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When you’re thrown into his cell - an old bathroom, all broken tiles and rusted pipes - Joel gets tense, hand clenching harder on the shiv he improvised a couple days ago. He has no idea what the slavers are plotting. He’s been held in here for maybe one week now, hard to tell when the days are blending into each other, long boring hours only punctuated by a bottle of water and some food left on the floor without a word. He knows his worth is in his strength and the slavers have no interest in letting him starve to death - that’s the only positive thing in his whole ordeal. He can’t believe he’s been stupid enough to let himself be captured. But he had reacted one second too late, and there were too many, and here he is, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.
You land hard on your knees, unable to stop your pathetic fall on the hard floor, as the door of the cell is closed shut once again. He watches, ready to strike, as you scramble to get back in a sitting position - and then you finally notice him, standing tall in one of the corners, the glint of something undoubtedly lethal in the hand he’s hiding behind him. You try to get up on your feet, but your muddy boots are sliding on the tiles, your legs shaking with the effort - you’re clearly exhausted. Your hands are bound behind your back, leaving you with very little option. You push yourself back until the wall hits your shoulders, until you have nowhere else to go.
Joel is assessing your form very calmly, a stark contrast with the frantic terror pinching your brows. You look young, younger than him for sure, body lean from years of privation (like everyone else now), and he’s sure you could be mistaken for a teenager from afar - maybe you were when the Outbreak happened 10 years ago, but he can see the way your eyes are sunk, the fine skin under them puffy from a decade-worth of bad sleep and dirty conscience. Nah, you may be a child of the Apocalypse, but you’re definitely old enough to realize you’re in a shitty situation. Something like pity tugs at his heart - or more like recognition , the fire in your gaze despite the fear washing over your features, the will to push through the tiredness, the need to fight until the very end, even cornered and tied up. A mirror handed to him of what he was like at your age.
Maybe you can be useful , you can help him escape, surely you know a trick or two, or you wouldn’t have been able to survive this long - he tries to convince himself that’s the reason why he helps you. Why he walks up to you, crouches in front of your scared face and orders you to turn around . He has to repeat himself because you don’t want to listen but he does his best to not sound as harsh as usual, and finally, you understand and offer him your bound hands. He tugs on the dirty scrap of fabric, unties the knot with skillful fingers. He takes hold of your wrists before you can even move your arms, and for a second you feel the icy stab of panic and treason in your throat. Since when do you trust strangers?
“Easy there…” his warm voice rumbles in your back “Guess you’ve been like this for more than an hour, ‘gonna hurt if you move too fast.” he explains, while bringing slowly your hands in front of you. He’s right, you hiss a pained fuck when your shoulders protest at the change in position. He’s freaking close, his chest almost flush to your back, the rough skin of his palms still on your wrists. He suddenly lets go of you, gets up on his feet, and you turn on your knees to face him. He looks older than you, his temples already turning to gray. There is a gravity in his expression, like he stopped smiling 10 years ago and never did it again since - but still you catch a distant warmth in his soft brown eyes, behind his steely demeanor. His whole persona is a mix of hard and soft, exposed forearms showing off the chords of his muscles under a skin littered with scars, contrasting with the mundane patchy beard and the soft curls on his nape. He’s kinda handsome in his own way, even though he looks like someone who can do ugly things.
—
That’s the beginning of your cooperation. You had helped him, baiting the guard in pretending to be sick, and then he had used the makeshift knife to slit his throat, without so much as a second of hesitation. You remember the bright red blood spilling on the dirty tiles, staining the dried grout vermilion. It had been a while since you had seen a healthy human get killed up close. You had stood there, bile at the back of your tongue, ringing in your ears, until the firm command - move, come on - had made you join him. He had slashed his way out with too much ease, and had made you run for so long, you got sick the minute you finally stopped inside an abandoned house. You spat all the bile that had been bubbling in your guts, folded over the moldy kitchen sink. You had expected him to get disgusted and just leave you there to a very certain death, but he just took out a bottle of water from the backpack he stole during your escape and wordlessly handed it to you. He did not have to do that, he could have kept the precious resource for himself. You still wonder why - it wasn’t out of selflessness, definitely not out of kindness. You guessed he needed someone to stay awake and keep watch so he could sleep a little. Useful - you were useful .
