‘n run away– I’ll come lookin' for ya’,” he whispers, kissing at your jaw as you turn your head to look at the ceiling.

“I know,” you’re quiet like he is, running your fingers along his forearm.

“And you won’t like what happens when I find ya’.”

tag list: @probablyreadinsmut @lilac-boo @pedrospookie @ghoulettesinspace @itwasntimethatdidit40 @itsokbbygrlbutworsethistime @baronessvonglitter @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @joelmillerisapunk @pastelpinkflowerlife @tateypots @toxicrecs @the-orange-tabby-cat @gothcsz @almostempty @cubiclehoe @codenamekitten @shivispunk

^^ please let me know if I forgot you or you want to be added!!

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller #joel miller smut #fic: girl dinner #long reads #unhinged/crazy!reader x dark!joel #sneaky!joel #fic: hungry man #joel the last of us #fanfic #smut

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