Joel Miller X Female Reader - Tumblr Posts

A Safe Haven | J. Miller Series

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Series Summary: When Joel Miller and Ellie Williams return to Jackson, Wyoming to begin their new lives, the last thing Joel expects is to catch the eye of the thriving community’s equine veterinarian. Young, beautiful, and married, Joel knows that he should stay away from a woman like you, but he can’t help but to be drawn to you like a moth to a flame. As you start growing closer to both Joel and Ellie, you find out all about the secrets they both carry—and they find out you’ve been hiding a secret or two of your own.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ only, Minors DNI. Canon violence, canon language, age gap, infidelity, infertility, domestic violence and abuse, pregnancy. Chapters will come with their own individual warnings.

*MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY

Chapter One - Sun to Me

Chapter Two - Dancing in the Moonlight

Chapter Three - Can’t Help Falling in Love

Drabble - The Truth

Chapter Four - Treacherous

Chapter Five - Wildfire**

Drabble - Jealousy

Chapter Six - Butterflies**

Drabble - Words Left Unspoken

Chapter Seven - Illicit Affairs**

Chapter Eight - Truth Be Told

Drabble - Lost On You

Chapter Nine - Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby

Chapter Ten - Untitled

Chapter Eleven - Untitled

Chapter Twelve - Untitled

Epilogue

Extras

Series Playlist

Supporting Character Face Claims

Peach FC/Moodboard (please read disclaimer)

Joel x Peach Moodboard made by the lovely @johnwatsn

ASH Moodboard made by the lovely @morning-star-joy

ASH Peach x Joel Edit by the lovely @cavillscurls

Beautiful ASH Drawing by my love @cutesyscreenname

Pains (Drabble Request) - When Ellie has awful menstrual cramps, you come to the rescue.

Unconditional (Drabble) - After your first night together in the barn, Joel tells you he’s worried about the possibility of you getting pregnant; You tell him that he doesn’t have anything to worry about and it leads to a heartfelt conversation—and realization.

Headcanons l Asks l Blurbs

Joel x Peach Smutty Headcanons

Ellie sees a hickey on Joel (Blurb)

Joel talks about missing Sarah (Blurb)

weakness

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: An afternoon at Bill and Frank’s place takes one hell of an unexpected turn for you and Joel when hidden feelings start coming to the surface.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. BOSTON QZ ERA JOEL. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is in his early 50’s). mentions of reader having longer hair/her hair gets brushed, reader wears a dress, no specific mention of reader’s size, but there is a brief mention of the dress fitting loose on her, Frank is sweet and makes her feel pretty, Bill is a grump, Joel is kind of soft, hidden feelings. dashes of angst, fluff, and an abundance of Frank being an absolute angel.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY. NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 5.7k

“Can you stop fidgeting for just one second, please?” Frank scolds you lightly, bringing down the palm of his hand onto your shoulder in a small, quick slap in an attempt to get you to stop squirming. He then moves his hands back up to your hair, which is out of its usual braid and towel dried after a much, much needed wash. The sickeningly sweet scent of the floral shampoo you’d used in the shower earlier that afternoon lingers deliciously in the air around you, a refreshing and welcome change from what your hair normally smells like—grime and smoke from hours of work detail in the Boston QZ. After coming out all of the stubborn tangles that he can find, Frank then picks up a boar hairbrush and he carefully begins to run it through your locks. He starts from the roots of your hair and brings the natural bristles down, all the way through to your ends. He chuckles and says, “You know, I would be done a hell of a lot quicker if you would just sit still.”

You sigh softly, but impatiently, allowing yourself one final, uncomfortable little shuffle in the white wicker chair he has you perched on before finally giving into his request. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” you mumble You bring your knees up against your chest and exhale another small sigh. You can’t see his face, but you can picture the smug, satisfied smile on Franke’s face as he continues brushing your hair. “So, tell me again why we’re even doing this?” you question him just a minute later, as if he hasn’t already explained it to you about a hundred times—he wants to do something special for you. “It kind of seems like a complete waste of time, don’t you think so?”

“We’re doing this because you deserve to get dolled up for once in your adult life,” Frank states in a matter of fact tone. The world had ended when you’d been about seven years old, and he’d imagined that since then, you’d never done a single damn thing for your appearance—besides the occasional at home haircut you would give yourself every few months with an old pair of rusted shears. He’d have been absolutely right about that. “And besides, it’s something of a special occasion today,” he adds. “It’s the first day of spring. The weather outside is stunning, our flowers are finally in full bloom, and we have a nice outdoor lunch planned to celebrate the new season.”

You can’t help the way the corners of your mount turn upwards into a small smile. One might think it was all rather silly, given it was the end of the world and all, but you have to admit, you admire the way Frank manages to find genuine happiness and joy in the little things, like warm sunshine on the first day of spring. Or showing a friend what a proper hairbrush looks like. He has such a beautiful soul, something that very, very few people in this new world possess. 

“Your hair is so healthy,” Frank observes a few minutes later, setting the hairbrush aside. Taking two handfuls of your hair from the front, he twists them gently and brings them around to the back of your head. He then secures them with a clear, elastic band and runs his fingers through your soft locks, maneuvering your hair until it cascades perfectly around your shoulders. Frank walks around your chair to face you, fussing until he makes sure that every stand is neatly in place. He smiles. “You should wear your hair down more often, you know. It really suits you.”

“Long, loose hair and work detail are a recipe for disaster,” you laugh, shaking your head at him. “Most of the work sites in the zone require anyone who has longer hair to keep it tied back, anyway.” You push your legs out away from your chest and plant your feet firmly on the floor. “Listen, Frank. I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. I really do,” you swear. “It’s incredibly sweet, but there’s really no point. In just a few hours, Joel and I are going to have to head back into Boston where my hair goes back into its braid and I have to change back into my normal clothes.”

“Exactly. So how about you just zip it and enjoy this while it lasts?” he suggests with a tiny, cheeky grin.

“But Frank—”

“Honey, this is a fight you simply aren’t going to win, so hush. Now, come with me.” He takes your hand, pulling you out of the chair and up to your feet. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, and with a reluctant sigh, you do as you’re told. Frank leads you over towards the full length mirror in the far corner of his and Bill’s bedroom. “Okay. One, two, three—open your eyes.”

Your eyes flutter open and your mouth parts slightly in surprise. 

“What the fuck,” you murmur underneath your breath, taken aback by the reflection in the mirror. The young woman staring back at you, she looks absolutely nothing like you. The hair, the hint of blush on your cheekbones—the color he’d found was one one that flatters the tone of your skin—and the thin coat of decades old mascara that he’d applied to your eyelashes; the tube had been bone fucking dry, but Frank used a few drops of water to bring it back to life, swearing up and down it was fine to put near your eyes. And then there was the dress, the goddamn dressed he’d force you into. His favorite part of the makeover and your least favorite. 

“Wait until you see what I found for you to wear,” he’d told you, giddy as if it were him who would be donning a new outfit. “You’re going to love it!”

Skeptical, you had asked, “Am I though?”

Frank had gone to the boutique and found you a dress to wear, and while it was just a tad loose on your frame, he insisted that it would look just fine on you with the help of a safety pin hidden at the back of it, pulling the fabric taut. It was simple enough, white with a subtle sweetheart neckline and thin straps that tied together at your shoulders. The delicate lace fell down in a flowing skirt to just a few inches above your knees and it itched like hell, especially at your sides. Wanting to add a finishing touch to the outfit, Frank had brought you a pair of brown, strappy sandals and he’d let you know that he had a couple of different color options for a cardigan in the event it became too chilly outside. 

“You look perfect,” he gushes. “Like a daydream!”

You look different. But that isn’t what brought on the shock. More than anything, you’re completely taken aback by how fucking normal you look. 

Sure, coming over to Bill and Frank’s always gave you a temporary sense of normalcy. They always allowed you to take a hot shower, gave you the opportunity  to properly wash your hair and change out of your dirty shirt into a new clean one. They always provided you with a warm meal presented on porcelain dishware that wasn’t stained or chipped like the shit you had back home in your crumbling apartment in Boston. You’d had several tastes of normal thanks to those two, but this drastic change to your appearance was overwhelming. Too overwhelming.

You’d never thought that you could look like this, not in this fucking lifetime. 

Frank immediately picks up on your emotions, senses how you’re feeling. Standing behind you, he places his two hands on your shoulders and leans his head forward, pressing his cheek against yours as his kind eyes meet your tearful gaze in the mirror. “You look absolutely beautiful,” he whispers, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I really hope you feel beautiful. You deserve it. You deserve so much more, but if I can at least give you this much, then my mission is accomplished.”

You open your mouth to speak, but words fall short. Afraid that you might burst into tears on the spot, you clamp your mouth shut and give him the tiniest little nod of your head accompanied by a quivering smile of gratitude. 

Frank smiles back. “Good. Now, come on, let’s go out front and have lunch.” His hands fall from your shoulders and he ushers you out into the hallway and towards the staircase. Looking over his shoulder, he gives you a wink. “I’m really eager to see what your man thinks of your new look.”

“What?” you sputter, almost tripping over your own two feet. “Who—you mean, Joel?”

Shit. You’d almost forgotten about Joel.

What the hell is he going to say when he sees you like this?

What’s he going to think?

Probably that you look utterly fucking ridiculous, that’s what.

“Who else would I be talking about? Bill?” Frank snorts. “Yes, I’m talking about Joel.”

You glare at his back. This isn’t the first time Frank has teased you about Joel Miller, and despite the countless times you’ve sworn to him that there was nothing going on between the two of you, he insists on believing otherwise, adamant that there has to be something more there. “Don’t start with this shit again. He is not my man, and you damn well know that.”

“He might as well be,” Frank shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly as he leads you down the staircase.

“Frank, I’m being serious,” you say. Normally, weren’t so uptight about it all, but today, you’re not finding his antics amusing in the slightest, not while you’re wearing goop on your face and sporting a fucking dress. “I’ve told you a million times that there is nothing going on between me and Joel. He’s my partner.” You pause briefly, realizing how that must have sounded, and add in emphasis, “He’s my work partner. We work together, Frank. We smuggle shit together. That’s it.”

Frank stops at the bottom of the staircase and turns to you, letting out a curious hum. “Hmm. And if I remember correctly, you two also live together, you sleep in the same bed together, you spend every waking moment from sunrise to fucking sunset together—I have never heard of two work partners being that close, sweetheart.”

Stubborn, you shake your head. “He’s like fifty!”

“The world ended and that’s your concern? An age gap?” he questions. “Really?”

“Frank,” you plead his name, groaning. “I swear it. We’re nothing to each other. Joel is—well, he’s Joel. He’s not exactly the type of man who does that. You know, feelings and shit.”

He throws his head back slightly, letting out a loud laugh that echoes through the foyer of his home. “Oh, trust me. I know that much. Between you and me, I have to say that he reminds me a whole lot of Bill,” he muses. He notices the horrified expression that crosses your face and laughs again, holding up his hands in defense. “Wait a minute, just hear me out. They’re polar opposites in some ways, but in most ways, they’re almost the same fucking person. Joel is just like Bill. Cranky. Grumpy. He hates everyone and everything. Kind of man who’ll stab someone if they so much as look at him the wrong way. Would you say that’s pretty accurate?”

“Yeah, sounds like Joel Miller,” you have to admit. As much as you did not want to think of Joel being the same person as Bill, Frank had a pretty good point.

“But Joel also reminds me of Bill because he’s the kind of man who means well when it comes to the people that he cares about. The kind of man who will do whatever it takes to protect what is his,” he further explains. He pauses and then asks, “Let me ask you something. You trust him, right?”

You don’t even miss a beat, answering, “Of course. With my life.”

He ticks his  index finger at you. “Aha! Exactly!” he exclaims. “You know that Joel would never let anyone lay so much as a finger on you. He’d never let anything bad happen to you. And why is that?”

You stare at him blankly, unsure of how to respond. “Is this a trick question?”

Huffing, Frank rolls his eyes and lets out a disappointed sigh, as if you’d missed the obvious. “It’s because you mean something to him, sweetheart. Whether you choose to let yourself believe it or not, you mean something to Joel Miller.”

For a moment, it feels like all the wind’s been knocked out of you. 

Could Frank actually be right? 

Do you actually mean something to Joel?

No, that was impossible. Joel Miller doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything—all he cares about is surviving long enough to find Tommy again one day, and even then, he never speaks of his younger brother too kindly. He’s been hardened by this world, closed himself off, put up a barrier around himself that nothing can permeate. Not even you.

“Under that tough, rugged exterior, there’s a soft spot. It’s there, for you and only for you.” Frank’s eyes glimmer, speaking a truth he’s been wanting to tell you for the better part of the last several months. “You might need to do some digging to find it, but it’s there.”

“I just don’t understand why you would think that,” you confess, shaking your head. “Joel has never said anything to me to indicate that I mean something to him. More often than not, I find myself wondering if even considering us to be friends is too generous.” You cross your arms over your chest, growing uncomfortable under his knowing stare. “Yes, Joel looks out for me, but that’s only because we work together so well. I know my way around. He needs me, especially if he plans on getting to Tommy.”

Frank bites his bottom lip, stifling another laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Oh, sweetheart. You don’t even realize it, do you?”

Your eyebrows knit together, confused. “What? Realize what?”

“You are his weakness.”

He’d said it so simply, and yet there goes the rest of your air leaving your lungs, an invisible first driving itself right into your gut. 

“Of course Joel isn’t going to tell you how he feels about you. He’s afraid,” Frank remarks, sounding so sure as if he had been told that by Joel Miller himself.

“You’re wrong. Joel isn’t afraid of anything,” you counter in the steadiest voice you can muster. “You’re wrong, Frank.”

“He’s afraid because he knows how dangerous it is, having a weakness in the form of a person he cares about more than anything can be in a world like this.” Any trace of teasing or playfulness had disappeared from Frank’s expression. He speaks gently, but with purpose, with such seriousness that it makes your heart sink further and further down into the pits of your stomach.

When you speak again, your voice is strained, thick with emotions you’re trying so desperately to shove down. “Frank, you really need to put down the fucking romance novels.” Before he can say another word to you about it, you place a hand lightly on your stomach. “I’m really hungry. Can we go eat now? Please?”

Thankfully, he gets the hint to drop the subject.

“Of course. Come on” Frank takes your hand. He opens the front door and leads you outside and onto the freshly landscaped front lawn. He had been right, the flowers were in full bloom—the small, round table he’d set was positioned in a perfect spot so that no matter where anyone sat, they would have a view of the colorful roses and azaleas he and Bill had planted around the perimeter of the yard.

As soon as he sees you two approaching, Bill throws up his hands in a dramatic fashion. “It’s about goddamn time!” He grouches loudly. “Jesus Christ, Frank. I’m fucking starving!”

“Sorry, got caught up inside.” Frank tosses his partner a sweet smile as he releases your hand. “But look, I found myself something pretty!”

Heat floods your cheeks. You should have known better than to think he wasn’t going to make a fuss about your new appearance. “Frank, please. Don’t.”

“Oh come now, you know I have to show you off!”

Joel, whose back had been turned towards you, furrows his eyebrows and he glances over his shoulder, looking to see what Frank was referring to. His dark brown eyes widen just ever so slightly, the grip around his glass of red wine tightening in complete surprise at the sight of you. Frank had failed, quite miserably, to convince him to dress up for the occasion, but at the very least, he’d talked him into wearing one of the nicer shirts he'd found at the boutique, a neatly pressed, sage green button up with long sleeves that, much to Frank’s chagrin, Joel had rolled up to his elbows. His graying, dark brown curls  might have even had a comb run through them, but it;s  difficult to tell if the way his thick locks were effortlessly disheveled was natural or the result of his efforts to tame them.

“What do you think, Joel?” Frank beams proudly, as if presenting the man with one of his painted art pieces.

Joel doesn’t respond. His eyes remain glued on you, following as you walk around the table and take your usual place beside him.

“Way to put me on the spot, Frank,” you mutter, your face growing warmer and warmer with every second that ticks by. You silently urge yourself to get a grip as you reach for the crisp, white cloth napkin next to your plate and drape it over your lap. The smoked, wild rabbit Bill had cooked up for lunch  smells heavenly—Frank knows  it’s  your absolute favorite dish, and so he had made sure Bill put it on today’s menu, bless his heart. 

Joel still hasn’t uttered a single word. Part of you hopes he wouldn’t.

“Joel?” Frank prompts as he picks up his own cloth napkin. “Doesn’t she look pretty?”

You glare daggers at him from across the table and hiss, “Frank!”

Finally, Joel sets down his glass of wine and turns slowly, angling his body towards yours. When he speaks, his voice is low, but clear as day as he looks at you, “Yeah. She looks very pretty.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, causing your heart to skip a beat inside of your chest and a strange warmth to bloom in your belly. 

Had he actually meant that?

“You look real nice,” he adds, giving you a subtle nod of his head. He lets his sights linger on you for another moment before tearing his gaze away. He then turns back to the table, picking up his glass of wine once again, chugging what’s left of it before reaching for the bottle to pour himself another. 

Bill clears his throat roughly. “Well, if everyone’s done playing dress up, I’d really like to fucking eat now.”

Meals with Bill and Frank were always pleasant. 

Well, meals with Frank were always pleasant.

 Although Bill had gotten used to having you and Joel over as guests and didn’t see either of you as a threat anymore, he still preferred to keep you both at arm’s length, a choice you two respected. He hardly ever said much and often chose to let his partner do all the talking unless the conversation had anything to do with trading supplies. Only then would he step in. 

As you’d tucked into your meal of wild rabbit and garden vegetables, you could feel Joel throwing subtle glances your way every so often. It was half expected that he would, seeing as he’d never seen you like this before. He was so used to seeing you in tattered, dirty old clothes with dirt and grime caked onto your skin and in your hair. 

Surely, he must have felt like he was sitting next to a complete stranger, not his smuggling partner.

About an hour later, once everyone has finished eating, you offer to help Frank clear and clean up the table and wash the dishes. He settles for letting you help him bring everything inside, but shoos you away before you can even think about lifting another finger. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he says, waving you away from the kitchen sink with his hands. “You and Joel are taking off in just a couple hours, so go on and get some rest,” he suggests. “Oh, by the way, we found some new books to add to the collection. Might find something you like. Go ahead and check them out.”

“But I forgot my library card at home,” you joke lamely, although it earns you a sincere laugh from your friend. You pad out of the kitchen and into the living room, straight over towards a grand oak bookshelf that is packed tightly to the brim with dozens and dozens of books of various genres. You hadn’t been all that much of a reader before, but thanks to Frank, who always sent you home with at least two or three works in your pack, reading had become one of your favorite hobbies over the last few months, a sweet little escape that took you out of your shoddy apartment in the zone and into another world. You start searching the titles for the new finds he’d mentioned. Spotting one of them, you pluck it from the shelf, a paperback titled, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Opening it up, you begin thumbing through the pages, quickly realizing that it’s play—you’ve never read a play before. Still not convinced if it’s one you would like to take home with you, you flip back to the first page and start reading with a curious little hum. 

You had been so preoccupied with it that you hadn’t noticed Joel standing behind you, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest until he clears his throat, and asks, “Find somethin’ good?”

Startled, you whirl around, nearly dropping the book in your hands. “Jesus Christ, Joel,” you breathe out, clutching it tightly against your chest as your heart rate slows. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Not my fuckin’ fault you were too busy with your nose buried in a book,” he states, trying his hardest to fight the small smirk threatening to cross his lips. He uncrosses his arms and pushes himself away from the doorframe.

A chuckle escapes you, almost nervously, as he slowly starts walking over towards you, his brown boots heavy on the hardwood floor. He takes the book from your hands, humming as he reads the cover. “Shakespeare, huh?”

“You know Shakespeare?” you toss him a teeny, lopsided smile as you tease, “He from your time?”

Joel lightly smacks your arm with the worn paperback. “Yeah, I know Shakespeare and he was about four hundred fuckin’ years before my time, thank you very much.” He flips it over, eyes skimming the text on the back. “Had the world not gone to shit, you would’ve grown up and spent your entire middle school career being forced by English teachers to read all his shit and write essays tryin’ to interpret it all.” He hands it back over to you. “Here.”

“Sounds like a real fucking dream,” you deadpan. You glance down, running your index finger down the spine of the book. You’re trying, almost painfully, to ignore how Joel’s eyes glaze over you from head to toe. 

“Y’know, it’s kinda nice,” he remarks quietly, breaking the brief moment of silence that had fallen over the two of you. “Seein’ you like this.”

You keep your eyes fixed on the book and scoff. “What? In a dress?”

“When we’re here, you let your guard down. Ain’t always lookin’ over your shoulder. You smile a hell of a lot more.” He pauses, then adds, “You look happy here. Sure, this dress looks nice on you. Your smile looks even fuckin’ better, though.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. More than his words, it’s the genuine tone in which he had said them—you’d never even realized Joel noticed things like that. Whether you were happy or not, how often you smiled. Or didn’t smile.

You force a small chuckle. “It’s the only sense of normalcy that we get. Of course I look happy when we’re here. Because I am happy when we’re here.” Still refusing to meet his gaze, you turn around and walk over to the couch towards your pack. Opening the top, you quickly shove the book inside. 

When you hear Joel’s footsteps coming up behind you, you stiffen slightly.

“Frank, he adores the hell outta you,” Joel says. He seems to hesitate, but then continues, “You ever think of askin’ him to stay here?”

“You kidding?” You snort in response. “Bill wouldn’t allow that. Never.”

Joel’s hands go to his hips, knowing you had a point. “But you know Frank can convince him of almost anythin’, don’t you? And besides, believe it or not, Bill actually likes you. He loves Frank more than anythin’ and you make Frank happy.”

You finally turn around to face and find yourself caught off guard by how close he’s standing to you. “Joel, what exactly are you getting at?” You raise an eyebrow before playfully asking, “Are you trying to get rid of me or something, Miller?”

Joel quickly shakes his head. “Of course not. All I’m sayin’ is that—” He stops and lowers his voice, just in case Bill or Frank happen to be wandering nearby. “I like seein’ this side of you. The happy side. The normal side.” He shrugs his shoulders, the lean muscles of his upper body flexing with the movement against the smooth fabric of his shirt. “Seein’ you all cleaned up, well fed and content—” He trails off once again. “Shouldn’t be a rare occurrence, y’know? You’d clearly be better off here with them and you know that with Frank’s help, we could probably talk Bill into letting you stay.”

The second you realize he’s being serious, your smile fades.

“What? But what about you?”

“Darlin’, Frank’s good, but he’s not a goddamn miracle worker. Even if he tried, that’s not somethin’ Bill would ever go for,” Joel admits, lifting a hand and raking his fingers through his hair. “And even if he did, we’d fuckin’ kill each other by the end of the first week.”

Bill and Joel being neighbors?

Talk about a different kind of apocalypse, you think to yourself.

“I know that much,” you reply with a tiny eye roll. “What I mean is, do you honestly think that I would leave my life in Boston?”

“That ain’t no fuckin’ life—”

You hold up a hand, stopping him. “I know it’s not. But it’s my life with you, Joel.”

The rough creases on his forehead suddenly soften. That was the first time you’d ever seen that happen.

The scowl on his face wasn’t permanent after all.

“Yes, this is nice. This patch of town, this house, the running water, the food, the clothes—this is a decent life. More than decent. In this world that we’re living in, this place is heaven. But without you, all of it would mean absolutely nothing to me. I wouldn’t be happy here, not without you.”

Joel tilts his head back, shaking it lightly. “Think about what you’re sayin’ here.”

“I know what I’m saying.” Before your brain and your body can even make the connection, you find yourself taking a step towards him, shrinking the gap between your bodies even further. You glance up at him, somehow finally finding the courage to have your eyes meet his. “I refuse to leave your side, Joel. That’s never going to happen. Not if I can fucking help it. Do you understand that?”

Joel exhales the breath he’d been holding, his warm breath tickling your face.

“I mean it, Joel. We’re in this shitty ass fucking world, together. No little slice of heaven could ever get me to leave you behind, no matter how good it is,” you declare, silently wondering to yourself where the hell you were even finding the balls to confess all of this to him. “Okay?”

“You’d be safer here than in the QZ, with all that shit’s that been goin’ down—”

“I’m the safest when I’m with you, Joel. I know I am.”

You lift your hand to his face. At first, there’s minor hesitation on your part, but you will yourself to place it on his cheek. Although your touch is gentle, Joel can’t help but wince. Not because he doesn’t want you to touch him, but because it had been so fucking  long since anyone had ever touched him like that. 

Since he’d let anyone touch him like that. 

He closes his eyes and after a second or two of resisting, he finally allows himself to relax his tense muscles and he sinks  into your touch.

Joel lets himself savor the feeling of your hand on his face. His bottom lip gives a subtle tremble when you softly start to graze your thumb down along his jawline. His beard, which you often playfully tease him about now that it’s beginning to gray just like his hair, feels rough and scratchy, and yet somehow still soft underneath your fingertips.

“Hey,” you murmur, and he forces his eyes to snap open. “We’re in this together. That’s how it’s been and that’s how it’s going to stay,” you assure him. “My place is with you, Joel.”

Joel manages to speak through tight lips, his voice strained. “You really fuckin’ gotta stop talkin’ to me like that, darlin’.”

You carefully move your hand away from his face, letting it drop back down to your side. “Why?”

“‘Cause. Shit like that is dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” you repeat, almost laughing. “Of all the things—”

Then, Frank’s words from earlier come to mind.

He’s afraid because he knows how dangerous it is, having a weakness in the form of a person he cares about more than anything can be in a world like this.

Joel’s dark eyes flicker to the strap of your dress, noticing it had started sliding off your shoulder. Before he can even think to stop himself, he reaches out and pulls it up back into place, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against your smooth skin. “You’re so soft,” he murmurs under his breath. All those fucking years of working with you, even sharing a bed together, and he had no idea of what it was like to touch you.

“Joel…” 

Your heart had all but climbed up into your throat.

“Everythin’ you just said a minute ago, ‘bout not wanting to stay here without me,” he starts to say, “I know that it’s fuckin’ selfish of me, but I’m real glad you said it. ‘Cause no way in hell do I want a life without you. I know it’s wrong but—”

Placing your hands delicately on his shoulders, you lift yourself up on your toes and cut him off mid-sentence by pressing your lips softly against his. The clean scent of the soap Frank had given him to shower with fills your senses and you yearn to have more of him, you nearly ache to get a real taste of him—but your courage only went so far. Thankfully, Joel knows to take over from here. One of his arms snakes  its way around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest while the other reaches up, the warm palm of his hand pressing against your cheek. His tongue swipes lightly across your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore your mouth just a little bit further.

You eagerly grant him access, half expecting his mouth to ravage yours.

Much to your surprise, Joel remains gentle.

The way that he kisses you, the way he holds your body against his, the way his large hand—the same hand that slits throats and breaks bones—delicately cradles the side of your face like you’re made of porcelain. 

“Joel,” you nearly whimper his name when he breaks away.

His face remains just inches from yours.

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning his forehead against yours, fighting to catch his breath. “We’ll need to get goin’ soon.”

“I know.” You nod, hoping you don’t sound as disappointed as you feel. You can sense that Joel, much like yourself, is  at war with himself over what had just happened. Not that either of you regretted it, at least you certainly don’t, but the realization that you two have just crossed a line you’ll never come back from was daunting.

Joel lifts his head, lightly pressing his lips against your forehead. He then forces himself to release you from his arms and steps back, dropping them back down at his sides. “I need to, uh, I need to go get some things from Bill. Y’know, get my pack ready before we take off.”

You nod again. “I’ll start changing and get another pack of supplies ready as well.” You pause, clearing your throat awkwardly. “Joel, about what just happened—”

He silently shakes his head before leaning down, capturing your mouth with his.

This kiss is short and quick, and when he pulls away, he says nothing. He turns on the heel of his boot and disappears, heading out to meet Bill in the garage. 

Your hand flies to your mouth, your fingers lightly touching your lips.

“Well, well, well.”

Looking over your shoulder, your throat goes dry when you see Frank standing there, hands on his hips and a knowing, smug expression on his face. 

“How long have you been standing back there?”

“Long enough.” Even from a distance, you catch the amused twinkle in his eye. “What did I tell you?”

You turn away from him, biting your lower lip.

So maybe he’d been right after all.

Maybe you were Joel’s weakness. 

But he was yours too.

Yearling - Tumblr Master List

Yearling: noun - A young horse, older than a foal but not yet two years old. - A still wild thing that is too new to tame

After years of surviving in the wilds of Wyoming after the cordyceps outbreak, you find yourself in Jackson. It's a town filled with friendly faces and the kind of world you hardly remember, let alone can connect with or understand. But one man - Joel Miller, another loner, like you - makes you think that trying to find your place in society again might be worth it.

On A03 | Spotify Playlist

Chapter 1 - Break

Chapter 2 - Escape

Chapter 3 - Noise

Chapter 4 - Contribution

Chapter 5 - Movement

Chapter 6 - Shoot

Chapter 7 - Revival

Chapter 8 - Tipsy

Chapter 9 - Hold

Chapter 10 - Feral

Chapter 11 - Touch

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass @planet-marz1 @kalea-bane @juneswonderlust @ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost @beccerjune @mumma-moonchild @netonetoneto @mellymbee @purplelye @n7cje @flugazi @evyiione @randomhoex @aliengirl99 @orcasoul @reds-ramblings @pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel @jenispunk @panda-pascal @sarap-77 @flugazi @your-slutty-gf @daniegraceg @partyofone3413 @cumberpegg @noisynightmarepoetry. @fifia-writes @grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123

New in Town - A Best Friend's Dad!Joel Miller fic

When you move to Austin for work, your best friend Sarah recommends that you hang out with her dad, Joel, to get to know the area. Sarah just never mentioned the fact that her dad is just your type.

AO3

Chapter 1 - New in Town

Chapter 2 - First Date

Chapter 3 - First Family Dinner

Chapter 4 - First Cookout

Chapter 5 - First Fight

Chapter 6 - First Make Up

To Hell and Back l (J. Miller Miniseries Masterlist)

My wings are frayed 

and what’s left of my halo is black

lucky for me, your kind of heaven’s been to hell and back

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings/Tags: (Each individual chapter will come with its own warnings this is just a general idea) Canon violence, canon language, age gap where reader is 30 and Joel is 56, mentions of slavers, captivity, assault, torture and brutality, mentions of physical scars, reader is traumatized, mentions of anxiety, reader is nonverbal around others, reader is nonverbal around Joel for the first two and a half chapters as well. Angst, fluff, comfort, eventual smut.

Summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

A/N: I really need to be stopped, I have so many WIPs but this idea truly sparked something in me I thought I had lost. Not sure how this series will go, I currently have a few chapters outlined and may add a couple more but it will definitely be a short series, no more than six or seven chapters max. First chapter is coming on Tuesday, May 30th and as far as a posting schedule, I will do my best to update once a week. **I just want to add that trauma, PTSD, and anxiety are all sensitive and challenging subjects to write about and I hope that I can execute the idea for this series in a respectful, educated manner. - Vee

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Epilogue

Extras

Song Inspo: To Hell & Back - Maren Morris

Lonely Too Long - Drabble

In The Woods Somewhere | Joel Miller (Masterlist)

Summary | Joel Miller, exasperated by his estrangement from Ellie, volunteers to scout out a new patrol route for Tommy. Weeks into his solitude, he stumbles upon a cabin, not abandoned, but filled with children, and you. Drawn to you like a moth to a flame, Joel's arrival into your bubble sets off a catastrophic chain of events. You're reliant on him now, having to trust him like no-one else to get you back to the safety of Jackson. You've done terrible things to stay alive, things that would disgust most people, so much so that you truly don't believe you deserve the kindness of this rugged stranger. After everything you've been through, you and the children, why does he deem you worthy of his love?

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Fic Warnings | 18+ Minors DNI. Canon typical violence, descriptions of death of both adults and children, description of injuries, cult activities, sexual violence & assault, domestic violence, religious trauma, children, explicit smut, protective and possessive Joel, mutual pining, dark themes, murder, slow burn, age gap (Reader is 32, Joel is 58), angst, reader is traumatised, the children are not hers, no use of Y/N.

Fic Notes | This came to me whilst I was away this weekend and it's been completely rotting my brain. It's a lot different to anything else I've written so please be gentle with me, but I hope you enjoy it none-the-less.

Chapters

Chapter One - a woman's voice, i quickly ran

Chapter Two - he doesn't look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman

Chapter Three - reach out, touch faith

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Elementary Masterlist

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader

series rating: E (minors DNI, 18+ only, single dad!joel, smut to come)

summary: You’re Sarah’s fifth grade teacher, and after meeting her father at a parent/teacher conference, you find yourself developing a strong interest and affection for the two struggling Millers.

chapters marked with * indicate explicit content. minors DNI.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three*

Chapter Four*

Chapter Five*

Chapter Six*

drabble: the bakesale*

drabble: out of my depth

Chapter Seven*

drabble: the night out

Chapter Eight*

drabble: the perfect fit

drabble: the distraction*

drabble: a hard day

drabble: winter break

Chapter Nine*

drabble: a helping hand

drabble: dad duty

drabble: christmas 2006

Finale*

drabble: the gift

drabble: the show of appreciation*

drabble: the ranch*

honey stained hands | masterlist

joel miller x f!reader | work-in-progress

summary: He knew what Jackson was when he arrived the second time. A communal, a place where everyone chips in. It's why he doesn't turn his nose up when he's given menial tasks. One of which, is fixing his neighbour's porch. His neighbour, who is pretty and smiles too sweetly, bakes cakes for special birthdays, and stares at the toolbox he's been given with a haunted look, one which raises more questions than answers.

series warnings: outbreak. softer!joel - unless he's on patrol, then the man is ready to murder to live. slow (smut) burn/eventual smut. idiots who are dating but don't realise. small/minor discussion of loss of loved ones. no use of y/n. no reference to reader age, joel is canon age. please see individual chapters for warnings (and I'll update if this changes).

updates on sundays | last updated: 22.10.2023

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

…more incoming

an: as voted by the poll, here it is. this wouldn't even exist without @guyfieriii, @psychedelic-ink, + @thetriumphantpanda- so if you're wondering who to thank, it's them.

⥄ spotify playlist

🎃 trick or treat 🎃

summary: it's halloween and joel's taking your girls trick-or-treating with you in a family costume. feeling uncomfortable in his clothes and his skin, he's on edge most of the evening but does his best to disguise it in order to not spoil the fun. back at home, when his girls lightheartedly tease him about everything he already thought about himself, you're sure to end the night showing joel exactly how you feel about him and his body.

wc: 10k (oops?)

warnings: established relationship/married, canon divergent (no outbreak, ellie & sarah are both his kids, sort of obscure with if they're both his bio kids/your kids - basically y'all are a cute lil family either way! also joel is ~40, no age mentioned for reader!), halloween, family/group costumes, DOMESTIC JOEL!!!, fluff, body insecurities, age insecurities, joel has minor sensory issues?, his kids poke fun at him, sensitive joel, SMUT. it kind of is a thing for the basically the second half, descriptions of joel's body, tummy & thigh worship, oral (m receiving), cowboy rule (for a costume), unprotected piv, lowkey sub!joel for a lil bit, reader is "giving cunt" according to bestie el, then quickly gets back to dom!joel as he gets his confidence back, joel gets that strength in an adrenaline rush that moms get lifting cars off babies but his is for chasing a nut, also, dirty talk!

a/n: my contribution to spooky season, basically at the buzzer lol. this started with me thinking how cute it would be for joel to dress up and go trick-or-treating with his kids, and ended with wanting to s*** his d*** big time. anyways, enjoy my version of halloween with joel, and thank you to @kiwisbell for screaming about this scenario with me and as always a big thanks to my sweet, sweet girlfriend @northernbluess for beta-ing!!!!

Brought on much later than the northern states, fall in Texas is not quite an impactful sight. The one thing that can’t be beaten though is the Texas sun; shining across expansive horizons all times of year, temperatures of the light shifting with the seasons. Orange evening sun stretches across the sky and seeps down in between the leaves speckled with changing colors while Joel’s truck coasts down the neighborhood street. Kids retreat from running around in the road when his car approaches, returning right back to their gameplay when he’s through. Half are dressed up, a medley mix of witches, zombies, vampires, Power Rangers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Disney Princesses, and countless outfits that he has no idea what they’re referencing.

Fibrous, white faux spiderwebs litter the front porches of the houses lining the street, Jack-O-Lanterns carved and lit up stack on the stairs or create a path along the front walkways. Some of the pumpkins’ faces are wrinkly and sagging, signs of overeagerness from when the fall season started earlier this month. A handful of scarecrows find themselves pitched in the middle of yards with hay spilling out of them, and some of the houses have turned out an expense to get those motion-sensor decorations — the ones really intended to scare the kids that will be unleashed on the neighborhood to trick-or-treat this evening.

Rolling to a stop as he turns into the asphalt driveway, throwing the truck in park, he sits in the cab for a still moment, staring at the signs of life scattered around his family’s house. Four pumpkins, gutted and showing off their faces, a family feud that reached a compromise when it was decided that yes, they would carve pumpkins but no, they would not sit to rot on the front porch all month long; the corn stalks wrapped around the posts of the porch, tied with burlap twine and arranged with sprigs of fall foliage; pots of colorful mums framing the path up to the house, carefully selected by your eye and less delicately planted in their terracotta vessels by Joel’s hands. 

Aside from the seasonal decorations, the usual markings of the Miller family were easily spotted: chalk drawings on the shared sidewalk in front of the yard and along the driveway, replaced every weekend by Sarah once the old was washed or worn away; Ellie’s bike discarded on the front lawn, small tire tracks digging up the grass, no matter how many times Joel and you have asked her to put it away when she’s done; the porch swing that Joel built for you, swaying in the breeze and now unoccupied — unusual for the evening routine around the time that Joel comes home from work. He’s normally greeted by his girls, not merely their artifacts. But tonight is a different night, much busier than the slow, molasses life Joel gets to enjoy in the colder weather.

