Notes On A Virtuous Affair

Notes On a Virtuous Affair

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: One would think this road ends in something virtuous—a greenness so dazzling it hurt the eyes—and not the sort of man waiting in his far out removed solitude.

He was the experienced one, you the innocent. It should have been different. Maybe it should’ve felt different. And yet, there was something in him that made you feel very much the conquering one, you the baptizing one.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post outbreak; Jackson Joel Miller; Dom/sub undertones; Rough Sex; Impact Play; Face Slapping; Spanking; PIV sex; Ass Play; Oral Sex (m!receiving); Come Eating; Throat Fucking; Unprotected Sex; Potentially Toxic Dynamics? (haha?); Complicated Feelings; They Love Each Other in Their Own Weird Way, Ok?; Older Man/Younger Woman; Idk What This Is, I Don't Expect You to Either;

A/N: miss you guys, sorry for the disappearing act <3

Word Count: 3.1K

Read on AO3

Notes On a Virtuous Affair

Sunlight spills over everything, and the pastoral green leads you to him. 

One would think this road ends in something virtuous—a greenness so dazzling it hurt the eyes—and not the sort of man waiting in his far out removed solitude. 

But there’s an incongruity afoot here that only you appreciate.

The secret lies in that there’s a riddle woven through the three miles you pilgrim to see him weekly. The first, a boon, the green lush wasteland, if a thing that’s alive can be wasted. The second, an honesty, I’ll venture this distance for him. The third, a precursor, when your muscles start to tingle, your thighs, hot and itchy, nape, coated in a taste of salt. Your feet crunch along the gravel and dirt, protected by the soft leathered boots inherited from Lucy who’d died last Monday. A good start to the week, with new boots, and a thoughtful gift she’d left you, your friend, when your own shoes were so worn from all the walking you do for him. The end of the world changes death, finds good things within it. 

The sun warms the bridge of your nose, and you tip your face up to the too-bright light, trying your hardest to look straight at the intensity of it. He’s very much like this too. Why would you look directly at the sun if not for the hurting it brings? Your palms splayed forward at your sides, the breeze moving through your fingers, and the world is all around you alive in this apocalypse. 

Jackson is left further and further behind as you move towards him, and what no one understands, not even Joel Miller himself, is that there is something virtuous about this affair.

-

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth now,” he says down at you, bare as the day you were born and kneeling before his clothed and towering height. Nothing but the heavy hanging length of his cock is naked for you, the first you’d ever seen in your whole life. If he had his way, the only one you’d ever see for the rest of it. The wide head is slick and glossy, the way it bobs obscenely from his open jeans looking like the weight of it would hurt, the way it juts from the bed of hair at this groin like a threat to you. 

You know now, after all his focused training, that it only hurts him when you don’t tend to it as he needs, that it’s only a threat when you fail to do the same. He’s shown you the rules of hurting, in all these months you’ve come your three promised miles to him time after time. Shown you how it comes easy, that of hurting someone you love. A running in place sort of thing. You know all the steps that will come, the exact spot you’ll tread in. The way to propel yourself forward to finally leave that same place, avoid it, if you want. 

“Open wider. Won’t fit like that,” he clicks his tongue, voice a burr as he grips his throbbing flesh and with the other too big hand, also like a seeming threat, but not, he gives you a quick, softly stinging slap to the high of your cheekbone. The sound, fast and snapping like his disapproving tongue. You swallow a moan, looking up at him with that look in your eyes you know disturbs him, adoration, letting the hinges of your jaw go loose, saliva pooling beneath the cover of your tongue. “Don’t you want me?” He asks. 

And you blink once, moan crossing the bridge to a laugh if your mouth wasn’t stretched wide as it’ll go. He sees it though, skipping water in your eyes and gives that half smile, the mean one, the one that says he has all the answers in the world, knows all the things there are to know, that one you like best. Good girl, and his voice makes no sound, only the shape of the words on his mouth. You haven’t been good enough yet to hear the real thing of them out loud. This tells you that you must apply yourself to the task at hand, making him come. 

One heavy tap to the flat of your tongue sticking out for him first, and then he’s slicking that fat head against the surface, giving you the first real taste, salt and musk trickle down the back of your throat and you moan again, eyes screwing shut tight, cunt aching something fierce. Leaking just like the tip of his cock leaks too. 

That’s the thing about this thing, the one you see very well and Joel still fails to. The two of you, as disparate as you might seem, are the same in all the basic but most important ways. Too much in common for him to look at in the eye comfortably and still do the things you do. 

“Open your throat. Get me hard.” In your head, he calls you baby. In reality, only sometimes, when you’re extra good, does that happen. But in your imagination, where it matters more, he doesn't ask nice, but you are his baby. 

