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wordywarriorwrites · 27 days ago

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Joel Miller x f!reader

Part three of Squirming & Restraint

Rating: E, implied age/experience gap

A/N: Thank you endlessly to the beautiful, talented human that is @intheorangebedroom for reading this and reassuring me ❤️

A shot ricochets off brick to the left of your shoulder, and you flinch, wincing at the dust thrown into your eyes. Another one follows it, closer still, and your sneakers scramble over gravel to stay crouched low behind Joel. He raises his rifle, the breadth of his shoulders tensing as he fires off a rapid succession of shots.

“You there? Right behind me?” he yells over the answering shots that dent the shell of a car you’re hiding behind.

“Yes!”

He nods, raising in his crouch just enough to fire off two more shots, and then he’s back down again.

“Listen. Hey,” he scolds sternly, getting your attention. “There’s a crack in the wall over there. It’s been blown out.” His chin jerks in the direction of it, but your frantic eyes stay on his face. His eyebrows raise with an urgency that matches the tone of his voice. “You see it? Look.”

The second your eyes leave his, shots explode on the ground near the car and he tucks you tight to his body. He smells like sweat and adrenaline, and you quickly press your face into his flannel and inhale, clutching the fabric of it along his ribs. The shots stop, and you can hear the men shouting in the distance, regrouping.

“Go,” he urges you, his arm tightening for a second before he pushes you towards the crack. “Go now, and stay there until I come for you.”

“Joel –” you start to beg, and he silences your pleading with a look.

“I’ll take care of ‘em,” he urges. “They aren’t going to get you.”

Your face twisting with fear and panic, you reach for his hand, but he pulls away.

“You gotta go,” he says. Bullets gouge chunks of brick, and he quickly glances over his shoulder, his expression darkening.

“Go!” he yells.

He doesn’t leave until he sees you disappear into hiding.

–

You wake with a start.

The darkness around you black and dense, it takes you a minute to remember where you are.

As promised, he took care of the group of men and had come back for you. You had watched through a slice of light: a formidable bulk of shadow that turned into the fuzzy-edged shape of him, then into clear focus, the shoulder of his flannel drenched in dark blood.

You could see it pulsing from the wound, but he paid it no mind as he reached for you, surprising you by pulling you into a tight hug. You took to it immediately, clutching him just as fiercely. His whiskered cheek rested on the crown of your head and his lips pressed against your hairline, and your tears leaked into the fabric of his shirt to mix with the blood there. They spilled from your eyes, and when he pulled back to inspect your wellbeing for himself, his calloused thumbs wiped at the damp tracks that slid down your cheeks. The emotion held within the depths of his brown eyes showed worry, desperation, relief – or maybe you just imagined those things, because you wanted them to be true.

He led you out of the city, not saying anything, too consumed with staying vigilant. Ending up at a house tucked into one of those winding developments of a time past, you wanted to help patch up his shoulder, but he waved you away.

“Can’t stay here long,” he sighed, peeling away the corner of a piece of newspaper that covered the front window. “Get some sleep while you can.”

Curled up on a mattress that had been stripped long ago, your boots and jeans are off, and your bare legs stretch underneath the blanket that Joel must have placed over you. Turning, you feel for him, though you know he’s not there. If he were, you’d be able to feel it – that pulse of electricity that he gives off whenever he’s close, the one that nestles between your thighs.

Sitting up, you see him on the edge of the bed. His back faces you, his t-shirt stretched tight across the muscles. His rifle rests next to him, a silent sentry protecting you while you sleep, as if it’s not as important to watch over the entire house, but rather just you alone. You stare at the shape of him, the breadth. Remembering the tight hold he had on you earlier, something kindles in the cradle of your hips; simmering, warm and wet.

As if he can sense it, his head turns, his profile outlined in the dark. “You okay?”

Slipping from the bed, you pad over to stand between his knees. Feeling slightly childish in your t-shirt and underpants, vulnerable and bare, you push it down to cup his face in your hands.

“Are you?”

He looks tired – so tired you can see dark circles under his eyes, so tired he stays passive and still as you cradle his face in your hold to inspect it. Your touch drifts down to his shoulder, and he stiffens.

“Can I see?” you ask.

He stares at you for a long moment. You’re used to his stare, his long, assessing gaze that sometimes gives you a direct view of how much he wants to accede. He waits a beat, and then his hand reaches back, gripping his shirt to pull it off with a tug over his head. He lets out a soft grunt of pain, and when he’s bare, you let your touch skim over the self-applied bandage that covers his shoulder.