Gathering his lunch bag from the bench seat and bunching up his jacket in the same hand, Joel climbs out of the car and walks into the open garage, leaving his tools behind in the flatbed to be dealt with tomorrow morning. Passing your parked car, he shakes his head with a subtle smile as he closes the driver’s side door of your SUV left open. He can picture you now, running around after picking the girls up from school, mental space occupied by getting everything and everyone together to make it out the door before the sun went down completely. 

There’s a trail of evidence to support his musings: a lonesome plastic bag filled with groceries left on top of the car, Sarah’s purple jacket looped through the handle of the garage fridge, probably left behind after she went looking for a juice, and Ellie’s army green backpack tossed on the ground in front of the shoe racks lining the wall next to the door. None of that would fly had you been your usual focused self — more often than not, you’re the parent to put their foot down and keep the girls in line while Joel is the total pushover.

Along his way inside, he picks up all the left-behind items, balancing everything in his hands while he steps into the mudroom. Ellie’s backpack gets shoved into her designated cubby, and Sarah’s jacket gets wrapped on a hook screwed into the wall as Joel kicks off his work boots. After depositing his own belongings in their spots, lunch bag in his cubby and jacket on the hook next to Sarah’s, he grabs his boots in one hand, leaning out the doorway to place them on top of the shoe rack. Closing the door behind him, he picks up the singular bag of groceries left on top of your SUV and pads across the tile further into the house. Immediately, he’s embraced by the warmth radiating from the kitchen, the smells of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and more wafting into his nose causing a smile to stretch across his face and his stomach to rumble. 

Every year that he’s known you, without fail, you use Halloween night as an excuse to cook up your family-favorite chili recipe. Sure, it doesn’t get too cold for October in Texas, but damn, does he look forward to the night every year simply for a bowl of it. Laboring over the prep and slow-cooking it all day long, anyone who tries it can taste the care in each bite; like a warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders that lasts with him for the entire evening spent outside with the kids.

The pleas of his stomach lead him straight into the kitchen, his smile growing wider when he sees you standing over the kitchen counter, affixing a sheriff badge to the cow print vest laid out in front of you. He strides over to your side, resting his palm on your lower back and swiping his thumb against the material of your shirt while he leans in to press a kiss to the top of your head, drinking in your scent and feeling the ache of missing you all day. Losing focus from your task, you turn toward him with a bright smile, a quiet sigh leaving your lips, and your shoulders relaxing from their tensed position. Wordlessly, he folds forward, catching your lips in a lingering kiss. Heat pushes against his chest through his denim shirt, your hands skating from his pecs, up and across his shoulders, and down his arms to rest on his biceps. The motions raise goosebumps in their wake, trailing down his spine with a tepid drip.

Joel steals another kiss before he stands up straight again, voice rasping from yelling over powerful tools all day and volume low to keep the semblance of a private moment between the two of you for as long as possible; anything louder would expose his arrival, bombarding him with questions and conflicts to resolve between his daughters.

“Hey, baby.” He greets you with one fleeting kiss pressed to your forehead, hand at your lower back now rubbing side to side, fingers carefully lifting the fabric and pressing the tips of them into your deliciously soft skin. 

Turning back to the vest, you drop your hands from his arms not before giving them a gentle squeeze, “Hi, Joel. Good day?”

He shrugs, unable to step away from you just yet, “It was fine — much better now. And I take it yours has been a busy one?”

Joel holds up the plastic bag of groceries with two fingers, one corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing smirk. His hip pops out as he leans against the counter, the smirk turning into a smile when you grimace. His heartbeat skips when your laugh fills his ears, the sound still exciting him after all these years, and you stand over the bag to take a peek inside.

“S’all good. Non-perishables.” It’s Joel’s turn to laugh, shaking his head with a breathy chuckle as he places the bag on the counter, unloading its contents into the pantry while you go about recapping your day for him.

In the midst of you speaking, the tumble of footsteps down the stairs draws his attention away, eyes focusing on the open threshold that leads from the living room into the kitchen. As the quickened steps grow closer, Joel turns to you and holds up three fingers, counting down with them. When he lowers his last finger, a mop of curly hair, a bouncing ponytail, and a whirlwind of chaos disrupts the initial peace of his return home.

“Hi girls, how was today?” he starts before a cacophony of noise fills the kitchen. Skidding to a stop in front of him, he exchanges a look with you before facing his daughters, already overwhelmed with their two voices talking over the other.

“Dad, Dad, Sarah said—”

“Dad, Ellie’s saying that I said—”

Holding his hands up, he flicks his eyes between his two girls. Sarah, the older of the two at eleven years old, stands in front of him with her arms crossed and brow furrowed — a look he is all too familiar with, the similarities between him and her emphasized with her annoyance. Ellie, your youngest, stands with her fists clenched at her sides, her mouth twisted up in frustration and the same furrowed brow as her sister. She looks so much more like you at the moment, only a nine-year-old version, calling back on times Joel can remember of you giving him that very look.

However, with their tempers, there’s no doubt that they’re his kids.

Dropping his hands back to his sides, he rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath before addressing them.

“So, what’s going on now?” he asks, brows raising and head tilting when the girls each take a sharp inhale, about to speak over each other again, “One at a time. Ellie.”

Sarah rolls her eyes at her younger sister being called upon first, expectantly looking at her sister with annoyance still painting her face. Ellie shoots her a smug look before turning back to Joel, drawing a pout onto her lips to sell her story. He can’t say it doesn’t work for a second, it always will with these two and they know it, but with a quick glance in your direction, he sees you turned away from your task, watching the drama from the sidelines. Mustering the strength to stand his ground against the sweetness of his girls, he clears his throat and listens with his best poker face as Ellie begins explaining.

“Sarah said she wouldn’t trade all her Skittles for my Three Musketeers even though she knows I hate Three Musketeers and she said last week when we were getting our costumes that she would—”

“I never said that, Dad! She’s lying—” Sarah gestures with her hands as if to physically point out the obvious falsehoods in Ellie’s story. Spiraling back out of the fleeting control he had over the situation, the kids get riled up again, yelling over each other, and inching closer. The dad-instincts kick in and he grabs one of each of their shoulders, separating the two of them and turning them to face him again as he puts on what you affectionately call his ‘no-bullshit’ voice.

“Okay, okay, okay! Enough arguin’ about candy that you don’t even have yet. Ellie, you don’t even know if a single house is gonna give ya Three Musketeers, and you don’t even know if Sarah is gonna get any Skittles. Save the trade negotiations for tonight or tomorrow morning. ‘Sides, you gotta pay the Dad Tax before either of y’all get to trade around your pickings.”

“What?”

“No way!”

Joel smiles, waving his pointer finger between his daughters with a single nod of his head. “See? Something y’all can agree on. Now go get washed up for dinner and plot how you can hide your candy from me and Mom.”

As quickly as they came in, they rush right back out, this time a united force scheming against their parents. Joel huffs out a breathy laugh, shaking his head to himself as he turns back to face you. Met with a growing smile, you unravel your arms crossed in front of your chest to pick up the vest from the counter.

“Nice conflict resolution there, hon. Now I won’t see a single piece of candy.” You throw a pout at him, bottom lip jutting out as he steps over to you, one hand splaying on your hip and thumb rubbing languid circles.

“Don’t worry, baby, I think I know every single one of their hiding spots from how many times they had to move their candy last year. They won’t even notice anything's gone.” With a quick wink, he leans in for a kiss, short and sweet. Standing up straight, the smile on your face mirrors his, your left index finger reaching up to fit into the valley of his dimple.

“Are we bad parents to be scheming how to steal from our children?” you question, biting back a laugh.

“I think that’s just part of parenting, darlin’.”

The laugh you held back escapes you, rolling your eyes playfully at his facetious answer; the vest in your hands catches his eyes again, and he sighs to himself as he holds a hand out for it.

“So you really did find a cow print vest for me? How lucky.” Sarcasm coats his tone and you lift the material, depositing it in his open palm.

“It is lucky, isn’t it? I think you’re going to look great in your costume. Got all the perfect parts, plus you can wear your own jeans and boots. Economical.”

“You sure you need me for this group costume?”

“Joel. You’re literally one of the main characters from the damn movie. And the girls really want you to dress up and take them trick-or-treating. Plus it’s probably going to be one of, if not the last year that we get to do all this as a family. Our kids are growing up.”

“Don’t remind me, means m’getting older too,” he grumbles under his breath, eyes falling to the fabric in his hand.

It’s true what they say about having kids: the days are long, but the years are short.

At times, Joel wishes he could pull each hair out of his head instead of dealing with the shit his kids bring to him sometimes — “Dad, I got called into the principal’s office.” “Dad, I threw a softball and broke the window.” “That’s so unfair, Dad! Why do you have to be so mean?” It’s easy to get lost in the mess that is his family, but it’s a mess he loves. It feels like it was only yesterday that he was becoming a father when Sarah was born, getting a grasp on the whole thing and then Ellie came along. What he would do without you there by his side, he doesn’t have a clue.

Like flipping through a scrapbook, he can remember every year prior for his girls. In a flash, they’ve grown from dressing up as princesses and unicorns — a dragon for Ellie — to being Spy Kids and vampires. His oldest is verging on becoming a teenager, and if he knows his daughters, he knows that once Sarah quits dressing up each year, when she asks to go to her friends’ houses instead of spending the night with Mom and Dad, Ellie will want to do the same as her older sister, always looking up to her despite their differences.

There’s only so much more time for his kids to be kids, even if they may always feel like the tiny baby girls he held in his arms. All he wants to do is to protect them, keep them under his eye as long as he can, but he can hear your voice prying his grasp away from them, encouraging him to let them grow, let them experience the world as he got to do when he was younger. You’ll remind him that you were a teenage girl once, reassuring him that they’re always going to need him. He knows it’s all going to sneak up on him; one day, he’s going to pull into the driveway and notice the lack of chalk drawings. He might even be happy at first about Ellie’s bike being put away, but when he goes into the garage to work on some of his projects, he’ll notice the smallest bit of dust on it from disuse.

Stepping away from him to shuffle across the kitchen, you reach on your tiptoes to pull out four bowls from the cabinet. Joel steps over behind you, a hand on your back as he intercepts your movements, grabbing the ceramic dishes and handing them to you.

Like a shadow, he follows behind you as you walk over to the pot filled with dinner, eagerly watching over your shoulder with his chest pressed against your back and hands on your waist as you lift the lift. Aromas waft with the steam rising, the delectably rich dish slowly bubbling as it finishes melding altogether. It smells like home, always the mark of the changing of the seasons in the Miller household, and one of the little traditions that he so appreciates you creating for your family. Just like the way you make crinkle cookies and still sign presents from Santa at Christmas, despite the fact that your daughters found out about that a couple of years ago from a yappy kid at school.

Joel was very close to driving over to his house and letting his parents know how he felt about their kid murdering the magic of Christmas for his girls.

All he can hope is that these little traditions continue even when the girls are grown up; the four of you gathering around the table for your annual chili dinner before they head off to hang out with friends and you two are left to watch cheesy Halloween movies and hand out candy to children that remind you of your daughters.

With another deep breath, warmth surrounds him. Joel’s lips find the spot just under your ear, kissing gently before he rests his chin on your shoulder, “Smells so good, baby. Have I told you how much I love you?”

A breathy, incredulous laugh falls from your lips as you stir the pot’s contents around, your smile sticking around as you counter, “You’re only saying that ‘cause I’m feeding you.”

A dramatic, exaggerated gasp sharply inhales into his lungs, standing up straight and patting his hands on your sides, “Absolutely not, darlin’. I love you all the time—”

“But especially when I feed you,” you finish, turning out of his arms to grab the stack of bowls. He stops your motions by wrapping his arms around your waist, feeling the press of you against his torso and relishing in the heat of your body against his. Curling up like a cat in the sun, he nudges his nose against your hairline, peppering kisses along the contours of your face.

In between kisses, he says word by word, over and over, “I. Love. You. My. Beautiful. Wonderful. Incredible. Wife.”

“Alright, alright! Gosh, you’re clingy,” you tease, leaning back to look into his eyes with a playful glint in your eye and a smirk held tight in your lips, “I love you too, my beautiful, wonderful, incredible husband.”

Your free hand smooshes his cheeks together and tugs him down gently to exchange a tender kiss. It ends much too soon for Joel, him chasing your lips and pouting when you turn away to start serving up dinner.

“Better go tell the girls dinner’s ready before they’ve finished plotting how to stow away candy in the floorboards.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, punctuating the conversation with a cheeky smack to your ass, scampering away quickly before you can pretend to scold him.

Tugging at the material across his stomach, Joel combs his eyes over his reflection in the mirror of your en-suite bathroom. Rolling his shoulders back, the fabric of the yellow and red plaid flannel pulled taut, lifting the hem a couple of inches and showing off the skin of his softened tummy. Dark curls of hair litter the center of the sliver of skin, trailing down under the waist of his dark wash jeans. He doesn’t bother tucking the shirt in, giving himself the breathing room of the few inches at the hem. Fingers grip the thick fabric, sharply pulling it back down to lay over his jeans again.

Picking up the cow-print vest you were adorned with the plastic gold Sheriff badge downstairs in the kitchen, he’s taken back to a few weeks ago at the Halloween store.

You and he had opted to spend Saturday morning taking Sarah and Ellie to pick out their costumes for the holiday, letting them run free until they decided on a shared costume for once. Sarah quickly picked out her size in the Jessie costume, and all of the family agreed to be different characters from the Toy Story movie.

Ellie wandered the aisles, searching for the perfect combinations to create her ideal costume, which was, of course, the mechanical spider toy with the baby doll head that the kid Sid builds in the film. She returns to where Joel is standing with you, staring at the walls of costumes to find something for the both of you; he looks down at his youngest, jumping minutely when he’s faced with a mutilated baby doll mask, shiny plastic reflecting him in the surface.

“Ellie. You can’t be the creepy baby doll,” he sighs, hand falling to his hip as he rests his weight on it, the other leg stepping out while he slowly shakes his head.

Tipping the mask up to the top of her head, Ellie stomps her feet, shoulders falling and head leaning back as she groans in complaint, “Why not, Dad?” She draws out his parental title, kicking the toe of her shoe against the buffed tiles of the storefront that remains empty eleven out of twelve months of the year.

“You’re gonna scare the little kids, and it’ll be your mom and I who are dealing with the angry parents.”

Ellie huffs out a breath, reaching up to snatch the mask off, turning on the heel of her sneaker, and stomping off to go find another costume. Turning his attention back to you at his side, he notices a cheeky smile on your face as you find your size in a woman’s Buzz Lightyear costume.

“What? What are you laughin’ at?” he questions, his lips tugging up in a grin.

“Oh, nothing. Jus’ that you told our daughter she can’t be the creepy baby doll 'cause you’d be the one scared of her.” A laugh takes over the end of your sentence, a flash of your bright smile widening his own.

“Did not. It’s ‘cause we’d have a bunch of crying little kids and judging parents to deal with.”

“Sure, honey, sure. It’s okay if you’re scared.”

Stepping closer to you, he pinches your side playfully, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you against his side. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, speaking softly, “Know me too well, baby…”

Your free hand pats his chest affectionately and you unravel from his hold. Joel takes your hand before you get far, intertwining your fingers together while you both shuffle along the wall of costumes. The plastic bags shine, displaying cartoonish outfits of various characters. The exaggerated smiles of the models give him the heebie-jeebies, shuddering his shoulders at the thought that any grown person would be that excited to wear itchy polyester once before letting it collect dust in their closet and giving it away before next Halloween.

Halting in front of the costume you were looking for Joel, you bend down to flick through the sizes, your lips pulling together in a thoughtful pucker. Standing back up straight next to him, your teeth toy your bottom lip left to right, eyes scanning for any other options before you turn toward him.

“Can’t find what you’re lookin’ for, baby?”

With a shrug, you respond, “They have the costume the girls wanted you to wear, but they don’t have your size. Think I can find some stuff at the thrift store or TJ Maxx or online to make the costume up if that’s okay—”

“Whatever you need to do. S’fine.”

“I’m sorry, hon, but you don’t need to worry about it, I’ll find everything.”

“Said s’fine, darlin’. Don’t even need to dress up, really.” A small seed of shame is planted in his gut, insecurity watering it and causing it to grow, branching off to tangled in his chest. Comfort eases him out of the spiral when your hands find his chest, rubbing softly and tilting your head to meet his gaze with pure affection.

“Still gotta dress up with us, hon. Who’s gonna be the Woody to my Buzz if it isn’t you? Can’t dress up as one half of the best friend duo without my best friend,” you grin, standing on your toes to catch his lips in a gentle kiss, which ends too soon for his taste despite being in the middle of the shop.

Vest shrugged onto his shoulder, and he gives himself another once over in his full outfit, the same insecurity from a few weeks ago pouring down to cultivate his shame. He doesn’t look the same as he did when he met you, even the same as he did last year. Graying hair and salt and pepper beard, lines next to his eyes and across his forehead, only deepened when he furrows his brow at the look of him in his costume.

He looks ridiculous.

Better to get this night over with, let his girls enjoy themselves, and attempt to forget his discomfort in the outfit. Picking up his cheap cowboy hat that arrived in the mail earlier that week, he avoids another look in the mirror before he slips out of the bathroom, eyes focused on the toes of his boots while he walks out the door of your bedroom, past the full-length mirror next to your closet and the small round one on your vanity.

No need to foul his mood and spoil the fun. It’s for his girls. 

The screams and laughter of children echo into the deepening night sky, the street bright from the lamps lining it along with porch lights staying on, open garage doors, all signaling a welcoming to the trick-or-treaters to come and grab their haul from each vast bowl or cauldron of candy.

Blurs of costume cross below Joel’s sightline as he walks hand-in-hand with you, kids running around blindly, the safety of such a crowd in the small neighborhood blanketing them with trust that they’ll be able to find their way home wherever they end up. Sarah and Ellie are ten paces ahead, moving quickly and efficiently to “maximize their candy collection”. Ellie’s words, after she presented her hand-drawn map of their neighborhood and the one across the main road, highlighting which houses are notorious for King Size treats and noting which ones give out toothbrushes or nothing at all.

The collar of his flannel is tightened around his neck from the string of his chestnut cowboy hat. Pulled down to rest on his clavicle, the body of the hat swings against his back as he walks, only adorning the top of his head for a few photos that you insisted on dragging out the tripod and self-timer for in the middle of the living room. He took the rest of the photos you wanted, maybe a bit too eagerly getting out of the frame and relaxing the slightest bit behind the camera. Photo evidence of how laughable he looks does not need to exist en masse. With a sigh, he reaches a hand up to tug the string down for what feels like the tenth time in thirty minutes of walking, relief felt for a few seconds before it slides back up to the base of his throat, flipping up the collar of his shirt with it.

Denim from his dark wash bootcut jeans starts to dig into his hips, roughening the skin there from his strides and their inch-too-small size from the year prior. These were deemed his “nice” jeans, per your request, only pulled out a handful of times a year for occasions that he was meant to look nicer than his raggedy Levi’s, covered in spots from paint, wood stain, oil, or dirt, the fraying, white strings hanging from the hems and ripping when caught under his step — all the signs of his day-to-day life. What he’s comfortable in.

These — these are not comfortable, not worn in enough to feel buttery against his skin, and not returning to his size even after washing and line drying. These are stiff, formed to his skin and resisting a tightness with each swing of his legs. The fresh material rubs against his bare skin underneath, the waist of his boxers falling an inch or two down to create the perfect space for the waistband to chafe. He’s tempted to pause the two of you walking along, long enough to tuck in the material of the flannel, but quickly decides against it when he thinks about the exaggeration of his stomach with the form-fitting, tucked shirt stretched over it.

Occupied in his thoughts, he barely notices that you've slowed down until you come to a stop at the end of a driveway, two streets over from your own home, waiting as your daughters wait in line for their packaged sugar. 

You hold onto his bicep with your opposite hand, leaning your weight against his side. Like a weighted blanket, in the interim of a hug from you, he takes on the change to his equilibrium, relishing in the comforting press of your body against him. Easing away his anxieties and his insecurities that, of course, had to be present for this wholesome, once-a-year family night; he rests his chin on your head, breathing in the smell of your rosemary and mint shampoo, tingling his nostrils and drinking down the scent he’s so familiar with.

His focus draws to Sarah, hair in a French braid pulled away from her face and cherry red cowboy hat on her head, and Ellie, lime green face paint that she insisted on and an antenna sticking up from the top of her head and exaggerated, pointed green ears all attached to the same headband. The two of them are near the front of the queue for candy at this particular house, the process a bit more involved with a haunted graveyard required to pass through to earn your sweet reward. 

All she’d been saying the whole night since getting dressed had been “The claaaaaw!” or “I have been chosen!”. She screams the latter in the face of a teenager who pops out from a bush to scare her, completely unphased as she sneaks past him, grabbing a handful of candy for her and Sarah, running back down the path with her older sister before they pause to distribute the goods.

Joel lifts your joined hands, hooking his arm over your shoulder and laying your arm across your chest as he gathers you closer.

“So how many cavities do you think we’ll be paying for ‘cause of tonight’s candy haul?” he wonders aloud, a smile ticking up the side of his mouth when you giggle at his joke. It never gets old, being able to make you laugh, and it’s like a weed whacker to the strangling vines of his insecurities growing tightly in his chest. A looseness that gives him the chance for a deep breath, gratitude wilting the branches as he studies the grin on your face, the admiration twinkling in your eyes.

“Probably should be callin’ the dentist to see if they have a two-for-one discount.” It’s his turn to laugh at your response, tautening his arm around your shoulders to tow you closer to him, your head tilting back as you swing your front toward him. Joel bends his neck, pecking your lips with a smile before he looks back toward his daughters walking back to the two of you.

Annoyance thumbs the bruise of shame, driving his frustrations higher; his hand reaches up again with a huff, yanking the string away from his neck, “Thing’s like a damn noose…”

“Jus’ take it off, hon, I’ll carry it for you,” you sweetly suggest, swinging your joined hands between your bodies.

“But, you got it for me…” he mumbles guiltily, a worry in his voice over your potential irritation with him. Ever the masochist, Joel argues with you, not wanting to disappoint. He knew he should have just kept his mouth shut—

Pausing in your steps, you hang behind him long enough to snatch the hat off his back, releasing it from around his neck and depositing it on your head in one smooth movement. Taking his hand again, you continue, unphased by his complaints and happy to hold onto the new accessory.

At the next house, the two of you wait at the end of the driveway for the girls; Joel taps the side of his pointer finger on the brim as you look up at him, a cheeky smile growing on his face as a thought distracts from his festering doubts. His voice lowers, rasping as he speaks only to you, attempting to disguise the conversation from all the people milling about.

“Y’know, there are consequences for stealing a cowboy’s hat, baby.” Wetting his lips with the quick swipe of his tongue, his hands drift to your waist, fingers stretching to skim the top of your ass, dangerously close to grabbing a handful in front of everyone.

“M’well aware of those consequences, cowboy. Why d’you think I took it?” You shoot him a wink that goes straight down below the belt, a brazen flash of mischief in your eyes, the reflections of yellow lamplight lighting them up further. 

Gripping his biceps, your nimble fingers squeeze gently while your thumbs rub massaging circles into his slightly flexed muscles. A nearly inaudible hum of a moan rolls from your chest, one of his hands gathering the polyester material of your dress tightly at the sound. Beckoning him to fold forward with one look, he molds his lips to yours in a supple kiss. It lasts only the length of an inhale, drinking in the taste of your lips before your warmth is fleeting, hands patting his chest in a signal to wrap it up.

He grumbles, irritation heating under his collar as he itches to get home and for the night to be over, now for more than one reason. You laugh softly at his annoyed pout, poking his chest as you tease, “What? Mad ‘cause you got a snake in your boot?”

“More like in my jeans…” he mumbles under his breath, loud enough for you to hear and playfully jab his arm, shaking your head as you breathe out a chuckle from your nose.

“Nice, Miller. In a costume for a kid’s movie no less.”

He matches your laugh, shrugging when you turn in his arms, back to him as you await your daughters to make their way back to the both of you. His arms drape around your hips, tugging you into his chest to press against him comfortably, the plush-filled wings of your costume padding you against his torso. Lips find your ear, chin resting on your shoulder as he responds, “What’s the saying from the movie? To infinity and beyond? Reckon that’s where I’ll be takin’ you by the end of tonight.”

“Joel!” you attempted to chide, your laughter exposing your real feelings over the suggestive comment, laying your arms over his. The girls walk toward the two of you, and he takes a second to press an open-mouth kiss to your neck, nipping at your skin before unfurling himself from you. A light smack on the side of your ass is the punctuation to the teasing, Joel standing up straight and taking your hand.

“Giddy-up, partner,” he murmurs before turning his attention to Sarah and Ellie, overly excited and completely calm. “Whatcha y’all get this time? Anything good?”

They answer over each other and he nods along, corralling them to start to walk to the next house, “Alright, mission accomplished at this house. Onto the next, we gotta get this wagon a-movin’! Only got another hour in me, girls.”

Protests whine against his announcement and your daughters start to walk faster, determined to complete their hit-list for the houses with the good stuff. You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as Joel looks over at you, feigning innocence.

“What? Got a bad back, bein’ out in the cold makes it worse.”

Now back at home, the four of you are gathered in the living room, costumes all on still as you seek out the comfort and warmth of the soft furnishings and blankets. Joel lounges on the couch, you next to him, back leaning against his side while your legs stretch out on the rest of the sofa. Ellie and Sarah have taken to the floor in front of the coffee table, massive pillowcases dumped out and beginning to be sorted. Every so often, you or Joel get up with the sound of the doorbell, passing out candy to the dwindling number of trick-or-treaters. Eventually, the intrusion stops completely, the TV playing a bad, kitschy Halloween movie per the request of the girls.

They trade their earnings, and you and Joel steal on the sly, both from the bowl you were handing out and from Sarah and Ellie’s piles. Wrappers are strewn around the floor and across the surface of the coffee table, the sound of another torn open by the girls making you sigh and sit up.

Holding out your hand, you shake your head, beckoning for the treat with your fingers, “Okay, Ellie. No more candy. You’re not going to be able to go to sleep if you keep eating it now, it’s too late.”

Ellie whines, rolling her head back with a groan before pleading her case, “Please, Mom, just this last one! And then I’ll be done, promise. Please.”

Joel chuckles when she shoots you the same puppy dog eyes that he gives to you to get what he wants, knowing his smirk grows wider when you fold easily. Shooting your head over to him, you announce to the whole room, “No more candy for anyone. C’mon girls, put it all back in your bags.” 

Calmness finds itself back in the room once all the complaints are lodged with you, the girls lying down to watch the movie while you continue to sit with Joel. Spaced out as he focuses on the film, his attention is grabbed when he hears the crinkle of wrappers and glances around to find all three of his girls indulging further.

With the remote from his lap, he pauses the movie, pouting as he exclaims, “Hey! What happened to not havin’ any more candy? If I can’t have anymore, y’all can’t either.”

Sneaking the last bite of her fun-size Snickers bar, Ellie giggles and shrugs, always the smart aleck, “Well, you are gettin’ a little pudgy, Dad, maybe less candy’ll help.”

Sarah and you giggle at her lighthearted teasing, and Joel waves it off with a breathy chuckle, leaning back against the cushions as Sarah chimes in with her jests, “Yeah, think you’re getting a little fluffy, Dad. Better to lay off now than at Christmastime with all Mom’s cookies.”

Joel attempts to defend himself from the teasing by threatening their candy supply, eager to end the conversation as the back of his neck heats up, “If m’already gettin’ pudgy then I guess that permits me to eat all your candy.”

They both are in a fit of giggles, continuing to tack on silly comments as Joel sits quietly on the couch, trying to mask the way the words worm their way in, feeding the shame and insecurity that was already festering in his chest from the last few weeks.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head with a smile as you laugh softly, “Alright, alright, enough. Think that’s the sign that it’s time for bed. C’mon, up up up.” Before standing, you pat Joel’s thigh and shoot him a carefully concerned look, but he wipes away your worry by sending you a warm smile back, laying his hand over yours and squeezing gently. 

Joel stays downstairs to clean up, the girls both saying goodnight before you follow them upstairs to get them ready for bed. Gathering candy wrappers in his fists, he throws them away in the kitchen, stomach rolling as he replays the small comments from minutes ago. He knows it was teasing, all in good fun as it always is between his girls and you, but he can’t shake the heaviness inside of him, the hot prickles of shame when he passes by the mirror in the hallway on his way back to the living room.

The bowl of extra candy you were handing out gets placed back on the coffee table, his silly cowboy hat from the evening deposited on top of it to hide the contents. Not that he was going to eat anymore, he couldn’t stomach even the thought of anything else when all he could think about was how much he desperately wanted to shed his skin at that moment. Breathing shallows when he settles on the couch again, one of his hands pressing onto the left side of his chest and willing his heart to slow down, for his brain to silence itself.

The skin of his palm meets the scruff of his beard, scratching against the roughened, worked skin. Grays in his hair, salt and pepper beard, wrinkles on his forehead and at the side of his eyes, softened tummy from years of love and care, from an easy life with you.

He certainly isn’t the same Joel that you met all that time ago, that you fell in love with. Have you noticed the changes as much as he has?

He swears you haven’t aged a day; all the more beautiful with each passing day.

Light steps carry you back downstairs, the sound shaking Joel out of his thoughts as you swing around from the staircase and through the entrance to the living room. Joel relaxes on the couch, the same spot he was occupying before, only sinking further into the cushion, shifting to pull the fabric of his shirt away from his stomach. Glancing up at you, away from whatever was playing on the TV that did nothing to distract him from himself, he sends you a tight smile, stretching an arm over the back of the couch to welcome you in.

Accepting it, you sit next to him, curling up into his side with your legs under you, leaning against his frame with your comforting weight. Your hand rests on his chest, your head on his shoulder while you both watch the TV movie playing. Silence falls between the two of you, minutes passing by with only the noise from the speakers, the volume turned low so as not to disturb the kids upstairs.

Joel feels your hand move against his chest, curling up to leave your pointer finger extended, the pad of it skimming against his flannel. He ignores the feeling, figuring it’s you fidgeting as you do while you focus. The same thing as twirling your hair while you’re reading, tapping your foot as you cook.

But when your hand stairs to wander, his eyes flick down to watch its path, your gaze still facing forward and quiet. With your thumb and index finger, you work open the first button on his shirt, trailing down with the rest undone in your route. Slipping under the material, your cold hand presses against his chest, nails scraping against the skin there. With a sigh at the contact, Joel finally uses his hand to gently caress your chin, turning you to face him.

Low and rasping, he questions, “What are you doin’ exactly, darlin’?”

Innocently, you shrug, bottom lip bit down on while your touch moves lower again, skimming across his stomach and reaching the waistband of his jeans, “Well, I still have to face the consequences from stealin’ your hat, cowboy.”

Fingers dip below his belt line, toying with the elastic band of his boxers. Slipping away, he almost protests at the loss, biting his tongue when you move next to him, sitting up on your knees while both hands reach for the button and zipper of his jeans. When his button pops from its secure place, he warns with a breathy exhale, “Baby…”

“Mhm, yes, honey?” you reply, words trailing up at the end, feigning naivety. Through your lashes, you send him a pout, tongue poking out to dampen your plush lips that he stares at, his mouth parted with heavy breaths. His blood is rushing from his head, leaving him feeling light, as it all pumps to his cock, your delicate and teasing touches getting him half-hard.

Before you can tug down his zipper, you pause, taking your hands off of him; he holds back a whimper, the sound dying as a low hum in his throat.

“Don’t worry, baby, m’not done yet. Let’s go to our room, yeah?” Your voice is soothingly saccharine, an eager nod being his only response. 

Shutting off the TV, you stand from the sofa and take his hand, snatching the cowboy hat from the coffee table before pulling him to stand and follow you across the main floor, down the hallway into your first-floor bedroom. Joel shuts the door behind him, your nod toward the handle serving as a reminder for him to flick the lock.

 “Y’know, honey, you’re always showing me how you feel about me. I think it’s time we had a night that’s all about you…” He’s holding in a breath as you stalk closer to him, shaking his head as the back of his neck heats up.

“No, baby, you don’t—I don’t…” he stutters before trailing off, ashamed that he can’t think of any other excuse than the truth of why he does not want the attention on him tonight.

“You don’t…?” Running your hands across the expanse of his chest, he drops his shoulders in, curling around to make himself smaller, one foot stepping back but he doesn’t move from under your touch.

Shaking his head, he avoids your eyes, faintly confiding, “I don’t feel like I deserve it. I jus’, I’d rather give to you, baby.”

“Oh, Joel…you deserve it and more, honey. Why wouldn’t you?” Your fingers graze up, skating across his skin and carding into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’m not…not the same. I don’t look like who you fell in love with. Everything’s changing, catching up to me. Got gray hair and white in my beard and wrinkles and a beer belly startin’ and my back hurts all the time. M’not who I used to be but you—”

“Have changed, too. It’s not just you, Joel. Everything’s a little softer now, I’ve got wrinkles too. Found like four gray hairs yesterday and had a mild panic attack before I got into the shower. M’curvier and—”

“And you’re fucking beautiful, baby. You’re as beautiful, if not more beautiful than the day I met you.” He’s quick to defend your negative self-talk, his hands running delicately along the curves of your sides and around your lower back. Enveloping you in his arms, he presses your foreheads together, nose notched next to yours.

“That’s exactly how I feel about you, Joel. Don’t listen to us teasin’ you, especially me, ‘cause I wouldn’t change a thing about you…” As you tilt your head back, your nose grazes against his cheek, feeling a rush of heat from your breath as your lips hover over his, deliciously close to a kiss, “Can I show you what I think about you, honey?”

Joel nods, wordlessly waiting in anticipation; in the next breath, your lips crash into his, drinking him down deep while the hand at the back of his head tangles further into his hair and tugs. He moans, parted lips allowing you to lick into his mouth, whining at the taste of him before you push the flannel material from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as you continue to dominate the kiss.

Pressing your hands against his strong chest, you push him back with a step. Joel follows your lead, carefully moving backward, your tongue melding with his. All he can focus on is the taste of you — sweet, fruity, with the tang of citric acid from all the sour candies you stole from the bowl, the softest hint of chocolate as an aftertaste from his indulgences. The flavors of you coat his mouth, the scent of your perfume and shampoo mixing in his nose, and the feeling of your soft skin in his rough palms when he hikes up the skirt of your dress, grabbing a handful of your ass; it all stirs together, creating an intoxicating cocktail of you that he can seem to taste enough of. Joel’s legs hit the edge of the bed, and he’s being pulled away from your mouth with a pop when you ease him to sit down. Curiosity flashes in his mind, the sight of you over him with kiss-swollen lips growing the bulge in his undone jeans. Eager hands find your hips, grazing over to your ass as he looks up at you standing over him.

“Whatcha wanna do, beautiful?” His voice is lecherous as it comes out in a rasp, dripping with desire and a bit of wonder over what exactly you’re going to do with your night in control.

You shake your head at him, standing up straight and reaching for his hands, placing them at the hem of your dress, “Go ahead, baby. Take off as much as you want.”

His choice is obvious, tugging the fabric over your head with your help, a hand around your back yanking you to stand close, between his spread legs, while his fingers work open the clasp of your bra. Sitting back on his hands, he observes greedily as you let the straps fall down your arms, dropping the bra entirely onto the floor.

“These too?” Your thumbs hook into the waistline of your panties, doe-eyed and biting down on your body lip teasingly. Cotton-mouthed, Joel nods slowly, lips parted with shaking breath as you strip completely, sinking to your knees in front of him before he can reach out for a handful of your curves.

He lets you work his jeans down to his thighs, his boxers following in their wake, his cock springing free against his bare stomach. You keep eye contact as you kneel in front of him, his keen stare unblinking as his tongue pokes out to wet his lips, the need to see every single one of your movements outweighing the drying of his eyes with his slow, infrequent blinking. Scooting to settle comfortably on your knees, you stand up straighter, gaining enough height to bend your head over his lap, lips meeting his soft tummy and hands gripping onto his thighs. Delicate kisses and ghosting touches on his skin raise goosebumps, a warm shudder trickling down his back at your tenderness.

“So handsome…” you whisper, grazing your teeth into the flesh of his torso, biting down to nip. “Y’know I think about doin’ this all the time, baby. Every time you take off your shirt, jus’ wanna sink my teeth into you.”

His cheeks heat with sincere attention, muscles in his abdomen flexing when you litter lovebites and heated, open-mouth kisses all over him, the gentle touches and desire to relax his anxieties slowly. The focus on your mouth drops to his thighs, turning your head to the side when you sit back on your haunches, licking a stripe up toward his aching cock, a quivering exhale from his mouth drawing your eyes to his face. A satisfied smile stretches across your face, kissing his inner thigh before mirroring the actions on the opposite side. His fingers curl into the duvet, gripping hard as your lips wander closer to where his stiff cock drips needily, throbbing for any kind of reprieve.

“You’re so pretty, baby. So strong, solid.” The sweet nothings tickle at the back of his neck, words that he’s sure you’ve spoken before, but at this moment, they raise his body temperature and lighten his head, the only thoughts being how much he needs you.

Standing on your knees again, you bend your neck over Joel’s lap, eyes flickering up to his face to look at him through your lashes. Your lips part, spit dribbling from your mouth and onto his waiting cock, the sensation making him hiss with urgency. One of your hands wraps around him and strokes slowly. He looks down at you with hooded eyes, mouth opening in a small gasp at the languid stimulation. One swipe of your thumb across his tip drags the beads of pre-cum from where they’re leaking, melting them into the mix of your saliva that lubricates your motions.

Searing needles pierce into his skin when you finally give in and press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the soft skin of his swollen length. Your thumb brushes against his tip again, another hiss of pleasure escaping from between his teeth. One of Joel’s hands finds the back of your head, tangling fingers into your hair. He doesn’t move to guide you, simply wanting to touch a part of you to ground himself.