He slides back, back, hits the end of your throat, pulls out against the wet heat of your tongue. You keep your jaw wide until you feel him harden entirely, until he stretches his neck back, tendons jumping stark, clench of his jaw fluttering with a choked groan. “Suck me,” your permission to savor him like you need to. 

Hands pressed firmly to your bare knees, not digging at your soft wet like you’d like, or pawing at him as you’d like even more, you close your lips around him, cheeks hollowed and suck hard, tonguing at his slit on the pull back so that he’s bearing his teeth at you in a growl and shoving forward again hard, a snarl as the cinch of your tight throat strangles the head of his cock on every one of your swallows. Your eyes water, but he pets softly at the same spot he’d stung earlier with his slap. 

A game you used to play with your siblings, who could slap one another harder until the other gave out. It’d taken a while for you to come to the realization, but eventually, you’d realized the memory of it in your mind as it exists now wasn’t innocent the way it should’ve been. That there had been something you’d liked about it in a strange way—that hurting. That the first time you’d asked Joel to play the same game with you, you’d wanted him to slap you other places just as hard until you gave out also. 

The games were part of the thing. His own strange rules, like the way you couldn’t touch him sometimes—you dig your bitten down nails into the soft skin of your inner thighs—only when he said it was okay was it allowed. The way you were never allowed to touch your cunt unless he said so also. He had weird things about him, turned strange by the dangerous ways of life. Like the solitude, the house out and away, the begging you had to do for him to have you. 

Sameness. 

He wraps his fist in your hair, more sting, “Gonna fill your belly with my come, yeah?” His thrusts pick up pace, pulling your head back as far as your neck allows so that he can fuck your throat in full, jaw hanging wide, and you’re just the wet and willing hole you know he sometimes wishes you could always stay as. 

The thick cock against your tongue throbs once, twice and then he’s spilling hot and heavy down your open throat, sweet salt against the back of your tongue while you try and breathe through his strangling, tears spilling.

When he pulls back, slipping wet and heavy from your mouth you fall forward onto your palms, breathing fast, almost hyperventilating, stinging with the forced will to remain obedient. Your spine burns beneath your skin and your sore jaw hangs unwillingly open, sloppy mouth dripping a string of semen between your splayed palms. 

He crouches before you, dripping cock like your mouth, milked to heavy softness hangs long and sated between his thighs. And he pets your crown, the vulnerable shell of your ear, whole body on fire so that every inch of skin hurts without his touch, hurts worse with it. 

“Good girl,” he says now with voice. 

-

The walk seems longer some days. A thousand miles plus an eon instead of merely three. Especially on the days you’re more desperate than usual. The ones when your stomach feels full of sugar for him and the memory taste of his cock is already aching in your molars. Those days your steps are hurried, look in your eyes frenzied to get to him, to escape the things you leave behind. A too full house, your sister’s squalling, teething baby, your little brothers, and too many mouths to feed and not attention to be had, not enough mother for everyone to get loved. 

There’s reasons for this game between the two of you, you’d had to come out and find your attention somewhere else. 

Your love too. 

And if it comes with a sting sometimes, well, so had your mother’s. You like it like this now. 

The first time he’d touched your cunt: show me that pretty pussy, baby, and he’d had you from that very first sweet word, you gonna let me finger it? You’d spread wide, leaked into the cup of his palm like a whore, you’d needed to make sure he was for keeping from the first try, you see. So you’d done all he’d said, taken four fingers and only cried a little bit but whined a lot. Been all, hurts, Joel, high pitched and dragging his name out on a puppy whimper. 

He’d given you that first lesson in hurt the very first time: Yeah? Supposed to. A real mean man. And then made you gush into that very cupped palm so that he could drink of your sweetness. 

He was the experienced one, you the innocent. It should have been different. Maybe it should’ve felt different. And yet, there was something in him that made you feel very much the conquering one, you the baptizing one. 

The third mile comes to an end, the precursor, over, his house in view. It’s all quiet and slumbering and the long grass pulls you forward with its wind blown sway. The wide door to his shed is propped open, half finished rocking chair up on the workbench that sways with the intruding gust. The grass whispers behind you, the dark woods across the field moan, and he’s nowhere while the Tetons loom in the distance. 

You drag your fingers along the slats of his house as you pass, everything is so quiet, like he’d never been here. Like he’d gone and left you the way he’s promised he’d never do. Your belly feels bloated with heat, heart turned into four incongruous chambers that no longer beat in tune, memories of him rioting between each thump. Your cunt goes soft and drooling in your panties as your fear beats higher and higher, and you come to the mouth of the shed, peering into the cool darkness of this little place where he makes his beautiful things. The things that go into people’s homes to be used by people’s families to be stored in people’s memories.