“Is it bad?” you ask, your finger tracing the edge of the gauze.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “Bled more than anything. Just a knick.”

The bandage looks out of place on his formidable frame. Or maybe it’s that it only serves to highlight how solid he is, how sturdy. His broad shoulders, his thick chest dusted with hair. Leaving the scrap of white taped to his tanned skin, your eyes follow a path down his sternum, over his torso, sliding down the trail of hair that thickens just over his belly to lead beneath his belt.

You stare for a beat too long, your thighs shifting in an imperceptible rub together, and he frowns, reaching for his shirt.

“Don’t”, you stop him. “Let me look?”

His frown deepens. “You’ve looked long enough.”

“I haven’t though,” you argue back. You’ll never have your fill, it feels like sometimes.

You step closer so you’re situated between his wide-spread thighs.

“Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He gives you a knowing look, yet makes no effort to put his shirt back on. His eyes find yours, hooded and dark.

“I told you I’m fine. You should get back to –”

“I didn’t like it today. When you left me.”

You interrupt him before he can put a stop to whatever intimacy is building between the two of you. Your voice wavers with the truthful admission, and he stops talking.

His expression contains so much: care, empathy, resolve. “I had to. You know that.”

“I know. I still didn’t like it.” Your lower lip trembles, your eyes dropping to the floor, and he drops his t-shirt, his hands instinctively cupping the back of your bare thighs. His touch is soft but sure, tender but firm. “I kept thinking about what I would do if you didn’t come back. If something happened to you.”

He lets you talk, his hold caressing your skin. You close your eyes with a sigh, leaning into his touch.

“Nothin’ is gonna happen to me,” he reassures. You open your eyes, and watch his throat work with a swallow, with his speech. “And I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you either. You got it?”

You nod, but he isn’t satisfied. “Repeat it. Say it like me.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” you repeat.

“And?”

“And nothing is going to happen to me either.”

“Why?” he presses, his hold tightening.

Your eyes find his. “Because you won’t let it.”

He nods in approval, and you step into his arms.

He holds you tight, just like earlier, and you press yourself along his body as if to merge it with his own. Straddling his thigh in a need to be closer, you sink further into his strong hold, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. He squeezes you tighter, knowing the kind of comfort you’re seeking. One arm banded around your waist, the other skims over your thigh, up over your hip and along your ribs in a soothing circuit. The pressure of his firm thigh between your own paired with the scent of his hot, bare skin has your hips canting forward in a barely-there roll. Your mouth can feel the heat of his body, your lips so close to the pebbled skin of his neck and your hand slips down, fingering the wiry hair on his chest.

You shift your hips forward in a disguise of getting comfortable – one he sees right through. His hand stills yours.

“Hey now,” he says lowly, the rough words rumbling under your palm. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

His scent pulls you under, past all reason. Thinking about how far away he was from you today and how close he is now, you press your mouth against his skin, letting out a soft sound of content when you taste the salt you find there. Your hips rock forward, and his hands grip your hips.

“Stop.”

You shake your head, your face still tucked into him.

“No,” you breathe, kissing his throat.

You push further, needing to taste him, needing to feel the solid sureness of his body against yours. Your tongue slips out to lave over his skin, your lips mold to his throat. Another delicate kiss pressed to the hinge of his jaw, and you feel his rough swallow, his deep sigh…but he doesn’t stop you.

“I was so scared today,” you murmur between kisses. “Not for me. For you.”

He says nothing, his rough hands sliding up from your hips to splay and map over your back. He pushes his touch under your shirt, stroking your bare skin.

“I’m right here, babygirl.”

Babygirl. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but the endearment isn’t easily come by. You’ve heard it more often than not on the edge of sleep, when he thinks you can’t hear him.

Lifting your face at the name, you lean forward for a kiss.

His mouth is still underneath yours for a split second, your lips pressing against his unmoving ones. Your eyes are closed, but you can feel the frown between his brows without seeing it, so much that you start to pull away – but it’s then that he yields. His fingers stretching to splay over your ribs, his mouth opens and he matches your kiss with his own.