Your free hand gently cups his balls as you press a featherlight kiss to the tip of his hard cock. A kitten-lick swipes up the fresh dribbles of pre-cum that have collected and Joel’s fingers tense against your strands. Humming satisfied with the reactions you’re drawing from him, he looks down at you meeting his gaze, feeling the splotches of redness growing across his cheeks and neck at the frustration of your light teasing. He groans out your name as your mouth works to tease him more, not having taken him fully in.

“Fucking hell, baby, quit teasin’, please.” Joel rasps as he watches your methodical seduction. He applies the smallest pressure against the back of your head when your lips finally wrap around just the tip of him, a moan of relief rolling from his chest.

Your eyes stay glued on his face, and he’s lost in the delicious warmth of your mouth, unabashed in every response that he’s having to your mouth working him. Starting a slow bob up and down, he moans at the weight of him on your tongue, saliva coating the underside of his cock as he feels you curl the muscle against every vein. With half of him with your mouth, your hand working what isn’t initially fitting inside. His noises grow louder and in quicker succession, hyperaware that his cheeks are likely visibly warm and eyes dark with a craving when he looks down at you again.

“Such a sweet girl. Look so pretty with my cock in your little mouth. Think you can take more, baby? Think I can fit in your throat?” You shift in your position slightly, thighs rubbing together and a chuckle rolls from his lips, smug in the need he’s drawing from you simply from enjoying his pleasure. A sigh exhales around him in your mouth as your thighs rub together to relieve some of your aches.

The rhythm of your head brings his cock deeper, his tip brushing the back of your throat. You swallow around him and it squeezes him just right, a loud moan rumbling from his chest, the reverberations sending aftershocks to the tips of his ears. At that point, he gets lost in the high feeling, his composure leaving him when his large hand at the back of your head pushes you down onto his cock, taking him down your throat further and causing you to gag. Tears spill from your eyes and spit drips from the sides of your mouth, the blow job quickly turning sloppy as Joel takes more control.

“Fucking hell, darlin’. Taking me so well on your own, being such a good girl for me,” he whines, heading tilting back as his eyes squeeze shut, shallow thrusts meeting the rhythm of your head. “Gonna fuckin’ come, baby, holy fuck, I—”

A moan around him gurgles to nothing when he thrusts again, hand tangled in your hair pulling you back until his tip rests against your lips, “Don’t wanna—please—” His words are lost on the tip of his tongue, pleasure hazing his mind as he searches for the plea he wants to make with you.

You giggle from your knees, swiping your fingers to wipe away the drool from the corners of your mouth, a satisfied smirk on your face. Bracing yourself on his thighs, you push yourself up, standing in between his legs while your hands find his shoulders, scraping your fingernails against the curve of them.

“You wanna come inside of me? Not my mouth? Is that what you were trying to say, baby?”

“Yes,” he exhales, relieved to find the word he needed, blinking open his eyes to look up at you. Your thumb skates across his bottom lip, holding onto his jaw as you study his features.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Joel. Anything for my perfect, doting husband. D’you know how fucking good it makes me feel to make you feel good?” you question curiously, tilting his head as he lets you mold him whichever way you want. “Tell me how you deserve to have me like this. ‘Cause you’re so fucking good to me, tell me that you’re gonna let me fuck you, let me take your come inside of me.”

“Baby, I don’t think that—” he starts, palms pressing into the backs of your thighs as he looks up at you.

“Tell me, Joel. You said you wanted to be the one giving to me tonight. That’s what I want.” You use his earlier, shy request against his negative thoughts, and the intensity in your eyes bends him to your will.

“M’gonna let you have my cock, gonna let you fuck me and show me how much you love when I take care of you.” The words roll foreignly on his tongue, unconvincing coming from his mind to his mouth. You bend a knee, bringing it up to rest next to his thigh, nodding along to encourage him to continue, “I give you whatever I can give to you, and always gonna, baby. Now’s your turn to take care of me, right?”

“That’s right, honey. I should show you how much I appreciate you more often…you work so hard, give us exactly what we need, and provide for us. My big, strong man. You do so much for me, baby. Gonna show you how thankful I am for you, how grateful I am that you’re lettin’ me have this cock,” your words breathe hot against his ear, your other leg now straddling him on the bed, cunt hovering over his waiting cock. A hand leaves his shoulders, reaching between your stomachs to wrap around him, guiding him to your entrance. His breath catches in his throat when you ease down onto him, pushing through the wet seal of your slit.

Wet heat envelopes him, taking in a few inches of him; Joel groans under you, head falling forward onto your breasts, forehead pressed into your sticky skin. One hand tangles into his curls, dragging his head back to look into your eyes. Your hips start to move, adjusted to his size easily and taking more of his cock, letting it split you open inch-by-inch. His eyes wildly search yours, seeing the pleasure overtake your mind, lips parting to match his as you both breathe out shallow, hot breaths.

“Fuck, Joel, so fucking big…” you whine for the first time tonight and the sound goes straight to his cock, twitching him inside of you as his hips jerk up, giving you another inch. Lust clouds his mind, nodding confidently as you take him, desperate to feel your tight, dripping cunt around him entirely.

“I know, baby, I know. Should’ve let me get you ready. But I bet you like the stretch, like a lil’ bit of pain, huh?” he coos, arm snaking around you to hold you closer, your eyes fluttering closed above him as you nod languidly.

“Fuckin’ love it, makes it feel even better,” you whimper when his arm tugs you down further, only an inch or two away from him being fully sheathed.

“C’mon, be my good girl, baby. Show me how you sit on my cock.” He leans forward, bending you backward with his force and holding you tight, his lips attaching to the soft, velvety skin of your breasts and biting, “Gotta face your punishment for stealin’ my hat. Take a cowboy’s hat, gotta ride the cowboy, babygirl. I don’t make the rules.”

You giggle, eyes clearing as you’re pulled out of your cloud of pleasure, gripping onto his shoulders and holding eye contact as you finally sink completely down, burying Joel’s cock inside your soaked pussy. Moans echo in the room, bitten down before they get too loud, your hips immediately finding a quick, sloppy pace to chase your highs. The slick glide of your walls grip his cock lusciously, your flooding arousal coating his balls as thighs as you ride him. Little noises slip from your mouth, simmering the coals burning in the base of his gut as he feels the familiar bliss building.

“Is this what I’m supposed to be doin’, cowboy?” you wonder, hips continuing their pace and mouth twisting as you hide a smile. Joel is unashamed, a wide grin on his face as he unravels one arm from you, picking up the hat from the corner post of the bed, and setting it loosely on top of your head. Giggles erupt from the both of you, your pace faltering as the muscles in his stomach cramp from use. 

Recovering from the interlude, your thighs rub against the outside of his as you bounce, nails digging into his shoulders as your rhythm picks back up, the slap of skin against skin the only noise save for your airy breaths that get shallower and shallower. Flames have ignited in his gut, licking inside and burning hotter and hotter the closer he gets. Nearly at the edge, he needs more, body taking over and lifting you with him as he stands, holding you up on his cock as he thrusts hard and quick into you, dripping for him and gripping him tight to keep yourself up while he fucks into you.

“Oh—fuck, Joel! Right there, m’gonna—oh!” Your desperate pleas in his ear pitch up as you moan, cunt tightening with a flutter around him as you come, soaking his dick as he continues his hard pace, selfishly chasing his high. 

A growl rolls from his chest when you come, his fingernails biting into the flesh of your ass, the slap of his balls against your skin as they draw up. His eyes squeeze shut as he moans your name, the first rope of his come released into your cunt, smaller whimpers following in its wake as he fucks one, twice more, filling you up as deep as he can.

Limbs feeling heavy, he turns you both around, pulling you off of him and dropping you gently onto the mattress. He flops down next to you onto his stomach, blissfully out of it as you move to straddle his back, fingers working the knots and soothing the aches growing there after a long week of work, and a night spent corralling your kids.

The warm press of your body against his back makes him hum contently, your breasts at his shoulder blades as you lay on him, one of his hands reaching the rub his fingers softly against the outside of your thigh.

“You know I think you’re the most handsome, right, honey?” you ask with a hint of worry in your voice, barely above a whisper. He nods, rolling over to his back underneath you and meeting your eyes, brow furrowed with concern.

“I know, baby. Jus’ was feeling weird this whole week. You made it a lot better, though.” A knuckle nudges your cheek, and you take the hat off, Joel chuckling again as you throw it off to the side of the bed. Laying down on him again, he strokes your hair while you hug yourself to his torso, both your eyes and his fluttering shut with exhaustion, from tonight and life in general.

Before drifting off, Joel speaks up, cheekily asking, “So…can I wear this costume next year, too?”

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Yearling - Ch. 19: Purpose

You and Ellie wait for Joel to come back from patrol. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-18 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Light smut. Minor depiction of injury. Mild description of canon-typical violence. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only 

Length: 9.6k 

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter

May, 2012 

“You’ve been acting weird this trip.” 

It was a nice night, the air warm but not so warm that it made a fire unpleasant. The sky was clear and it was like every star that had ever sprung into existence was overhead, sparkling for you and you alone. 

Mark had brought an unreasonably good haul with him this trip. Enough batteries that you’d be supplied for years at the rate you used flashlights, several packs of guitar strings, salt, sugar, several bottles of rum and vodka, thread and scrap fabric. His packs were laden with hard to find goods and you weren’t sure if you bought his excuse that the settlement he’d been living with had stumbled upon a really good stash and he felt like he should share the wealth. It seemed like there was something else going on.

“Don’t know what you mean,” he shrugged. “Actin’ how I usually do.” 

“Sure,” you scoffed, sipping on some rum that you’d mixed with the pressed apple juice you’d made earlier that day. “Because you always go back and forth between fuckin’ me stupid and staring off into the distance.” 

You had to admit, there were some perks to being some of the last people on the planet. Things like not needing to worry about being disturbed if you wanted to fuck outside by a bonfire on a gorgeous night. You were wearing nothing but a button down and panties, sitting on a blanket, the skin between your thighs slick with your combined release. Mark had pulled his jeans back on but hadn’t bothered buttoning or zipping them, his boots still sitting off to the side. You had a feeling he’d be naked again before too long, apparently going for a new record for how many times he could fuck you in the span of a week. 

“Seriously though,” you frowned a little, watching him closely, his brown eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Are you OK?” 

“Just…” he sighed heavily, leaning forward so his elbows were on his knees. “Going to miss you, is all.” 

“I’ll miss you, too,” you shrugged. “But there’s going to be some good shit to trade in about a month or so, think I’m going to get a really good round of greens this season…” 

“Can’t come back in a month,” he said, not looking at you, looking into the fire instead. You frowned. “I’m not sure when I can come back.” 

“What?” You frowned. “What do you mean? Why not? I don’t…” 

“Shit’s changing,” he said. “At the settlement. A lot of big changes. Don’t think I’m going to be able to get away for very long and…” 

“I can come to you,” you cut him off, heart clenching at the thought of losing the only regular human contact you had now. The thought of losing Mark. “I know you always come here but…” 

“Won’t work,” he shook his head. “Not with… there’s going to be too much going on, wouldn’t be the right time. And come on, you really going to act like you’re going to leave your animals to fend for themselves or leave your gardens unattended when you’ll need to be out harvesting damn near daily to stock up for winter? We both know better than that.” 

“How long do you think…” 

“Six months at least,” he cut you off. “Maybe a year.” 

“A year?” You gaped at him. “You can’t be serious, you’re really going to…” 

“I’m serious,” he finally looked at you, a pained look on his face. “Trust me, it’s not… This isn’t something that I want, OK? This is something that I have to do. It’s the right thing to do, the only right thing to do. But I’ll come back to you when I can. As soon as I can, I’ll come back.” 

You looked into the fire now, trying not to cry. These few weeks a year with him were sometimes the only thing that kept you sane. The only thing that kept the fragile link you had to your humanity intact. And he was leaving you. 

“Yeah, well,” you almost spat it. “Maybe I’ll just pick up and fuckin’ move in the mean time. Been getting bored out here anyway…” 

“If that’s really what you want,” you could feel his eyes on you. “But… I really hope you don’t. I would… I think losing you might kill me. Not knowing what happened to you? Not knowing if you were safe and happy? That would kill me. I love…” 

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” you snapped, whipping your head around to look at him. “You wouldn’t just walk away for a fuckin’ year if you gave a fuck. Don’t act like I’m anything more to you than…” 

“You don’t get to decide what you are to me,” he snapped back, voice heated, his hand finding your face, fingers gripping your skin so tight it almost hurt. “Just trust me when I tell you there ain’t much that would keep me away from you, alright? This isn’t what I fuckin’ want. But it’s what I have to do so I’m doing it. And I’m asking that you still be here when I’m able to come back to you because all I want to do is fucking come back to you! So please, let me!” 

His lips crashed into yours before you could respond and you kissed him back, wet and angry, all teeth and tears as he ripped your panties down and all but shoved himself inside you, not bothering to take off his jeans this time. He fucked into you hard and fast and desperate, like if he used enough force he’d somehow make you believe him, make sure you stayed. 

After, you lay side by side, facing each other just inches apart, his fingers trailing gently through your hair.

“What am I supposed to do without you?” You asked, voice thick.

“I’ll send people who pass through your way,” he said. “You should have enough of what you can’t hunt or grow yourself for a while but you trade plenty outside of me, anyway, and I’ll make sure I send enough to make up the difference…” 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you cut him off. 

He smiled. 

“I’ll make sure they’re your type.” 

You rolled your eyes and shoved him lightly. He laughed a little and the two of you just looked at each other. You knew that, if he was telling you this now, after he’d already been here a few days, he was planning to go back soon. Maybe even the next day. Your heart ached - physically hurt - at the thought of him leaving, of losing him for so long. 

“This isn’t what I want,” he said softly, as though he were reading your mind. 

“Then don’t do it.” 

“I have to,” he said, his hand stilling, holding your face gently, as though you were something precious. “But I will come back to you. I promise. I’ll always keep coming back to you.” 

When you watched him ride away the next day, it was the last time you ever saw him. 

August, 2026

You’d never really been in this situation before. 

In all the years since the outbreak started, you’d never been the one stuck waiting for someone to come back from outside. You never knew for sure when Mark was coming back so you were never anxiously waiting for him to show up. The rest of the time, when someone was with you, you’d always been the one to go. You’d been the one who knew the area, been the one who was best equipped. At most, you’d go out together and be there when an infected attacked or some power hungry asshole took a shot at you. Hell, even a bear. It was the wilds of Wyoming, after all, it wasn’t only monsters of the human and inhuman kind you had to be concerned with, mother nature did her best to come out on top, too.  

But Joel being gone like this made you nervous. 

You weren’t sure if it was just because you weren’t used to him being gone, if you were just more comfortable having him close than anywhere else now, if there really was something wrong and you felt it somehow - even though that made no sense. 

Regardless of the reason, you were worried. It was hard to focus on anything. You couldn’t work with the horses that weren’t fully broke yet, they sensed it too easily and started trying to throw you. You found yourself just clenching your teeth a lot without truly realizing you were doing it, just suddenly aware that your jaw was sore before forcing yourself to relax. 

The second night Joel was gone, you were playing guitar at home and trying not to think about it. The closest thing you had to compare it to was the first few days Marisa was gone. When part of you thought she was going to change her mind and walk back in the door one evening as you sat by the firelight and grab you and kiss you and say she was back and she was going to stay. 

That never happened. 

But Joel was going to come back. That was the plan, that was always the plan and Jackson hadn’t lost someone on patrol in a while and you had no reason to be this nervous and distracted. Joel was going to walk into the stables and grab you and kiss you. And it was all going to be OK. 

There was a sharp little knock at your door, the knock Ellie made when she was second guessing that she should be there. You’d come to know it as the knock she made when she wanted to talk about something but was too afraid to really do it. You set the guitar down on the couch and jogged to the door, Ellie already knocking again, a little relieved that you’d have the excuse to not be sitting there alone. 

“About time,” Ellie rolled her eyes, pushing past you into the house. 

“Nice to see you too, Kid,” you smiled a little, closing and locking your door before trailing after her, drawing Joel’s shirt tighter to yourself as you did. “What’s on the brain? Dina troubles?” 

“You know, not everything is about a girl,” she flopped heavily on your loveseat, one leg dangling over the arm rest, the other planted on the floor. “There’s more to life than sex. Not that you would know. Gross.” 

You snorted. 

“So what’s going on?” You asked, grabbing your guitar and flopping on the couch. You gave it a strum. “Trying to figure out the meaning of life or something? You’ve got that look.” 

“Do not,” she rolled her eyes in the way that only teenaged girls were somehow so skilled at. 

“Do so,” you played a few more quick random chords. “C’mon. Share. Know you want to.” 

You kept strumming quietly, watching her tap her foot impatiently. You kept your mouth shut. If you waited her out, she’d talk. Ellie was a special kid but she was still a teenaged girl. She’d spill it eventually. 

You were right. 

She’d only been there, silent while you played really nothing at all, for a few minutes when she huffed and sat up in a flurry of messy hair and overly long shirt sleeves. 

You looked at her, brows raised. 

“I’m worried, OK?” She looked at you, her brown eyes big. They were wide and soft and open and, even though you knew she wasn’t related to Joel, her eyes reminded you so much of him in that moment. How he looked at you when you played guitar and he was close, how he looked when he told you things about himself that you weren’t sure anyone else knew. They were both usually so guarded, so terrified of being vulnerable, but they got the same look in their eyes when they let themselves be open. 

You stopped playing. 

“About what?” 

She gnawed on her lower lip for a second. 

“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about,” she said. “What you told me about what parents do for their kids… I never had parents. Like… ever. It’s not like I had some when I was little and they fucking died or something I just never had them. No one ever… I don’t know, loved me and shit. I never had it so I never really thought about what that would be like. But Joel… he loves me. Right?” 

“Yeah,” you smiled a little sadly at her. You wished you could go back in time and find the little girl who was Ellie all alone and love her then, love her the way she deserved to be. “He does. More than anything.” 

She nodded slowly, like she was processing it. 

“I guess I never understood what that would mean,” she said. “That it would mean someone would choose me over… well, over anything at all I guess but over the entire fucking world? It doesn’t feel right.” 

You shrugged. 

“Love is crazy like that,” you said. “Especially the kind Joel has for you.” 

She nodded again. 

“I still don’t know if I can forgive him,” she said slowly. “But I can try to understand him. I think I can understand him and see why he thought it was the right thing…” 

Her voice trailed off and she bounced her leg and picked at the seam of your couch cushion before she looked at you, her eyebrows drawn tightly together. 

“But what if I never get a chance to tell him that?” Her voice cracked a little and she swallowed hard. “What if something happens and the last thing I said to him… I was so fucking mean to him before he left, Bambi, I was so fucking mean and I…” 

“Hey,” you said gently, setting your guitar down and going to sit beside her. “It’s OK, Honey. It’s OK. Joel loves you, he would never hold it against you and, deep down, he knows you love him, too. But it’s all a moot point, he’s coming back and he’ll be fine. You’ll get a chance to talk to him and tell him how you’re feeling and it’ll be OK.” 

She nodded and pressed herself against you, her face against your shoulder. You tucked her below your chin and held her close. Ellie was such a force of a person, always so brash and strong, but she felt so small and fragile in your arms then, every inch the child she tried to pretend she wasn’t. 

“You had parents, right?” She sniffed, inching closer to you on the couch. You adjusted around her, her legs draped over yours. 

“I did,” you smiled a little into her hair. 

“Did you guys get along?” 

You laughed a little. 

“Not really,” you said. “I was a lot more like my dad than my mom but my dad was closer to my brothers. He was fine with me ranching as a hobby but didn’t want me to be a rancher, didn’t like me working with the horses as much as I did. My mom wanted me to be more like her and I just wasn’t. It caused a lot of friction. But…” You sighed and gave her a little squeeze. “We loved each other. Even when I was mad at them I knew they loved me and I loved them. That’s the point. It’s not always easy and that’s OK.” 

She just nodded into you. 

“Don’t know why I’m so worried,” she fidgeted with her hands but stayed pressed against you. “Not like he’s never left Jackson before. Fuck knows we faced worse shit than whatever he’s going to run into out there. I’ve just got this feeling…” 

You didn’t tell her that you did, too. You didn’t want to freak her out. You didn’t want to think about what it might mean that both of you felt off about it. 

“Want to stay over again?” You asked, hoping she’d say yes. You weren’t sure you wanted to be by yourself at that moment, either. “We can dance party.” 

“Yeah,” she laughed a little. “That’d be good.” 

You let Ellie pick the music before you raided the more modest VHS collection and put on Fargo. She passed out curled up next to you on the couch and you just watched her for a moment, her legs tucked up against her stomach, arms crossed over her chest. You understood why Joel would kill to protect her, why he’d choose her over the possibility of a cure. She wasn’t your daughter but it felt like she could be. You’d protect her like your daughter. She needed that, deserved that. 

You got up slowly from the couch so as to not disturb her and got a blanket from your hiding place bed, draping it over her. You curled up on the loveseat and fell asleep there, keeping her close, keeping her where you could keep her safe until Joel came home. 

Ellie was reluctant to go to school the next day and she showed up at the stable just a few minutes after classes ended for the day. 

“Here to draw Shimmer?” You asked, brows raised. 

“Duh,” she rolled her eyes. “Why else would I be here?” 

You smiled a little as you got the horse out of her stall and put her out in the paddock, Ellie perching on the fence with her sketch pad and pencil. You checked on her periodically, just glancing out to where she sat, catching her watching the entrance to the stables more than once. Waiting for Joel to come back. 

It wasn’t like you could blame her. You were watching for him, too. Especially once other patrol pairs started coming back. Julie and Thomas came back first, just before dinner. They said they hadn’t run into any trouble, not even any infected, so they weren’t surprised they were the first ones back. You busied yourself getting their horses settled as they headed to their respective homes to get cleaned up after spending three days on the road. It was only another hour before the next pair, Will and Beth, came back.There had been some trees down on their usual path, the aftermath of an early summer storm, they suspected, and it took time to figure out the best way through. 

“Want to go pick us up some dinner?” You asked Ellie as twilight was on the horizon, which meant it had to be nearing 8 p.m. Joel still wasn’t back. “I’ll hold down the fort?” 

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah, OK.” 

You watched her set out to the mess hall and, when she was out of sight, got in Renaissance’s stall. She gave you a questioning look, her ears turning on her head, her body still sweaty where she’d born a saddle and rider for three straight days. 

“Hey sweet girl,” you said gently, reaching out to scratch her chin. She pressed into your touch and you stepped closer to her, resting your forehead against her thick, warm neck and breathing deep, centering yourself. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous, I really don’t.” 

She huffed. 

“I know,” you said, giving her another scratch. There had always been something about horses that calmed you, something you were grateful you could rely on now. “I don’t know how to do this. How to be in a relationship like this. I’ve never done this. Maybe this is just what it’s like? But… He can’t end up like everyone else. He just can’t.” 

She nudged you gently with her large head and you stepped back from her. She lowered her head and pressed it against your chest, chuffing as she did. You scratched her neck. 

“I know,” you sighed. “I know.” 

Casey and Monica came back while Ellie was gone, the second to last group. Only Joel and Tommy were left outside. You tried not to think about that. Monica’s arm was bleeding and she was limping. 

“What happened?” You frowned as you took their horses from them. 

“Ran into fucking raiders on day two,” Casey said, taking her pack from the saddle of her horse. “Just a small crew, we caught them off guard so we handled them pretty easy but held us up a bit coming back. Mon sprained her ankle, couldn’t keep her foot in the stirrup too long, had to take a lot of breaks. We’re the last ones, right?” 

“No,” you said, chest tight. “No, Joel and Tommy are still out there.” 

Monica’s eyes went wide. 

“Joel and Tommy are still out?” She asked, incredulous. You nodded. “Shit. They’re usually the first back, handle their shit quick…” 

Your stomach turned. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Casey said, noticing the look on your face. “They went the same path as that summer storm, they’re probably just running into damage, making it hard to get through… It’s Joel and Tommy. I’m sure they’re fine.” 

“Right,” you said, giving her a tight smile. “You’re right.” 

Monica leaned on Casey and you watched the two of them head toward the clinic just as Ellie came back, frowning as she watched them go. 

“The fuck happened to them?” She asked, handing you a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. 

“Raiders,” you said, going to the spot you liked to plop down at when you were taking a break while working. Ellie trailed behind you. 

“Shit,” she said, her brows drawn tightly together. “You don’t think…” 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you said, taking a bite of your sandwich. It tasted like sand in your mouth, making your stomach churn. “We don’t have any reason to worry. It’s fine.” 

You brushed down every horse in the stable, asked Ellie to tell you every pun she could remember, reorganized the tack even though you ended up not really changing anything because you ran a pretty tight ship to begin with. 

It was nearing midnight when Maria came to the stable, William looking groggy and half asleep on her hip. 

“Thought I might find you here,” she said. 

You shrugged. 

“Like it here.” 

She nodded slowly, looking between you and Ellie. 

“Alex at the gate is going to come get me as soon as they sight them,” she said, her grip on her son tightening a little as she said it. “Want to come wait at mine? It’s more comfortable than here.” 

The gate giving you a heads up would be faster than waiting at the stables. They’d see them coming. 

“Yeah,” you nodded quickly. “Yeah, let me run home and grab and change of clothes if it’s OK that I use your shower, I smell like horse…” 

“Course,” she smiled. “You too, Ellie?” 

“Yeah,” she jumped down from the stall door she’d been perched on. “Yeah, I’ll come. I don’t… Sounds shitty to just be by myself.” 

You literally ran to your house, grabbing a shirt that smelled like Joel and the coat, too, for good measure, as well as some clean jeans and some sweat pants before you ran to Maria’s.

You’d never been inside Maria’s house before but, in that moment, you didn’t care. The need to know that Joel was OK was stronger than your fear of being in a space you didn’t control. 

You took the fastest shower you ever remembered taking and settled in the living room next to Ellie, who immediately leaned against you, pressing her nose into Joel’s shirt. Maria sat, watching the front door, her foot bouncing impatiently off the rug in front of her. 

“Has this happened with them before?” You asked quietly after a minute. 

“No,” Maria shook her head. “But we haven’t lost anyone on patrol in a very long time. I’m sure they’re fine. They’re fine.” 

She nodded to herself and Ellie curled her legs into her chest. 

“Hey Kid,” you said after a minute. “Best guitar part. What is it?” 

Ellie sat up from you a little, frowning. 

“Is now really the time to talk about that?” She asked. 

You glanced at Maria, who figured out pretty quickly what you were doing. 

“I think so,” she said. “Curious to know your thoughts since Tommy’s taste is… questionable.” 

You snorted. 

“He asked me to play Freebird once,” you said. “So cliche.” 

Ellie rolled her eyes and thought for a second. 

“Maybe Crazy on You by Heart,” she said eventually. 

“Good choice,” you nodded. “Knew you’d pick up some good taste through proper education…” 

“OK my taste has always been good,” she said, sitting tucked into the corner of the couch now, her legs crossed in front of her instead of curled protectively in on herself. “You don’t get that much credit!” 

“Sure, sure,” you waved her off. 

“I just had limited access before,” she said. “Not my fault I was stuck with the music I could find in a fucking QZ man!” 

You huffed a laugh. 

“Seems like you had more options than I did…” 

“Yeah but you had horses and freedom and shit,” she said. “Fair trade.” 

You laughed at that. 

“Maybe so,” you said. 

“Got another question for you,” Maria said, not giving Ellie a chance to respond. “What’s the best pun? Seems like you’re the expert so…” 

“That is so subjective though!” Ellie replied, her eyes getting wide. “You can’t ask me to pick just one…” 

You and Maria took turns trying to distract her until she started falling asleep sitting up. Ellie eventually slumped over, her head going in your lap. You trailed your fingers through her hair and you felt her doze off, her breathing going into the steady, gentle rhythm of sleep. 

Maria watched you, her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw clenched. 

“You OK?” You asked quietly. 

“No,” she said, voice so soft you had a hard time hearing her. “And I won’t be until he’s back.” 

You laughed once, quietly, darkly. 

“Stupid question, I guess.” 

She laughed the same way back. 

“It feels like I got cocky,” she sighed. “Like I was feeling too comfortable here, like I forgot how bad the world has become. Life here was too good for too long. Too much like what it was like before. Guess the apocalypse decided it needed to remind me of who was in charge.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I know it’s not the same, Joel isn’t to me what Tommy is to you but… I feel about the same. Like I was getting to close to living with people again and something had to remind me that there’s risk with that.” 

“The world fucking sucks sometimes,” Maria said. 

You smiled tightly. 

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, it does.” 

You weren’t sure what time it was when you ended up dozing off, too, your head lulled over on the couch cushion, hand still on Ellie’s hair. That’s where you were when there was a loud knock on the door, jerking you out of your shallow sleep. 

“Wha?” Ellie sat up, groggy, as Maria fumbled for the door, almost tripping over her own feet to get there. You all but jumped off the couch once Ellie was off your lap and the three of you were clustered around the door when Maria yanked it open, breathless. Alex, a younger man who often kept watch at the gate was standing there, panting. 

“They’re back.” 

***

He couldn’t die. 

Not out here. Not like this. 

Not when it would also get his brother killed. 

Not when he hadn’t fixed things with Ellie, when she still hated him, when she didn’t fully understand what she meant to him. 

Not when he’d never told you how he felt about you. Not when he’d never said that he loved you, not when he’d never told any woman that he loved her.

Not out here. Not now. Not like this. 

It was all Joel could think as he and Tommy fought off the small band of raiders who’d come out, guns blazing. 

The fact that they survived was luck. 

Luck that they knew the area better than the fools who attacked them, that they had an idea of where to go to seek cover or how to cut around and attack from another position. Luck that these idiots were young - hardly more than boys, really, probably lured in with the promise of food and shelter and sex from whoever they could take - and were hardly sharp shooters. Luck that, while they’d been caught off guard, they’d been patrolling long enough that they knew how to react fast and react well. 

Luck that, the shots that did land, weren’t critical. 

But they were enough to slow them down. Joel had been shot in the thigh, Tommy the arm and it was a battle between trying to move fast enough to get back to Jackson before blood loss caught up with them while controlling their mounts and stopping often enough to change the emergency dressings on their wounds as they bled. 

The thought of you kept him moving. Your eyes, your smile, your voice as you sang while he played guitar. The way you trusted him enough to let him be close to you, the way you cared for the horses, the way you loved Ellie. He was going to make it back to you. If it was the last thing he ever did, he was making it home to you. 

Joel wasn’t sure what time it was when they rode up to the main gate, hardly able to stay sitting up on the back of his horse. 

“Jesus Christ, Joel!” Patrick, one of the men who was guarding the main gate, rushed forward and caught him as he all but fell off his horse. “What the fuck happened?” 

“Raiders,” he said, breathless from the pain and effort of staying on the back of his mount when he was this injured. 

“Ran into a band of ‘em about a day and a half out,” Tommy said, voice strained from pain. “Right near the turn around point.” 

Carter, another guard, got to Tommy, who waved him off. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just get the horses to the stables, I gotta get my brother to the clinic…” 

“Can you help him?” Patrick asked, shoulder in Joel’s armpit as he helped him stay on his feet. “I can run ahead to the clinic that way…” 

“I got it,” Alex yelled from atop the wall. “I’ll get the doc up!” 

Dr. Palmer was bleary eyed but awake when Joel and Tommy made it to the clinic. 

“Shit,” she swore, looking at the two of them. “Alright, let’s get the two of you settled and then I’ll assess…” 

She put Tommy in one makeshift exam room and Joel in the other and, for the first time since the attack began a day and a half before, Joel felt like he could breathe. 

He’d made it back. Tommy was alive and he’d made it back to you and Ellie. 

“Joel!” 

It was as though his thoughts had summoned his would be daughter, her small body hurtling at him after she burst through the door. She slammed into him and he caught her as she clung to him, crying into his chest. 

“Hey, Baby Girl,” he said, arms going around her and holding her close. There was the faint smell of hay on her hair, a smell that made him smile. For a moment, he wondered if he’d actually made it back. If, maybe, he was dreaming. If Ellie being happy to see him was a final gift from his dying mind as he bled out in the forest. “You’re OK, I’ve got you, you’re OK…” 

“I know I’m OK,” she pulled back from him with a sniffle. “It’s you we’ve been worried about, you dick!” 

“Joel.” 

Your voice was so quiet, he barely heard it but, the next thing he knew, you were against him. He hadn’t really been able to get a proper look at you, nothing but a blur of hair and one of his plaid shirts as you ran for him. Your arms went around his neck and your body pressed against him and Joel felt you take a deep, shuddering breath as he clutched you close. 

Ellie must not have talked to you, you weren’t disgusted by him, still wanted to be near him. His lips brushed your cheek.

“I was so afraid,” your voice was quiet and thick and he held you somehow tighter, your body between his legs. He ignored the pulling, throbbing pain at his thigh. It didn’t matter. Not when it meant having you close. 

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” he said softly. You were so warm and soft and fuck, he loved you. “Didn’t mean to worry you…” 

You stepped back and tried your eyes on the sleeves of the shirt he’d given you. You put your arm around Ellie and tugged her against your side as she tried to pretend like she hadn’t just been crying, too. You looked him up and down, your eyes ranging over him, frowning when you noticed the blood at his thigh.

“I’ll be fine…” he began, but you cut him off. 

“Someone shot you,” your eyes were all wide and doe-like, looking from his thigh to his face and back again. You reached for the injury before you seemed to think better of it, instead putting your hand on his knee. 

“Ran into some raiders,” Joel said, keeping his voice calm. “We took care of ‘em, but they got some hits in. We’re alright.” 

You swallowed hard and nodded as Dr. Palmer came back in, looking surprised to see you and Ellie there. 

“I’ll need you two to wait outside,” she said. “These rooms are tight enough, I need some space to work.” 

“But…” Ellie protested but she interrupted. 

“I’ll take good care of him,” she smiled a little. “Promise. It’s OK.” 

“C’mon Kid,” you kept your eyes on Joel as you started steering Ellie toward the door. “We’ll stick close, it’s OK.” 

He watched you go until you closed the door behind you, eyes lingering where you’d been, like touching the space you’d occupied with his sight would keep you there longer. 

“Let’s get you fixed up,” the doctor smiled, pulling a seat up alongside him. “Get you home with your girls as quick as we can.” 

Joel felt like he should argue the classification for a moment. That you and Ellie were his in any way, that he’d ever be worthy of being something to either of you after everything he had done, all that he had wrought. 

But he wanted you and Ellie to be his, wanted to live in a moment where that was true. Exist in a space that you were his woman - his to come home to, his to look after, his to love - and Ellie was his daughter, a girl he loved and looked after and guided through life alongside you. 

“How’s Tommy?” Joel asked after a minute as she cut the denim away from the injury on his leg and started cleaning the wound. 

“Better off than you,” she said, sounding a little distracted. 

“Good,” Joel said, nodding slowly. “S’my fault. Got distracted. Should be me paying for it.” 

“Seems like it’s the raiders’ fault,” she said absently. “It looks like the bullet is in a good spot so I’m going to try to pull it out and get things all bandaged up. It’s going to hurt…” 

“It’s fine,” Joel said, gripping the edge of the table, looking at the door. You were close. He just had to get through this and then he’d get to be with you and Ellie. “Had worse.” 

She nodded and set to work, Joel gritting his teeth through the pain as Dr. Palmer rooted around in his leg. He was right, he’d had worse, but it still hurt like hell. But he didn’t want to freak out you or Ellie, he’d rather the two of you think that everything happening in this room was calm and painless as the doctor pulled the bullet free. She held it up in the small tongs so he could see, the metal shiny with blood. 

“Sure is a little thing to have caused so much trouble,” she said, turning it in the light for a moment before dropping it on a small tray with a resounding clatter. “Let me make sure you don’t have any damage beyond the obvious and then I’ll get you cleaned and bandaged up.” 

Joel just nodded, still watching the door as she worked. 

“You know,” she said after a while. “I’m glad to see that you and Ellie seem to be patching things up…” 

“That’s a… new development,” Joel said. “Hopin’ it sticks.” 

She nodded slowly. 

“Also glad to see that you’ve found someone here besides your brother,” she said, adjusting Joel’s leg so she could wrap the wound. He frowned and she seemed to sense it. “You’ve done a lot for this community, Joel, but you have a tendency to keep to yourself. Which is fine, of course, so long as you’re happy that way. But you deserve more if you want it. Nice to see you have that for a change.” 

She sat back and looked at his leg, giving it a nod. 

“Come back in a few days,” she said. “Me or Carol will take a second look at it, make sure it’s healing well. Take it easy in the mean time, you lost a lot of blood. Let someone take care of you for a change, OK?” 

Joel laughed a little. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

She opened the door and you and Ellie both jumped up from the couch. But you stayed put for a moment as Dr. Palmer left, Ellie closing the door behind her so it was just the two of them. 

“Hey Kiddo,” he smiled a little. “Sure is good to see ya.” 

“Good to see you, too, old man,” she smiled a little in return, her back pressed against the door. “Can I talk to you for a second? I know you’re probably tired and shit but…” 

“Course,” Joel frowned. “What’s on your mind?” 

She pushed off the door and shoved her hands in her pockets as she stepped closer to the exam table, watching her feet for a moment. 

“I, um…” she trailed off before taking a deep breath and looking him in the eye. “I talked to Bambi. I told her everything. The real reason you brought me west, what happened in the hospital… all of it.” 

Joel’s heart clenched but he nodded slowly. Christ, what you must think of him now. He had to explain it to you, he could explain it to you, make you understand why, he could.  

“That’s OK Baby Girl,” he said. “Not fair of me to ask you to hid things from people you care about and… I still think you need to keep why I brought you here a secret but she’s safe. She’ll protect you.” 

“I know,” she nodded. “But… She said some shit to me about it and it made me think and… I don’t know that I’ll ever think you did the right thing in that hospital, Joel. But… I guess she made me think about it differently. And I can try to understand it, what you did. I want to understand it, I want to be able to have a relationship with you again. I don’t want to be pissed at you forever…” she took a deep breath and looked at her feet for a moment before looking back at him again, tears shining in her eyes. “I’ve missed you. And it scared the shit out of me, thinking that you might not come back and the last thing I ever said to you was something so fucking shitty and I’m sorry I said it and…” 

“Baby Girl,” Joel said gently, trying not to cry himself, his chest tight. “Come here.” 