The gleam of the sun does not cross the threshold, and you brace your palms on either side of the wide door, the air thrums and he’s not here—yet—you slide the toe of Lucy’s old boot across the border of sunlight into sanctuary and peek your closed-eyed face into the shade right before you’re taken bodily to the ground by his heavy weight. Palms catching splinters, his strong chest heaves into the line of your spine, strong arm at your waist to pull your breath from your lungs and your legs from under you. 

He forces you belly first to the ground, other hand circling your throat in the imitation of a strangle lest you lose yourself and decide to struggle for the first time ever. But you dig your fingernails into the dirt, scratching for purchase in preparation of what’s about to come, all the fight going out of you; body, half in shadow, half in sunlight. Your bones feel salt bleached. An over abundance of sodium in the blood that renders you catatonic for him.

He nuzzles soft at your nape while his hand shoves under your dress, ripping your underwear down your legs so that the elastic cuts into your tender skin to hurt. All incongruous movement, this man is. 

“Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to go creepin’ ‘round strange men’s homes?” His voice is so deep, drawled, broken up into different notes of lust and anger and temerity. All the strange things that make Joel Miller up. 

Yeah, you sigh into the dirt. “Told me exactly how it’d go for me if I did.”

You hitch your rump up then, presenting your cunt for fucking. The breeze doesn’t do half to soothe the throbbing wet. The sort of ache that’ll only be fixed by something heavy inside the hurting place. The sound of his belt quiets the disparate chambers, the beat in your ears of rushing blood is uniform now, there’ll be a wet spot in the shape of you in the dirt when he’s through. You lift your hips higher, knees scraped rough as you spread wider, face pressed to the ground and your fingers are well and burrowed in their little gouges now. 

He smacks the heft of it against you asshole, spits and presses a little. He likes to scare you sometimes. Nooo, Joel, all whining stutter, but with your back arching deeper like a little babied liar; you don’t mind where he puts it, only that he puts it somewhere.

“Hush,” he soothes all nice, spanks your ass once all not— “Gonna teach you a lesson.” And shoves inside, bumping against your womb on the first try, stretching your hole too wide, too quick. And there’s no prep, no qualm. No need to hesitate when you own a thing. You swallow your animal cry, ah ah ah, you want to hear how good you’ve been out loud. He grips your hips tight enough to bruise which is what you know he wants and fucks hard and fast, each swing whistles with ownership. 

He fucks you in the dirt like an animal, and this affair is virtuous. 

He teaches you the truth about hurting, about ownership, about so many things that only a man like Joel Miller could teach a girl like you. And all the while he tells you that you’re too pretty to take such an ugly fucking. 

The way he works your cunt, hungry, balls swinging wet so that they sting like his slaps, tip battering hard so that it aches like gratitude. 

These are the things three miles give you. A whole man to teach you about the whole world. 

The slick squelch of your overwhelmed cunt sounds loud, no more disparate heartbeat, no more green grassed whispers. Only the sound of his grunting above you like an animal remains. “You’re the perfect little cunt. You know that, baby?” There it is, you sigh. Start to tremble around him like that, like his good baby that you are, desperate flutters, little gash being fucked into obedience like you need. Your overwhelmed pants make little dirt dream clouds before your eyes as you start to come for him, crying his name, crying your love, crying that you’re so, so thankful. 

“Don’t stop, Joel. Not yet.” And he loves it when you beg, loves it when your cunt pulls tight like a knot.  

“Not yet,” he promises because he might be a real mean man, but he loves you like separating salt from blood.

Complicated and precise. 

When he’s through with you, there’s sunlight spilling over everything again. It’s journey goes on and on, and his semen drips from your cunt now. He turns gentle, thrusting still, making sure it’s fucked deep, pulsing in time with your own throb. Rhythms merge between the two of you. 

His rules are strange, his claims over you equally mysterious. He won’t say things out loud, won’t let you touch any real part of him, but his strange truths ring loud anyways, and when your heart isn’t disjointed, you hear him perfectly well. 

When he lays you out bare and trembling across his messy bed, the groaned pains of his age and rutting in the dirt like an animal sound from him as he drapes himself alongside you. Large and hairy, feet hanging off the end of the bed, entirely real with one knee propped up so that his thick cock lays heavy and soft over the swell of his belly. Your heart beats soft and overfull now. 

You watch the sun set across the planes of his chest and bask in the blue dark as the night draws breath around you. The work of meting out obedience to little girls who come searching for it is toiling, and you watch him melt into sleep, but right before he’s just gone away from you, with a single finger petting at the jut of the old broken bone in his shoulder, your whispered plea: Will you give me a falseness? You don’t call it a lie. This is a virtuous thing, after all.

Lies aren’t allowed in this house. 

He breathes a deep sigh, and you watch the fan of his long lashes sweep open, staring up at the shadowed rafters of his home. You swear you can see each and every individual whisker in his thick beard, dark and gray dispersed throughout. You see every single detail. 