He brings you back to the QZ because that’s where you’ll be safe - safer at least. Shielded from the slavers and the raiders and the biters. Definitely not from the corrupt FEDRA guards, the local traffickers, the ruthless fireflies - and really, any individual ready to take advantage showing how thin the veneer of civilization truly was in the first place.
You stay in his small apartment because you have nowhere else to go. Even after you start working and earning your part. At first, he slept on the couch so you could have the bed. But one day, after a gruesome double-shift, he comes back home so exhausted he just crashes on the mattress without realizing you’re already there. It’s not the first time you sleep next to him. You had to during the trek back to the QZ. Only way to keep warm. It was utilitarian, nothing else. Still, it meant you trusted him enough to close your eyes in his presence. You still do.
When you wake up the next morning, you feel him pressed against your back. Either him or you had sought the other’s warmth during the night. You have to admit you slept pretty well. You’re usually freezing and he’s just… warm. A solid wall radiating heat behind you. His slow breathing is keeping at bay the usual rush of anxiety you get when you wake up every day to discover this too long nightmare is indeed reality. You guess you had to have a similar effect on him because dawn is already lighting the room with its dull glow and he’s not awake yet.
That’s the beginning of another level of your relationship - you don’t want to give a name to whatever strange alliance is going on between you. Still, night after night, he keeps going back, and you let him, welcome him silently in your bed (actually it’s his ). You should be scared, he’s but a man, and if he was any other man, you would know that he’d been expecting something from you. Expecting you to offer your naked skin and your warm body in exchange for his protection. But it never comes. Joel seems very content in being able to lay there on his mattress and share his warmth with you. You can even see how he glares darkly at that FEDRA guard who keeps talking to you for any reason possible. How he makes sure you’re home as soon as the sun sets.
And then, one day, you’re on his sofa sharing some whisky - the nice one, the real one, a 20-year old bottle he traded - and it says a lot he’s even sharing it with you in the first place. Joel is in a good mood, he cracks a couple awful dad jokes, and you laugh, so hard tears leak on your cheeks. He doesn’t think, just swipes them with his thumb, calloused pad of his finger on the sensitive skin just under your lashes. He lingers there, looks at you with hooded eyes and you know you’re royally fucked. He looks so good, the warm light of sunset on his tanned skin, his hair mussed, making him look a bit younger. It makes you forget he’s almost two decades older - but what does that even mean today? Life - death - is no longer this linear thing, and there is no one left to scold you about your partner’s choice. Nobody cares anymore. Yet he cared for you. So you decide to indulge in this desire that has been brewing in your chest since the moment he untied you in that damned icy cell.
He’s kind of a jerk with it, lets you do all the work. Maybe he’s just too scared you would feel forced to accept what he wants to offer. But you soldier on, you kiss him with all the fervor of your youth, climb on his lap, and keep licking his tongue until he finally dares to take charge. Joel tastes like the bourbon discarded on the floor - sweet and rich, smoked spice and the desperate furor of someone whose will to live only surpasses his devastating grief by a short inch.
You sigh in his mouth, the relief provided by his touch welcome but not enough to quench the pent-up thirst you’ve been harboring for years now. He must feel it because when your slightly shaking fingers are hastily working the buttons of his shirt open, then diving straight to the fly of his jeans, he stops you.
“Wait”, he rasps, a hint of worry mixed in the molasses of his voice, “please tell me you have done this before”.
“Yeah -yes, yes… just -it’s been a long time. Like, not since the ‘break…”
“Fuck.” he answers, head lolling backward against the sofa, and you’re sure you screwed up. No way he’s gonna want to do it with an almost virgin . For your defense, after a few experiments with your then-boyfriend from before the apocalypse, your possibilities were quite limited. You focused more on staying alive than romance. More on avoiding men than courting them. Years went by and no one came who you could trust enough. Until him.
“Please, Joel” you kiss his cheek, his neck. “I want to feel good just for a bit”, you beg him, because the thought of him leaving you like this makes you wanna die of shame.
You feel more than you hear him growl, the rumble of his chest making you shiver against him. He grounds his hands on your waist, presses the rough pads of his fingers into your supple and warm flesh.