Ellie nodded, her jaw set, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, her arms going around his waist. He held her close. She felt so small against him. As strong as she was, as tough as she acted, she was still just a girl. His little girl, the same little girl he’d fought to protect, the same little girl he’d brought across the country, the same little girl who had become his reason for existing. 

“It’s OK,” he said gently. She nodded into his chest. “I’ve got you Baby Girl. I’ve got you.”  

He held her for a moment, until her breathing slowed to a more normal rate and her tears slowed. She pulled back from him, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. 

“I don’t know what I’m ready for yet,” she said, shoving her hands in her back pockets. “I don’t think… I don’t think I can just go back to how it was before Salt Lake City. But maybe you, me and Bambi can have dinner or something.” 

“Whatever you want, Kiddo,” he smiled. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me.” 

She nodded and sniffed, looking a little calmer now. 

“I’m going to head home,” she said. “But… I’ll come by tomorrow and see how you’re doing. If that’s OK.” 

“Course,” he nodded. “I can’t wait. I love you so much, Baby Girl. I really, really do.” 

She smiled a little. 

“I know,” she said. “Or, well… I think I’m starting to. I’m… I’m glad you’re going to be OK, Joel.” 

She leaned in slowly and gave him a soft peck on the cheek before hugging him one more time. 

He watched her go, you right there when she opened the door, giving her shoulder a squeeze as she passed and you closed the door behind her. 

“I could have sworn I told you to come back in one piece,” you smiled a little, arms crossed as you closed the distance between the two of you. 

He laughed, smoothing his hand over your hair, gently holding the base of your skull in his large palm. His leg suddenly hurt much less. 

“You did,” he said, tilting your head just so, kissing you softly. “Tried to listen but…” 

“Think you can make it home?” You asked. 

“Might need to take it slow,” he said. “But I’m not sleepin’ somewhere you aren’t for any longer than I have to.” 

He leaned on you for the short walk to his house, the trip easily taking three times longer than usual. Neither of you spoke, Joel focused on breathing through the pain and the effort it took to move, and he was relieved to make it in the front door. 

“If you tell me where sheets are, I can fix up the couch…” 

“Baby,” Joel cut you off. “I’m makin’ it up those stairs. Told you, I’m not sleeping somewhere you aren’t and that means we are in the same damn bed.” 

“Joel…” 

“Rode a day and a half with a damn bullet in my leg,” he said. “Can handle some stairs.” 

You just smiled a little and shook your head but helped him up to the bedroom, too. 

“See?” He said, panting for breath as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Told you, I’m fine.” 

“How about I get you some water and something to eat before you pass out,” you shook your head a little, leaving him alone for a moment before coming back with a tall glass of water and a pear. 

“Here,” you held it out. “Start with this. I’m going run you a bath…” 

“Really don’t need you to take care of me, Baby.” 

You leveled him with a glare. He laughed a little. 

“I’ll do whatever you want me to, Sweetheart.” 

Joel drank the water and ate the pear before making his way to the bathroom. 

“What are you doing!” Your eyes went wide when he leaned against the door frame. 

“I can walk down the hall on my own, sweetheart,” he half smiled at you and you turned off the water to the tub before going to him, unbuttoning his shirt, your fingers brushing his skin. He traced the outline of your face, your skin soft below his callused touch. “Baby. I’m OK.” 

“Scared the shit out of me,” you muttered, sliding his shirt off of him and draping it over his arm. You lowered the toilet seat and pointed him there and he tried to not smile too big as he obeyed. He’d never seen you be a caretaker before, at least to anything besides the horses. It was almost reassuring, seeing your reaction to his coming back. Like it was confirmation that you felt for him the way he felt for you. Like maybe what Ellie had said hadn’t horrified you. 

You helped him out of his jeans and underwear, carefully pulling the fabric over his injured leg before helping him in the tub. 

“Leave the hurt leg outside the bath,” you said, helping him sit down, one leg in the water, one leg on the tile floor. “Something tells me that’s not supposed to get wet.”  

“Think you’re right,” he replied as he settled into the water. You sat on the ground next to him, rolling up the sleeves of your shirt and grabbing his washcloth and the soap. “Baby…” 

“Hush,” you replied, wetting the cloth and covering it in soap before running it over his skin slowly, methodically. Joel watched you, watched your brows drawn together in concentration, finding every inch of him, the tender pressure of your touch as you washed away the sweat and the dirt and the blood. When you brought the cloth back to his already cleaned chest, he gently caught your wrist and your eyes flew to his, all wide and deep with tears at the edges. He brushed his thumb over the delicate structure of your veins, feeling the thrum of your heart through your blood. 

“Baby,” he said softly. “I’m OK.” 

“Joel,” your voice broke and you all but collapsed against him, your head going to his chest, your body pressed against the cool porcelain of the tub. He wrapped his arms around you as best he could without pulling you into the water with him. Your wracking, choking sobs made his heart ache and he pressed a long kiss into the crown of your head, breathing in the smell of you as he did. “I was so scared, I had a bad feeling and I just… I can’t lose you, too, please don’t make me lose you, I can’t…” 

“Not goin’ anywhere, Sweetheart,” he said, holding you. “Always gonna come back to you, can’t stop me.” 

You laughed wetly against him, your breaths evening out and calming down. After another minute you sat back, dabbing your eyes with the back of your wrist. 

“Sorry,” you sniffed, shaking your head a bit. “Probably think I’m crazy, acting like this…” 

“You and Ellie were all I could think about out there,” he said softly. “Kept thinking I had to get back, had to fix things with her. Couldn’t die with her hating me that much. And I had to… I had to tell you that I love you. Couldn’t let some raider fucks take me out without you knowin’ that.”

“Joel,” you breathed, the washcloth slipping from your hand and into the water. You damn near climbed in the tub with him, kissing him desperately, your wet fingers knotting in his hair. He held you close, the water from his skin soaking into your shirt but you didn’t seem to care. You eventually separated from him, panting for breath, his hands still on you. Your eyes searched his, your nose brushing against his own as you breathed, your hand moving to his face, your thumb tracing his cheekbone. He could feel the callus on your skin, the ones from riding and playing standing out in contrast to the softness of the rest of you. “Joel, I love you, too. So much it scares me, I’ve never loved anyone I haven’t lost and I can’t lose you, Joel. I can’t.” 

He tugged you closer, so his forehead was on yours, closing his eyes for a moment. 

“I know, Sweetheart,” he said softly. “Can’t lose you, either.” 

He kissed you, gently at first, but it grew needy and desperate before too long, your hands ranging over his naked, wet skin, slipping below the water before wrapping your fingers around his now hardening cock. 

“Baby,” he whispered in half-hearted protest. 

“Am I hurting you?” You sat back from him enough to look over his face, frowning. 

“No,” he said and you brushed your thumb over his slit, making him moan. “Just… don’t know that I’ll be able to properly return the favor.” 

You smiled a little and shook your head, kissing him again, your hand starting to work him up and down. 

“Let me do this for you,” you said softly before pressing your lips to his again. “Don’t worry about me. I want to take care of you, make you feel good.” 

He moaned into your mouth as you stroked him, your hand so much smaller and softer than his own, your lips sweet against his. He wanted to swallow the taste and feel of you, pull you into himself where he could keep you with him, make you a part of him so he’d never have to be without you again. He involuntarily thrust up against your hand and he felt you smile as you kissed him, your tongue slipping between his lips to find his own. 

You worked him harder, faster, kissing him more forcefully, pressing the parts of you that could reach him tighter and tighter to him. When he came, his whole body got tight and needy with the heady pleasure of it, his come spilling into the water as your hand slowed. 

“Fuck, Baby,” he managed, slumping down in the tub, your hand still on his now softening cock. 

You smiled and pressed one last soft kiss to his lips. 

“C’mon,” you said, getting up and drying your hands before pulling the towel from the rack. “Let’s get you to bed. Sun’s going to be up soon, we need some sleep.” 

Once you pulled him to his feet, he put the towel around his waist and you helped him down the hall again and to the bed. Joel didn’t bother with pajamas, just climbing in naked, watching you as you undressed, eyes ranging over your every curve, longing to touch every inch of your smooth skin. 

“Sure I won’t hurt you?” You asked, frozen with the blanket in your hand as you were about to climb in bed. 

“You won’t,” Joel said. “And I need to be next to you. Leg can deal with it.” 

You smiled a little and shook your head but climbed into bed anyway, turning out the light on your way. You tried to keep your distance at first, not melting against him the way you usually did when you got into bed, but Joel pulled you to him anyway and he felt the familiar contours of you relax into him when he did. He put his arms around you, holding you to him. This was where you belonged. Here, like this, where he could feel you and know you were safe. 

After a few minutes of silence beside you, he took a deep breath and brought up the thing that had him so distracted when on patrol to begin with. 

“Ellie talked to you,” he said softly, not really asking it. He knew the answer was yes. 

You were quiet for a moment. 

“She did.” 

He held you tighter. 

“You’re still here,” he said. 

“I am,” you said. 

He kissed the top of your head and you pressed yourself closer. 

“Ellie said you made her think about it differently,” he said slowly. “Can… Can I ask what you said? How you’re feelin’?” 

You took a deep, shaky breath. 

“I told her that you did what any parent would do,” you said, your voice soft, cracking ever so slightly. “I told her that, in that scenario, you never really had a choice. That isn’t a choice. Of course you’d save your child. There isn’t a world to save without her in it. I asked her if she’d have let the Fireflies kill William. If she’d have let them kill you. She seemed… I don’t think she understands it yet. I’m not sure she really can, at her age. But I think she will. And I think you did the right thing, Joel. I’d have done the same thing you did.” 

Joel nodded and took a deep breath of his own, pressing his lips to your forehead. 

“I…” his voice broke and he took a second to center himself. He needed to make sure you understood. He needed you to know this part of him, too. “I had a daughter. Before. Before Ellie, before the outbreak, I had a daughter…” 

“Joel,” you whispered, your fingers finding his hair, brushing through it soothingly. He gave you a squeeze. 

“Her name was Sarah,” the tightness in his chest felt like it might crush him but he kept going. “She was… she was amazing. Best thing that ever happened to me, just the best fuckin’ kid. She was so damn smart, so sweet - still not sure where the fuck she got that from - and so funny. Her mom left us both when she was a baby so it was just the two of us but I liked it that way, just me n’her. She was mine, she was all I needed. She made life worth living. But… In the outbreak…” 

He blinked back tears. 

“Don’t matter how it happened, I guess,” he said after a moment. “All that matters is I didn’t protect her as well as I should have and she died in my arms and it damn near killed me. In a lot of ways, it did. Kept wishing it had been me instead of her or, at the very least, that it would have taken me, too, so I wasn’t stuck tryin’ to live without her. Being without her was… it was the worst kind of hell. I went numb to everything, fuckin’ everything. Sometimes wondered if I was alive at all, didn’t seem like I was. Didn’t have a reason to be. And that’s what life was until Ellie. And that girl, that smart ass little girl… She’s the first thing that made me feel like there was still life to be had after Sarah. 

“I wasn’t supposed to love ‘er. Pretty sure that’s why the damn Fireflies asked me to take her to begin with, didn’t think I could get attached to anything. Figured I’d be fine handing her over to die, long as they paid me well. When they told me what would happen to her, what they needed, I… I couldn’t do it, Baby. I couldn’t let ‘em hurt her, kill her. Don’t give a shit about some theoretical fuckin’ cure - wouldn’t give a shit if it was a sure thing, either - if it meant she wasn’t going to live go see it. World’s not worth it without her. I couldn’t survive losing her. I couldn’t. I couldn’t fail her, too, I had to protect her. So that’s what I did. I saved her. And… and I lied to her about it. Knew she’d hate herself for it, she carried a lot of weight on her shoulders because of her immunity - she acted like it was her whole purpose, saving the fuckin’ world - and I couldn’t put that on her, too. But she learned the truth and I don’t blame her for hating me for it. Still… I don’t regret it. Never have, not for a single goddamn second. Don’t care how much she hates me as long as she’s alive to do it. That’s all that matters. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. It’s worth it. Always will be.” 

Your fingers stilled in his hair, tangling in it at the back of his head and you pulled him toward you, your lips meeting his, so soft against him. He just kissed you for a minute, concentrating on the feeling of your skin on him, the feeling of you in his arms. He could feel tears on your cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Joel,” you said quietly, pulling away from him, your voice thick and wet. “I’m so sorry you had to live through everything you have, that you had to survive without your child… But I’m so happy it didn’t take you, too. I’m so happy you made it here, that you found me and I found you and… I love you, Joel.” 

He pulled you impossibly closer, his fingers sinking into the softness of your skin as he clutched you tight. 

“I am, too, now,” he said. “Her… her and you. Makes sense now, why I lived. Needed to find the two of you. Got everything I need with the two of you.” 

Dawn was edging into the horizon when you fell asleep in his arms and he just watched you breathe in the hazy light of the early morning. He watched you like that for a long time, until exhaustion took hold and he couldn’t anymore and he fell asleep wrapped up in you, bathed in the light of day.

A/N: Thank y'all so so much for being patient with this chapter! I've had an absolutely insanely busy few weeks. I'll probably be posting a bit less frequently for a week or so yet but expect this to be updated at least once a week in the mean time. I really appreciate you being willing to wait for the next chapters. Please know that I'd much rather be writing this than working, believe me!

I'm going to be doing a bit of a review of the story map for this part of the fic this weekend and I should have an angsticipation timeline update for those curious very very soon!

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Thank you for being here and for reading my work and hanging out in this corner of the internet. I love it here because you're here.

Love you!!

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i know it when i see it - part 3

series masterlist | part one | ao3

pairing:  pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 10.3k

warnings: sex work, exhibitionism, voyeurism, literal porn, dirty talk, thigh riding, mutual pining, mild angst, coercive sexual encounters, references to sexual violence, discussions of advocacy and autonomy

summary: unfortunately, it's very hard to stay angry at joel miller.

Fuck Joel Miller.

Fuck his condescension. Fuck his good intentions. Fuck his stupid, sexy voice.

You can’t shake the conversation in the car, so you seethe with it for days. On edge and agitated, his words replaying in an endless, infuriating loop. You’re restless with it — pacing the length of your room, stubbing out unfinished cigarettes only to light a new one, picking at your nail beds until they bleed. 

It's more than just anger. It would be so easy if you were just angry at him, if he inspired something as simple and clean as rage. You could handle that — could let it run its course, blackening the edges of any softer feeling you might have had for him. 

But there’s something else underneath the anger. A low burn of embarrassment, a snaking thread of shame that winds its way up your spine, settles at the base of your throat. 

Because you fucked up. You froze in that scene, in front of Joel, the broken yolk of yourself spilling over into his more capable hands. 

You want this so badly, and maybe he had seen that. Something wanting and raw — a desire for approval that made you weak, made you reckless. Maybe he understood that you would endure more than a little hurt to make it happen.

But you weren’t some stupid kid. You didn’t need him to show you how the world worked. And you sort of resented the insinuation otherwise.

There are so many things that you like about the business. 

The camaraderie of it all; the girls in their strange silky get ups, standing at the edge of set, swapping stories about all the different ways they fucked. There was none of the competition that characterized those conversations when you were younger, no snarl of possession or jealousy. There was a kindness to it, a warmth. Like you had been granted membership to an unlikely club.

You like the attention, the eyes on you, the heat of desire that settles on your skin. You like revealing the parts of yourself that had once seemed so shameful, reclaiming every inch of skin in front of the camera. You like the way the praise drowns out the whisper of your mother’s disdain, the way your skin seems to thicken with every scene, scar tissue smoothing over. You like the way you can give the grip a stiffy with just a wink, smiling through white streaks of semen.

But that didn’t mean you couldn't see the darker side of things. 

Closed casting offices. Rug burns and ripped tights. Cigar smoke sticking to some girl’s skin. The bruises and bloody underwear. Offers that couldn’t be refused.

Even if you wanted to ignore it, you couldn’t. It was everywhere; insidious in its omnipresence, the inescapable reminders that this was a business made by men for men. 

But growing up a girl meant getting used to the idea that sometimes sex was painful. You’re so used to men moving with violence, with contempt. In real life, so much of fucking felt like hate, it’s not exactly a surprise to find that sometimes the same thing is true in porn.

You adapt. You deal. You suck it up because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Big girls grin and bear it. If you bitch, you’ll get cut. And you didn’t come this far to flame out in your first few months. You can’t risk whining when it’s all so delicate, so breakable. Your success is built on spit and prayer, smudged lipstick and a one-way bus ticket.

That’s something Joel would never understand. 

You didn’t have the security of being Texas, the safety net of so many titles under your belt. There were still so many girls waiting in hallways to take your place, slipping easily into the space you vacated by being difficult. 

That was why you hadn’t stopped the scene. Why you hadn’t said anything about the room being too hot, the pressure reaching a fever pitch.

And maybe you should have said something before Joel ever felt like he had to intervene. 

But once he did — 

You didn’t want to stop.

You liked the way he talked to you. Liked how he made you feel, seemed to know what you needed without ever having to ask. You had lost yourself in the moment, the soothing lull of his voice. You trusted he would take you where you needed to go.

And maybe that was the real mistake.

This thing — the blurry, misshapen something between you — is going to get you in trouble. 

You don’t know what it is about him, what makes you hold him apart from all your other co-stars. Why you care so badly what he thinks, why his disapproval still smarts and aches so many days later. But it scares the shit out of you.

The life you have here feels so tenuous, so fragile. A single thread pulled could unravel the whole thing. 

Joel could not be that thread.

You keep working, keep saying yes to scene after scene. Even if you’re tired, even if Tess says maybe you should slow down. Even if you’re sort of losing count of all the cocks and cunts, the sea of flesh that surrounds you.

Because if you fuck this up, there’s nothing left for you. Nowhere to go, no soft place to land.

You can’t go home. You know they’d never take you back, even if you could swallow the shame of it. It wouldn’t matter if they never saw the movies, you know they would be able to smell it on you. Some part of you essentially tainted, impure, the ungodly girl they always suspected you were. 

And you’re not sure you can stomach staying here if you fail. You refuse to become one of the many vacant faces at the bus stops, all sunken eyes and stolen dreams. You can’t let yourself become submerged in the sometimes cruel tide of this city, sinking beneath the scud of soured ambition.

So even if it sucks sometimes, you stick it out.

Even if your jaw aches and your knees bruise. Even though sometimes your throat is so sore it hurts to swallow for a few days. Even if you’re not always ready, not always wet, and the stretch is more than you can take.

You won’t look weak.

You won’t risk it.

It's late on a Saturday after a long shoot, the sky a muddy purple as the sun sinks below the horizon. You’re sitting in the living room, a bag of frozen peas between your legs, listening to a Janis Ian record and trying not to cry. You’ve smoked the last cigarette in your pack, the foil wrinkled and disappointing, but you’re too tired to trek all the way to the store on the corner. 

So you sit and sulk and try not to feel too sorry for yourself. 

There’s the faint scratch of keys in the lock and your roommate stumbles in. Her eyes are soft with smeared liner, mouth a wine blur of red, her limbs soft and loose. She stands in the doorway, and you stare at each other for a long moment. You’re pretty sure you look pathetic.

She doesn’t say anything, just eases the door shut and sits on the sofa, curling into your side. She takes a joint from a tin of altoids and lights it, sucking in a deep breath before gently slipping it into your hand.

The smoke soothes some of the ache, eases the tight coil in your chest. The room gets hazy, and everything hurts a little less.

You get so high that you can’t stop laughing. And then you can’t stop crying. And then you’re doing both at the same time, these sort of wheezing little gasps, hiccuping sobs. 

Your roommate holds your hand and pets your hair and promises that you are not going to die, even if it might feel like it at this second. She changes the record to something less maudlin, and settles back on the sofa. You lay your head in her lap and stare up at her through damp lashes. She smells sweet, all smoke and citrus.

You tell her about Joel. About what he said, and how you think he might be right. About the bruises and the bad men and the crying in bathroom stalls. How you think you’re close to something special, but you’re so scared that you’re going to fuck it all up and break it before it happens. 

“You won’t break it,” she says. Like it’s obvious. Like it's a fact.

You grimace.

“Nobody likes a whiner.”

She taps your nose affectionately, her smile soft and endlessly understanding.

“It’s not whining if something’s really wrong.”

And you want to believe her, but a stubborn anxiety sinks its teeth into you, an animal sort of fear cornered in the cage of your chest.

“I'm replaceable,” you murmur, “There are so many other girls. If I can't handle it, someone else can.”

She shakes her head, a curtain of hair coming loose, shielding you from the outside world, so all you can see is her smile.

“No one else is you.”

Tears fill your eyes, stinging your lash line. When you blink they streak down your cheeks, dripping onto her bare thigh. She doesn’t seem to mind.

“I don't want to go home,” you whisper.

She coos and presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“You are home.”

You stay like that for a long while, curled together, a swell of easy music drifting over you. Your tears dry eventually, leaving a trail of salt on her skin.

You eat an entire sleeve of saltines and start to feel normal again. 

Some time after midnight, the other girls come home from the bar, tipsy and giggling. They pile onto the sofa, skin warm and damp and still glittery. Their night is regaled in gasps of laughter, disjointed and jabbering, a giddy squawk. Someone kissed someone, and someone else fell out of an open cab door, but it’s not clear who. No one was hurt, everyone is happy. You fall asleep like that, twined together.

The next morning, you wake up to laughter and the smell of burning eggs. And you think that maybe this is something you won’t lose. Something you couldn’t break even if you tried.

The next time you get a request for a rough scene, you turn it down. 

And nothing bad happens. 

No one calls you a failure or a fraud. No one shows up to punch your ticket and send you packing. 

A few days later, a different request comes in. A softer scene that you say yes to. 

You pull the thread and nothing unravels. Everything stays put.

The world still wants you.

x x x x x x

Tess brings you to the bar at the Beverly Wilshire, with its moody low lighting and emerald green booths. The drinks are expensive and terrible, a martini that’s too much vermouth, so you take small sips, lipstick stamped along the rim. 

Tess wants to set you up for a feature. Your solo tape hasn't been released yet, but she’s convinced that it’s going to attract a lot of attention, leave an audience hungry for more. 

A feature would be the natural follow-up. You would join the illustrious ranks of other infamous women: Marilyn Chambers, Linda Lovelace, Barbara Bourbon. 

But that means playing nice with some producers, smiling at the money men. Letting their hands linger a little too long, batting your eyes at their blatant flirtations, the oozing euphemisms. 

Softening your rougher edges into the shape of someone they want. Someone who would never nag or needle, never ask for anything especially inconvenient, never begrudge another game of golf. Who was always willing — eager even — for the low, grunting heave of disappointing sex. 

It was easy to make men’s hatred of women work against them.

You stare into their sallow, waxy faces and think of the wives they hate waiting at home for them. 

There’s an uncomfortable pang of memory: your mother scrubbing the kitchen floors until they shone with bleach, your father coming home with muddy boots. Acid rises in your stomach at the thought, and you swallow it down with a mouthful of champagne. 

Tess directs the conversation with an artful sort of precision, leading them around the topic of financing without ever arriving at the point, letting them wander up to it in their own time, making them think it was their idea all along. The men nod and chuckle and sip at their scotch. You can see the derision in the thin pull of their papery lips. 

They don’t take her seriously. She’ll bleed them dry anyways.

One of the men takes a clumsy step closer to you. 

“I recognize you from something,” he says, breath heavy with brandy.  “The naughty school girl — was that you?”

You force yourself to smile, “I only had a small part in that one.”

He sucks his teeth in disappointment. His eyes have a hint of jaundice, a tinge of yellow at the edge that makes him look vaguely reptilian.

“A shame,” he leans in even closer, “Pretty little thing like you. You should be the star.”

He leers in lieu of a smile, and you feel his hand brush the side of your breast as it slides to your lower back. You bristle and take a step back —

— and collide with someone else. A tall, solid someone who smells like cedar smoke and whisky, warm and welcoming. The hand that catches your waist is careful, the grip steady and sure. 

Joel glances down at you, dark eyes flickering over your face. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you say, slightly breathless. 

You take a step back and his hand falls from your waist. You can feel the heat lingering on your skin. 

Joel turns back to the man.

“You were just leaving. Ain’t that right?”

His voice is low, all menace, as he glowers down at the other, much smaller man.

The suit takes a step back, wilting a little. He looks small and shriveled in his pinstripes. You imagine his wrinkled balls drawn up and quivering between his legs. It’s sort of hard to remember that you’re supposed to be angry at Joel.

Tess appears then, stepping in to diffuse the tensions. She claps the other man on the shoulder.

“Sorry, Todd. Forgot to put my dog on a leash.”

He laughs, relief flooding his wane face, before he turns back to his equally flaccid friends.

Tess gives Joel a disapproving look.

“Can’t play nice for five minutes, can you?”

He raises an eyebrow at the drink in Tess’s hand.

“Thought you were working.”

“I am working,” she says, “This is a people business, Joel. Gotta shake a few hands, take a few shots. You could learn a thing or two.”

Joel gives her a skeptical look.

“Doin’ just fine on my own, thanks.”

Tess scoffs, “Lucky for you, your dick does most of the talking.”

He grimaces, and looks like he might say something else, but then Tess is turning to you, giving you a wary once-over. 

“You okay, kid?”

You nod. And you are, really. You could stomach a lot worse than a wandering hand.

But you sort of don’t want to be near Joel right now, so you make a weak excuse.

“I’m going for a smoke.”

You know that if she read any real anxiety in your expression she would have offered to come with you. She told you from the beginning, before all of this,  that everything is at your discretion. If anyone overstepped, took the flirting too far, she would handle it. 

As it is, she lets you step away, slipping through the crowd of models and suits, hearts and spades, until you reach the exit. 

The boulevard is busy, crowded with traffic and tourists, the haze of headlights. Neon signs burn against the black sky, blinking out the stars and staining the skyline in garish pinks and greens.

You step into the side alley for some quiet. The door to the kitchens is propped open, spilling tepid light onto the bricks and cement. You can hear the clatter of silverware, the hiss of oil, a voice shouting out the order to eighty-six the sirloin.

You lean against the wall, the bricks cool against your bare back, the low dip of your dress designed to entice the men inside. 

That’s the business. It only bothers you sometimes.

You close your eyes, inhaling the damp, smokey air. It helps a little. Clears your head.

The air shifts, and you can sense someone standing at the mouth of the alley. Which would maybe be alarming, except you feel that inexplicable pull, that tug just behind your navel, and you know who it is before you open your eyes. 

Joel stands with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, silhouetted in the glow of a streetlight. 

“You alright?” he asks.

You frown at him.

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.”

When he steps into the shadow of the alley, the light softens his features. The cut of his jaw isn’t as harsh, the set of his brow not so severe. You can see the warmer tones in his dark eyes, that smooth amber you like so much.

Fuck. 

When he’s standing this close and he looks that good, it’s very hard to remember you sort of hate him. 

Then he says —

“You oughta be careful with guys like that.”

And you stiffen, spine snapping into place, because he can’t be fucking serious. You glare at him.

“I’m not really in the mood for another lecture.”

He frowns, “Wasn’t tryin’ to lecture you —”

“No?” you interrupt, “‘Cause you really nailed it last time.”

He sighs heavily, folding his arms over his chest, scuffing the heel of his boot against the ground.

“You’re new at this,” he says, “There’s shit you don’t know.”

You scoff. Sharp, derisive.

“You think I don't know what men are like?” you say,  “Maybe I’m new to this city, but I'll tell you something — not all the bad guys are here.”

Joel looks at you, and for a second there’s something else behind his gaze. A sort of sadness. Like he’s sorry for whatever might have happened to you before, all the shit that brought you here.

But he has no right to that history.

“I’m just sayin’,” he says gruffly, “Tess should know better than dragging you into shit like this.”

You glare at him.

“Tess knows I can take care of myself.”

“Jus’ want you to be careful,” he mutters, shaking his head, “That’s all.”

And you should leave it there, should go back inside, slip into that circle of men, let them look at you. 

But you can’t — you can’t play nice when you’re pissed, can’t simper and smile with the burn of fury beneath your skin. 

And it’s his fucking fault.

You take a step closer, glaring up at him. 

“You think I’d let that guy fuck me?” you hiss.

Joel doesn’t rise to it.

“I think it ain’t always easy to say no.”

You narrow your eyes. “I can say no.”

He looks down at you, and then something shifts in his gaze. Subtle. A shadow passing over the sun, just a shade darker. But it’s there.

You feel it.

He takes a step closer, and you can feel the heat coming off of him, how it warms the night air around you.

“Is that right?” he murmurs.

You freeze when you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, the careful brush of his rough calluses. His thumb strokes the thin skin over your veins, and you wonder if he can feel the way your pulse skips.

He meets your eyes, and his are burning.

“What if he touched you like this?” he asks.

His hand slides up your arm to your shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He toys with the strap of your dress, teasing it against your skin. 

You swallow, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“I’d tell him to fuck off.”

Joel nods.

“Yeah, I reckon you would.”

His hand drifts down the bare skin of your chest, until his fingertips catch against the smooth fabric of your dress. He brushes his knuckles along the side of your breast, settling his hand on your ribs. 

He raises an eyebrow, “And if he touched you like this?”

You glare at him, baring your teeth.

“I’d rip his dick off.”

Joel chuckles, “‘Atta girl.”

He leans forward. So close you have to tip your face up to hold his gaze, so close you can feel his breath against your lips.

“And what about me?”

You stare at him. 

“What — what about you?”

It was sort of hard to focus through the sudden haze of arousal, the heat flooding through you.

“What if I touched you like this?” he says, voice low.

His thumb swipes across the swell of your breast, just below your nipple. Your breath catches.

“Fuck off,” you mutter, but it’s weak, there’s no real bite.

He lowers his head to your neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. 

“Come on, darlin’,” he murmurs, “You can do better than that.”

You feel the soft press of his lips against your pulse, the way his tongue darts out to taste the sweat of your skin.

You bite back a moan.

“You’re pissed at me — remember?” he says, coaxing, “You were about ready to rip my head off.”

His teeth drag up the side of your neck and you shiver.

“Yeah,” you say weakly, “I hate you.”

He sucks a mark below the line of your jaw and you whine, twisting your hands into the fabric of his shirt. 

He laughs, a low rasp. His breath cools the damp patch of skin his mouth left behind.

“Not sure I believe you, sweetheart. Not when you’re making all those sweet sounds for me.”

Drags his hand up to cup your breast, thumb stroking over your nipple, it stiffens against his touch. You can’t help it — you lean into his touch. Aching for more.

All you can think about is the feel of his mouth on your skin, his hand firm and heavy on your breast. 

“You gonna let me fuck you here? Right in this alley, where anyone could see you.”

And honestly — you would.

You definitely would. You want more of him, all of him.

But you’re supposed to be proving a point here.

So you force yourself to pull away slightly, pressing the heel of your hand against his chest. His hand starts to slide down toward the apex of your thighs, where you want him so badly. And you know if you let him touch you there, you’re a goner. 

You grit your teeth to get the word out —

“No.”

You shove him back with enough force that his head thuds against the brick wall. You keep your hand pressed against his chest, his heartbeat hammering against your palm. 

You stare at him, breathing hard.

“I said fuck off.”

He looks at you. His pupils are blown out, irises almost entirely swallowed by the black. He looks almost as fucked out as you feel, but there’s something else burning in the heat of his gaze. Something like pride.

“Yeah,” he nods, “You did.”

You swallow. 

Suddenly it’s all too much. This closeness, the warmth of him, the way he’s looking at you, his broad chest beneath your hand. You think you’re in danger of doing something really stupid if you stay any longer.

You steady yourself and take a step back. 

“Tell Tess I took a cab home.”

He nods. 

“Alright.”

And you turn before he can say anything that might convince you to stay, that might trick you into thinking this meant something. 

It didn’t, you decide as you slide into the back of a cab. It was nothing. An anomaly, a blip, a freaking fucking accident.

You do not like Joel Miller. 

So you’re not sure why you dream about him that night.

x x x x x

Tess bought her house in Topanga directly from the architect after he went bankrupt at the end of the sixties. You would have believed it was built for her, it's so well-suited. A split-level at the crest of the canyon, all oak paneling and sloped ceilings.

You like coming up here, how it feels like the smog of the city slides off your skin.

She lets you hang around while she works, taking calls from the tiny home office, her voice carrying out to where you sit in the kitchen, smearing peanut butter onto white bread.

You end up in the living room most evenings, after Tess says she’s gotten sick of hearing her own voice. She leaves the sliding door open so a breeze comes in off the canyon. Bluebonnets sway on their stalks, the sweet smell of them drifting in, mingling with the smoke from Tess’s cigarette.

The low hooting of an owl is drowned out by the slow turn of a record on the player. Tess sits in her leather armchair, head leaned back, exhaling her smoke to the ceiling. 

You lay sprawled across her thick shag carpet, the burgundy fur of it soft against your bare legs. You’re flipping through a stack of negatives from your last photoshoot, trying to select one for the cover of your solo tape. 

You’re not sure you can really call it a solo, since Joel played as much a role as you did.

Either way, it still doesn’t have a name, mostly because you don’t have a name. Something Tess insists you have to remedy now that the release is approaching.

“I think it oughta be something soft,” Tess says thoughtfully, “You know, pretty.”

 “Like what?”

You’ve been through this a dozen times, but never settle on anything specific. It feels weighty in a way that you can’t quite articulate. The scenes you’ve done so far are so small in comparison. This is something that belongs to you, and by naming yourself, you’re claiming it — everything that has come before, and everything that will come after.

“Maybe something floral,” she suggests, “Poppy or Posey?”

You think of weddings and funerals, flowers wilting in their vases. Everything with an expiration date. You wrinkle your nose. 

“Maybe a little too soft.”

Despite the sweet, simpering role you’ve played plenty of times, you’ve never really felt like that person — even in porn. You like to think there’s a little more bite to you.

Tess smirks, “We could always go with Mary.”

You roll your eyes.

“I can only be a virgin so many times.”

She takes a long drag, expression thoughtful. Smoke curls out of the corner of her mouth.

“How about Honey?”

You look up sharply.

“What?”

“Honey,” Tess repeats, “As your name. That’s what Joel called you, right?”

You drop your gaze back at the negatives.

“Maybe.” 

It was a lie. A bad one. You remembered every name he called you. Baby. Honey. Pretty girl. The way his accent warmed the words, how they seeped into your skin.

You haven’t told her about the conversation you had in the car or what happened after you left the bar. Why the mention of him gets you all tangled up.

“It’s not awful,” Tess muses, “Sort of sweet.”

And she’s right, it’s a nice name. But the thought stirs something in you, some sort of strange possessiveness. You want to keep that between you, want Joel to be the only one that calls you all those soft, affectionate things. Even if it’s just for a scene. Even if he never says it again.

Whatever it is, this thing between you, you want to keep it separate. 

You make a sort of noncommittal noise, looking down at the film strips in your hands. You can feel Tess’s eyes on you, shrewd and dissecting. You never feel quite so legible as you do with her.

“So,” Tess says, exhaling a stream of smoke, “Did you fuck him?

You’re careful to keep your expression neutral as you look up, raising an eyebrow. 

“You were there, remember?”

Tess rolls her eyes.

“Not what I meant.”

She holds your gaze until you feel a blush burn on your cheeks and you look away. 

“No — not other than that scene.”

It’s not technically a lie. You haven’t fucked other than that first scene together. And you don’t really have a name for what happened the other night in the alley, but it wasn’t fucking. You’re still not sure what it means, and you’re not ready to tell Tess about it.

Tess shrugs, “Wouldn’t be the first time someone mixed business and pleasure.”

And you know that. That on-screen chemistry can bleed over, become something more behind the scenes. You’ve received your fair share of overtures and invitations, offers for a night cap from someone who’s just shot a load all over your lower back. But you’ve never been interested.

At least, not in any of them.

You sigh and roll over onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Your shirt rides up and you splay your hand over your ribs, feeling the phantom touch of Joel’s fingertips.

“Pretty sure he’s not interested.”

Because he would have said something, is what you don’t say.

Tess scoffs, “Doubt that.”

You press up onto your elbows, staring at her. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, kid,” she shakes her head, “I was there. All that baby, honey, sweetheart shit?”

“What about it?”

“I’m just saying, that’s not what he calls the other girls,” she says, “God knows he never called me that.”

You tilt your head, looking up at her.

“You two —?”

She flicks her wrist, “Ages ago. When we were both starting out.”

“Oh.”

You consider this new information, rolling it over in your head. It’s not a surprise, not really. 

“And was he always…” you trail off, unable to put into words exactly what Joel is.

“A hard ass?” Tess finishes with a laugh, “Yeah, he was. Pretty sure he’s been scowling since the day he was born.”

She taps her ash into its ceramic dish.

“But I know him. And trust me, he’s a lot worse when he doesn’t like someone.”

You’re not sure what to say. You can’t unriddle the mystery of Joel Miller and you’ve sort of given up on trying.

You look back at the negatives in front of you and select one. In it, your eyes are heavy-lidden, lips parted slightly, shining with suggestion. You stretch your arm out to offer it to Tess.

“I think this is the one.”

She tucks her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, taking the negative from your hand and holding it up to the light so the shadow of your silhouette is illuminated.

“Perfect,” she nods, sliding it into the pocket of her shirt, “Now you just need the name.”

You think back to that first tape. The casting call. The bus ticket that brought you here. Every risk and roll of dice, the twists of fate you trusted enough to take you here, to this moment.

“What about Lucky?” you suggest, “Like, lucky number seven?”

The way that Tess had referred to you on that first day of the cheerleader film. Your first encounter with Joel, the first scene that made you feel like this was something you could be good at.

“Not bad,” she muses, thinking it over, “I could work with that.”

Lucky. 

You like the way it sounds, the way it feels. Sexy without showing too much of your hand. A flash, a wink. All suggestion and subtext. Something to play with.

You roll onto your knees, tilt your head, wet your lips, and in a low, lilting voice say — 

“Feeling Lucky tonight?”