He’d told you once there were ghosts here, in this house, and you’d learned later it wasn’t a lie. This became more and more obvious the more you got to know him. 

He stares up at them now. 

When he’d taken your virginity, when it’d left you the way you’d always imagined it would, covered in tears and blood and semen, you’d made that promise to each other. That you wouldn't lie, that he’d have all of you, that you’d not touch all of him. The ghost lay beside you in the damp bed of your lost innocence that day. It’d been just so ever since and over many miles of three you’d come to appreciate the realities of it. Who could be more connected than two people who always tell each other their truths exactly as they are?

“Give me a falseness,” you say again, not a lie. 

“A good kind of a bad kind?”

You flip a mind’s coin, wish you could see the exact ghosts he sees— “Bad.”

He turns to look at you, this half smile he wears is your second favorite one now, the honest one, and it’s all there for you to see. All the disparate chambers of Joel, just like your heart beating in your ears. You suppose the ghosts don’t matter then. 

“I don’t love you.”

And you nod solemn. Bad, like a whisper, like your game. 

You smile back, the one you know he likes best, the one that looks like his.

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PEDRO PASCAL out and about in New York City | April 23, 2024

driveway to driveway | joel miller x f!reader

an in my hometown epilogue

masterlist | joel masterlist | kofi | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

pairing: neighbour!dbf!joel miller x f!reader word count: 2.5k rating: 18+ summary: you and joel pay california one last visit. warnings etc: established relationship, age gap (25/35), smut and fluff, car sex, unprotected p in v sex, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, pet names, pov swapping, LA traffic. no use of y/n.

a/n: this is one of my contributions to the @swiftiscruff friendship exchange! this fic is dedicated to @joelscruff, @agentmarcuspike, and @mrsmando, three of my absolute closest friends in this fandom, all of whom came into my life because of this fic and who continue to keep joel and supertar alive in my heart. on the anniversary of part one of imh, these two are finally getting their happy ending. title is inspired by driveway to driveway by superchunk, featured on the imh playlist

California, late summer 

A thick layer of smog coats the sky above the congested freeway, casting a toxic, hazy glow over the city you’d once called home. Joel finds there’s something distinctly unsettling about being back here, but you’ve made it clear–you’re not staying long. 

Get in, get out. That’s what you’d told him.

It’s been less than a month since Joel had made this exact same pilgrimage, winding through slow-moving traffic to that seldom-used exit. And now here he is again, retracing his steps to some rundown neighbourhood marred by potholes and foreclosures. Only this time, instead of a postcard guiding his way in the passenger seat, it’s you.

“God,” you sigh, squeezing his hand a little tighter across the centre console. “I never, ever wanted to come back here.”

“I know,” he says, bringing your hands up to his lips to kiss the back of your knuckles. He’s still not used to this feeling of freedom with you, that jolt of exhilaration he feels now that he can touch you and kiss you and hold you whenever he wants. He swears he’ll never take it for granted. “We’re just gonna grab your stuff n’ go. Get in, get out, right?”

“Right.”

There are no cars in the driveway when he pulls up beside the house this time, and for that, Joel’s grateful. He has no interest in dealing with your former roommates again. 

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.”

He’s shocked to find that nothing’s changed since he’d last been here.

The second you lead him inside, he’s looking to his left, to the space he knows now had been your bedroom. The door is still ajar, the purple sheets on your little bed are still askew, your tennis shoes are still discarded and forgotten on the carpet. The only notable difference is the thin layer of dust sprinkling the scene, faintly glowing in the sun streaming through your window. 

Beside him, you sigh. Joel whirls to face you, fixing you with the same look of concern he’s been fixing you with since you drove out of Austin yesterday. But you do not cry; your face reveals no signs of emotion at all. Instead, you steel yourself and square your shoulders, offer him a brave little nod and say,

“Let’s get this over with.”

And it doesn’t take long. Together, you pack away the remaining evidence of your life in LA into the back of his truck. In less than an hour, it’s like you’d never lived there at all. When it’s done, you lock the door behind you and hide your key beneath the door mat, and something about the rubber hitting the concrete feels indescribably final. 

Selfishly, Joel allows himself to think that now–now–you are finally his and his alone. You’re finally coming home, for real this time. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of this city,” you grumble on the front lawn, barely giving the house a parting glance before you’re craning to kiss him, impatient. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks against your lips.

-

You don’t stay in the city. With his cargo bed filled with your belongings, you drive south down the coast, and for once, Joel begins to see the appeal of this place. With his windows rolled down, your hair whips wildly in the warm salty air, earth to his left, ocean to his right. And it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. He clutches your thigh in his hand but mostly it’s to ground him; nothing funny–yet. He’s going to devour you the second he pulls off the highway, but for now, his touch is innocent. He just likes knowing you’re there. 