“Remove your clothes”, he finally commands. Your jeans and sweater are thrown on the ground without second thought. You’re naked while he just pushed his pants low enough to free his already leaking cock.
“Joel…” your gasp dies in your throat when he crashes his mouth on yours again. He’s… big. You haven’t seen a lot of cocks in your life, but you’re pretty sure he definitely has bragging rights. He feels burning hot and surprisingly soft in your palm, pulsing in time with the frantic beating of your heart.
He’s not especially careful when he parts your folds, long fingers pressing against your clit in a couple of crude circles before pushing inside you. The intrusion is nothing like you remember. It burns in an addictive way, and when he crooks his index toward your belly, and presses his thumb on your clit, you let out a whimper that makes him groan in response. His other hand has threaded itself in your hair, and he uses it to hold your head steady.
“Eyes on me sweetheart” he urges. His lips are parted, the glint of his canines echoing the predatory gaze he’s pining you with. It’s been barely a minute and you’re already panting, feeling your orgasm build up at an impressive pace. You muffle your cries against your palm, unwilling for anyone on the other side of those cardboard thin walls to hear you.
“Come on, don't get shy now.” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Wanna hear you when I make you come”. Reluctantly, you remove your hand, finding purchase on his shoulders where you sink your short nails, trying to contain the molten wave of pleasure washing over you. The orgasm is brutal, your whole body seizing as Joel keeps on grounding his thumb cruelly hard on your clit, the fist on your hair tightening even more as he praises you throughout. It hurts so good you don’t remember sex could even be like this.
You’re barely down from your high that Joel manhandles your pliant body until you’re under him on the couch. He’s still clothed, his jeans scratchy against your bare legs. His fingers follow an ugly scar on your flank - you got this one pretty early after the end of the world, it’s still itchy sometimes, you don’t really want to talk about it - and you hear him mumble how pretty you are, more for himself than for you. “Joel” you plead again and he snaps out of his haze, voracious glint back in his eyes.
“I’m here, I’m here” he repeats, guiding his cock against your wet slit. He stops just a second to ask if you still want this, and you beg his name again. Finally, he pushes inside you, fills you in one slow motion. You can’t stop the litany of fuck escaping your mouth. It feels like he’s splitting you in two, molding your flesh to him. The stretch is a lot, makes your brain short-circuit. “Breathe” he instructs, his fingers - still wet from your desire - finds your cheek in a soothing gesture. “Stay with me”, he adds, voice low against the dainty shell of your ear.
Joel fucks you slow, way more gentle than when he had his fingers buried in your cunt a few minutes before. He pushes your knees apart, hikes your legs high on his waist, almost folding you in half. It still hurts a little, but the pressure feels good, even better when one of his hands finds your clit again. Your soft moans fill the air between you, warm with whiskey and need. One particularly powerful snap of his hips and his cock touches something bright inside of you, awakening feelings you had even forgotten about. He keeps rubbing the delicate and swollen flesh just above there you’re joined, and you already know your second orgasm is not far.
You seek his mouth, demanding for him to kiss you, as you bury your hand in his soft curls, where early swirls of gray ring the end of his youth. A sudden burst of need and yearning and almost sadness shots through you. It’s not only about being intimate with someone after all those years. It’s the emotion of trusting another human enough to bare your body, to let them come close, to show vulnerability - not in the form of the pain and the gruesome you’re both accustomed to - no, the real vulnerability that lies in the will to share something good, something mundane and beautiful, sinful and sacred. The illusion that everything will be alright, that, in the next seconds, you both have nothing else to care about than your common pleasure, than the warmth of the other’s skin, than this silly and dangerous thrill you’re willing to offer. You’re opening your legs as much as your heart, and you know it’s going to wreck you in the most stunning way.
You come with a whisper of his name against his lips, like a secret prayer, an oath that in this instant he is all you believe in. He follows you in your bliss just after, considerate enough to pull out and cum on your belly. You forgot how messy all this can be. But the sight of his cum on your skin is also a bleak reminder of reality - you better not get pregnant now. He must sense your distress because he cups your cheeks gently, kisses you again.
“Stay with me” he says, echoing his words from a few minutes earlier, when you were stuffed full with him. Except this time, you think you understand what he means - what he truly means.
You think you feel him smile in the kiss.