Tess grins, bemused, and points at you with the glowing tip of her cigarette.

“You’re good, kid. I think I’ll keep you around.”

x x x x x x

The first Lucky tape sells so well that Tess takes you to Chateau Marmont to celebrate. You get a sunburn drinking Dom Perignon out by the pool, ankles dipped in the water, eating a dish of olives. 

You bring home a copy of the tape, along with a  new record player for the apartment since the old one skipped so much. Your roommates pass the cover between them with giddy interjections of — your hair looks amazing — you’re such a babe — christ, your tits! —

You refuse to stay in the room while the girls watch the scene, but you stand in the kitchen, listening to your own moans through the thin walls. You bite down on your fist, grinning at the girls’ little gasps and shrieks of delight. Afterwards, they pull you back into the living room, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, effusive in their praise.

They don’t mention Joel’s voice, but later one of them tugs you aside, a knowing look in her eyes, and says — 

“So that’s him.”

When you get a copy of a dirty magazine with the advert in the back, the other girls cut it out with nail scissors and tape it carefully to the fridge. You can’t so much as get a glass of milk without seeing your face — the coquettish curl of your lip, your legs splayed just so — with the order info below.

It sells out on the first run.

Tess tells you that people are starting to pay attention.

Your name is starting to end up on lists, whatever that means. But you know that she’s getting calls about you, offers instead of auditions. And it isn’t much, it’s barely a ripple in the churning sea of smut, but it’s something.

It’s more than you had yesterday.

Maybe less than you’ll have tomorrow. 

You decide to write out a new rider. And it has nothing to do with Joel. Nothing. 

But Tess says you can be choosier now, so you will be. 

You’ve always liked sex, in sort of a general way. You’ve never had to dissect it before, parse the particulars and shine out which pieces you like more than the rest. 

You expand your hard no’s. Asterisk others. There are new terms added, shit you’d never even heard of before you started working in the industry. For the first time, you really think about your own limits, the ways you’re willing to be pushed and where you want to draw lines.

Tess gives it an approving once-over and promises it’ll be included for all future shoots. 

And it’s not much. A thin defense against a business — a world — that won’t always care what you want.

But it’s a start.

x x x x x x

You’ve never been in a house like this.

Equal parts gaudy and glamorous, tucked away in the hills near Mulholland, with a winding driveway so long you were sure you were lost on the way up.

It belongs to a French director whose first foray into American cinema was an erotic thriller in which you played a small role. It was still porn, whatever he wanted to call it, but his name carried enough prestige for the project to be taken seriously in some circles.

The house is all live edges and wood-paneled walls with strange, expensive art that all seems sort of labial. There’s music playing from some unseen speaker with a hazy, hypnotic quality.

You make your way to the center of the house, where bodies are sprawled across the low bowl of the living room, clutching leopard print cushions to their chests, speaking in slow, slurred voices. The tone is vaguely European, undeniably erotic. They’re all smoking something that smells faintly of tar. As you pass, a wrist raises delicately from the chaise, gold bangles clinking together in a soft sort of music.

You’re wearing the only expensive dress you’ve ever owned. The fabric feels like water, and it clings to the soft curves of your body. The cut is suggestive but subtle, exposing a flash off your thigh or the curve of breast with every step.

Claude, the director, descends the moment he sets eyes on you, kissing the air beside your cheeks a dozen times each.

“Come — you must meet everyone.”

And it feels like you do.

He sweeps you around the room, calling you Lucky and spilling out a ceaseless stream of praise that makes you blush. You shake hands and accept air kisses, the occasional brush of dry lips against your knuckles. You let him pull you through the tide of eager admirers, smoky eyes and benevolent smiles, manicured fingers dragging wet circles around the rim of wine glasses.

You shine with it, the warmth of their attention, let it soak into your skin.

“Ah, and yes —” Claude says, stopping suddenly, “I think you’ve already met.”

You turn and find Joel standing in front of you.

He looks — different. 

And it takes you a moment to realize why, to recognize the subtle shift in his appearance. You wouldn’t go so far as to call it polished, but he’s more put-together than you’re used to seeing him. He’s in a button down shirt and dark jeans, his hair slicked back, and you can see the effort in it, the wet drag of a comb through the streaks of gray.

He looks good.

But then again, he always does. And always at the most inconvenient times.

You stare at him.

And he doesn’t shake your hand, or kiss your cheek, or offer any other overture of affection. He just nods his, tilting his head towards you.

“Lucky,” he says. 

The corner of his lip twitches with something like a smile.

You step away, excusing yourself to the bathroom before the blush on your cheeks gives you away.

God, you wish so badly that you didn’t give a shit. That his presence was benign, a non-event, barely worth noting in your account of the evening.

But every time you saw him it was the same.

The aching want reopened. The ugly hope resurfaced. You’re fifteen again, rolling the waistband of your skirt, exposing another inch of thigh like some illicit offering, hoping it might be enough to entice a boy’s attention.

You need to get a grip.

When you step inside the tiled bathroom, there are two women bathing together in some strange, voyeuristic ritual: their soft, glossy bodies twined together beneath rose scented suds. Their pretty heads lean on the lip of the tub, smiling beatifically at anyone who interrupts to use the only toilet. 

They make polite conversation while you pee, which is the sort of thing you probably shouldn’t get used to.

You search for Tess in the crowd, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. 

Eventually you find her, surrounded by the many pretty, gossamer girls that always seem to orbit around her, eager for a chance to impress. You can’t blame them. She’s a rare and impressive breed in this business; a woman who’s more than window-dressing. 

Tess waves you over, a pretty brunette sliding off her lap to make room on the leather sofa.

She notices your expression and frowns.

“What's wrong?”

“Joel is here.”

Her face remains neutral, impassive. The tip of her cigarette glows as she inhales.

“He said he might come,” Tess shrugged, “Surprised he actually showed up.”

“Why is he here?” you press.

She smirks up at you. “He’s a fan.”

You frown, “Of Claude?”

You found it almost impossible to believe that Joel had any deep appreciation for the obscure filmography of the French new wave.

“Of you, kid,” she rolls her eyes, “He appreciates your body of work.”

She says it suggestively, but you’re not in the mood. 

“He hasn’t even seen my shit.”

Tess takes a long drag, looking profoundly unconcerned. 

“I might have sent him a few tapes.”

You stare at her.

“What?”

“He asked,” she shrugs.

There’s a faint ringing in your ears.

“When?” you ask.

“After the solo shoot.”

Un-fucking-believable.

He asked for your tapes.

You needed saving during your solo shoot, and he wanted to see the rest for himself. Like he was collecting tragic evidence of your insufficiency, proof that you really aren’t up to par. 

That you don’t have what it takes.

You open your mouth to say something else, but Tess shakes her head.

“That’s all I’ve got, kid,” she says, “You want a real answer, you have to ask him.”

You think if you see him now, you really would rip his head off.

Instead, you slip out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing and looking down at the distant lights of the city. The sky is still stained from the sunset, the bright colors bleeding out from the horizon.

The city sweeps out below you, what looks like an endless expanse. If you crane your neck, you can see the spot where the lights disappear into the black stretch of ocean. 

You’d never seen the ocean before coming here. The first time you stepped into it, felt the waves licking up your ankles, it was like you forgot all the hurt that sent you running in the first place. Like you came all this way just to see the beach. 

The air shifts and someone leans on the balcony beside you.

 And somehow you know it’s him, know it without looking, because there’s some part of you that was waiting. That knew eventually he would follow you.

You look up at him, his profile outlined against the orange sky. 

“I like the name,” he says casually.

You frown at him.

“Shouldn’t you be mingling or something?”

He glances over his shoulder, watching the silhouettes move across the windows. He shakes his head.

“Not really my crowd.”

Your grip tightens on the stem of your champagne glass. You’re not sure you can swallow down much more small talk before the real question rips out of you.

“Then why are you here?”

At the party, but also here. Alone. With you.  

He glances at you, and you realize that the usual hardness is gone from his gaze. He seems softer, somehow, in the rosy light and his stupid nice shirt.

“Looked like you could use some company,” he says simply.

And you want so badly to ask what he means, what he’s trying to say. Why he insists on making this thing between you even more impossible.

Instead you say — 

“Did you ask Tess for my tapes?”

He’s silent for a long moment.

A breeze ruffles the fabric of his shirt, lifts his dark hair. Music drifts out from the open doors, your glass of champagne sweats in your hand.

He clears his throat. Looks down.

“Yeah. I did.”

You force out a bitter laugh, shaking your head.

“Fuck. You really don’t think I can do this, do you?”

He looks up, frowning.

“What?”

“You wanted to — what? See how bad I was fucking up?”

“No, that’s —”

He cuts himself off. Shakes his head, his hands flexing against the railing. His jaw twitches, and it looks like he has to force the words out.

“That's not why I wanted ‘em.”

His gaze flickers up to meet yours and your breath catches.

It’s scorching. All heat, burning embers, so overwhelming in its raw want that you almost take a step back.

“Oh.”

You were wrong.

You were so fucking wrong. 

He’s not just the thread that’s going to unravel you. He’s not some problem that you’re going to solve. He’s the flame that’s going to burn this whole fucking thing to the ground.

He takes a step closer.

“I know you can handle yourself just fine.”

Before you can say anything, you’re interrupted by the clink of a fork against glass, Claude’s voice drifting out onto the balcony as he announces that the screening is about to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please make your way into the theater.”

The moment breaks.

Joel steps away, leaving a little more distance between you.

And there’s more that you want to say, to pry out of him. But the living room is emptying out with the flow of bodies from one room to the next, everyone settling in for the screening.

He tilts his head.

“You oughta go.”

You feel yourself flush.

“Right. Yeah.”

You hesitate for a moment, then head inside. You can hear his footsteps behind you, and you feel the heat of his gaze all the way into the screening room.

x x x x x x 

Everyone else has already settled when you slip inside the screening room, with its low umber ceiling and plush velvet seating. You imagine the original purpose of the room was orgies, but it works well enough for the small crowd assembled now.

You perch on the back of a sofa near Tess, careful not to meet her gaze, sure that she would see something obvious written across your expression.

Claude stands at the front of the room, his cheeks red from the wine or attention or both, you can’t be sure. 

“Thank you all for coming to our little gathering…”

You see Joel settle at the opposite end of the room, leaning against the wall, tucked away in the shadows. You feel a strange, tittering thrill when you realize what he’s about to see.

The lights are dim and the film begins. 

It’s difficult to parse the finer details of the plot; the whole thing has a nebulous, dreamlike quality. Drifting from scene to scene without any clear objective, pausing to admire ripples on the pool or gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze. 

There is some shifting and conversation among the audience for the first twenty minutes, but they settle for the sex scene, quieting at the first flash of skin, turning their gaze forwards, watching with rapt attention.

The husband and wife tangle together in soft blue bed sheets, shedding their clothes until their skin is bare. She straddles his waist, her breasts spilling out from the cups of her bra, her hair loose and wild. He thumbs at her clit, wraps his mouth around the stiff peak of her nipple, and coaxes a low moaning climax from her.

There’s a smattering of applause as the scene shifts again. Across the room, the actress who plays the wife raises her glass in acknowledgement.

Maybe it should be strange, the way sex has become a spectator sport.

But it’s all admiring, all affectionate.

You’re almost surprised when you finally appear. 

A few of the other girls cheer, casting gleeful looks in your direction. You feel a warm glow of feeling for them, but you’re distracted — hyper-aware of Joel standing at the edge of the room.

You’re the au pair, pretty in your little sundress. You arrive with a single suitcase, a book of poetry under your arm, an almost venomous shine in the red of your lips. Almost at once, you begin the slow seduction of the husband. 

You lounge by the pool, your skin shining and damp, the straps of your bathing suit undone. You mouth at a peach pit, the juice slipping down your chin. You flirt and fawn and flutter your eyelashes until the husband finally succumbs to your attentions.

The husband comes behind you, whispers something in your ear. His lips drags down the side of your neck, mouthing damply at your skin. It’s lewd, lascivious, but it’s supposed to be. 

His hands twitch towards your chest.

The camera follows the slow unbuttoning of your dress, your skin exposed inch by inch. Your nipples peek through the lace of your bra, and the husband pauses to cup your breasts in his heavy hands, pawing and plucking.

Your dress slips from your frame, pooling at your feet. The camera lingers on the lone line of your legs, curve of your hip. The room had been cold, but the goosebumps on your skin suggest arousal rather than a chill.

Normally, you don’t mind watching your own work. It usually becomes an analytical exercise more than an erotic one, studying the details of your performance, making note of where you might improve. 

But now —

You’re almost painfully aware of Joel standing across the room, watching as you strip naked on screen.

You wonder what he sees. If he liked the white lace of your panties, the way they cut high across your ass cheeks. The husband’s hand drags over the curve of your hip, teasing at the waistband, exposing a flash of the skin beneath.

You risk a glance in Joel’s direction — 

— and meet his gaze. 

He’s already looking at you.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, expression unreadable, then pointedly turns his head back to the screen. Making it clear that he’s watching everything.

On screen, the husband turns you at the hip and props you up against the counter.  He buries his face between your breasts, dragging his tongue down the sensitive skin between them. Your head drops back, a fluttery, girlish moan leaving your lips.

You don’t remember what it felt like.

He presses you back against the countertop, laying you down beside the crushed basil, a curl of lemon rind. Your mouth is wide with an erotic sort of wonder, watching as he bows his head between your legs. 

You look good.

You can acknowledge that, at least, even when every other part of you itches with the anxiety of Joel’s presence.

There’s an undeniable sensuality in the way you raise your hips to meet the husband’s mouth, the sweet whimpers that leave your lips. 

The husband straightens and unsheathes his cock from his trousers, tapping the ruddy head of himself against your entrance. There’s a breathless moment of pause — you bite your lip, brace your hands over your head — and then he slides inside.

The sound of your soft moans fill the room, accompanied by a gentle lilting score.

You glance over at Joel again, and this time he isn’t watching you. His dark eyes are focused on the screening, watching as you get fucked.

It’s strangely erotic, charged, to watch him watch you. 

As if sensing your gaze, he turns his head. 

It’s impossible to read his expression, only half his face is lit by the glow of the screen. But you can feel the way his gaze sweeps over you. How it lingers on the place between your legs where you can already feel yourself getting wet.

It’s like he knows.

You press your thighs together, arousal pooling in your core.

On screen, you moan, and you tear your gaze away to look back at the film. 

The husband is fucking you with intent now, his shoulders bunching by his ears, but the camera’s focus is entirely on you. The wet spread of your sex around his cock, the way you writhe on the countertop. 

Your eyes close, and your mouth drops open. A long moan leaves your lips.

“Fuck, I’m coming.”

You were not. 

Not even close. It was rare enough in real life, by now you knew better than to expect it in porn, barring the occasional exception. The actor playing the husband had barely paid any attention to your clit, so focused on staving off his own orgasm that he made no real attempt to make you come.

It was in the script, and so you faked it.

And normally it wouldn’t matter. Most people, most men, couldn’t tell the difference anyways.

But he’s watching.

Joel — who made you come three times in your first scene together. Who talked you through three more during the solo shoot. Who had apparently watched the rest of your fucking tapes. 

He could definitely tell the difference.

No one else seems to notice, or else they don’t expect anything else. There’s a friendly round of applause as your scene ends — the husband coating your chest in come — and a few people raise drinks in your direction. 

You’re almost afraid to look at Joel again, afraid of what you might find in his gaze. When you risk a glance at him, he’s still looking at the screen. 

But you think there’s a certain smugness to his expression, a satisfaction.  

Your stomach swoops low and you swallow the last mouthful of your flat champagne, feeling a burn that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

x x x x x x 

You step out somewhere in the second act. 

The film isn’t very good, a little too interested in its own opaque morality, but you suspect everyone will say otherwise. You certainly will, whenever you’re asked.

You slip through the screening room door, the sound of moans cutting off as it closes behind you. 

The house feels strange now that it’s empty, the hallway echoing with every step you take. You ache for a bit of privacy, a real reprieve. You wonder if those women are still in the bath, or if they’ve joined the splay of bodies inside.

You only make it a few steps down the hall before you hear the door open behind you, a bright burst of sound quickly muffled as it closes again.

You recognize the sound of his footsteps, the tread of his boots. He stops just a few paces behind you.

“Did he know?”

You turn slowly and find Joel watching you. 

“What?

He takes a step closer. His eyes are dark. Hungry. 

“Did he know you faked it?”

You swallow. “I — I didn’t.”

“C’mon, darlin’,” he tuts his disapproval, “Can’t lie to me. I know what the real thing looks like.”

He pauses. Tilts his head.

“Or did you forget?”

You swallow. “I didn’t forget.”

He moves slowly towards you, and you don’t back away this time, don’t deflect. He seems to be waiting for it, for you to tell him to stop. You know he would if you said so, know that some part of him must expect it. But this time you don’t.

When he reaches out to touch you, you let him.

“You get all flushed here,” he murmurs, his knuckles grazing your cheek, then drifting down to your chest, stopping just above your breasts, “And here.”

Your breath hitches. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat beneath his hand.

He brushes your hair back, sweeping it from the side of your neck, exposing the skin there. He wraps his hand loosely around the column of your throat, holding you in place

“Know what you sound like too. All those sweet little whimpers,” his fingers flex slightly. “Can’t get ‘em out of my head.”

He holds you like that for a long moment, head tilted up toward him, his thumb stroking along your jaw. Just — looking. At you.

You swallow, and you know he can feel the movement of your throat under his hand. You can feel yourself slipping, dragged into the undertow of his voice, the current of electricity between you. 

“It’s real pretty when you do it right,” he murmurs.

“Maybe,” you say, though it comes out a little ragged, “Or maybe I faked it with you too.”

His eyes go impossibly dark.

“Guess we oughta find out.”

He crowds you back, pressing you further into the dark corner of the hall. A gasp punches its way out of your lungs as he pushes you up against the wall.

He splays his hand over your chest, at the base of your throat, his fingers grazing the neckline of your dress. He stares down at the blush that rises on your skin, blossoms under his touch. 

“See?” he murmurs, “Like that.”

He strokes your feverish skin, almost thoughtfully. 

“Am I turning you on, darlin’? Or do you just like watching yourself?”

The sensitive tips of your breasts brush against his hard chest and a shiver wracks through you. You lean into his touch, looking up at him from under your lashes.

“I know it’s not for him,” he says, jerking his head towards the screen room, “Couldn’t even get you close. And you’re so easy, aren’t you?”

He ducks his head and drags his tongue down the sensitive skin of your neck. You choke on a moan —

“Fuck.”

He doesn’t stop, dragging his mouth along the side of your jaw, beard scraping against your skin. You can feel him smirking.

“You wet already?” he asks, “Come on, baby. I want to hear it.”

“Yes,” you gasp at another flick of his tongue, “Fuck — yes.”

He nudges your knees apart with his own, slotting his thigh between your legs. When his hips press against yours, you can feel that he’s hard. And it makes you feel a little desperate, a little light-headed, to feel how much he wants you.

“Bet you can come just like this, can’t you?” he mutters, “Rubbing up on my thigh.”

You can, you know you can. You’ve been wet from the moment your scene started, the second you saw him watching. And now the feel of him against you — his thick arms caging you against the wall, your hips trapped against his — it was all so much. 

“Please,” you whine, “Joel, please.”

He rolls his hips against you and you moan at the pressure against your clit. You chase the sensation, grinding down on the thigh between your legs.

“Not right, leavin’ you unsatisfied,” he murmurs, “Pretty girl like you deserves to come whenever she wants.”

His hand scrapes up the side of your thigh, dragging up the fabric of your dress. He grips your ass in his hand, fingers teasing the wet lace of your panties .

It’s so much. 

The touch of his fingers near your soaking core, the grind and drag of your clit against his thigh. And he keeps fucking talking, voice low and smooth in your ear, whiskey on his breath.

“Doesn’t know what he’s missing. Look so good like this, all fucked out.”

He tangles his hand in your hair, pulling your head back to expose more skin to his tongue and teeth.

“Fuck,” you whine, “Fuck, feels so good –”

You whimper, clutching at his shoulders as you hump his leg with increasing desperation. 

“That’s right, baby, ride me,” he growls, “Use me.”

The world narrows to the places where your bodies touch. The wet drag of your panties over his denim.  The scrape of his teeth down the side of your neck. His hands digging into you, bruising at your hip, on your ass.

“Fucking waste,” he mutters, “Not making this pussy come. Felt so fucking good around me.”

He hitches your leg over his hip and the angle changes. And it’s good, so fucking good. You grind down on the hard line of his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath you.

“Joel,” you gasp, unable to form words, “Joel, please –”

He’s thrusting against you, practically fucking you through your clothes.

“Want to feel it, baby. Want you to soak me.”

You’re so close, soaking wet and so sensitive, but it’s not enough. You roll your hips against him harder, faster. 

“I – fuck, I can’t –”

His grip on your hips tightens and he starts to guide your frantic movements, grinding you down even harder against his thigh. 

“Yes, you can,” he grunts, “Come on, pretty girl. Show me what it looks like.”

You give a few more, stuttering thrusts against him, gripping the thick muscle of his arms. Your clit catches against the fabric of your panties, and then you’re coming, hard, his name leaving your lips in a low, ragged moan. Your hips twitch against him and he presses you back against the wall, letting you ride it out, carrying you through it.

Eventually the pleasure sizzles into a low, sleepy burn, your arousal settling somewhere low in your stomach.

You exhale shakily, blinking back the tears you hadn’t realized had gathered at the corner of your eyes. You release your death-grip on Joel, your nails leaving little crescent marks on his skin. He holds you steady as you catch your breathing, his hands at your hips.

He pulls up the strap slipped down your shoulder, smoothing it into place. His hand lingers at the base of your neck.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, gaze sweeping over you, “Real thing’s much better.”

Your gaze flickers to his lips. 

You want to kiss him so badly, you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted anything more. But you remember his rider. And you don’t know what the rules are now. 

There’s a burst of applause in the room behind you as the film comes to an end.

Any second now the door is going to open, and the house will be full again. You’re running out of time to say something, but you don’t know what. 

You stare up at him.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, and then he’s stepping away. 

The audience spills out from the screening room, and he’s hidden by the sudden surge of bodies. You’re overwhelmed in a deluge of eager praise and congratulations, almost everyone who passes seems to have something kind to say, some wink and nudge.

When the crowd finally thins, he’s gone.

Tess spots you the moment she steps into the hall, one of the last to leave the screening room.

She takes in your disheveled appearance. Cheeks flushed from your orgasm, dress wrinkled from his hands. Her eyes linger at your neck and you wonder if he left a mark.

You sort of hope he did.

Tess sidles up to you, twirling the stem of an empty martini glass.  

“You two work it out yet?” she asks, smirking.

And there’s no point in pretending that nothing happened, not now, when she can smell the sex on your skin. You exhale a heavy sigh, dropping your head back and glaring at the ceiling. 

“Not yet.”

I’ve missed him so much! 😍 This is SO GOOD! Makes me want to go back and re-read the entire thing again

it's hard (stepdad one shot)

3k words, stepdad!joel x f!reader

“Can I tell ya somethin'?” He whispers. “What?” You ask. He takes a deep breath. He scoots back, making room for you to roll onto your back and look up at him. His face is serious. He takes off his glasses and reaches to put them on the side table. His eyes are always browner than you remember. 

SUMMARY: You're at their house xmas wk. WARNINGS: I8+ stepcest, angst, pining, fluff, possessive!joel, sneaking around, outercourse, unsafe p in v, mess of cum. reader can sit on him. Mood board is for mood. A/N: Title is an album by The Who. Another bonus to come this month 🫣.

It’s Christmas week, only a few days after your first time with Joel, and you’re staying at their house. You show up later than you said you would, and Joel has already asked where you are. The truth is, you're nervous. You’re not sure you want to have sex in their house, and you’re also not sure you can resist.  It’s too mortifying to think about getting caught. There are plenty of other places you can do it–your apartment, a motel, a car. You’re trying to be smart and slow down. 

When you show up, your mom’s car isn’t there. Joel is in the kitchen wearing his standard gray joggers, a tight white tee, and socks with coconuts on them. No shoes. He lights up when you walk in. "Hey," you mutter and he replies in kind as you close the door behind you. You survey the living room where there’s a pillow and blankets on the sofa, and you pity him for a moment.  

“Oh,” he goes over to the christmas tree and plugs in the multicolor lights. “Merry Christmas week.” You stand there with your bags, not really sure what you’re doing, or feeling. He approaches you cautiously. 

You look at each other for a few seconds until you're both comfortable that the other still feels the same way. 

“I'll take those,” Joel finally offers. As he takes the bag off your shoulder, he gives you a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you,” he mumbles. His shirt rides up as he slings the bag over his shoulder and you follow him upstairs. He glances back and teases, “Caught ya lookin’.”

Once you make it to your bedroom you ask, “where's mom?” 

“Grabbin’ dinner. Guess we’ll eat when she's back.”  He puts the bags down on your bed and steps toward you. You don’t step away. He gently pulls you into a hug, with his arms over yours. You inhale his scent as his arms wrap around you. 

The embrace lingers, and you can't ignore the warmth of his mostly-soft package pressing against you. 

You begin to whisper, “I don't think we should. . .”  trailing off when you realize you're not sure where to draw the line. Every second in his arms, you're less and less sure. 

“Okay,” Joel murmurs. He kisses you on the cheek–slower, more tender than his initial greeting. “Whatever you want,” he adds. He presses his lips into your cheek again, and they linger for a moment before he drags them away. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, then pull away, cheeks burning as his arms reluctantly loosen and his hands slide down, skimming your sides as you step back. 

“I'm gonna unpack,” you mutter, glancing at your luggage, cheeks warm. 

“Yeah,” Joel scratches one side of his beard. “Okay.” 

One day at a time. Have some self-control. You pull yourself away. 

He nods, looks down, and turns around to leave. His back is sooo broad.  You want to reach out and run your hand over his muscles, but you know you wouldn't stop there.

You lock the door behind him and hope it isn't too offensive. As soon as he’s out, you exhale. You lay down on your bed.  You open your nightstand drawer and your heart flutters at a box with a bow on it, and your name in his handwriting. Under it, there's a new pack of batteries. 

You wonder if he's about to jerk off, but you don't wait to find out. You close your eyes and imagine him coming back through the door, unable to resist.

—------------- 

Your Mom comes home with Thai food and the three of you sit down to dinner together. Your mom makes small talk while Joel makes a mess of the pad thai trying to serve himself. Noodles are dragging behind, tethering the pile on his plate to the main container.  Your mom bristles at this in her peripheral vision. 

“So,” your Mom puts on her best interested face and asks you,“Swipe right on anyone lately?” 

Joel scoffs silently. 

“Not many,” you answer. Every time she talks to you, your heart races like you’re about to walk into a trap. This is your own doing, and you know it. 

“How many guys are on there, anyway?”

“A lot.” 

“Can I see?”

It doesn’t even occur to you to say no. 

You open tinder and slide your phone over. “Just swipe left.” 

Joel’s chewing slows down as he stares at the dating app open on your phone. Your stomach drops.

You hadn’t used it at all this week. You would’ve deleted it if you thought about it, but you’re so used to ignoring the notifications. You look at Joel apologetically as your Mom keeps swiping left.

Joel’s nostrils flare, and his breaths become faster. He swallows and doesn’t take another bite. He taps his chopsticks on his plate. 

“Oh,” your Mom addresses you. “You know who’s single?” She looks up from your phone. Joel takes a deep breath and looks at her with his brow furrowed. 

“Harold, down the street.”

“What the hell would she want with Harold?” Joel snaps. 

Your mom chuckles. “What’s wrong with Harold?” 

Her phone rings. Joel puts his chopsticks down and clasps his hands behind his chair to stretch his back. As soon as your Mom stands up from the table, he leans forward and takes your phone. 

“What’s this about?” he asks flatly.  It’s still open to tinder. His jaw clenches. He looks into your messages. At least he can see you haven’t sent any. 

“I forgot I even had it,” you explain. 

“Hey,” you reach for your phone. “What the hell?” You take it from his hand. “Are you gonna act even crazier now?” 

He goes to the home screen. “Good, you won’t mind.” He holds down the app and presses uninstall.

“What else ya got?” he starts scrolling your apps.

He goes on instagram and opens a picture of you in a mildly low cut dress. He deletes it and opens another picture. His breathing is still agitated. 

His brow furrows and he stares at the table, then meets your eyes and swallows. “I dunno.” His face softens as he looks at you.

Then he gets pensive and asks, “What do you think of Harold?” 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t think about Harold at all.” You pocket your phone and get up from the table. 

“Wait, where ya goin’?”

“Meeting a friend for coffee.”

He’s rubbing his beard like he’s trying not to say anything, but he blurts out, “What friend?”

“Emma. . . Jesus.” 

On your way out of the neighborhood, you pass Harold’s house. It feels like every time you drive by in the daylight, he's struggling to bring some kind of delivery inside - Amazon boxes, or even donuts and iced coffee. Tonight he's sitting at his kitchen table alone, wrapping a present.

—--

When you’re at the cafe with Emma, Joel texts you, Sorry.

It’s ok, you reply. 

It's a struggle not to tell Emma what's going on, but you don't. You tell her you’re seeing someone but don't want to jinx it by saying too much.

When you get home, he’s in the kitchen casually leaning with his butt and hands against the counter.  “How ‘bout some egg nog?” 

“No thanks,” you tell him, but you linger. 

“We good?” he asks, quieter. You nod as you take off your jacket, then put it in the coat closet. 

When you turn around, he’s right in your space. His eyes are red and his hair is messier than earlier, giving you a rush of desire.

“Sorry,” he repeats and reaches for your head.

You don’t pull away.

He cradles the back of your head as he hugs you loosely. You let your hands lightly skim his hips, then wrap around him. It would be a harmless hug in a different family. Until he pulls his head back, then rubs his nose against yours. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nostrils filling with his aftershave. Then a toilet flushes in the background, and you break apart. 

“I’m going to read,” you mumble. His fingertips skim your ass as you walk away. 

—------------- 

You’re lying in bed later, still reading, when Joel sends you a snapchat. The notification makes you tingle, but when you open it, it’s not him. It’s the TV downstairs with the title card of Krampus. You get out of bed and pad over to your mom's room. You crack the door open, and she's passed out. 

You go downstairs.

Joel is lying on his side on the sofa. You and he are wearing the same pajamas you got for Christmas last year. The Christmas tree casts the room in a dim, cozy light. 

He welcomes you under his arm. Just a little cuddling, you lie to yourself.

Without much hesitation, you settle in as a small spoon so you're both facing the tv. He runs his hand up and down your side before dangling his arm over your waist.  The bulge in his pants is barely grazing you, until you push your ass back and he inhales sharply, then cups your breast, using his forearm across your torso to bring you closer. His nose nudges your neck and you can feel him inhaling your scent. His warm package nudges your ass. It's the first time you've felt him soft, like really felt him. It's still quite a bulge.

He's not soft for long. Soon he’s lightly grinding against you, hard and getting harder as the movie quietly plays. His hand leaves your breast, skimming down your soft pajama top to its bottom hem. His fingers creep under the shirt and when they hit your bare skin, the shock of arousal has you thinking very stupid thoughts. Like, maybe you should ride him on this couch, come what may. You stop his hand from going any further up your shirt. 

His arm relaxes in defeat. 

You gently take his hand out from under your shirt and bring it near your breast, where it was. Instead, he covers your hand with his and interlaces his fingers. His thumb brushes yours at a slow rhythm, and the butterflies in your chest nearly make you forget what you're trying to resist until his cock twitches against you.

He takes his hand back only for a moment to adjust himself, then his hand returns to yours. His arm wraps tighter over you. Against your back, his chest expands with each breath. The rhythmic stroke of his thumb lulls you half-asleep. 

“Can I tell ya somethin?” He whispers. 

“What?” You ask. 

He takes a deep breath. He scoots back, making room for you to roll onto your back and look up at him. His face is serious. He takes off his glasses and reaches back to put them on the side table. His eyes are always browner than you remember. 

“I wanna do this every night,” he says. 

Your heart flutters. You turn on your side to face him. 

“I mean it,” his eyes are somber. He lays his hand on your side. He takes in a shaky breath. “I'm miserable without you.” 

“I'm right here.” 

He shakes his head. “I need all of you.” 

You look at each other for a few seconds in the light of the Christmas tree. There's not much to say. 

“Me too,” you whisper. His nose twitches and he shakes his head like you don't get it.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is. . .I’d ruin my life for you, if it wouldn't ruin yours, too.”

You read each other's eyes for a long moment.

“What life,” you whisper.

His eyes brighten. “That's how I feel.”  His gaze falls to your lips. “We’ll get a new one.” 

You want to kiss him, but don't want to end up naked. First you warn,  “I don't wanna take off any-”  

He cuts you off with his lips. They’re soft and needy. Then his hand runs down your side, over your ass, and his fingers dig into your flannel-clad thigh. You hike your knee up and wrap your leg around him. The hard shape in his pants presses right against your most sensitive place. “Mm,”  you moan softly into his mouth.

You’re throbbing for him. So turned on. His tongue slides against yours and he feeds on your mouth as he grinds against you. His dick fat and hard and warm.

As you move against each other, pangs of pleasure dart to your nipples, your ass, your chest. He's so hard. Your body flutters on the edge of bliss but stays there. He grabs the plush of your ass, pulling you harder against him. You break the kiss with a gasp, and he latches onto your neck. 

With a push of his hips, he moans into your neck then whispers, “can't wait to be inside you again.” you throb and gush at the thought. He grinds against you a little harder, needier, but just as slow. “Fuck, you feel good.” He rolls over on his back, bringing you on top of him. Then he sits up and lifts your knees so your legs wrap around him and you hang onto his neck.

“God I wanna fuck you like this,” he whispers, holding you against him. His cock swells harder. You're throbbing madly. You card your fingers into his hair and he groans at your fingertips on his scalp. His strong arm holds you against him with his hips lifting under you. 

“Me too,” you whisper, your legs pulling yourself closer, harder. You groan softly. “Want you inside me—fuck, just like this.”

“Can ya feel it,” he asks, “ohhh–cause I still feel it–god–every time I close my eyes.” He moans as his stiff manhood twitches against you. Your clit pulses and you gasp. He covers your mouth with a kiss as you come. Everything else fades away. His lips break away with a shudder as he explodes against you through the soft flannel, pulsing hard. Your chest flutters at the feeling.

When you're both done, he lets you back onto the sofa, and resumes his position on his side. He pulls you back against him with a sigh. You're pleasantly surprised that you don't feel a bigger mess against your back.

“Shit,” he mutters after a minute.

“What?”

“‘s’not your problem.” 

“Say it.” You roll on your back to look at him.

His cheeks flush. “M’not empty.” 

Your heart skips a beat.

“Not your problem,” he repeats, but you’re already pulling down your waistband. Yeah, it’s. . .not a problem at all.

You turn on your side again, facing the tv. You reach back into his pants, and your breath hitches at the mess of cum enrobing his slowly softening dick.

“Do it,” you whisper, and tilt your hips for him.

He quickly notches his cum smeared dick at your entrance, no longer fully hard, but hard enough. He presses on your mound as he plunges into, dividing your insides with a sigh. “Fuck,” he breathes. Your chest feels light as your body makes space for him. 

You close your eyes as he further stiffens, growing inside you, pressing against your walls. His hand slides up your top. He gropes your breast as he retreats, then bottoms out again. Within a few strokes, he’s as stiff as ever, and you’re as full as ever. 

He pauses, fully seated inside you, throbbing. He covers you both with a blanket. You're relieved there's another one beneath you. He breathes against your ear as his hand meanders under your top again. “Inside?” 

“Yeah,” You nod.  

“Where it should be,” he pants. He moans as he slowly fucks you.

“Want it all,” you beg, getting closer and closer with the tight drag of him within you.

He adjusts his position, sliding his arm under your neck so he can grope you with both hands, hugging you tight against him.

"'s'all I think about," he whispers. "Ungghhh---when I wake up---ohh--when I go to sleep."

He moans softly and his hands feel you greedily, "whenever you're ready."

“Fuck,” you whisper. He buries himself in you slow and deep. His breath is hot on your neck. You push back on him, swallowing every inch he’ll feed your drooling cunt. He buries his mouth and nose against your head. The Christmas lights are blurry in the corner of your eye.

“Feel so perfect,” he pants. He rubs your clit and you still his hand. He withdraws part way and pauses with his tip nudging just the right spot. He just barely rocks his hips, staying right there, rubbing over it, not letting up.

You gasp and tighten with tension, then sigh as you gush on him.

“Yeah,” he pants, presses your mound for leverage, and bottoms out as you choke his cock.

He sighs and begins to pulse with even more power than you remember. A huge burst of warmth, followed by a smaller twitch, another massive burst, a slow thrust. It keeps coming, and so do you. His breaths are heavy against you, his stomach flexing into your back as he empties his load. You're overflowing with cum. Your climax wanes, and he's still pulsing even once he's dry.

It finally stops, and he rests inside.

-

You catch your breath, and the smell of sex hangs so heavy in the air that dread bubbles in your chest. You pull yourself forward, letting his cock fall out.

“Shit,” you mutter at the mess between your legs. You pull your pants up. He squeezes your hip affectionately as you sit up.

He sits up on his elbow and tucks away his worn out cock. He takes a deep breath and searches your eyes.

You don't know what to say. You reach back to feel the blanket – soaked. “This is. . .we can’t do this again.”

He whispers your name, sits up and rests one hand on your back, one on your thigh. His chest is heaving like he's waking up from a nightmare. “What happened,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”

“Here. We can't do this here.”

He sighs and swallows. “Okay,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

“You know how to use the washer, right?”

“Yeah. I've got it. Of course.”

You take off your pajama bottoms.

“You okay ?” He asks.

You nod. You yearn to lay with him, but you’re also compelled to leave that room.

You read his face and the worry on it makes your heart hurt.

“It's okay,” you whisper, then kiss him good night. It's a long, soft kiss, and he doesn't want to let you go. “It’s okay, I promise,” you assure him.