“I’m really proud of you, baby,” he finds himself telling you earnestly.

You smile so bright it puts the California sun to shame. 

“Thank you, Joel.”

-

There is a nature reserve just north of San Diego that you’ve heard about from friends.

Fields of green and pristine sunsets, a look out point with far too many seagulls and far too many tourists. Unless, of course, you park a bit further out, in a quieter spot, undefined by any notable signage. An easy-to-miss turn-off if you didn’t know any better. 

But you and Joel know better.

He pulls off the side road that runs adjacent to the 5, and nestles his truck under a small covering of trees, just as the sun begins to slowly sink downwards towards the shimmering sea. You watch its descent in comfortable silence, the sky turning from blue to orange as the minutes pass. Then Joel nods wordlessly towards the expanse of sand before you and you nod back eagerly at the invitation. There is not much you love about this place, but it’s hard to hold disdain for the ocean. You always wanted to bring Joel here. 

And for a man born and bred in Texas, you think he slots into the scenery here beautifully. His tan skin glowing in the fading sun, brown curls dancing in the ocean breeze, broad shoulders relaxed in a way you rarely see at home, you can’t deny, the West Coast looks good on Joel Miller. 

Hand in hand, you approach the water’s edge, the wind growing stronger and cooler with each step you take. As you’d suspected, this patch of beach is devoid of life beyond some meandering squirrels and gulls. It’s just the two of you, planting your bodies down in the sand, you between Joel’s legs as you lean back into his solid chest, his thick arms wrapped firmly around your middle.

“You gonna miss this at all?” he breathes into the space behind your ear after a few long, peaceful moments. 

You shrug. “We have sunsets in Texas.”

“Not like this.”

There is a sadness in his voice you feel shouldn’t be there. You twist your neck to peek up at him, brows furrowed. 

“What are you thinking?”

He cups your cheek in his hand, stroking his calloused thumb along your cheekbone, eyes searching. “I just…want you to be sure you made the right choice.”

You frown. “It’s a little late for that.”

Joel shakes his head, and something about the set of his features makes you think he’s only saying this because he thinks he has to. 

“It’s not,” he insists, “What kinda man would I be if I knew I was stealin’ you away from all this?”

He lets his hand fall from your face to gesture absently towards the open sky and the glittering sea and the expansive stretch of sand all around you.

In a tortured sort of way, he buries his face into the ditch of your shoulder and inhales deeply. It sends a shiver up your spine. 

“Joel,” you hum, reaching back behind you to card your fingers into his hair, tugging at them until he meets your eyes. “You didn’t steal me. You saved me.”

The corners of his lips curl endearingly upwards as he exhales a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, letting him close the space between your mouths to kiss you so deep it makes you dizzy. 

“My hero,” you add breathlessly against his lips after a moment. 

This time, his laugh is low and rumbling, a growl in the back of his throat as he pulls you in tighter and squeezes.

“Or your captor,” he teases, his scruff scraping against your cheek as his lips move to find your ear.

“You wanna tie me up?” It comes out more alluring than you intend as you present your open wrists. The effect it has on him is plain. 

“Careful talkin’ like that, kid,” he rasps, nipping down on your earlobe as his hands traverse the line of your arms until his fingers circle around your wrists. 

You fan your head out against his shoulder, Joel’s hot breath at your ear condensing your thoughts into a thick fog of desire. 

“You could, though,” you tell him, just to feel the way it seems to rile him up, his grip around your wrists tightening and his breathing stuttering against your skin. “I’d let you.”

“Christ.”

His voice is ragged as he wraps your connected arms around you and hungrily chases your lips again. He kisses you and kisses you and the sun dips below the horizon. The world goes grey and Joel’s touch grows fierce, palms daringly closing over your breasts, fingers knotting in your hair, tongue curling between your teeth. He kisses you until your neck burns and your lips are numb and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“Truck,” he orders gruffly once the day has turned to night around you, and all you can do is whimper and nod. 

He wastes no time pulling you into his lap in the back seat, finding your lips again with new vigour, concealed in the safety of his vehicle. 

“We should find a motel,” you suggest breathily. But it’s hardly convincing, not with the way you arch for him when his palms spread out against your back and your hips unconsciously grind down into his in response. 

“Don’t wanna wait,” he grunts, clumsily yanking your shirt off to bury his face between your tits. He closes his lips around each of your nipples and you quickly decide you don’t want to wait either. 

Arousal pools between your legs as he toys with your breasts, kneading them in his big hands and lathing his tongue against your hardened nipples. You moan for him and Joel hums his delight.

“There you go, baby, lemme hear you,” he sighs into your skin. 

And you do. In the cramped confines of his truck, there is barely room to breathe. You feel untamed in the charged proximity, Joel’s hands roaming your body as you rock against him, the bulge in his jeans growing more and more prominent with each steady roll of your hips. Your patience wanes, and apparently so does Joel’s, because he’s groaning out an appreciative little whine as you begin to fumble with his belt buckle. 