It’s rough, like the man himself. Demanding, thorough. His tongue strokes yours and his mouth devours and it’s all you can do to hang onto the dark curls at his nape while you tilt your head to deepen it. A hungry, bottomless thing; your hips begin to roll over the meat of his thigh, his grip forcing you tighter against him. You can feel how wet you are against the denim, and you wonder if he can feel it too. He eats at your mouth, taking what you’re offering and more, rough sounds sliding from his throat to yours. He forces you open, and your fingers trip down his belly, dancing over the thatch of hair that swirls around his navel.

You get to his belt buckle, and he breaks the kiss. His hold closes over yours, stopping it from moving.

“Gonna keep that closed, darlin’,” he says, his voice like gravel.

Disappointment and want fill your belly with a weight that aches, a soft whine leaving your throat. His taste lingers on your tongue, his thick thigh wedged tight against where you need him, but it’s his chest and the scent of his bare skin that has you a desperate, wet mess. Perched in place on his leg, your hips roll on their own, an action that makes his eyes drop to watch. A muscle along his jaw feathers, heat radiating from his body and when he looks up to find you silently pleading, his expression softens as much as it can for the arousal written all over it.

You can see the shape of him beneath his fly: a thick, solid heft. Your mouth waters, and your cunt aches with a needy throb. If you focus hard enough on imagining it, you can feel the weight and warmth of it in your hand and sliding your hand from his, you try to slip your touch down between his thighs to mold your palm around his cock, but he grabs it before you can.

A sob hitches at the base of your throat, and he clucks his tongue.

“Easy, easy,” he soothes. “I got you.”

He fingers the hem of your t-shirt, and you raise your arms automatically, letting him pull it off. Dropping it on the floor to join his own, his fingers efficiently work open the clasp of your bra. The action is deft, perfunctory, a practiced thing like everything else he just knows how to do and you sit pliant and willing on his lap, vibrating with the want that fills the space between your bodies. Bare chest to bare chest, it takes a certain level of trust to wait patiently for him to do as he wills — trust you’d given to him months ago, in every way that mattered.

Your life; this.

“So beautiful.” His words dripping with reverence.

He cups your breasts in his weathered hands, fondling the plumpness of them. The first time he’s allowed himself an indulgent look, he uses his broad hands to cup you wholly. You watch as he tests the weight of them, the softness, watch as his tongue slides along his bottom lip as he looks at them, but nothing can prepare you for when he envelopes the peak of your breast with an open mouthed, hungry kiss. The wet muscle drags across your nipple, your back bowing as he pushes more of it into his mouth so he can taste everything you’re offering. He nips, teases with the tip of his tongue just to feel the bud tripping across his palate and then, he sucks. Your breath hitches in your throat, and need flickers up your spine to drip down from the peaks of your breasts to the cradle of your hips, leaking out in his firm thigh. He groans against your skin, an entirely new sensation that ratchets everything higher and when you look down at him, he’s got his eyes closed in desperate savor.

So familiar with his facial expressions and his silent looks, it’s an expression that you haven’t seen. He’s never shown it to you, never allowed you to see his unrestrained want. You’ve felt it, but you’ve never seen it. It’s a picture of what you feel on the inside when you look at him and when his brow furrows deeper as if in pain with how much he needs you, you writhe your hips harder over his thigh.

You ride it, shamelessly, blatantly, your back bowing to give him access, your fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer.

He groans again, licking a wide stripe up the plane of your chest, both of his hands now on your hips. His fingers tighten, and the hands that have helped so much already — helped feed you, pulled triggers to keep you safe, bandaged you when you’ve been hurt – they help now in another way, in their guiding movements. He tugs you forward and pushes you back, his biceps straining with the motion. His eyes locked on where you’ve darkened the denim over his thigh, he moves you surer, quicker. You clench your jaw with a whine, the pressure on your clit overtaking everything, and he rocks your hips forward and back, forward and back, giving you what you need.

“It’s – you feel so good,” you moan.

“That’s all you, pretty girl. You’re the one fuckin’ me.”

Filthier and more blatant than anything he’s ever said to you before, his mouth latches onto your nipple with a wet, hungry suck, his whiskers scraping across your skin, and you feel like you can’t breathe with how good everything feels. Cradled in his hold, perched on his thigh, forced to come because of the way he’s making you move, you rest your forehead against his and look down at his lap. He’s hard, a thick bulge reaching from the apex of his jeans up towards his hip, the lewd image forcing your lips to part with a pant –

His hand nudges your chin back up. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Keep ‘em up here. Right on mine.”