You creep up the stairs pantsless. The air is cool on the cum between your thighs until more warmth trickles out.

You clean up in your bathroom and hear the washer turn on downstairs. You can't get his pitiful look out of your head. You send him a chat when you get back in bed: Good night ❤️.

Sweet dreams ❤️🤟, he replies.

—---

----

----

Thank you for reading!

PSA - The main story to stepdad is over, and I don't commit to another arc of them, but the AU is still open for one shots, asks, HCs, whatever I get inspired on. Basically I want it to be more casual without expectations.

There will be another post this month, because I already wrote the smut.

@silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339 @manazo @taeslarityy @str84pedro @lokanda  @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname   @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @switchbladedreamz @within-the-depths @may-machin @sloanexx @paleidiot @yourmistysecret @bean-is-reading @rainstorms-library @am-3-thyst

This is so good! ❤️

Farmhand!Joel-Part 2-Too Sweet for Me

Summary: Almost getting caught by your dad is exciting. Having dinner with your parents and him is always awkward. And going to his place for the first time is just as fun as you’d hoped. Although Joel is seemingly catching feelings pretty hard, he’ll still put you in your place. You’re just too sweet. This may or may not be inspired by the new Hozier song coming out.

Warnings: PIV sex, almost getting caught, age gap, oral sex female receiving, oral sex male receiving, lots of talking you through it, Joel catching feelings he wasn’t expecting, fingering, unprotected sex

It’s only been a week since you and Joel fucked in his truck for the first time, yet you guys have fucked at least a dozen times since then.

Hiding in the barn, on your late night “thinking” drives, even out in the field a couple times. Pretty much anytime your dad wasn’t around, you’d find yourself bent over the hood of Joel’s truck taking his cock from behind or being pushed up against the backside of the chicken coop and having your insides rearranged.

That leads you to where you are right now.

“We gotta hurry, your dad’ll be back soon.” Joel says in a rushed, quiet voice.

“Don’t worry I know what I’m doing here.” You say slyly as you kneel in front of him, unzipping his pants and freeing his already hard cock.

“Mmm looks like someone was waiting for me.” You coo, looking up and smiling at him.

“Fuck yeah. You walkin round here in a fuckin bikini top and shorts makes my head spin and my cock hard.” He says, gripping the back of your head and shoving his hard length in your mouth.

“Such a dirty little whore. Tryna make me hard when you’re not supposed to.” He says through gritted teeth, “Think ya need punishment for that baby, now you’re gonna choke on me.”

He puts both hands on the back of your head and shoves himself all the way in your mouth. His balls smacking your chin. He’s practically going down your throat completely when he abruptly pulls all the way out and leans over the side of his truck.

“Hey Bill! How was town? You find what you needed to fix the fence?” Joel says, subtly trying to get you to put his still hard shaft back in his pants.

“Ah no, those young cashiers never know how to find stuff anymore.” Your dad huffs from what you can tell is the entrance to the barn. Luckily you’re hidden from his vision by the tire of the truck.

So instead of helping Joel by putting his cock away for him, you decide to have a little fun.

As your dad and Joel continue to chat about work, you begin to softly lick Joel’s balls. He rests one arm on the truck casually and lets the other one hang down by your face. Trying to swat you away.

Instead you take his hand and make him grip your hair as you lick up the seam of his balls, then up the shaft, then the tip.

He roughly grips your hair and continues talking with your dad. Casually clears his throat whenever you take him back down your throat.

His hips pump ever so slightly, as to not give him away. You hear your dad clanking around just on the other side of the barn door obviously paying no attention.

You feel him twitch in your mouth and start to go a little deeper and faster. His hand still gripping your hair, he pushes himself all the way down your throat as he coats you with his hot, salty cum. Which you gladly swallow and show him your empty mouth with pride.

“Alright I gotta go take a shit I’ll be back out in a little while. Go ahead and get the chickens fed.” Your dad says, slowly exiting the barn.

“I’ll get right on that.” Joel says.

“Oh by the way, my wife asked if you want to stay for dinner tonight? It’s steak and baked potatoes.” Your dad asks.

“Ah, well how could I say no to that?” Joel laughs.

“Alright I’ll let her know. I’m sure my daughter will be happy. Between me and you, I think she has a little crush on ya.” Your dad says with a chuckle.

“Oh really? Never woulda guessed that.” Joel laughs, subtly patting your head.

“Yeah, just don’t play into it though. She gets attached too easily.” Your dad says, walking away “alright I’ll be back.”

“Fucking Christ are you tryna get me killed?” Joel scolds, once your dad is fully in the house.

“Nah, just havin some fun.” You say, standing up. “See you at dinner tonight.”

“When were you going to tell me you had a little crush on me?” Joel asks, teasingly

“As soon as you took your cock out of my mouth. I was going to say ‘hey by the way I think you’re cute.’” You say sarcastically

—

“This looks delicious ma’am, thank you for inviting me for dinner.” Joel politely says to your mom.

“Well thank you for staying Joel. Lord knows we don’t ever have guests over for dinner so this is nice.” Your mom says, passing you the salad. “Once this one here goes back to school, it’ll be back to just me and Bill at home, so it’ll be nice if you’d come for dinner every now and then.”

Joel looks over at you curiously, “when do ya head back?” He asks.

“In about 6 weeks.” You say, suddenly becoming very interested in the little flowers painted on your plate.

You don’t want to think about leaving yet. You and Joel have had so much fun, that the thought of leaving in less than two months makes a pit form in your stomach.

“Yep, she’s our little genius.” Your mom declares proudly, “she’s majoring in biology and minoring in animal science.”

“Oh really? What do you want to do with those degrees?” Joel asks you.

“Well eventually I’d like to be a veterinarian.” You say, smiling at your mom.

“Growing up on a farm she was bound to love animals. I never got the chance to go to college, but if I had, I would have chosen the same path.” Your mom says, pouring your dad another glass of tea.

“Sounds like you really do have a genius on your hands” Joel says to your dad.

“I prefer the term smartass.” Your dad laughs.

—

“I’m heading out with some friends, don’t wait up.” You tell your parents, exiting the house before they have time for questions.

Your phone dings, it’s Joel. He sent you his address.

When you arrive, his place looks almost exactly how you’d imagined. He lives in a studio apartment. Minimal furniture, meaning a lawn chair in front of a 72 inch tv with a PlayStation hooked up in the living room. A stack of movies on a shelf next to the tv. And a bed in the corner of the room.

“Nice of you to clean up the place.” You laugh, looking at the empty beer bottles on the counter.

“Hey, I made the bed.” Joel defensively jokes.

“I’m just happy you have sheets.”

“I’m an old bachelor. Not a monster.” Joel says, holding his hand to his chest as if he were offended.

“Old? No, no, no, experienced.” You say, stepping closer and smiling up at him.

“I know I’m no genius like you, but I think these gray hairs in my beard suggest that I am old.” He says, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in.

“I think it makes you look sophisticated.” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You’re too sweet for me.” He says, smiling almost sadly.

You can’t help but smile at how nice this feels. To just be together, holding each other, not hiding behind a barn or sitting in a cramped cab of a truck.

Joel puts his hand on the back of your head and kisses you softly. You let out a soft moan as he pulls you in just a little harder, slipping his tongue in your mouth and gently walking you back until you’re at the edge of his bed.

He travels his kisses to your neck, gently caressing your thigh before unbuttoning your shorts, pushing them down your hips. He lifts your t-shirt over your head, exposing your red lace bra and begins to kiss you again, this time more intensely.

“Lay back, baby.” He says, slipping his shirt over his head. This is your favorite look of his. Shirtless, with tight jeans, and a hunger in his eyes.

You gladly listen and lay back, stretching your arms out and feeling the sheets beneath you.

His hand comes to your mouth and he slips his index and middle finger in. “Get ‘em wet for me, sweetheart.”

You suck on his fingers until he’s satisfied. He takes those two fingers and slips them down to your already dripping cunt and slides them in.

“Oooh baby, already so wet for me, huh? Such a good girl, coming to my house already wet for daddy.” He says as he curls his fingers in you. You arch your back up, silently begging for him to give your tits attention.

“Use your words, baby.” He pulls your bra down and leans over to take your nipple in his mouth, “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes, daddy. F-fuck I love when you suck on my tits.” You shakily say.

He speeds his fingers up in you, pumping them in and out, curling them, playing with your clit with his thumb. He continues sucking on your pebbled nipples, giving them equal attention, licking them with the tip of his tongue and lightly biting.

He knows how to push you over the edge so quickly it almost seems like magic. You can already feel your climax building and he can see it.

“Just like that baby. Fuck you look so pretty like this. I want you to look at me while you cum. Let me see your face”

His words send you spiraling. Eyes on him, your body spasms around his fingers as you dig your nails into his shoulders.

As you come down from your high, he ushers you to scoot farther up on the bed. As you rest your head down on the pillow, he crawls up between your legs and parts your knees.

“God you’re pretty cunt just absolutely dripping. I need a taste.” He says, dipping his face down and licking up your wet seam. “Fuck, you taste so sweet.”

He flattens his tongue and laps at your folds. Making you clench your thighs around his head.

“Fuck daddy, that feels so good.!” You cry out, digging your fingers into his hair as he digs his into your thighs.

He can sense that another climax is building in you. “Uh uh uh.” He tisks, “Not yet baby. I want to feel it on my cock this time. Hold off just a little while longer while I finish my dessert.” He says, continuing to dig his fingers in your thighs and suck at your clit.

You are so close, that you have to actively focus on not cumming, when he finally stops and comes up face to face with you. Kissing you hard this time. Biting at your lip, probably drawing blood but you don’t care.

He spits on his hand and gets his throbbing shaft positioned at your entrance, stopping at just the tip.

“Who’s hole is this, baby?” He says darkly.

“Fuck, it’s yours daddy. I’m all yours.”

“Good girl.” He says as he thrusts all the way in with one sharp snap of his hips. “This pussy is all mine.”

He’s rough, so rough it almost hurts. It’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re actually his and only his.

His cock is much bigger than anybody else’s you’ve ever been with. When he goes full force like this, it feels as if he’s going to break you.

You try to scoot yourself up a little so that his cock doesn’t go fully in you. But he wraps his arms under your shoulders and pulls you back down. “Don’t run from it baby, I’m not done, you can take it. A good little whore like you can take my cock.”

Slamming into your cunt, his tip hitting your cervix with each thrust. “This is what you wanted all day isn’t it? My cock splitting you open?”

You let out an exasperated moan, hoping that answers his question.

“No baby. Use. Your. Words.” He says, accentuating each word with another rough thrust of his cock.

“Yes, Daddy! I’ve wanted your cock in me all day.” You scream, “Fuck, can I cum again?”

“Go ahead baby, cum for daddy.”

You immediately cum on command. Practically seeing stars when he says “Fuck baby. You choke my cock so good. I’m gonna fill this pretty pussy up.”

A few more rough thrusts and he lays his full body weight on you and growls as he fills your cunt.

You both lie there for a few minutes with his cock twitching, still in you.

“We should make this using the bed a more regular thing.” He says, rolling over on his side.

“I wouldn’t mind that.” You say as you lay back.

“Can you stay the night?” He asks hopefully

“Yeah, I told my parents not to wait up so I can stay.” You say, cuddling up to him.

You both lay there in comfortable silence until you both drift off to sleep.

Thank you to @bitchesuntitled for helping with editing and ideas!

I’ve missed them so much 😭😭😭

Baby Love | Joel Miller

A Trial & Error One Shot

Summary | It's coming to the end of lambing season, but there's one sheep left to give birth. Noticing she's struggling, you spend the night trying to soothe her, reflecting on your own experiences in her position.

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count | 2.7k

Warnings | Joel & Pretty Girl are still as horny as ever for each other so this is explicit. Mentions of ranching, sheep and animals giving birth. Mentions of human childbirth and pregnancy (I have never had my own children so please go easy on me), also mentions of how dirty it is when a sheep gives birth (blood/guts ect). Explicit smut including oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PiV smut IN THE BARN, creampie, Joel being a menace, PRETTY GIRL ALSO BEING A MENACE. No use of Y/N, no-outbreak AU.

Authors Note | It has been such a joy to write Pretty Girl again, I've missed her something terrible, and I'm so happy that the dynamic between her and Joel is still going strong, even if I have abandoned them for a while. I really hope you enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed writing it, and if there are any aspects of this families lives that you'd like to see, feel free to request it in my ask box!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Lambing season is coming to an end - something you’re eternally grateful for. It’s been a busy few weeks - early mornings and late nights for both Joel and Tommy, leaving you with the twins, Joshua and Ellie to keep entertained. Not that you’d have it any other way - your dysfunctional little family makes you happy every day.

With Joshua at school and the twins with Joel as he took Ellie into town for an appointment, you’re out in the fields with Tommy, making sure the remaining sheep yet to give birth are doing alright. You don’t profess to being an expert, but you’d like to think that your motherly instincts can go beyond humans, knowing when certain sheep are due and when some of them are starting to struggle.

It’s been an easy lambing season this year - most of the girls are seasoned professionals by now, needing only a light touch and a refill of their water more than anything, but there’s one sheep you are worried about. She was from lambing season a few years ago and this will be her first time. When you head into the barn, she’s stood in the corner of one of the pens, moving very little but bleating every once in a while. You know it’ll happen soon, but you’re worried about her.

“Don’t worry your head, sugar,” Tommy soothes, running a hand down the back of your head when it’s time to leave, “It’s nature, she’ll know what to do.”

But, led in bed that night, there’s something that you can’t push from the back of your mind. This worry that takes over you. She’ll be on her own in there, being one of the very last to give birth, and what if she’s scared? What if something goes wrong? You remember how scared you’d been when it came to having Joshua.

So you sigh, push back the sheets, and get dressed. You leave Tommy a note in case he wakes in the night and worries about where you are. You can’t say the horses in the small stable next to the house are enthused about having a torched shined at them in the middle of the night, but thankfully yours doesn’t put up much fuss when you saddle it and make the journey through the dark fields to the barn.

Flicking on the lights, you’re immediately glad you came. The sheep in question is led on her side, breathing laboured and fast. As you walk towards her, she kicks her legs a little and lets out a pained bleat.

“I know baby,” You coo, making sure the gate is shut behind you, “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

You fall to your knees in the soft hay a little way from her, hoping not to spook her, but she doesn’t seem all that bothered by your presence. She’s led down near the wall, so you crawl over a little and lean your back against it, stretching your legs out, just to be near her if she needs you.

The sheep lets out another pained bleat but she moves a little, up from her side and onto her feet. She walks closer to you, leaning down to prod your hand with her nose. You let out a little chuckle, letting your hand run down her head. The ranch dog likes when you scratch behind his ears, so you do the same here, which has her settling back down onto her side with her head on your thigh.

“It’s one of the most wonderful things,” You speak to her softly, continuing to pet at her head, “Having babies, but they always forget to mention how much it fucking hurts.”

She lets out another soft bleat, moving her body a little to get comfortable, or as comfortable as is possible when you’re in labour.

Watching her, you can’t help but let your mind wander back to your experience in her position. The first twinges of pain, low in your back that turned into pain everywhere. There wasn't a single position that was comfortable, no way to sit or lie or stand that could take the pain away. Then there was the exhaustion - after hours of waiting and more time pushing and pushing, there were moments when you didn’t think you could do it anymore, that you’d just close your eyes, drift off and wake up with a lovely, healthy baby perched in your arms.

But then, there’s that moment of relief, when the midwife had told you it’s okay honey, one more push and it’ll be done and it was and you could hear him crying and then he was on your chest and you were crying and so was Tommy. No-one ever mentions that bit either - how within seconds you could look down at a baby, your baby, and be completely and utterly in love with him. That’s what made it all worth it. That’s what made you want to do it again. It’s what makes you think you’d do it for the rest of your life if you could, just to have that one moment where that baby is in your arms for the first time.

“It’s worth it though,” You speak down to the sheep, “All this pain will be worth it in the end when we’ve got your beautiful little lamb with us.”

And it is. It’s all a bit dramatic in the end. The lamb gets stuck and you need to offer a helping hand to get it out, but almost immediately the mother sheep is doing exactly what she should, cleaning it off as you do the thing you’ve seen Joel do to help clear it’s airways, sticking a little bit of hay up one of it’s nostrils.

“Look mama,” You coo at the older sheep, a hand on her head as she works to get her little lamb clean, “Look what you did, you clever girl.”

Joel doesn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the barn that morning, but it certainly wasn’t to see you on your knees in the hay, rubbing a newborn lamb with straw. He can see from this angle that your clothes are filthy, covered in blood and God knows what else. Did you…? Have you….?

“Pretty girl,” He speaks softly, not sure you know he’s there, “What are you doing?”

You turn to him and it’s clear to see you’ve done exactly what he thinks you have and helped this sheep give birth, the gunk all over your clothes is also wiped across your cheek and forehead.

“She-” You trail off, “The sheep, she was struggling and I didn’t want her to be on her own.”

He opens the gate to the pen, walking in to fall beside you on his knees, “Have you been here all night?” He asks, letting his hands give the small lamb the once over.

“Pretty much,” You nod, “We had a lovely talk, didn’t we?” You ask to the mother sheep who is standing a few steps away, carefully observing Joel as he looks at her lamb.

“Did she do okay?”

“I had to get in there at the end,” You explain to him, “I think it was stuck, so I just gave her a little helping hand.”

Once he’s satisfied that the lamb is okay he shuffles back a little, watching as you do the same, letting the mother sheep have some time with her baby, “You did a good job,” He praises, letting his hand run down the back of you head, “Proud of you, pretty girl.”

He helps you to you feet, bends a little to brush as much stray hay from your jeans as he can before he steps back and really takes you in. It’s unconventional, but there’s something about the fact that you’ve got your hands dirty, spent your night here on your own to help one of his sheep, and the fact that you’re covered in dirt and hay, something about it all makes his jeans go a little tighter, something that he’s not quick enough to hide.

“Are you hard, cowboy?” He hears you tease before you’re stepping forward, “Does the sight of me covered in blood and guts turn you on?”

He rolls his eyes and turns his back on you, leaving the pen now he’s satisfied the sheep will be okay, but he can hear your feet following him and then your hand on his arm to get him to stop.

“You’ve not gone all shy on me, have you?” You speak softly, gently moving him so he turns a little.

“Have I ever been shy, pretty girl?”

“Then tell me,” You shrug, smirk plastered across your face, “Does this,” He watches as you drag a hand over the mess that is your clothes, “Turn you on?”

“You wanna know the truth?” He asks, voice low, “I wanna bend you over and get you to shut the hell up.”

Joel can’t help but let his own smirk show when your eyebrows raise, but it’s a fleeting later in your guise, because you’re turning around, showing him your back as you walk towards the stacked bales of hay in the corner. He can hear the clinking of your belt buckle and the telltale sound of you unzipping your jeans.

He’s stuck to the ground as he watches you pull down your jeans and your underwear, baring your backside to him. You pull them all the way down, letting them pool at your ankles as you spread your legs a little wider, bending yourself over the hay in the exact position he had in his head.

“Come on then cowboy,” You say, head turned over your shoulder to speak to him, “Come and shut me the hell up.”

It’s been an automatic response of his for years now, that when you present yourself to him, in any way, he falls to his knees like someone praying to an altar, and today is no different. He’s on his knees behind you, at just the right height to grip his palms to your ass, spread you open wide for him.

He wastes no time, he rarely does anymore, letting his mouth close over the hole of your pussy, somehow already weeping for him. He lets his tongue dip inside, lapping at your slick. It’s been years and he still doesn’t think he’ll get over how good you taste, how it lingers on his tongue for hours whilst he goes about his day.

Whilst he’s lapping up your slick, he lets one of his hands reach around, thumb searching out your clit, little circles rubbed across the little bud. He listens, feeling his cock throb in his jeans when you let out a gasp and a little moan.

“Not so talkative now, are we, pretty girl?” He mumbles, barely pulling off your pussy to speak, before he’s switching his hand and his mouth, leaning just enough so his tongue can flick against your clit, one of his fingers slipping inside you easily.

He chuckles against you when you moan at the curling of his fingers inside you - he loves when he can reduce you to a whimpering mess in seconds. It doesn’t take him long to feel the telltale signs that he’s going to make you come either. He can feel you start to fluttering around the two fingers he now has buried inside you, can feel the way you try and tighten your thighs around his face, so he carries on exactly how he is - suckling at your clit and moving his fingers in and out of your cunt until you’re coming for him, a high-pitched moan of his name from your mouth.

Joel doesn’t wait, he can’t wait. He stands, making quick work of pushing his own jeans and underwear from his body, finally freeing his aching cock from the tight confines of his trousers. He spits obscenely into his palm, running a tight fist up and down his length a few times before he’s dipping his knees, rubbing the head of his cock against the slick hole of your cunt, listening as he pushes himself inside you, giving you every inch of him as slowly as he possibly can, until he’s sheathed inside your tight heat.

He leans forward, covering your body with his own, his forehead pressed against your shoulder as he gets used to the feeling of you clenching and fluttering around him. He can feel you wiggling a little under him, trying to get him to move, so he brings one of his hands to the nape of your neck, squeezing a little, stopping your movements altogether.

“Keep still,” He warns, “You need to keep still a minute, baby.”

There’s never going to be a time where he doesn’t need to do this. The soft, wet heat of your cunt and those first movements inside you that make him feel like he’s eighteen again, ready to come with a few thrusts.

He gives himself another minute before he starts pulling his cock out of you, slowly dragging through your slick until just the tip is left inside you, then he’s slamming himself back into you, setting a bruising pace.

The sound is obscene - there’s the wet squelch he can hear whenever he pushes his cock back into you, the slapping of his skin against yours and the way you both sound when you’re moaning each others names. He’s not going to last long, he knows it. All of this combined with the fact that anyone could wander in and see you has a thrill settling across his spine.

Joel leans forward again, letting his teeth bite down gently on the skin of your neck. He can feel the way your cunt is clenching, if he can just hold on, just a little longer, he can get another one from you, he knows it.

“Tell me,” He chokes out into your ear, “Tell me how to get you there.”

You let out a loud moan, turning your face to his, kissing him, all teeth and tongue and clumsy, “Bite me again.”

So he does, he lets his teeth sink into the delicate skin of your neck, sucking gently, sure to leave a mark, his hand slinking underneath your belly and down to your pussy, soaked bud of nerves exposed just right for him to use his fingers to swirl across it a few times.

“Oh my God-” He can hear you moaning, “Joel, fuck, please, don’t stop, just like that.”

Within seconds, he can feel you coming on his cock - cunt pulled tight, sucking him in. He feels the gush of slick from your pussy too, cock angled just right to have you squirting for him, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. It’s the tightening of your walls around him that sets his own orgasm off - that flush of pleasure across his body that blooms even more as he empties himself inside you. He can feel everything, the way your pussy clenches every time he gives you more, sucking his spend in as deep as possible.

He pushes himself up off you a little, hands on your hips, frantically sucking in air. He groans a little as he pulls himself from your cunt, standing back to admire how his cum drips from you. He doesn’t linger long, bending down to pull your clothes back up, gentle kiss pressed to the swell of your bottom as he does. He lets you zip yourself up whilst he puts himself right.

“Well, that was a great start to the morning.” You muse, pressing up on your tiptoes, gripping at his flannel shirt.

He’s about to speak when there’s a bleating from the sheep in the pen behind you, you both laugh, “Someone else agrees.”

He dips down, kisses your mouth slowly, gently, “Go and get clean,” He speaks against your lips, turning you around and giving you a tap on your ass as he does, “You’re filthy.”

“Still turns you on though.”

“Go on, get outta here.”

Love when big bad Joel has a softer side 😍

A Flower in February

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

Contents: Boston QZ!Joel. mugging. hand-to-hand violence. whump. wound cleaning.

A/N: This is a my Secret Valentine gift for @hoeruiner.

I hope you like this, Sarah! I tried to keep it in line with the info you gave.

Thank you @covetyou for reading over this. <3

You only notice the date because you glance at the calendar to check when your next shift is on your way out of work. The calendar is old and yellowed, from before when holidays were still celebrated as special occasions and not memories. The red of the “14” is faded too, but the color still draws your eye and sparks recognition in your brain. 

February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Huh. It’s depressing that your plans haven’t changed after 20 years and an apocalypse: going home after work with a good chance of spending the night alone. 

The ration cards stuffed in your jacket pocket cheer you up a little. Payday hasn’t changed either, and the ability to trade for questionably fresh groceries at the market tomorrow is something to look forward to. You head out into the dark streets of the QZ towards your apartment.

It’s fucking cold this time of year. The temperature barely rises even with a full day of sun, and it’s windy tonight too. There are piles of snow caught in the nooks and crannies of buildings and alleyways, radiating even more cold air. At least it isn’t tinged the same dirty gray-brown shade from before, with car exhaust and dirt kicked up by tires discoloring everything it touches. You’ll still find some of that on the main road, but not here in the backways that twist around the city. 

A gust of wind blows through and goes right through the heaviest jacket you own, chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth and hunker down, trying to cover as much exposed skin as you can. That’s the only way you see it: the flash of vibrant color so out of place in a city that only has faded colors available. 

There, sticking through a chain link fence bordering what must have been a parking lot at some point but has grown over into a meadow, is a purple bloom of a flower. You take a few steps closer to get a better look. You’d crouch down, but with this cold seeping into your joints you might not be able to get back up, so you bend over awkwardly and try not to lock your knees. 

It’s dark, but there’s just enough light from a streetlamp in the distance that you can make out the shape of the petals. They’re too sharp and close together to be a pansy, and facing up instead of down like a snowdrop, not to say anything of it being purple and not white. So… most likely a crocus, you think. Being able to identify the small bloom brings a happy feeling, with the bittersweet memory of when you had time to indulge in a frivolous activity like flower gardening. You could pick it and bring the spot of color into your apartment. It’s a happy thought that dies and quickly as the flower would.

“Idiot.”

It’s the only warning you get with the wind howling in your ears masking the shuffled steps behind you. They’re right: you’re an idiot for standing in an alley looking at a flower alone at night.

You aren’t the only one happy about payday.

At least they’re quick about it. You don’t know how many there are, but one grabs you from behind and another delivers a fast, brutal punch to your middle. While you heave and gasp they rifle through your pockets and take your ration cards. They give you a few more hits for good measure, and it’s not the blows to your face that does it; it’s the momentum with which they send your head smacking back into the brick wall that makes your vision swim and dim. 

At first all you can make out is ratty shoes and pants with more holes than them, but then you force your eyes up up up when all they want to do is close and you catch glimpses of their faces in the same weak light that had bounced off the crocus and caught your attention. The QZ is a contained area with a small population, and they aren’t even wearing anything to cover their faces, just worn beanies tugged down low. You don’t know their names, but you recognize the faces of the group of thugs who like to crowd people at the market and intimidate them into giving up whatever they have to leave them alone. You still can’t hear them when they run away, the ringing in your ears is loud until you finally give in to it and pass out. 

You don’t know how long it takes for your body to shake itself back to consciousness. Taking stock of your body as you get up is easy: everything hurts, but nothing hurts more than everything else. You don’t give the flower another look as you start to drag yourself home.

The wind is quiet now and you hear the heavy footsteps coming this time. Fear zips through you, freezing you in place; had they come back to take even more from you? But then your name is called out in a voice that makes your body start moving again. That voice means safety and warmth and you’re stumbling towards it on shaking legs until you crash into Joel Miller’s solid body. 

He grunts as he absorbs your impact and his hands come up on your shoulders to keep you standing.

“What’re you still doing out here?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but your teeth are chattering too much to get anything out. Great clouds of hot breath steam out of him as he jerks his head back towards your building.

“C’mon.”

Joel’s dark form is easy for your aching eyes to focus on. It’s a mindless act: following where he leads. Your feet could follow his lead in your sleep, so being cold, beaten up, and maybe concussed is no problem. 

The lights are on in your apartment when you get in. You’re pretty sure everything had been off when you left, and wonder how long Joel had been here, waiting for you. You sit down at the kitchen table and close your eyes, safe in this room with him.

The sounds of Joel moving around the kitchen are nice. You play a little game, trying to ignore the throbbing, painful points on your body by guessing what he’s doing based on the sounds he’s making. 

Water from the faucet filling the dented kettle and the clank of setting it on the burner. The click of the stove knobs as he turns it on. The creak of his weight on the floorboards as he waits for the water to boil. His hum at the creaking cabinet door when he reaches in for the bottle of alcohol he keeps there. The slosh of the bottle as he takes notice of how much has been emptied since he last poured himself a drink. If he asks, you can account for every swig you’ve taken on the nights when you want to dull your senses, on the nights when he’s not with you. 

The noises are domestic and soothing, but the kettle’s whistle is like another blow to your temple and you can’t smother the noise of discomfort you make. 

Joel’s footsteps pause, but then the noises of him pouring you a mug of the hot water continues and those footsteps continue until you can feel him in front of you.

You let yourself have the few extra seconds it takes for him to set the mug on the table before you force your eyes open and look at him. 

He’s already frowning, suspicious about the entire situation, but he gets his confirmation when you have to tip your head back to make eye contact and your face is illuminated in the harsh overhead light.

His big hand is on your jaw before you can blink, but his grip gentles when you wince and he gently turns your face this way and that to see the extent of the damage. His eyes trail down your neck and across the stretched out neckline of your shirt, all the bare skin he can see, and his jaw rocks hard enough to capsize a boat on a turbulent ocean.

“What happened?” 

There’s no getting out of this. The demand in his voice and the anger sparking in his eyes makes you feel warm for the first time that night. It stokes dark emotions, the ones you don’t like to dwell on too much, and the first thread of satisfaction unfurls in your belly. You know giving him names will mean bad things for those men, but you can’t find it in you to care. Maybe they knocked it out of you with their fists. 

So you tell him, giving him the identifying features you remember. He’s quiet as he lets you talk uninterrupted, but the emotions that cross his face are enough to give you an idea of his thoughts. He snatches a clean washcloth from somewhere and wets it with the alcohol, the fumes curling into your nose when he presses it to your cheekbone.

His brows furrow when you mention the flower, and you’re thankful that you can use the firm press of the washcloth on scraped skin to camouflage the wince at the reminder of how unsuited you are for a world like this. 

When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

You don't even have the urge to protest, to tell him he doesn't have to. You want him to take care of it, to take care of you. You want someone to care. And while it’s not bouquets of flowers and candies that melt in your mouth, the warmth from the mug is seeping into your hands and his touch wipes away the violence that clings to your skin. He’ll take that violence and return it tenfold, you know it. 

His movements are filled with purpose and he only pauses with his hand on the door to give you a stern look.

“Lock up behind me.”

The next day is just like the one before it. Unable to do anything else without a fresh supply of ration cards, you go to work and try to ignore the pain that has settled in your body. You don’t even mind it that much, it’s nice to feel something else. 

You’re not stupid though, so when your shift is over you make sure to leave from the front entrance when a few others are heading out as well. It’s a small group, but they scatter and go their separate ways, their steps quickening after they notice the figure leaning on the corner of the building. From that spot he’d be able to see both exits, and when he sees you he pushes off to stand tall, waiting. Your feet move on their own before you completely register the surprise of his presence, falling into place beside him and matching his uneven stride. 

A nudge at your hand snaps you out of your whirling thoughts and makes you look down. His hands are always ruddy from the cold, but now dark purple joins the red and there’s a couple of places where the skin broke over the hard bone of his knuckles. The stack of ration cards trembles just once in his grip, maybe from the wind or a movement of his muscles, but you take it from him and stare down at it. There, tucked into the string securing the cards together, is the crocus blossom. A droplet of moisture that had clung to the snapped stem transfers to your fingertip when you touch it. He must’ve done it while he was waiting.

“Thank you, Joel.” 

Joel is watching you when you look up from the cards. His dark eyes are calm, his jaw moving as he takes in your expression. He chews on the sentiment he sees there as if working it over will make it more palatable, something easier to swallow, and you hope he doesn’t spit it out.

Finally got to read this, I was so excited to see an update on it! This story has made a home for itself in my brain and I love it soo much!!!

a safe haven l ten

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l previous chapter l next chapter

summary: After a long night, Joel and Ellie take you home.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF AN INJURY SUSTAINED FROM AN ACT OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, PREGNANCY, CONVERSATIONS SURROUNDING PREGNANCY LOSS . PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. Ellie and reader are very close to each other, Joel deals with feelings of guilt, Joel and Maria make nice, Joel gives reader a bath and washes her hair, food consumption (i am just gonna apologize to my lactose intolerant folks right now, trust me i must pretend with you), both reader and Joel have some big feelings, reader mentions her deceased father, angst, soft and domestic Joel, fluff.

word count: 5k

a/n: i have not updated this series since october. :l i feel a a mixed bag of emotions updating after all this time, but most of all, i am grateful to know there are a couple of people out there who are still invested in this story. to anyone who has been waiting: truly, it means the world that you have shown me patience, support, and kindness. believe me, i am going to be seeing this story to the end, and it is all thanks to those who continue to show this lil story of mine a whole lotta love. special shoutout to the loveliest human @mrsmando who made me this beautiful mooodboard every single time i got stuck during this chapter, i looked at it and it gave me the boost of inspiration i needed. thank you mimi <33 this chapter is fairly tame, the next chapter is already in the works, and there are a couple of time jumps coming. overall, we are down to the last handful of chapters. let’s finish this story and give these two the ending they deserve, shall we?

“What the hell is taking Tommy so fucking long?” Ellie whines. She’s sprawled out on the couch with her head in your lap, and her arm draped over her eyes. Her feet are hanging, dangling over the edge of the couch at an odd angle after you’d warned her not to get muck from her sneakers on the linen fabric. Despite Joel insisting over and over that she head on back to the house, she had stubbornly refused, not wanting to leave your side. “It’s been over two hours! He’s taking fucking forever, man. What’s the fucking hold up?”

Joel bites back a sigh, masking his own impatience. Or at least, he tries. He’s grown just as restless as the kid, if not more. Much like Ellie, he’s desperate. He’s itching to take you home already, almost too anxious to watch you take that first step over his threshold, and into your new life with him and with Ellie. He aches, aches, to get you settled into the place where you would be spending the remainder of your days with one another, where you would be safe, and loved in the way you deserved to be loved—the place where he would cherish and adore you until his final breath.

“Don’t know,” he answers, his voice sounding rougher, more gruff than usual. Reaching up, he scrubs his hand down the side of his face, adding tiredly, “He might be a while longer, kiddo. It could be another hour, could be more. Like I already told you, s’probably best if you just go on and head back to the house without us, alright?”

“No. I’m not walking out that fucking door unless she’s with me.” She pauses and pulls her arm away from her face for a moment, just long enough to throw a teeny glare his way. “Unless you’re both with me. The three of us go home together, or it’s no fucking deal. Got it?”

He shakes his head in utter exasperation.

“Ellie, we’ll be right here down the fuckin’ road—”

Her hand shoots out and she flips him off.

Just when he’s about to chastise her, he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut. It’s pointless.

Kid’s too goddamn hard headed for her own good, and Joel knows he’s just wasting his breath with her.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” you reassure them both, weaving your fingers through her hair to scratch at her scalp in an effort to soothe her. “Right, Joel?”

He meets your exhausted, worn down gaze from where he’s standing across the room, and his heart lurches in his chest. As the guilt begins creeping in, he’s forced to look away. He can’t imagine the living hell you had been through over the last twenty four hours alone. And the worst part about it was the realization that last night, while he was fast asleep in bed just a couple of houses up the road, that fucking bastard had his belt wrapped around your throat.

Joel feels sick to his fucking stomach all over again.

Horrifying, vividly real images of you helplessly trapped underneath Luke scratching and clawing at the leather around your neck with trembling fingers, struggling to breathe oxygen into your burning lungs as he tugged it tighter and tighter through the buckle flash in his mind, a gruesome nightmare turned into reality.

Exactly how far had Luke taken it?

Until you had grown too weak to keep fighting?

Until you almost lost complete consciousness?

Until he noticed the life threatening to leave your eyes?

Is that when he had finally stopped pulling on the belt?

Joel shudders, a bitter taste climbing up his throat as it sinks in. He could have lost you—and his unborn child.

This shouldn’t have happened.

He shouldn’t have let you walk away that night.

This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t let you walk away from him that night.

“Joel,” you say his name, quiet and weary.

His head snaps back in your direction and he glances at you, almost missing the subtle shake of your head. It is a silent warning telling him not to go there, though you know by the tight clench of his jaw it’s too late for that.

Joel makes the futile attempt to hide it, but he sees it written all over your face—you know what he’s thinking because you know him like the back of your own hand, and you just know he’s placing all of the blame for what happened to you on his own shoulders.

But can you honestly fault him for that?

How can you expect him not to feel like he is somehow responsible for this? Just how the hell is he supposed to make himself believe he hadn’t failed you?

Joel promised—he had fucking promised you—that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. He had sworn to keep you safe, made a vow to protect you from Luke, but here you are, your soft, delicate flesh marred with the painful evidence of yet another one of his failures.

And it was all because he had let you walk away on that fucking night.

He should have done something.

Even if it meant running the risk of you never speaking to him again—even if you never forgave him, spent the rest of your life angry and hating him for going against your wishes. He should have something.

“Joel—”

“Be right back,” he mutters, lightly shaking his head.

Shoving away from the doorframe he’s leaning against, Joel pivots on the heel of his boot and starts down the hallway. He walks into the kitchen where he finds Maria standing at the counter, tapping her fingers against the smooth, laminated oakwood as she waits for the coffee she’d offered him a few minutes ago to finish brewing. She’d offered to whip up a quick supper, but food was the last thing on everyone’s mind.

“Tommy’s been gone for a couple hours now. Girls are startin’ to get real tired of just sittin’ around waitin’ for him to come back,” he tells her, exhaling the sigh he’d held back in the living room. “What do you think could be keepin’ him so long?”

With her back still to him, Maria reminds him, “Well, he did mention he was going to round up the council and get them together for an emergency meeting.” She lets out a sigh that matches his own—it’s been a long night for her, too. When the last drop of dark roast drips into the glass pot, she carefully takes the pot by the plastic handle and pours the steaming coffee into a speckled, white and blue ceramic mug. “Do you take it with milk and sugar?”