“Fuck–yeah, you wanna sit right here on my cock, pretty girl?” 

A high-pitched yes escapes you as you rid yourself of your shorts in a flurry of awkward movement. Beneath you, Joel frees his cock from his jeans and boxers and wraps a hand around himself, admiring you spread across his thighs for a brief moment. Then his other hand is greedily cupping your sex, pushing the gusset of your panties aside to slide two thick fingers into your soaking hole. 

“Oh, good girl,” Joel growls as you keen at the welcome stretch, the wet squelch of your cunt echoing out in his truck as he lazily pumps his fingers through your walls. “So fuckin’ wet. Perfect little pussy’s always so ready for me, ain’t she?”

You cling to him with your hands around his neck as he retracts his fingers and massages your clit, catching your responding moan with a kiss before he’s lining you up with his length. 

“Shh, there you go, I know,” he whispers against your lips as you lower yourself onto him inch by inch, whimpering and whining at the fullness until you’re seated in his lap and he’s buried to the hilt inside you. 

“Good?” he checks in, deep voice strained. His hands find purchase over your hips, and there is a quiet desperation in the way his fingernails dig into your skin.

“Good,” you nod, because it’s true. 

“Attagirl.”

His hands are coaxing then, encouraging you to move, and you willingly follow his lead. It starts with a gentle grind as you adjust to his size, a sticky-wet dance that blinds you with pleasure, his cock tickling the deepest parts of you. You get lost there, entranced by how good it feels, pressed this close against him as he fills you so completely, his hands cupping your ass as he revels in your languid movements. 

“S’at feel good, sweetheart?” he grits lowly into your neck.

“Yes–fuck, yes, Joel.”

“Do you wanna come like this?”

“Mhm.”

It’s all the affirmation he needs. With you still slowly rocking yourself down on his length, Joel reaches between your bodies to skirt his thumb across your bottom lip. You part your lips for him and he sinks the digit inside, watching as you suck on it dreamily and swirl your tongue around the salty musk of his skin. Then all at once he steals it away, only to dip his hand below the waistband of your panties to circle your clit with his spit-soaked thumb pad. 

“There she is,” Joel grins when he draws a wanton sound from you, your pussy clenching around him as your movements momentarily falter.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t you stop now,” he grunts, applying more pressure against your clit and bucking his hips upwards insistently. “Lemme feel that little pussy come.”

It doesn’t take long after that. In a near-giddy haze, your hips move of their own accord, Joel’s thumb an urgent thing over your most sensitive spot until finally, you break.

“Oh, fuck, look at you,” Joel marvels as you gush around his cock and seize violently above him. You chant his name as the waves wash over you and his soothing voice soundtracks the blaze of heat that burns bright up your spine and then fizzles.

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos. “You’re so good for me. S’my good girl.”

You’re whimpering as you press your face into the column of his neck, still coming down from your high. 

“Stay right there for me, baby girl,” Joel whispers gravelly. His strong arms encircle you, clutching your lifeless body into his chest as he hurriedly begins to fuck you properly.  

You gasp at the overstimulation–almost too much after only just coming, too perfect to ever dream of stopping him. Joel seems sympathetic nonetheless, driving his cock up into you with laboured little huffs and grunts, holding you still in his lap and murmuring praises into your hair. 

“S’right…you’re okay,” he rambles. “You can take it. You just fuckin’–take it for me.”

He doesn’t relent, fucking you until you’re both out of breath and your chest is pressed so firmly against his that you’d hardly be surprised if your bodies just melted together completely. And then, with a final few thrusts upwards, he spills himself deep inside you, pulling you down into his lap as his cock twitches between your walls. Ropes of Joel paint your insides, and you suppose it kind of is like you’re melting together. 

He holds you there until his shuddering subsides. Then he carefully lifts you off his softening length, fixing your panties back over your leaking cunt, entrapping all his escaping cum.

“You keep that right there,” he winks.

You think you’d laugh at that if you weren’t so fucked-out, so instead you just nod and bite your lip and think how you’d keep him inside you forever if you could.

Joel backs away from the lookout and eases back out onto the open road, pulling you into his side as he continues on to your next destination. Tonight, you’ll stay at a motel somewhere along the coast. And tomorrow, you’ll take the 8 to the 10, and drive from California to Texas–one last time. 

husband's grandmother mailed me that grocery store pedro magazine.

hilarious for many reasons, and does lead me to ask

How did she know I was this into p???

why did she mail it, we live a mile away from each other?

what are joel, sarah, ellie, and reader doing on a typical day like today?

i had an ickle answer for you, non, but then @mrsmando sent me this tiktok and said it was scom coded, and - well. here's what my babies were up to today.

the whole world 1.8k words warnings: lots of sickly-sweet family love, couple teeny mentions of ellie throwing up, joel's a flirt at the end

“…beautiful blue skies all day today with highs of eighty in some parts, cooling down into the sixties as we head into the evening…”

Your skin still smells like the pool.