“Please,” you plead, begging. “Can I see it?”

The constant question, the thing he keeps denying you. You want it in your hand, in your mouth. You want to touch it, taste it, see it with your own eyes to know if it’s as big as it looks hidden beneath his fly or as thick as it feels when he’s pressed it against you. It’s a line he won’t cross, and though you ask him the same question every time, every time it seems to wage a war within his eyes.

“Let me make you feel good,” you push, hoping this will be the time he breaks. “Please.”

You’re babbling, your hips rolling faster, your release drawing everything tight and his hands slip down underneath the band of your underwear to splay over your ass. They bite into the plump flesh, tugging you in a ceaseless rhythm.

“This does feel good for me. Makin’ you feel good makes it good for me.”

You shake your head quickly. “Please,” you beg into his mouth, your hot breath sliding over his parted lips. “I need more. I want more.”

He growls, and flips you on your back.

His fingers frantically work at his belt buckle, and at the prospect of finally seeing what you’ve been wanting for months, you thrust your hand underneath your underwear and find your clit with a practiced swirl of your fingers. Everything is soaked and sensitive, sticky and slick, your throat outstretched as you cry out, your thighs spread wide as he pushes his jeans down to mid-thigh, the fever-pitch desperation in his movements pushing you closer to the edge. Leaving his briefs on, he drops himself down to fit between your legs. Tearing your hand out of your panties, he forces it into the mattress next to your head with a firm hold. Bending to wrap his mouth around the slick digits, his hips lower against yours at the same time he begins to suck.

Then, he starts to move.

The outlined heft of his cock a stiff weight pressed tight along your soaked seam, he rolls, rolls, rolls his hips. It’s a fluid motion, unceasing, your legs winding around his waist to keep him in place. The grinding weight of his strokes presses you deeper into the bare mattress, shifting you up underneath the bulk of his body. He fucks you with his clothed cock, groaning deeply around your fingers as he licks your arousal from them, and you shamelessly moan underneath him, lost under the bulk of his body.

“This what you need?” he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.

You nod frantically, consumed with the need to come. “I need it. I want your –,” you whine, a particularly rough stroke tipping you closer to the edge. “I want it. I want it.”

“Can’t even say it, why should I give it to you.”

A frustrated sob rips from your throat, the edge of his reprimand shoving you closer to the edge. The thick ridge of his cock presses against your clit just right, rubbing it again and again through the soaked fabric that separates your bodies, and for a moment, it’s just heavy panting breaths, the stretch of your inner thighs as they widen to make room for him, and the faint squeak of the bed. His heavy bulk presses you down deeper, the forward rocking of his hips never stopping and for a glimmering second, you think he’s going to give you what you want when his hand reaches down –

He shoves it under your tailbone to tilt your hips up just as he rolls his own down. Twin groans of relief fill the humid air between you, the angle just right. The friction of the soaked fabric drags over your clit, his hips pushing down harder, and a release that’s been building since you woke up floods through the cradle of your hips outwards, your body tightening with it, your hips moving against his on base instinct.

“Joel!” Your eyes clenched shut, your body existing as sensation alone, you are buried safe underneath him, protected and cared for as he watches your face as you come, and come.

“Christ,” he grits out. He tenses, and you feel him jerk against your cunt, his cock a stiff throb between your bodies before a searing hot wetness saturates the fabric between you. His hand pins you roughly in place, forcing your hips to stop moving against his while his eyes shut tight, his stomach jumping with the spurts of his release.

When he’s done, your bodies stay together.

Silently, tentatively, still catching your breath, you roll your hips.

He lets you feel his softening bulk, still thick and heavy between you. It feels more exploratory and somehow more intimate than everything you just did, to rock your cunt over his lap just to know how he feels against you. Your eyes lift to meet his, and you find him already looking down at you.

His fingers sift through the hair at your temple, and you turn your head to kiss the inside of his wrist. Your lips linger there, and he hums.

“Always so soft after you come.”

Shocked and surprised by his words, a laugh bubbles out from you and he smirks.

A yielding of his usual defenses, he looks younger for a moment, and for a fleeting second, you can almost see the old world: the two of you in bed after a date, the tender yet ravenous touches of something newly explored. But this isn’t that – this is a house on the edges of a desolate town, and you’re on a stripped mattress and he hasn’t given in yet to what you really want.

You think you like this better.

#wordywarriorreads #fic recs #frannyzooey

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