“No thanks, that’s alright,” he declines as politely as he can.

“I also have cinnamon if you’d like?”

“Plain black’s just fine.” He gives her a nod of gratitude when she hands it to him. “Thank you. And I don’t just mean the coffee, but for, uh—for bandagin’ up my hand for me, too.” He clocks the brief look of surprise on her face and almost laughs. He doesn’t blame her for being taken aback, because truth be told, so is he. Since he’d met Maria, he had known she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. There was something of a mutual understanding between them, a silent agreement they had made to keep each other at arm’s length, to only interact when it was absolutely necessary.

Never did he think he would be standing in her kitchen, thanking her for patching up his hand, and for making him a cup of coffee out of the kindness of her heart.

His brother wouldn’t believe it.

“Don’t mention it.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans back against the counter. “How’s it feel, by the way?”

“S’fine,” he replies, shrugging. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

There’s a momentary silence. A taste of tension lingers over their heads, and he knows at one point or another, he’s going to have to address the affair, the very reason everything had unfolded in such a terrible manner.

Guess now’s as good a time as fuckin’ any, he thinks to himself with an inward sigh.

Joel lightly clears his throat. “Listen, since we’ve got a minute alone, just the two of us, I was wonderin’ if, uh—if we could talk ‘bout somethin’? If that’s alright?”

“Of course.” Maria gives him the floor.

“I know that she—” Pausing, he shuffles from the heel of one boot to the other, his ears burning hot. He had known it wouldn’t be an easy conversation to have, but he underestimated just how uncomfortable it would be, regardless of what she already knew. “I know she told you and Tommy all ‘bout us, and ‘bout our relationship. See, the thing is, the first time I saw her—”

Again, Joel stops, the burning sensation now radiating, spreading from his ears to his face and down his neck, flushing his skin a deep, deep shade of pink. Unable to meet his sister in law’s gaze, he glances down into his mug, as if he will somehow find the right words to say somewhere in the depths of his coffee.

“It was never my intention, y’know,” he finally says after a minute. “Goin’ after a married woman. I swear, I never meant to fall for her. I just fuckin’ did. I think I might’ve fallen for her long before I even met her,” he confesses. He feels himself darken to a shade of maroon under her curious stare. “And somehow, for reasons I ain’t all too sure I’ll ever understand, she fell for me too.”

Maria raises an eyebrow at him. “Look, I’m not judging you, Joel,” she assures him, shaking her head. “If that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not judging her, either.”

He looks up at her, blurting out, “You’re not?”

She moves her hands to cradle her swollen middle. “Do I wish you two had handled everything differently?” she answers her own query with a nod of her head. “Oh, I’m sure we all do. But I’ve known her for a long time now. I know the kind of woman she is. And I’m starting to see the kind of man you are.”

“And what kinda man is that, Maria?”

He waits without the slightest clue as to what she could possibly say.

“Since you came back to Jackson, I’ve chosen to keep my distance from you—but make no mistake, I’ve been watching you like a hawk since day one. Waiting for any signs of trouble. Waiting for you to fuck up. Waiting for you to give me a good reason to throw your ass out of this community because I didn’t trust you. Not after all the things I was told about you.”

He snorts. “You goin’ somewhere with this?”

“You are not who I thought you were,” Maria admits, smiling wryly. “I’ve gotten to see a different side of you. You pull your weight around here by doing your job and doing it well. You stay out of trouble—for the most part. And more importantly, I have seen the way that you’ve stepped up to be a father figure to Ellie. It takes a good man to do that, Joel.”

“Think that’s the nicest fuckin’ thing you’ve ever said to me,” he muses, setting his mug down on the counter. “I stepped up because I love her. I love them both. Those two, they’re the best parts of me. They’re the reasons I keep goin’ and now I’ve got another reason on the way.”

Maria smiles, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Catching her hesitance, Joel asks, “What? What is it?”

“What comes next is not going to be easy,” she warns him, lowering her voice. Even with the living room a fair distance from the kitchen, she doesn’t want to run the risk of you overhearing her. “For as hard as we’re going to try to contain the fire, it will spread, and everyone in this town will find out about everything—including the affair. People are going to talk, and believe me, they’re going to have a whole lot to say about it, Joel.”

He can’t help but roll his eyes at her.

“Think I can handle some fuckin’ gossip, Maria.”

“I know you can. But I’m not sure if she can,” Maria tells him, quietly. “It worries me. She’s been through a lot in just one night alone. I don’t want her stressing anymore than she already has. She is in a very delicate stage of her pregnancy right now, Joel. If she’s not careful, she could have a miscarriage. She had one about two years ago when her father became sick—” Observing his lack of a reaction, she realizes, “You knew that already.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. He knows where she’s going with this. “I did. She told me ‘bout it.”

“It makes her chances of having another one higher—”

Joel doesn’t even allow himself to think of it happening to you again. “I get it,” he interjects, trying not to sound too curt. “I’ll make sure she takes it real easy, alright?”

Lifting a hand off her belly, she reaches out and takes a hold of his forearm, gripping it tightly.

“Promise me something, Joel. Promise me that you’ll look after her,” Maria pleads him, gently. “Please. After everything she’s been through—I need you to promise me that she’s going to be in good hands with you.”

He nods. Without thinking, he places his hand over hers in an unexpected token of affection and reassurance. “You have my word, Maria. I’ll take good care of her.”

She gives his arm a grateful squeeze, then glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “It’s getting pretty late. We don’t know how much longer Tommy’s going to be with the council. Why don’t we just go ahead and call it a night?” she suggests. “We can all get together first thing in the morning at your place to talk about it.”

“Yeah, good idea,” he agrees. “She really needs to rest.”

Maria gives his arm another squeeze. 

“Go on then, Joel. Take your girls home.”

“Finally!” Ellie exclaims with a dramatic flail of her arms as she shoves through the front door.

“Alright, kiddo. Get your behind upstairs and into the shower,” Joel instructs her, flipping on the lights in the foyer. “Y’smell like fuckin’ horse shit.”

She lifts the collar of her shirt to her nose, takes a whiff, and makes a face. “Yeah, I won’t argue with you there,” she mutters. She toes off her dirty sneakers and leaves them beside the door before dashing up the staircase, taking two steps at a time.

He shouts after her, “And don’t use up all the hot—”

“Yeah, yeah, I fucking know the rules, dude!”

Moments later, you both hear the shower going.

“Little shit,” he grumbles.

You exhale an amused huff through your nose.

Joel withdraws his arm from around your shoulders and reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together. “C’mon, darlin’.” He guides you up the stairs and down the hallway into his bedroom where he switches on the light before proceeding to lead you over to his dresser. “I’ve got a bunch of shirts in this top drawer here,” he says. Dropping your hand, he pulls it open for you and gestures to it with a jut of his chin as he takes a step backwards, moving out of the way. “Go ahead and pick one to sleep in tonight. Want you to be comfortable, so help yourself to whichever one you want, sweet girl.”

Nodding, you begin to rummage through the drawer, unaware of the moment he slips away. You reach for a t-shirt, but then a plaid green flannel catches your eye. You pluck it from the drawer, running your fingers over the soft, warm fabric. “Is it alright if I wear—?” You turn around, stopping mid sentence when you realize he’s no longer standing behind you. Puzzled, you follow the sound of running water into the bathroom where you find him kneeling beside the tub. “Joel? What are you doing?”

“Runnin’ you a bath.”

You notice the bloodied bandage beside him on the tile floor. “Joel, are you serious?” you scold him. “Maria just patched your hand up for you.”

“S’okay, peach. I can rewrap it when we’re done.” Joel sticks his injured hand under the faucet to check the temperature, the cold water soothing his cuts. Once it turns warm, then hot, he pulls out his hand, waiting for the tub to fill halfway before shutting the faucet off and rising to his feet. “C’mere, sweetheart.” He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his forearms, then beckons for you with both of his hands. “Let’s get you washed up.”

You remain standing by the door. “Joel, you don’t have to do this for me.”

“I know.”

“I’m capable of washing myself—”

“Yeah, I know that too,” he says, chuckling. “S’only fair, darlin’. Don’t you think?”

That’s when it hits you—how this moment is mirroring that night you had cleaned Joel up after you and Ellie had brought him home from the clinic with an injured shoulder. He allowed you to take care of him, and now, he was looking to do the same for you. And all you had to do was let him.

“But your hand—”

“Will be just fine,” Joel persists, stubbornly. “It’s nothin’ but a few cuts and scrapes. C’mon—or else I’m gonna march right over there and get you myself, peach.”

Knowing Joel, you certainly wouldn’t put it past him to throw you over his should and carry you to the bathtub.

“Fine,” you relent with a small sigh of defeat.

Setting his shirt down on the sink, you slowly walk over towards him and whirl around, letting him help you out of your knitted cardigan. You finish undressing yourself, inhaling a deep breath as you muster up the courage to turn back around and face him—when you finally do, it feels like a punch to the gut to see the heartbreak in his dark brown eyes, the subtle tremble of his bottom lip. You don’t have to look at yourself in the mirror to know it looks about a hundred times worse when you’re not wearing clothes.

Keeping your arms down at your sides, you fight every urge to cover yourself up. You’ve never felt so fucking vulnerable.

Clearing his throat, Joel holds out his hand. “C’mere.”

You accept it, and he helps you into the tub.

“How’s the water? S’not too hot, is it?”

You shake your head and he leans forward, kissing your temple so sweetly, your eyes flutter closed.

He washes your hair first, then takes a clean washcloth, lathering it up with a bar of milk and honey soap—the same soap he would smell on your skin all those nights. Admittedly, Joel preferred castile soap, but switched it when he found himself missing you during those weeks you were apart from him, when he needed the comfort of your scent. He is gentle with you, so gentle, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter into pieces in his hands.

As he lightly drags the washcloth up your back and around your neck, you stiffen, prompting him to freeze too. “Fuck. Baby, did I hurt you?” he asks, and you hear the slight panic in his tone.

“No,” you say quickly, desperately trying to swallow the lump rising in your throat. “No, you didn’t hurt me. It’s just—” Every overwhelming emotion slams into you all at once, and you can’t seem to figure out which one to feel first. Humiliation? Fear? Relief?

The water sloshes around you as you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around your knees, giving yourself permission to feel them all. Bowing your head, you begin to sob quietly, hoping that Ellie, who is just down the hallway, won’t hear you crying again.

Joel says nothing. Washcloth still clutched in his hand, he leans forward over the edge of the tub and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, or at least, as close as the barrier between the two of you will allow him.

“Joel,” you choke, trying to push him off. “Stop it. Your clothes, they’re getting all wet.”

“Hush. Don’t fuckin’ care ‘bout my clothes,” he croaks, and for a second, you swear he’s about to cry too. But he doesn’t. He holds himself strong. Tugging you closer against his chest, he buries his nose into your soaking wet hair, whispering his reassurance. “You’re okay, baby. You’re safe, my sweet girl. I’ve got you, alright?”

He pulls back slightly, dipping his hand into the water, placing it on your lower belly.

You look down, your eyes glazing over his bruised and battered knuckles. Proof that Joel Miller really would do anything for you.

“I know you do,” you say, softly. “I know you’ve got me, Joel.”

A while later, you’re dried, dressed, and composed. You follow Joel out of the bathroom and back into his room, where he has you take a seat on the bed. Noticing you had missed a button on his flannel shirt, he does it for you. He plants a kiss on the top of your head and says, “Give me a minute while I change.”

He peels off his wet clothes, being careful so as not to further agitate his sore, injured hand. After changing into a pair of gray sweatpants and an old, faded black t-shirt, he turns around only to find you’re sitting in bed underneath the covers.

“Sorry,” you apologize with a nervous chuckle as you rest your back against the headboard. “It just looked so warm and cozy—and it smells like you. I couldn’t resist making myself comfortable.”

Joel pads over to the side of the bed. He leans over, planting one hand on either side of you as he dips his head and brushes his lips against yours. “Ain’t got no reason to apologize, baby,” he assures you in a gentle murmur. “This is your bed now too, peach. This is your room. This is your home. Alright?”

Home.

You’re home.

He touches the tip of his nose to yours, and then draws himself back up to full height. “There’s somethin’ that I’ve gotta take care of downstairs, peach. I won’t be too long,” he promises.

It’s almost midnight. Joel goes about the kitchen and he prepares you the quickest meal that he can think of. He plates the sandwich he’d thrown together and pours a glass of cow’s milk—he’s always sure to keep a pint of it in the refrigerator to make the kid her oatmeal in the mornings.

He heads back upstairs, only to find that while he had been gone, Ellie had joined you, making herself a little too comfortable on his side of the bed. He stands there at the door, watching the two of you.

“Hey, so is it true babies can hear stuff while they’re in there?” Ellie questions you, curiously.

“Mhm,” you reply with a nod. “They can hear music, for example. Voices—”

“Voices?” She smushes her face into your stomach and he hears a muffled, “Hey, dude!”

You giggle. “Ellie, I think it’s still a little too early.”

“When do you think it’ll be able to hear me?”

“I’m not too sure. In a few months, maybe?”

Ellie lifts her head, humming. “You know, I bet there’s baby books in the library,” she tells you as she sits up. “I’ll have Dina help me look for one tommor—oh shit.” She stares at you with wide eyes. “Dina! How are you going to tell her and Talia about Luke?”

Joel grimaces. He hadn’t thought of that, either.

“I—I’m not too sure.”

“You have to fucking tell them. Dina has to know about him. She has to know what a piece of shit he is, and so does Talia.”

Sensing your discomfort, Joel steps into the bedroom and intervenes before she can say another word. “Ellie, get to bed. S’late.”

“But—”

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he warns her, sternly.

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Fine.” She climbs off the bed and on her way out, she eyes the plate in his hand. “That chicken?”

“Turkey. And it ain’t for you, it’s for her. So scram, kid.”

“Couldn’t have made me one while you were at it, old man?”

“Ellie, if you don’t get outta here right now—”

“Alright!” Ellie holds her hands up. “I’m leaving. Jesus.”

She disappears, closing the door behind her.

“Pain in my ass,” Joel mumbles, shaking his head as he walks over and carefully perches himself beside you. He hands you the plate. “Here, darlin’.”

“Joel, I appreciate this, but I’m really not very hungry.”

“Maybe not, but y’gotta eat,” he insists. “Baby needs it.”

Thankfully, you accept it without further protest.

“I’ll have Ellie get your things tomorrow,” Joel states as you’re eating. “Maria can go along with her since she knows the house. They’ll get your clothes and whatever else you might need outta there.”

“My father’s belongings.” You accidentally talk through a mouthful of turkey and bread. Swallowing, you tell him, “I have some boxes of his stuff in the basement. But they’re way too heavy for either of them to carry.”

“I’ll take care of that for you.” He reaches up, wiping a breadcrumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “I can ask Tommy to give me a hand. Don’t you worry, peach. We won’t leave your dad’s things behind, I swear it.”

Relieved, you shoot him a grateful look, then polish off the last few bites of your sandwich.

“Here,” he says, offering you the glass of milk. “Figured it’s good for you, and good for the baby. Y’know, since it’s got calcium and…stuff.” He shrugs sheepishly, no clue as to what he’s talking about. “Vitamins, right?”

Nodding, you grab the glass and take a reluctant sip.

“You hate milk,” Joel realizes, raising an eyebrow.

“I do,” you admit with a laugh. “But you’re right. It’s good for both me and the baby, so cheers.” And with that, you somehow force the entire glass down.

He sets the dishes aside on the nightstand, figuring he can take them downstairs first thing in the morning.

Without bothering to rebandage his hand like he’d told you he would, Joel turns off the lights and climbs into bed with you. “All those nights wishin’ I could bring you home,” he muses as you curl into his side. “Wantin’ nothin’ more than to hold you in my arms in this bed. In our bed.” His arm slips around your shoulders, a laugh rumbling through his chest. “Almost doesn’t feel real, darlin’.”

Tilting your head, you nuzzle your nose into the scruff of his beard, prompting him to laugh again. Then, he remembers his conversation with Maria, and his smile fades from his face, his lips pursing together.

You catch the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“Joel? What’s the matter?”

“M’fine, baby. It’s just—” He hesitates. “From this point forward, I need you to let me handle things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want you gettin’ all stressed out, alright? I don’t want to run the risk of you—” He’s unsure of how to say it.

“Of me losing the baby,” you finish for him, quietly.

Joel winces, knowing he was wandering into sensitive territory. “Yeah. I—I really don’t want that to happen.” He pauses. “Maria mentioned to me you’re in a delicate stage. When do you reckon you’ll stop—how long until you don’t gotta worry ‘bout it?”

“After twelve weeks, my risk isn’t as high. If I make it to the second trimester in six weeks, then my chances of having another miscarriage are lower.”

Though you speak calmly, he clocks your anxiousness.

You’re worried, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t fucking worried out of his mind too.

Being a father at his age wasn’t ideal, but he wanted this child. It was part of him, and more importantly, it was a part of you.

Joel squeezes your shoulders. “I only ask ‘cause I was thinkin’ that, y’know, once we get to that point, maybe I can go ahead and start buildin’ the baby’s crib.”

“You’re going to build the crib?”

He nods. “And the highchair too. I can even make you a diaper changin’ table if y’want one.”

“Joel.” You can’t help but chuckle. “Our worlds were just turned completely upside down. You just found out that I’m pregnant, and you’re already thinking about building furniture? Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?”

“Hey, those things take a whole ‘lotta time,” he says in defense of himself. “Besides, winter’s right around the corner and I don’t wanna be out in the garage freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off. If I can get a head start now, I can have them all done in the spring by the time the baby comes.”

You fall silent.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’m really scared of losing it,” you confess. “When I first took that pregnancy test, I wanted nothing more for it to be negative. Now, I’m terrified I won’t make it past my first trimester again. I really don’t want to lose it. I want this baby, Joel.”

He turns his head, meeting your eyes in the silver light shining through the lace curtains over his window. “S’why you’ve gotta let me handle things, darlin’. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“C’mere, my sweet girl.” Joel presses his lips to yours, murmuring against them, “I love you.”

His declaration comes with natural ease.

And so does yours.

“I love you too, Joel.”

😳😍🫠

put your sweet lips on my lips | joel miller

Summary | He won't ever kiss you, those are the rules, but you fall in love with him anyway.

Pairing | Boston QZ!Joel x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.3K

Warnings | This is basically porn without plot (do we expect anything less from me these days?) A sprinkling of angst, a stupid no kissing rule, fingering, unprotected PiV sex, rough sex, biting during sex, mentions of breath play, Joel is kinda mean but also kinda soft, neck kisses, no use of y/n.

Authors Note | This was written for @janaispunk's 1.5K kisses celebration! I got Joel Miller with neck kisses and I immediately went, make it smutty and painful, so this is the result. The biggest congratulations to Jana for such an incredible milestone - you're such a shining star on this little corner of the internet and I'm so glad to know you! I hope you like my little way of celebrating you! Thank you for letting me be part of your celebration! I think this may be one of my favourite things I’ve written in a while so I hope you all agree and enjoy it!

Main Masterlist

“That’s it baby, just like that.”

His lips are right there, right against the shell of your ear, hot breath painting small drops of dew where it meets your hot skin. He’s got two fingers buried in your sopping cunt, the squelch of movement the only thing that fills the air if it’s not your moans or his grunts as he presses the thick bulge of his jeans against your ass.

It would be so easy. So easy, you think, to turn your head to the side and catch him by surprise. Let your mouth brush against his, hope that it sparked something between you, hope that it made him push his mouth harder to your own, that he’d let you taste his tongue for the first time since this all started.

He was clear from the start though, that first night, with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, throbbing inside you as he split you open, when you’d put your hand around the back of his neck and tried to drag him to your mouth. His eyes had darkened and his hand had flown to the bottom of your neck, gripping tight enough to warn, tight enough to thrill, to make your wet cunt even wetter as he growled at you.

“I don’t do that shit.”

And that was it. Acceptance between the two of you that this was just sex. Just fucking when you needed it, taking your frustrations out on each other. Nothing to blur the lines, to make you think it was anything more. Plump lips always taunting you when they spoke to you, or when he sunk his teeth into them when you took his entire length into your mouth and down your throat. Always right there and always just out of reach.

God knows how much you want to know what his mouth is like on the one part of your body they’ve never touched. He’s had that mouth latched around your clit as you shake for him, sucked your nippled into that warm cavern, left marks on your skin with his teeth, but never once let you feel them on your own.

You turn your head to him a little, his fingers curling inside you enough to make your pussy clench around them, his mouth right there. You know you could do it, but you’re scared of the consequence. Scared that he’d take everything else away from you, like a parent taking away an ice-cream from a screaming child. You’d be just as petulant if he did, because there’s something comforting about him, hard and closed as he is, but in this place, he is the only thing that doesn’t make you want to throw yourself out of a window.

“Come on baby,” He urges, snaking his other hand down your body so he’s teasing your aching clit now too, “Give it t’me and I’ll give you what you want.”

He rolls his finger across your swollen bud, circling and circling as the feeling in your stomach goes tighter and tighter until it snaps, all of a sudden. Cunt clenching around his fingers as your body shakes, head thrown back onto his shoulder as you come, gushing around his fingers. That’s when you feel it, the familiar warmth of his mouth, soft as he presses a kiss to your shoulder, and then up the side of your neck. He pulls his fingers from your cunt, drags them up your body as his mouth opens against the skin of your neck, tongue warm and wet as it licks at your skin, warm and wet like his fingers that have wiped the evidence of your want for him over your lower stomach.

Joel presses you forward, front of your body pressed to the back of the couch, eyes on the peeling, colourless wallpaper in front of you. He uses one of his knees to spread your legs wider, and though it might be obscene, you move in a way to show off, to bare your aching, drooling pussy to him and the empty room. You can hear him fumble with his belt and then the sound of him pulling his zipper down.

He gives no warning, he never does, just lines the blunt head of his cock to your fluttering hole and pushes in, knocking the air out of your lungs as he folds his body over yours, head of his cock pressed so deep you have no idea where he ends and you start.

His mouth is back on your neck, kissing sloppy to the skin, and it’s like he knows, like he could read your mind about what you want. When he sinks his teeth in and sucks, it’s like he’s saying he’s sorry. He’s sorry he can’t be the man you want him to be, that he can’t ever love you. And silently, as you hold his head there, fingers tangled in his hair, you say it’s okay, that you forgive him, as long as he never stops this.

As long as he never stops the perfect roll of his hips, skin slapping against skin as his cock sets a bruising pace. As long as he never stops the bruising grip on your hip, keeping you in place. As long as he never stops letting you feel his mouth on every inch of your body, it’s okay.

Joel is close, you can feel it in the way he’s faltering, so you think fuck it, what is there to lose.

“Please, Joel.”

It comes out like a whine, your head tipped back on his shoulder again, now he’s pulled you up, pressed you to his body. His hips go harder, like that’s what he thinks you want, so you card your fingers through his curls, damp with sweat, and you beg again, head tilted to the side, mouth right in his eyeline.

“Please Joel,” It’s pathetic really, “I’ll be good, I promise, just once.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Joel, I-”

“I said,” He begins, punctuating it with a particularly hard shove of his cock into your cunt, “No.”

He pushes your body forwards, takes the warmth of his body from yours in punishment for what you’d asked for. Both hands grip at your hips now, his grunts loud as he uses you, thrusts his throbbing cock in and out of you until the very last second, when he pulls himself from your tight heat and fists his cock. You can feel your cunt fluttering around nothing, so close to the edge again, and so far.

Joel comes with a growl, warm spatters of cum painting the round of your ass and the low of your back, his other hand holding you in places as he empties himself entirely across your skin. You expect this to go how it always does, with him pulling away, dressing himself and muttering some excuse to leave, but instead, you feel him come back to you, his front pressed to your back, surely making a mess of the front of his shirt as he does it.

His lips are by your ear, his breath fast and low, but then his lips press to the skin behind your ear, soft and gentle.

“I’m sorry.” He says, barely audible, even this close to your ear.

And then you feel it, the warmth of his lips against the bite mark on your neck. It’s the most gentle you think he’s ever been with you as his mouth pulls back a whisper, pressing against softly to the injured skin. Always there, and never your lips, but as he does it again, you think maybe it’s worse? Because just like it would be there if he kissed your lips, there’s a bubbling feeling in your stomach, and then you realise, it’s not the kiss the makes you fall in love, no matter where it’s placed, it’s the gentle that does it in the end.

Oh this was absolutely wonderful! I love reading stories in Joel’s POV 😍 You did a fantastic job conveying his feelings for reader! Just UGH! Then throwing Javi into the mix as well?! 🫠

Privates

Joel Miller AU x Javier Pena x AFAB Reader/You

Word count: 9k

Joel takes a second job at the local strip club, hoping to cover Sarah's fees for her fancy new private school. He just has to make sure no one's gettin' too rowdy, and watch out for the girls. It would be really simple. If it weren't for you.

Warnings: porn with plot, this is a Joel Miller story but it's about a strip club so obviously Javi is there, reader is a stripper, no shame get your dollars ladies, MMF, Oral (f receiving), slow burn then smut, also a couple of other cameos, reader has limited physical descriptions other than in reference to her lady parts, this is really filthy even for me, pining while Joel really trying to hang on to some semblance of morals, Javi says maybe two words? Explicit. Minors DNI.

He thought his hearing was bad before he took the job, that years of construction work; drilling, hammering, screaming at Tommy for fucking up the A-frame, would be the thing that robbed him of one of his more essential senses. But it turned out it wasn’t that, it was the incessant bass, the thrum of the sub-woofer reverberating around his skull. The way he felt it jolt his spine, Mikey the DJ hell-bent on obliterating the patron’s ability to think straight with sound alone, as if the watered down booze wasn’t toxic enough to cloud their judgement.

But Sarah needed to go to the fancy school, the one with the uniforms and the shiny brochures, and he hadn’t figured it would be all that mentally taxing. He could do without the late nights at his age, but he got paid after-hours rates to basically walk around and look menacing, and only once or twice a night did he have to actually step in and boot a guy. Sarah had just joined the debate team. Like she needed any help with arguin’.

He'd only told a handful of friends, Tommy so that he knew if he was late to a job it wasn’t because he was on a bender but just because he was working late, a couple of the guys at poker night because he thought they might get a kick out of it. They had, immediately asking him to get them in without the cover charge. He’d refused, but in a good-natured way, and so far they’d steered clear of the place.

He wasn’t sure why he was shy about it, if that’s what it was. Giving the air of authority, trying to be respectful while the girls did their work. He mostly ignored the stage, felt his cheeks burn if he happened to look up to see a girl bent over, thong waving in a guy’s face. He scanned the floor, walked the halls outside the privates, kept his eye on the clock and the bar, waited for his break so he could take a load off and get away from the kick drum assaulting his temples.

The guys kept telling him he’d won the lottery, lucked out on a dream job. And he would agree, except for you.

He’d met you on his third shift, right when he was allowed to walk the floor without a supervisor. He was already learning how to read the floor, how to pick up on cues from the girls that a guy was trouble, was figuring out that just standing with a scowl on his face and his black shirt on in a darkened room was often times enough to keep a blowhard in line. He was getting used to the girls tipping him at the end of a shift, although it felt weird to take their money when he’d just seen how they made it. He was getting used to the dull ache in his knees, in the soles of his feet, reminding himself not to complain when he saw the six-inch plastic heels the girls traded in.

He was learning that each girl picked their music, that often times the songs they chose reflected their dance personas, the girls dancing to pop songs going for the cutesy vibe, the girls dancing to heavy guitar riffs and shouty lyrics dressed up in black and red lace, dangerous and menacing. He was getting used to the way the room shifted in response to whatever was going on stage, was noticing he needed to pay more attention when the younger-looking girls, the blondes in pigtails, took to the stage.

He felt the room go quiet, a kind of hush when your name was called. The shift was enough to make him pause, mid-stride, moving his gaze from a man trying to buy a drink for a girl he suspected was under 21, to the stage. The heavy bass hit him in the chest, the stage lights purple and red, when you emerged, thigh first, from behind the tatty little red curtain. You were all hips and cleavage, all gentle curves and smooth lines, skin glowing and buttery soft under the stage lights. You moved slowly, your hands ghosting over your breasts, as you made eye contact with every patron in the room, your red painted lips curling into a knowing smile as you regarded them, as you took purchase of them, as you measured them and found them all wanting. You were selecting your prey, he could see it in your eyes, and he was fully prepared for your gaze to skip over him, to see his outfit of black and his number around his neck and know that he was a non-starter, except that as soon as your eyes landed on him they stared there, and he could swear you added an extra little wiggle in your hips for him, an exaggerated dip as you held the pole to you and swivelled around it, as you winked at him, fucking winked right there in public like it wasn’t the most obscene thing you could have done in this environment, and he felt it then, that the two of you were in it together, that you had let him in on the grift, that if you were his Bonnie he would do everything he could to be your Clyde.

He turned as you got busy, gave you the privacy he felt you deserved as you shimmied your skirt down, and he found he had no idea where to look now, had forgotten his rotation, had been thrown completely from his rounds. He wanted a shot of hard whiskey, the proper shit that they kept for the high-rollers, he wanted to go out the back to the employee bathroom and dunk his head into the sink. He wanted to march up that stage and pull you off it, bundle you into his car and disappear with you into the night, his fingers nestled in your wet, wanting cunt as he drove, claiming it back from all the men you’d ever shown it to.

He balled up his fist, wondering what exactly had just fuckin’ happened to him, lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he could see you revolving around the pole, your legs curling into the air in front of you so that, if he were to look, he would get a perfect view of Eden between your thighs.

He figured he should check the back room. It had probably been a while since anyone had.

--

You weren’t there every night. From askin’ around, none too subtly he suspected, he’d learned you were studying your master’s degree, taking classes in the daytime then coming by to work some shifts. You’d been there for a while, degrees are long and hard to get, and you mostly kept to yourself. Sometimes on slow nights you read your textbook in the dressing room until someone dropping cash came by. He felt his pulse quicken at this, at the earnestness of it, the innocence in it, and he resolved then that it would go no further. He would stop. He wouldn’t check the roster to see which nights you were working, wouldn’t watch the back door until he saw you appear, bundled up in a winter jacket and a heavy bag over your shoulder, in sneakers and jeans and somehow all the sexier for it, wouldn’t make shitty mistakes on the job site because he was distracted, waiting for your next shift to roll around, wouldn’t stalk the floor sullen and moody on the nights you weren’t in. He would do none of that, because he was too old for a schoolboy crush, because you were both working professionals, colleagues even, because it could never go anywhere without some sort of destruction, because Sarah was doing so damn well in her new school.

He watched out for you. That was his job, to watch out for all the girls. He watched out for you when you started to approach a guy who was already four drinks deep and threatening to get handsy, stepping in before you got to him to redirect him to a glass of water, then the door. He watched out for you when another girl got too drunk or too high and started causing a scene right beside where you were standing at the bar, pulling her away gently by the biceps before she could shatter a bottle and ricochet any glass into your general direction. He watched your back when you were in the privates, kept a respectable distance outside the open doorway, the little U-shaped couches meaning often times all he could see were the guy’s legs, sometimes the cream of your thighs as they dangled over his, the curve of your calf easing into the point of your heel. He watched out for you as you retreated to the dressing room for a break, kept an eye on the door to make sure no patrons tried to slip in while you were resting. He steered clear of the dressing room itself. That was your private space, you and all the girls. He had a little office back there, but he would just make sure to take everything he needed with him at the start of his shift, take his breaks in the back room amongst the toilet rolls and broken sound equipment.

He watched out for you when he wouldn’t let you tip him, figuring you needed it for school, gently pushing your hand away when you tried to pass him a twenty at the end of every shift.

--

Sunday nights were dead.  Most of the girls never worked it, preferring instead the busier nights, the bucks’ parties and the bigger crowds. There was only a small subset of girls who worked the Sundays, the ones who tended to have regulars come in to visit them, the ones who liked the chilled-out vibe a little more, who used the downtime to practice new tricks on the pole or discuss hair removal and boob jobs right there on the floor. Those were the nights when he felt everyone was a little more themselves, that the grift was a little lesser, when the patrons were generally more well behaved so the girls could let their guards down. No one felt like getting up to all that much bullshit on a Sunday.

But his feet didn’t know any of that, protesting all the same despite the more relaxed vibes, and he was hovering behind one of the booths on the floor resting his hip on it to ease the pressure off one foot for a moment, before shifting his weight to the other. This little method meant he could stay standing, more or less in the same position, for sometimes up to an hour. But on the quiet nights, with so many empty booths around, it was all the harder to resist just sinking down into the cushions and stopping the blood pooling in his shoes.

Candy Jane was on stage, shifting her hips without much conviction, a couple of regulars already with their girls. He could see you, propped up in a corner booth, your eyes on the stage but unmoving. He thought you looked tired, wondered if your feet were hurting as much as his were, and he thought long and hard about sliding in beside you, pulling you into his lap and nudging your head onto his shoulder.

You looked up, then, swivelling your eyes to him and he felt his stomach drop. He was about to start another round of the privates just for something to do but you were getting up on your feet, strolling over to him, the singles and twenties strapped to your thigh by your garter.

‘Joel,’ you said, grabbing his hand and pushing him into a booth behind him. ‘Come sit by me, I’m bored.’

He had seen you flirt with the patrons, a kind of hyper-sexualised bunny thing that promised them every sexual desire they could ask for without ever actually delivering, the art of the tease so acute in you that none of them seemed to even realise they’d been played. He marvelled at that, always kind of admired it, at the street smarts of the girls extracting money from the men who thought they had any power in the situation. He looked at you now, sitting an arm’s length away from him, and felt almost entirely under your spell.

‘Not s’posed to sit on the floor when I’m workin,’ he said, almost apologetic, and you shrugged your shoulders at him.

‘It’s dead, Joel-y,’ you said, and you weren’t flirting with him now, you were just yourself, and he liked you all the better this way, all the more for the earnestness of you, for this version of you none of the other men ever got to see.

‘Just don’t be offended if I have’ta get up and leave quick,’ he said, and you smiled at him.

‘I don’t think you could ever do anything offensive,’ you said, and you were kind of teasing him but also really meant it, and you watched him blush, shifting his body in his chair to face a little further from the stage. ‘Why don’t you watch?’ you asked, rolling your ankles and feeling the tendons stretch. You were hoping your regular would show up soon so you could finally earn something, the house fee already putting you in the red.

‘S’not right to watch, not here for my…jollies,’ he finished, and you grinned at him.

‘Your jollies?’ you teased. He huffed out a shy laugh, looking down at his lap.

‘Y’know what I mean,’ he went on. ‘M’workin’, we’re all workin’.

‘You aren’t curious to take a peek?’ you asked, leaning closer to him. If he was a better man, he would have been able to resist the urge to peak down the top of your dress, the silly little spandex straps barely holding you in, your tits heaving with your breath and with how heavily you were teasing him.

‘Course I am,’ he confessed, almost hissing it out over the bass thumping through his body.

‘A man of principles,’ you appraised, moving back to give him a little break, wondering if he was hard yet. You knew he watched you closely, knew that he lingered outside the doorway for you more than any other girl when you were in a private, knew that he was going out of his way not to look at you when you danced on stage, and the innocence of it, the thrill of it when you had everyone else’s attention except his, it fascinated and annoyed and scolded you, tickled you around the collarbone. You watched as he scratched at the salt and pepper patches dotting his jaw, at how he swallowed so hard his muscle ticked and strained under the force of it.

‘Why don’t you take my tips?’ you asked. Candy’s dance slot was nearly over, and you were waiting to see Destiny. She’d promised to show you one of her new pole tricks hanging inverted, and even after all this time you still hadn’t worked up the courage to do that.

‘You need to save ‘em up, get your degree,’ he answered, without thinking, finding it so hard to think through the want for you, for the proximity of you, now that he could smell your perfume and feel your body heat along his side.

‘You know about that?’ you asked, surprised.

Oh shit, he thought. Just like that he’d fucked it.

‘One of the other guards, he mentioned it. Said he saw you reading a textbook one time,’ he covered, as quickly as he could given the circumstances. You nodded at him, as if this satisfied you, but he wasn’t sure if he’d actually pulled it off. His throat was dry, and it was so hot in the club, was it always this hot in the damn club? First chance he got he was gonna call his HVAC guy.

‘What are you studying?’ he asked, but you were smiling then, eyes bright and over his shoulder.

‘Hey, Javi!’ you squealed, giggling and rising from the booth, pushing your chest out and wiggling towards the man Joel had come to recognise as your regular. The lucky bastard always wore aviators, his jeans so tight Joel was surprised he didn’t burst a button when he got a hard on, his moustache quirking up in greeting to you. Joel wondered if you would ever squeal and rush towards him like that, not caring for one second that it was just part of the grift. 

--

You’re not on shift, haven’t been on shift for a week, and his bones itch under his skin, his feet pacing up and down the carpet outside the privates, patrolling the floor like it insulted him. He hates that he checks the roster at the start of every shift and doesn’t see your name listed, hates that he’s worried about you; that you’re sick, that you’re hurt, that you’ve fucking left. He’s useless at his real job, nearly degloving his entire hand with a band saw he was so distracted wondering if he’d see you that night. This can’t go on, and he knows that, but he just needs to know what happened to you, just needs to know that you’re OK, and then he can get back to being dead inside.

Because that’s what you’ve done to him, he realises. You’ve made him feel alive. He can’t resent you for it, you didn’t know it was what you’d done, but it sets his teeth on edge and it unnerves him in a way that makes him consider quitting, finding another club, maybe not a titty-bar, maybe something he can actually put on his resume. He considers it while simultaneously knowing he won’t do it, would never do it, that he’s too far gone even while he can’t go any further.

He stops checking the roster. It hurts in a way he can’t quite get his head around, a pain he doesn’t have any room to accommodate sitting tight and hot in his chest. He keeps his eyes on the patrons and the clock. He takes his breaks in the back room. He feels tired down to the bone.