Chlorine, chemical summer – and the sweet spritz of sunscreen. It’s still glistening, still shiny and tacky on your arms.

The girls were bathed the second you got back inside. Sleeves rolled to your elbows; suds slipping down swollen, sun-kissed cheeks.

One hand at Ellie’s back, the other swishing water at her tummy to make her giggle. Joel knelt at your side, wrestling with Sarah over a soaked sponge the entire time.

He kept wringing it over her head, cracking up at the look on her face – water dripping from the tip of her nose and her pouted bottom lip.

Mama, she announced – with a twang even sweeter than her dad’s – I ain’t talkin’ to Daddy no more.

You scoffed, nudging a rubber duck along the water to Ellie’s open hands. I’ll believe that when I see it, Duck.

As the water drained from the tub, Sarah let Joel bundle her in a towel and follow her – a trail of damp footprints along the hall carpet – into her bedroom to grab her pajamas.

Lasted long, didn’t it? you muttered to Ellie, swaddling her in a dino bathrobe.

It’s May. Everything is alive and bursting with color. The birds and the bugs and the static from the radio. The windchimes and the orange slices and the tickticktick of the neighbor’s kid’s bicycle, whirring past the house.

Your daughters giggle, sharing secrets through nuzzling noses and flashing toothless grins. Nearly seven and just turned one. All their mom’s beauty with their dad’s old soul, so you’ve been told.

You figure it’s just a flowery way of saying perfect. Everything about them is perfect.

Everything about this is perfect. The slow-setting sun, needling between the trees as she slips from the sky. The cool shade under the porch, the soft tinkle of ice in your glass. The scrape of the dog’s claws on the wood as she slumps down.

This life you’ve dreamt up, held together by string lights and hanging plants; made real by the trike parked over in the corner, the teething toy wetting the tablecloth.

It’s all so fucking perf–

A clatter echoes from the kitchen.

“Shit – Jesus –” Joel hisses, another crashing sound swallowing the rest.

Sarah peers up at you, eyes wide. Knees tucked under her chin, tiny in the chair beside you.

“Did you hear that?” you ask her, lifting your eyebrows. Doing your best not to break into a grin.

The corners of her mouth twitch. She looks just like you, in this light. Same cheeky smirk. You never really noticed it until you saw it on her.

“No,” she mumbles, pressing her lips into her knee. She giggles.

Your eyes thin. “Mhm.”

“Mhm,” she mimics, reaching for her Barbie.

You lean back in your chair, arms wrapping a little tighter around the toddler in your lap. “You sure you’re okay in there?” you call through the house.

Joel’s arm swats around the kitchen doorframe. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. It’s just – goddamn it – it’s fine.”

“Heard that,” Sarah says. She stares at the doll’s hair, combing it flat.

“Shh,” you whisper, hearing the creak of the floorboards.

Joel materializes on the porch, balancing three plates in his arms. A stained towel slung over his shoulder, his shirt unbuttoned and chest dappled with sweat.

“Alright,” he pants, bending to set yours down first.

Ellie twists in your arms, her green terrycloth spikes flapping as she turns. The hood slips over her eyes and you pull her free.

You grab her hands before she can slam two tiny fists into the ravioli. “Jesus, Nel,” you snort.

She pulls herself to her feet, swaying from side to side on your thighs. Watching Joel intently as he sets Sarah’s plate down, then his own.

He straightens, running the towel between his hands. “Can I sit next to Mama?” he asks his daughter.

She shakes her head. “I’m showin’ her my Barbies.”

“Can you show her them from your own chair, Duck?”

Another head shake. “How is she s’posed to see ‘em?”

His eyes flash up to yours. His expression sets like stone.

All these years, all that time you spent desperately trying to crack him. Chiseling away with tools made from jokes, from teasing. From frisbeeing his newspaper and aiming for his plant pots.

A little smile; a quiet, “How am I s’posed to see ‘em, Joel?” – and you melt him instantly.

He breathes a laugh, shaking his head as he wanders around the table. This huge, broad man, squeezing into the space by the windowsill. Dotted with toy animals and scattered miniature accessories.

He pulls the chair out and settles back into it.

You nudge his calf beneath the table.

Joel’s hands find your knees, slipping around them. He pulls your ankles into his lap, thumb trailing circles on your skin, and picks up his fork.

“Alright, Duckie,” you elbow her gently, “Barbies down. Look what Daddy made us.”

She fixes the pink pumps back onto the doll’s feet, straightens her spacesuit, and sits her carefully on the edge of the table.

Ellie blows a raspberry and collapses again into your lap. She yawns, turning to snuggle into your chest.

“You wanna try a little?” you whisper, blowing on a piece of ravioli.

She steals it from your fork and suckles on it. Her long lashes blink slower and slower until her eyes are closed, full cheeks still chewing.

Joel scoffs. “That’s her mom. Right there, that’s all you.”

“Fallin’ asleep with food in her mouth?” you chuckle, kissing her head. “Glad I’m leavin’ some legacy.”

“Uhuh,” he replies, tongue in his cheek. His eyes flash golden when they meet yours, brighter than the sun.

Ellie’s warm under your cheek; her skin still as soft and plushy as the day you met her. She quietens, stills as she drifts off. She’s solid in your arms – sturdier than her sister ever was at her age.

Or, as her uncle Tommy said, the first time he held her: She weighs a goddamn ton, don’t she?

She weighs nothing to you. Your arms were made for cradling her. Hips were designed to hold her. She’s the perfect size to fit in the crook of her dad’s arm. Her favorite game is being tossed in the air by him until she throws up.

“Ah-ah, Duck. Not right now,” Joel says, shaking his head. “Wait ‘til we’re done, or she’ll just beg.”

Sarah huffs, lifting her fork from the dog’s mouth. “Sorry, Shim.”

The shepherd trots around to Joel’s side, settling her chin on his thigh. She breathes a pleading sigh.

“I know, girl,” he ruffles her ears, “I ain’t fair to ya, am I?”

She falls to a heap under the table, and spends the meal pouncing at scraps Sarah accidentally drops.

The sky drains, the world darkening until you’re lit in shades of orange and gold; the candles flickering and stretching funny shadows across the porch ceiling.

Joel bribes Sarah with staying up later, so long as she helps him clear the table. She babbles away as they fill the sink with dishes; follows at his heels and catches him up on the politics of second grade.

He leans down to take Ellie – sound asleep and snoring – from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his lips, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says, and kisses you. “C’mon, Duckie,” he groans as she climbs into his other arm. “Bedtime.”

Upstairs, you split off into the girls’ rooms. Shimmer follows you into Sarah’s, curling up at her feet in a nest of pink blankets.

Your firstborn is already tucked under her covers, her nightlight spinning hazy stars around the walls.

“How much do I love you?” you whisper, stroking her hair.

Sarah takes a few seconds to answer, sleep already overcoming her. “More…more ‘n the…” she yawns, “…more ‘n the whole world, Mama…”

“The whole world,” you repeat, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Sweet dreams, little Duckie.”

Joel meets you in the hallway. He holds the baby monitor up. The screen lights; the fuzzy outline of your baby in her cot. Arms outstretched, above her head; fists balled and a determined frown on her face as she snoozes.

“Like a log,” Joel mutters, nudging you over to the stairs. “’nother thing she got from her mom.”

You smile – a loose, sleepy thing. “’s my girl.”

He follows you downstairs.

The reflections of the candles glint from each photo frame on the wall, lighting them one by one as you pass. First birthdays, first Christmases. Sarah perched atop a pony in Jackson; Joel in a suit holding Ellie, seconds before she spat milk down his tie.

Each one a tiny thread, linking you from who you were to who you are now. Stringing you together, binding the wound you never knew how to tend to.

At the bottom of the stairs, you feel a tug from your back pocket.

“Joel –” you giggle, stumbling into his arms. “We got dishes to – Joel –”

“Come on,” he whispers against your lips, stealing soft kisses. “It’s a nice night, let’s just sit for a while.”

He leads you out front and rocks back on the swing. He sets the monitor down at his feet and opens his arms. A goofy smile on his face, eyes twinkling.

You fold your arms. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I know. But I love you.”

Your breath catches, the way it always does. Almost seven years, two kids and a fucking joint mortgage – and it still catches you off guard when you remember.

He loves you. He always did.

“That’s what makes you the idiot,” you reply, stepping forward. You slip into his lap, knees either side of his hips, and link your arms around his neck. “Fell in love with your nemesis.”

“Hm.” Joel’s arms scoop around your butt. “All that time, I thought we were friends.”

You laugh, leaning in to him. “We were never friends,” you say, “I never wanted to be just your friend.”

His chest rumbles beneath yours. He presses more kisses into your neck, kneading your waist. He takes your jaw, pulling back to look at you.

This man, and the silver through his beard, and the marks on his careful hands. This man, who never looked surer of himself – never looked more like the gleeful kid you once spotted in a photo frame – than when he has one daughter in one arm and the other slung over his back.

This man, who once built you a closet in exchange for a fake date. Who, drunk on liquor and something more, followed you back to your hotel room and changed you forever.

Made you his, forever.

You forget what it ever felt like to be anything else.