--

Two weeks after he’d last seen you, he starts his shift the way he always does, going into the back before too many girls arrive to put his bag in his locker and fill his pockets with whatever he’ll need for the rest of the night. He’s busy trying to put a protein bar in his pocket in such a way that it doesn’t look like he has a hard on when he hears footsteps behind him.

‘Joel-y’, you say, and he swings his head towards the sound so hard he thinks he hears something snap. You’re smiling at him, dressed in your jeans and a Fleetwood Mac tee, and he has to consciously remind his heart to keep beating. You’re holding one of your enormous heels in your hand.

‘Where have you been?’ he blurts out, not caring that he sounds needy. You blink at him, surprised.

‘You missed me?’ you ask, and you’re teasing him but he doesn’t care, because he’s glad all over that you’re back and he’ll take all the sass in the world from you if you just stay there.

‘You didn’t…’ Didn’t what, he thinks. Didn’t check in with me? Say goodbye? There’s no reason why you would have. Didn’t promise you weren’t grossed out by him, that he’d made you so uncomfortable you’d gone to work at another club? ‘You didn’t mention you were taking a break,’ he said, eventually.

‘Oh, I had mid-terms,’ you say, breezily. He’s stepping out of his little office now, trying to put space between you before he says something else blatantly insane and stupid, hoping to go back to just looking at you from dark corners while he furtively hopes you don’t see.

‘Wait,’ you say to him, grabbing him by the arm. You hold your shoe up, and he can see where the strap has come away from the base. He takes it from you, feels the brush of your fingertips as he does it, tries to ignore the little flip in his tummy.  

‘Leave it with me,’ he says, stepping towards the backroom where he knows there’s superglue. ‘You got another pair?’

‘Yeah, but those are my favourites,’ you say, looking up at him carefully, watching his face for something. You haven’t got your heavy stage make-up on yet, haven’t curled your hair into gentle waves, and you’re so beautiful like this, he thinks, when he can see the actual colour of your lips, your cheeks.

‘Twenty minutes,’ he says. You smile at him. He wonders if you’ll put your hand on his arm again. You turn away.

--

In the backroom he sits on an upturned milk crate, holding the strap to the base so the superglue will affix to it. If he had his tools he would try and nail it down, but there’s a chance he could shatter the base and these heels seem expensive for something that makes all you girls look so darn cheap.

Your shoes are so small in his hands, and he imagines just for a second its your foot he’s cradling in his lap. He has the presence of mind just enough to wonder what fucked up version of Cinderella he’s trying to live.

He checks the strap, pulls hard on it three times, before he’s satisfied enough to give it back to you.

--

He realises his error, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. He had mentioned to the guys at poker that Sundays were the quiet ones, that the music was just low enough to be able to think, that the girls mostly entertained themselves while their regulars paid them to chat, sometimes to dance. Where you could always get a seat at the tipping rail, could even swing a three song dance out of a twenty if the girl was bored enough.

He feels the drop in his stomach when he sees them, approaching the bar en masse. He can’t remember where you are, he’d lost sight of you between the booths on the floor and the privates, and he tries to remember what time your stage slot was, having checked the roster again despite swearing black and blue he wouldn’t. They haven’t seen him yet, and he wonders if he can just slip out the back and make a break for it, tell them he was sick so he wasn’t working, and they need to fucking call him first. He knows them, knows that they’re not bad guys, that they’re here to keep him company and maybe see some butt while they’re at it. But it stirs in him a deep panic, that they will see you, that they’ll get their eyes on you before he’s really even let himself have a chance to, before he can make you all his own.

A silly little delirious part of him, right at the back of his skull, whispers that it’ll make your wedding really awkward. He shoos it away like an errant mosquito.

Benny sees him, then, is waving him over.

‘Joel, we made it!’ he yells over the music, the guys turning to him to welcome him into the circle. Tommy is already at the bar ordering the beers, but he nods to his big brother. Joel worries for a second that you’ll like his brother better, before he remembers you don’t even like him at all.

He stalks over to him, his jaw aching from the strain, while he looks through the darkness to try and find you. He’ll just have to run interference for a while, keep them busy while you work the floor, try and bundle them back out into the cold before your stage slot.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says, laced with irony, and they’re slapping him on the back, welcoming him in. He reminds himself these guys are mostly Tommy’s friends. Wouldn’t be that sad if he never saw them again.

Frankie tries to hand him a beer but he pushes it away. ‘Workin’.’ He says, simply.

‘More f’me,’ Frankie grins from under his cap.

‘So where’s the best place to sit?’ Benny asks, surveying the room. There are a couple of girls walking the floor, Amber on the stage twisting her hips to the music while staring out over all of their heads.

‘You gotta tip if you sit on the rail,’ Joel says, simply, and Benny nods.

‘I got singles!’ Pope says, ever the responsible one, always the one planning. ‘Sorry, hermano, not enough for you.’ Joel grins at him. Pope can stay, he thinks. Pope will keep his mouth shut.

‘Look, you sit in that booth there,’ Joel says, pointing them to the centre of the room, ‘you can see the stage perfect. You wanna tip a girl though, you gotta get up onta the rail, make sure they know about it.’ He leans in a little, like he’s sharing a secret. ‘These girls work real hard. Make sure you treat ‘em right, ok? They’re good girls. Smart girls. You don’t come here just to look and not sling ‘em some hard earned.’

‘Yes sir,’ Pope says, making a salute that Joel considers might actually be real. He can’t be sure. Tommy was the one who spent a few years in the army with them, not him.

‘Vamos!’ Pope calls, rounding them up and shoving them down onto the cushions. Now Joel just needs to figure out where you are.

--

You keep fuckin’ evading him. One minute you’re in a private, the next you’re at the bar chatting to a patron, trying to get him to buy off the top shelf. Electra is on the stage, and Tommy is entranced by her, the bills practically falling out of his hands while she bends to pick them up with her teeth. It’s distracting Joel, trying to keep an eye on them while also trying to keep distance between you, and the boys are inviting girls over to them, beckoning to them from the stage to come sit by them, and he knows it’s not long before your dance slot is up, knows that as soon as they see you they’ll want you, that they’ll beckon you over, that you’ll fuckin’ go.

He can’t be everywhere, can’t keep doing his job while also trying to manage this situation, has to keep pacing the privates to keep the other patrons in line. He never thought there’d be a time that he wished that fuckin’ Javi guy would show up just to keep you out of sight for a while.

They keep calling to him, too, trying to get him to come over and sit down no matter how many times he explains to them he’s working, that the girls need him to keep an eye on things. Will’s trying to keep a straight face but he’s snickering up at him, and Joel wonders what’s so damn funny.

‘Bet you do keep an eye on things,’ he grins, a little shit-eating thing that makes Joel’s hand curl into a fist. He shakes it loose, the music making it so hard to think, jarring his nervous system. He’s about to say something, about to find a reason to throw the lot of them out, when your name gets called over the loudspeaker. You’re being called to the stage. You’re up next. On the stage.

He has approximately thirty seconds to do something. He is completely rooted to the spot. At the tipping rail his little brother is waiting, dollars in hand. He thinks he might pass out or puke, possibly both and not in that order. His head is swimming. ‘Not like this,’ he thinks. He just doesn’t want you to meet his friends like this.

‘Holy shit,’ he hears Pope say, and he turns to the stage. Your thigh is appearing around the curtain, the shoe he fixed for you running up and down its raggedy edge. You’re all swagger and tits tonight, your hair swept over one eye, and he’s transfixed for a second, completely unable to move, as you shimmy up to the centre of the stage, take the pole in your hand and swivel, kicking your legs out behind you so that you corkscrew down to your knees. Pope is moving to the tipping rail, Benny following close behind. Tommy is leaning forward on his elbows, pulled in by you almost on instinct, and you’ve clocked him now, crawling on your hands and knees towards him.

For a second, Joel sees you pause, studying Tommy’s face, before you search for him in the crowd. You’ve noticed the family connection, and he freezes, terrified of your reaction. Are you going to be angry? Feel betrayed? Hurt that he’s brought his friends here to ogle you, to watch your hips shimmy and your tits bounce? Has he broken some kind of professional code, could he get fuckin’ fired for this, will you never speak to him again? He tries to communicate to you with his eyes that he didn’t bring them here, that he doesn’t want this, that whatever the fuck’s going on with these guys he wants no part in it. He wants you to know he sees you, you in jeans and a tee shirt, that it’s that you he wants.

For a long moment you stare at each other, Joel’s pulse heavy and thick in his ears. You lean back, rear up so that all your weight is on your knees. You run your hand up your side and into your mouth where you bite down on your index finger. You keep your eyes fixed right on his. You wink.

--

So, this is what its like to have a heart attack, Joel thinks. It’s slower than he expected. It’s been hours, and the guys are still here, and by some stroke of divinity or possible the opposite, so is he.

The number of times he’s reminded the guys they have work in the morning. How he’s complained that the music is giving him a headache, and man that pounding base makes it hard to think, and wouldn’t it be fun if they all went to a sports bar, see if the replay of the Knicks game is on? But they can’t leave yet, won’t leave, because they want to see you on stage again, want one last look at your creamy thighs and your bucking hips before they go home and jerk off thinking of their tongues in your cunt. He’s going to have an aneurysm right here on the goddamn floor of this fuckin’ strip club. Sarah’s gonna find out where he’s been workin’ all this time.

The one thing his brother has done for him, the one thing Tommy has done right in his life, is to lay down a rule before they got there that they can’t get any private dances.

‘Didn’t come out here to see ya’ll with hard-ons’, he reminds them, and they snicker but begrudgingly agree, and Joel won’t lie that he feels a surge of pride in his fuckin’ idiot baby brother and his one good idea.

Joel knows the girls are on a roughly two-hour rotation, that by the end of the night all of them will have been on stage about three times. The only problem is that if a girl’s in a private she gets skipped until she’s ready, so sometimes some girls might even need to do more. It seems especially cruel to him that if a girl’s having a bad night, not reeling anything in, not making any money on her own that she gets paraded out even more to the baying crowds of disinterested patrons. He’s seen a few girls with tears in their eyes on the way to the dressing room, complaining of an off night. He’s been around long enough to know that these happen, that there’s no rhyme or reason to them really, just that sometimes that particular girl just isn’t flavour of the night. He’s never seen it with you, though. Never seen you fail to take a man by the hand and lead him down the dark corridor to the u-shaped couches if you deem him worthy. It burns him up with jealousy and also he’s proud of you for it. His good girl taking no prisoners.

He wonders if he can tell the DJ to take you off the rotation, if you’ll notice if you just don’t get called again, but he also knows it would be messing with your money, that Pope and Benny and Will are making good on their promise to tip well. That you’ve got bills and a college degree to earn, that the fact that he’s sick in the guts with a jealous want doesn’t matter, should never be part of the equation when it comes to you.

He does another round, still hoping to see you, still hoping to find you in a private somewhere, but you’ve made yourself scarce and he wonders if it’s because of him, because of his friends being here, worries that he’s embarrassed you. There’s only one other place you could be, tucked away in the dressing room hiding out, unless you’ve just got dressed and left completely, not even bothering with the attempt to tip him tonight.

He shouldn’t but also he needs to, knocks hard on the door and calls out that it’s him before he pushes it open. With all the lights on around the mirrors the place has a warm glow, and he scans quickly to make sure he’s alone before he pushes himself into the room. You’re not here, either, which means he doesn’t know where you are, and he feels a little flare of panic in his sternum. He rests his hand on it, trying to steady his catching breath. He should check the roster. Maybe you had an early finish.

He nearly steps on you when he rounds the corner into his little office. You’re lying flat on your back on the floor, headphones over your ears. For a terrible second he thinks you’ve passed out in here before he realises you’re tapping your feet, your head swaying back and forth to the music only you can hear. He leans down and pushes, gentle, at your shoulder. Your eyes snap open and you startle, pulling the headphones free.

‘Jesus,’ you say, and he steps back again, hangs around the door.

‘Sorry,’ he says, hands up in appeasement. ‘Didn’t mean to scare ya.’

‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ you say, scrambling to stand. Your heels are catching on the carpet and you waver, Joel coming forward to steady you. ‘Sometimes I come by here and stretch out my back a little, the heels are…hard work,’ you say, and he realises you’re blushing, that you think he’s mad. He shakes his head at you, brows saddled.

‘S’ok,’ he says, not letting go of your arm.

‘You’re just not normally in here,’ you say, and you look up at him then, fixing your eyes on his.

‘You can come here any time you like,’ he says. Wants to add that everything you ever wanted he will get for you, that anything you ever asked he would do.

‘-nks,’ you say, feeling shy all of a sudden, realising the size of his hands for the first time.

‘I didn’t know they were comin’,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady, and you blink for a second, trying to understand. ‘I didn’t invite ‘em, they just showed up.’

‘So, he is your brother,’ you say, smiling now. Joel nods his head at you, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘He’s cute,’ you say. ‘Runs in the family.’

Joel grunts at this, can’t quite believe he’s heard it, tries really hard to think straight. You’re wearing practically nothing in his little office on a quiet Sunday night while his brother and four of his friends throw dollars at random half-naked women. It’s a lot to take in.

‘They’re not getting dances,’ you observe, and Joel shakes his head.

‘Their decision, outta respect or somethin’, I guess.’

‘Respect for you?’ you clarify.

‘Each other, I think.’

‘Oh, that’s silly,’ you say. He feels the heat up his neck, a bloom of something worrisome in his tummy. ‘That’s like going to Disneyland and not getting on any of the rides.’

‘I’m gonna have to beg you to rephrase that,’ Joel says, and you grin at him. He can see that flirty sex bunny emerging in you again, can see that you’re up to somethin’, his brain too addled with the smell of you in his office to figure what.

You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you smile, your little dimple on your right cheek popping up when you’re thinking of something sneaky. He wants to kiss it every morning in the warm light of dawn. Wants you wrapped up in his sheets, hair stretched over his pillow, his hands on your tummy and your breast while he eases his fingers between your thighs.

‘Breaks over then, I guess,’ you say, and you’re practically bouncing out of the room now, his brain working just enough to remind him to follow you. He’s three or four paces behind, alarmed at how fast you can go with those heels on, and he sees it now, that you’re making a beeline for them, that you’re a woman on a mission to finally tip him over the edge, to send him right to his grave.

He can only watch, helplessly, trying to figure which one you’ll reach for. Prays it’s not Tommy. Or Will. Or Benny. Or fuckin’ Frankie. For some reason he thinks Pope might be OK. He watches, his pulse hard and racing in his throat, as you approach, six paces from them, then four, then three. Tommy’s noticed you, is pushing back his chair.

And right before you get to them, right before you’re within grasping reach of his brother, you turn, pivot on your heel to the bar, where fuckin’ Javi is waiting for you, cigarette hanging out of his mouth and beer in hand, one knee cocked to the side. You melt into his arms, resting your head on his shoulder, and somehow Joel is relieved and also it’s so much fucking worse then he could ever imagine, burns him brighter than if you had chosen one of his friends, knows that it’s both a lifeline and a spool of barbed wire you’ve thrown him, knows that he’s latched onto it anyway, can feel the tug and tear of his skin.

--

He's hovering outside the privates. His friends have finally packed it in, it’s nearing 1 AM, and in all the commotion he’d forgotten that his feet are killing him, and they’re really crying for his attention now. But he ain’t leavin’ you alone with that Javi guy, doesn’t trust the way his shirts never fuckin’ fit.

He’s so tired, the adrenaline of the night leaking out of him just to leave him wavering and empty, and he feels like he’s on his last nerve, the stress of the evening, the strangeness of it, wearing him down to the stub. But your little shoe sat right in the palm of his hand, but you went to this office to relax when you thought he wouldn’t know about it, but you fuckin’ winked at him like the rest of the room wasn’t even goddamn there, and he ain’t leavin’ you now.

And if he leans on the wall a little, takes the weight off one foot and transfers it up into his shoulder, if he cocks his head to the side, he can just peek you, see Javi’s tight jeans and the plush of you bottom as you grind it on him, your arms up over your head to make your sweet little tits sway in his face.

He shouldn’t be hard at work. Shouldn’t be leaning like this, crowding himself into the corner to get a better look. He knows there are camera in the hallways, as much to keep an eye on the staff as to keep a watch on the patrons, and he knows that somewhere footage is being collected of him right now peeping in on you. He doesn’t fuckin’ care. He can see the way your stockings are banding too tight across your thighs, and he wants to sooth the skin with his tongue, pull the nylon off you and kiss his way around the angry red rings in your flesh. He can see your hips rocking to the music, your hair swaying down your back. Your hands moving to grasp behind you, pushing your chest up and out into Javi’s face.

And he sees it then, the way Javi’s hands are hovering, lifting off the couch and threatening to come down on your skin. The club has a strict no-touchin’ policy, it was drilled into him on his first day. That’s an infraction worthy enough to get him booted out of here, never allowed to set foot in this fine establishment of dirty tomfoolery ever again. Joel swallows, his eyes now fixed on Javi’s hands, waiting for the moment they brush against your soft, glittering skin, takes a step forward towards the doorway, doesn’t even notice that you’ve pivoted, your hands on Javi’s knees as you grind your bottom down, leaning back to rest your head on Javi’s shoulder. Locking eyes with Joel.

His cock is throbbing in time to the music. The bass thrums in his chest. You hook your knees over Javi’s, first the left then the right, and push them open just enough to give Joel a tease. You’re still in your thong but it’s enough for Joel to see the sheen of the fabric, that you’re wet down there in the valley between your thighs. He licks his lips, a hand coming to rest on his chest, as he gazes at you with the kind of want that sets your nervous system on fire.

You’re swivelling your hips on Javi, can feel that he’s hard underneath you, but you want it to be Joel, want more than his eyes on you now that you’ve got them, want his hands and his tongue and his cock. You whimper, and you hear Javi groan behind you, as if any of this is for him. Javi pulls his knees further apart, unknowingly opens you up for Joel, and there’s a moment where you feel more naked then when you’re topless in front of fifty strange men. Joel has stripped you bare, to the quick. You can see how fast he’s breathing by the way his hand rises and falls on his chest. You time your movements to it, jerk your hips as if he’s breathing his touch into you from across the room.

Except he’s mad, now, you can see the way his brows have furrowed, the way his jaw has set, and you’re too hot and too overwhelmed to realise until the last moment that Javi has his hands on you, is cupping your breasts from behind, trying to reach from behind to tweak your nipples, pulling you further down into his chest to rub more fully on his cock.

Joel’s with you in four strides and you reach for him, both arms lifting up to his as he wrenches you free, screams at Javi to back off, pulls you behind him and shields you with his body while he threatens to beat Javi to a pulp before throwing him out onto the street, then beating him to death where the cameras don’t point.

‘You don’t fuckin’ touch her,’ he’s yelling, and he can feel that his throat is raw, dry, but he can’t fuckin’ think over the crushing beat in his ears, realises after a couple of stilted moments that it’s not the music that’s deafening him but that it’s his heart, that he’s vibrating with fury and want, that Javi has backed up a bit on the couch and lifted his hands in the air but hasn’t scurried away, that he’s not scared or worried at all, that he got to put his hands on heaven and will do nothing to apologise for it, and something snaps in Joel, something feral and needy and primal, something that has been chewing at the bars of its cage for months.

He pulls you to him and you gasp, can feel Joel’s pulse through your back as he manoeuvres you to rest on his chest, lifts one foot up onto the couch while he strips your thong from you, spreads you open for Javi, your body weight leaning on his as he holds you with just one arm around you.

‘This is how you fuckin’ touch her,’ Joel seethes, pushing his hand down over your belly and onto your waiting cunt, cupping your slit and teasing the slick gathering there up and over your clit. You gasp, the leg you have planted on the floor shaking as he strums, gently but somehow so firm, and you can feel yourself opening up to him, your cunt wet and aching, trying to draw him in.

‘You seein’ this, see how wet she gets for me?’ he’s saying, and you glance down to see that Javi is indeed watching, shock on his face and locked in a kind of paralysis, his eyes flicking between your cunt and Joel’s furious face. ‘You couldn’t get this from her,’ Joel is saying, and you’re leaning back into him because your knees are definitely going to buckle, but he holds you firm and steady, and you lift your face up to the ceiling and gasp.

Joel isn’t thinking, just listening to you, just letting his fingers finally touch what he’s dreamt about for months. Your sopping cunt is probably dribbling onto his pants and he doesn’t care, wants it there, wants you deep down in the fibres of the fabric where he’ll never scrub you free. You gasp again when he pushes two fingers in, feels your walls expand to accommodate him, raises the heel of his palm to ease the stretch by rubbing quick little circles on your clit.

‘Slide right in,’ he says, his unhinged commentary gritting out over the music, loud enough for just you and Javi to hear. ‘S’what happens when you’ve got her achin’ for ya,’ he says matter-of-factly.

You’re rolling your hips now, unable to help yourself as you arch your back, wanting to twist in his arms and sink your teeth into his neck, lick and lave at his collarbone, keen into his skin until the sound of it attaches itself to his bones.

‘Look at that pretty cunt,’ Joel is still saying, almost frantic now, the heat on his skin making it impossible to think of anything else, anything so complex as consequences. He’s lost in the touch of it, in the way Javi is looking at him imploringly, the way he can see that this pompous fuckin’ arsehole is getting a schoolin’ on pleasuring a woman, in the way you’re gasping and whimpering just for him. ‘S’mine,’ he says, twisting his fingers up to the knuckle in you, hooking into the spongey spot he knows will make you see stars.

He wants Javi to beg him to stop. Wants him to get down on his knees and apologise, wants him to swear he’ll never come back. But he’s distracted, because you’re calling to him now, the sound of your sweet cries of his name echoing through the vacant halls of his brain.

‘Joel-y’, you’re whimpering, babbling. ‘Joel-y, please,’ and you’re not even sure what you’re asking for, just that he’s torturing you, setting you on fire right here in the privates, that the pleasure he’s wringing from you is too much, too overwhelming, that you want to collapse into him but you’re still trying to bear some of your weight, that your thighs are wobbling and your body is screaming at you to let go but you can’t, not in this position, no matter how good it is, because you can’t get purchase, you can’t grind, the heel of his hand is too blunt on your clit.

He can sense it, that he’s trapped you right where it’s too much and not enough, and a part of him wants to leave you there, wants to make you feel what he’s felt all those weeks he spent waitin’ for ya, checkin’ that fucking roster like a goddamn fuckin’ dog, causin’ all those little fuck ups at the job site thinkin’ about this little cunt wrapped so tight around his knuckles.

But he’s not cruel.

‘Lick it,’ he barks out, gesturing down your body to Javi while he pushes you forward, shifts your weight more fully to the couch. You instinctually hook your knee over Javi’s shoulder, the extra leverage finally giving you purchase enough to properly move. ‘Suck her little clit ‘til she fuckin’ soaks me,’ Joel says, and there’s no arguing with him, not that you would, not that Javi would by the look on his face.

He's looking uncertain, like this might be a trap, and you reach down and grab his hair in your hand. ‘Please, Javi,’ you say, and he’s on you then, without further hesitation, his lips catching your little bud and grasping it between his teeth. You scream, feel Joel jostle you until your head is twisted around to bury in his neck, and you can feel more than hear the little rasps of encouragement as he talks you through it.

‘Such a good girl f’me,’ he’s saying, and you’re barely registering it, but your cunt is listening, clamping down hard on his fingers as Javi grips you with his mouth. ‘Teachin’ us both a thing or two, ain’t ya, baby? Showin’ us just how to treat a sexy little cunt like yours.’

You’re going to die. You’re going to burst into flames. There’s just no question in your mind that this is how you go, but you just fucking hope that you’ll get to come before it happens. It’s like every single nerve ending is now in your pussy, like you are only breathing Joel and Javi, your body sandwiched between them as you grip Javi’s head to you and twist in joyous agony against Joel’s chest.

‘Wanna hear you, baby,’ Joel’s whispering again. ‘Wanna hear it when ya come f’me.’

You open your eyes, look down your body to Javi, where he’s watching you, his eyes travelling up your body to rest on your face. He’s palming his cock, you can see the way his arm is moving up and down slowly, and you can feel Joel throbbing behind you.

‘Don’t look at him,’ Joel admonishes, and you slam your eyes shut, turn again to bury your head in his neck. ‘He can’t help ya,’ Joel goes on. ‘S’just there to make you come, baby.’

God it’s fucking debauched, is what it is. It’s filthy and sweaty and you’re so wet, and you feel sexier than you ever have, feel the power in your body and in your desire, feel the way you have finally, finally brought something feral out in Joel. You’re going to come, because Joel has determined that you are going to, and you just know without him even telling you so that he won’t let you go until you have, until he is satisfied that he has wrung out every last whimper from you, until you are sated and he is confident his job is done.

Javi’s licking hard at your clit now, sometimes sucking on it, and you slam your hips down onto Joel’s hand when he does it, rock your knee to bring Javi closer to you, try to swallow him with your cunt and your hands in his hair.

You can’t get enough breath to warn them. It’s just going to happen, they’re just going to throw you over the edge and into the abyss and you can’t even tell them they’re about to do it. Joel sees it though, feels the way your cunt is gripping him.

‘Do it, baby,’ he’s gritting into your ear, catching every roll of your hips so you won’t fall. ‘Show him what it’s like when I wreck you.’

And you do, then. Harder than you ever have in your life, your lungs pillowing out in your chest to suck in all the air available to them, your wails lost to the music as streams of your slick press into Javi’s face, where you soak him and Joel behind you, shivering and convulsing as you topple over the peak, dimly aware of Joel’s words in your ear as you go, calling you his pretty girl, his beautiful, perfect girl. His girl, his girl, his.

--

There are too many broken workplace safety rules to count, so Joel doesn’t bother. He knows he’s lost his job, that the cameras will have picked up all of that, that as he drops his ID badge and set of keys on the desk in his little office that it was worth it, that you were worth it. He’ll get another job, find a bar open just as late as this one even if it’s further out of town, will travel and will keep Sarah in school and will keep the memory of your sweet little cunt fluttering around his fingers locked up tight in the back of his brain for when the nights are cold and lonely.

When he drives you home, bundles you up in his car and puts the heater on full blast to keep you warm, you tell him that you finished your degree weeks ago, that you were lying about the mid-terms, that you had actually been down in Florida helping your mother move your grandpa into care. It hadn’t seemed necessary to talk about them in that environment, you said, and he rests his hand on your knee because he understands, and also because he likes you.

He doesn’t ask for your number. Knows you probably wouldn’t give it to him, is too afraid that you’d regret everything that you did together, that you were humouring him with even letting him drop you home, that this isn’t even your house.

He only found it later, written in your neat writing, your number and your real name, when he was stripping his pants off himself and dumping them into the hamper, his come collected on the inside where he exploded as he rutted against you, as he listened to your desperate, whimpering cries for him.

He tacks the little piece of paper to the mirror, memorising the digits in case one day it falls. He isn’t gonna call it. He just wants it there, a reminder of you and what you’ve made him feel, how you’ve lifted him, freed something in him. He just wants it there. Proof that you were real.

This is so sweet! 🥰🥰🥰

you're a prize

joel miller x f!reader

summary: it's date night, and joel takes you to the fair

wordcount: 1.9k warnings: allusion and minor mention of smut. no outbreak. established relationship. joel is cute and wants to win you something. an: written for @iamasaddie's zodiac sign edition writing challenge. i got the lovely joel, fair au and virgo. I ignored the word limit, I’m sorry!!! thank you to the @thetriumphantpanda for proofing this little baby for me.

The air smells sweet as you step out of his truck.

Popcorn, cotton candy, and fried treats waft through the air, mingling with the cooling evening breeze as you take in the colourful stalls and bright lights.

The sound of his door slamming brings your attention back to him. His face is tight, unreadable—chest slightly puffed out, his hands fidgeting with his belt before he runs a thumb along the tucked-in edges of his shirt. Fixing. Adjusting for perfection, as though this were your first date and not close to the hundredth. When his eyes finally meet yours, you grin a little wider, and his own smile begins to break through.

It had been Tommy’s idea—but you’d suspected it was actually Sarah’s. The masterplan being laid out when you’d made coffee, the promise of an empty home, a coincidentally timed advert in the newspaper about the fair being in town as you looked at Joel:

Wanna take me to the fair, Miller? Show me how teenage you would have wooed me.

Sometimes, you can’t quite believe he’s yours.

A thing you’d said when you’d begun getting ready, your outfit laid out, putting your necklace on when he’d walked into the bedroom, shirt open, jeans unfastened, belt hanging there—a sinful picture that somehow was real and yours.

It’s why you’d breathed it out, caught off guard, made the two of you leave far later than you’d told yourselves when he’d left this morning. Your eyes having dragged up and down his frame in the mirror before you pressed the very same words to his mouth. Hungry, all of a sudden desperate. Fabric dragged down his arms, jeans somewhere at his ankles—pulling and tugging, needing more until he was on his back and you found yourself sliding down his cock, finding all semblance of words unable to form.

Somehow, even now, an hour later, you have to pinch yourself.

Unable to wrap your head around the fact that your things are alongside his. That you wake up and sleep beside him. A chance encounter, a right-place-right-time, turned relationship.

A thing you know he thinks too—confirming as much when sleep threatens to take him, the veil of honesty at its thinnest as he murmurs about not deserving you, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you the first time you’d met.

He makes up for the handful of hours he can give you between working, parenting and sleeping, by writing poems between your thighs, scriptures against your skin, mouth and neck. Making promises he did his darndest to keep.

“You look good, Miller. Don’t worry.”

“Not worryin’.”

You make a soft noise to yourself, offering your hand as the strings of multicoloured bulbs draped between the parking lot and the stalls flicker on, casting a warm glow across his face as you smile at him.

Date nights happen so infrequently, that you’re not sure you remember how they go outside of takeout and movies on the sofa. Not that you complain, happily trade almost any evening for one of them.

“God, you’re handsome,” you whisper, tightening your fingers around his hand—looping them, feeling how much larger his is, than yours—as your other arm bends at the elbow, slinging around his neck. “Fuck I’m one lucky lady.”

He snorts, loudly. His eyes flick to the side before they land back on you, bashful, soft, as he clears his throat and you scrape your nails against his scalp. “Think I’m the lucky one.”

You smile, all uncontrollably as you inhale the scent of his aftershave. It’s all wooden-edged, peppery—just him. Reminded all of a sudden to the wisp of it the night prior, the fan having picked it up, blew it across the room as you turned a page in your book and heard him sigh, would do anythin’ for you.

“I could kiss you.”

Licking his lips, flicking his gaze from yours to your mouth and back. “Yeah?”

You wonder if he catches how it leaves his lips. How wrecked it sounds, how it’s more gravel than velvet, making heat bloom in your stomach as you draw a shape along his scalp.

“Could. But won’t. I think I need a corndog, maybe a ride on the Big Wheel. Real date night vibes first—not often we have some alone time. Don’t want to squander what Tommy has given us.”

Scoffing, he shakes his head, “Tommy.”

Grinning, you nudge into him when he tugs you to begin walking. Glancing up to notice how the sky is shifting in real-time from deep blue to velvet indigo—feeling him release your hand, to slide an arm around your waist. Guiding. Leading through shifting crowds.

You feel grateful, almost overwhelmed, as you take in the scene around you. On both sides, colourful stalls burst with energy, each humming excitedly. The ring toss calls to you with glistening glass bottles and the satisfying clink of rings, while the joyful pops of balloons from a nearby dart game fill the air.

It becomes apparent, quickly, you’re not sure where he’s leading you—not as you pass cheers that grab your attention, only jolting back to him when he comes to a stop at a stall. One less busy, the outer edge overflowing with giant stuffed animals and oddities—

“Hey look, it’s you.”

Your eyes narrow, flitting around, staring as he squeezes your hip.

“There,” he whispers.

All gruff, right into your ear. His breath dances along your cheek. Making your throat dry, making heat bloom between your legs when his chest becomes flush with your spine, and you follow where his finger is pointing, finding at the end of it—

“A sloth. Like you.”

“Fuck you, Miller.”

His laugh ripples out of him, loud, cracking in places as he wraps an arm around your chest, keeping you pinned—letting you feel how it rumbles through him, vibrating your bones with it as you find it hard not to join him. Shaking your head, but smirking, staring up at him before he presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

The same kind he leaves in the morning when he gets up before you; the same one he leaves on your skin when he walks in and finds dinner cooked, and the evidence of a hard day on your face. The same one that means three words, a thing you’re happy to take, each and every time.

“Gonna win it for you.”

“Joel, c’mon, you don’t need to do that, can just go on the ride, grab a snack and go—”

“I’ll be quick. Promise,” he replies, tightening his hold across your chest, mouth dropping back to your ear as children scream as they run past, “Lemme win you a prize, baby.”

Rolling your eyes, tongue in cheek as you stare at him. “What if you’re the only prize I need?”

He contemplates, in the way he always does—mouth scrunching up, nose twitching. “Still gonna win you a sloth.”

Folding your arms, you see little point in arguing. Resting your hip against the side, watching him familiarise himself with the goal: aim the rifle at the row of little metal flaps and shoot them down one by one—each having painted in little ducks on in faded yellows, and in your opinion had seen better days.

It's odd to see a rifle in his hand—wooden, smooth, worn from countless hands over the years. You're so used to seeing him with a tool of some kind or a coffee mug when he's at home.

Joel's first go isn’t too bad. The second, third and fourth, range from worse to about the same.

Each time, he grumbles—a little grunt here, a fuck there. It hissed, whispered—right under his throat with the passing reminder of children still running around the place—as you shift from leaning to standing, and arms folded to hanging loose at your sides.

“Joel, c’mon, let’s go play something else—”

“Goddammit, I can do this.”

Placing your hand on his forearm, feeling it twitch under, spotting the way his bicep twitches under the fabric of his shirt, you busily focus on his face. “Hey, I know you can. But, I want to go on The Big Wheel—maybe, make out a little, you know? Little over the clothes. See what it was like to date teenage Joel Miller.”

His jaw ticks—teeth running over his bottom lip as his nostrils flare as he inhales. His grip remains tight on the toy, fingers flexing over the trigger as your palm rubs in a line up and down his arm.

“One more go, promise.”

Smiling, you close your eyes and shrug—dropping your hand. “One more go.”

Stepping back, watching him nod to the man to reset the metal flaps, you have a thought. “Hey.”

Brown eyes meet yours—the bulbs of the stall reflecting in them, making them shimmer, shine. His face smoothed out, soft, as though work hadn’t been stressing him for weeks, as though bills hadn’t been keeping him awake.

“You win me that sloth, Miller, maybe I’ll ask the guy at the Big Wheel if we can stop at the top and admire the view.”

His eyes narrow, staring, your tongue dragging along your upper lip before your teeth bite on your lower and you tilt your head. Then, his eyes flash.

Head turning, cracking it on either side as he adjusts his stance and squares his shoulders—his grip different, almost more expert as you press your thighs together at the sight of his arm flexing again, his neck tensing.

Then, he knocks one down and your pulse hammers in your ears. The second makes you jump a little, as your heart skips a beat in your chest.

And you know he still has three attempts for the third, plenty of time. But you pinch your thigh through the fabric skating over them. Trying to level your breathing; trying to not move in anticipation. Fingers almost wanting to cross as you stare at him, admiring, unable to tear your eyes away from him—

Then the third rings out.

Metal clanging—a win announced, practically bellowing and vibrating through the air as he cheers when the bell is rung and you find yourself with your arms around his neck. You don’t think as you press a kiss—all painted in joy, happiness and pride—against his cheek. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest when your hand slides over it, rubbing, trying to soothe it as he shakes his head in disbelief when the toys is held out to him.

He takes it, his hand large and strong, the same one that just skillfully shot down metal ducks to win you a prize. As he hands it to you, his other arm slips gently around your waist.

“Told you I’d win you it.”

“My hero,” you smirk, tapping his nose with the sloth’s hand.

Feeling him pinch your side, forcing a giggle out, he drops his voice again, “C’mon, want my prize now.”

“Am I not your prize?” you tease, smiling, faking innocence as he stares—blinking, unsure what to say.

“Some parts of you more than others.”

Grinning, mouth falling open in shock, you hear him chuckle. “Good job I’m interested in finding out what winning tastes like.”

His eyes darken, lips parting as you watch him swallow, before he groans all in the back of his throat. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your lip. “Wanna see how much it costs us to have five minutes at the top?”

Joel practically drags you towards the Big Wheel, the fair music blaring from it as you clutch the sloth toy tight to your waist, trying to keep up with him, grinning, from ear to ear.

This was such a good read! I have been obsessed with that song lately and it really is the perfect fit for Joel. You captured it perfectly ❤️

Lost Cause

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel thinks you shouldn’t waste your time on him. You disagree.

Warnings: Explicit MDNI; Jackson-era Joel; canon-ish but also not; drinking; mentions of cigarettes, drugs, dark thoughts, and death; unprotected p in v; oral (m and f receiving); interesting use of red wine; unspecified age gap; despair and hope.

Inspired by the song Save Me by Jelly Roll. Some of the lyrics have been woven into the story.

Word count: 2,594 oneshot

The hits just kept coming. Time after time, year after year, life just beat Joel Miller down. It started when he was young, always taken down a peg by someone who was supposed to love him unconditionally, no matter how hard he tried to build himself up. There was a brief respite when he had Sarah – those fourteen years were the happiest of his life, despite the sudden and unexpected nature of becoming a father so young, until it was all ripped away in the blink of an eye on that one horrific day.

Since then, he’d given up hoping for more. Life had completely shattered his hopes and dreams. He couldn’t even put himself out of his own misery, for fuck’s sake. Life hated him that much it wouldn’t even release its grasp on him. He was so damaged beyond repair, and he could do fuck all about it.

His latest hit was a sucker punch to the gut, though.

Just when he finally opened up his heart again, when he allowed himself to feel something other than misery again, that’s precisely when the hit came.

Ellie – sweet, feral child that she was – wanted nothing to do with him after finding out the truth of what happened to the Fireflies in Salt Lake City.

The fracture in his relationship with Ellie sent him spiraling out of control, resorting to old behaviors and vices – drinking too much at the Tipsy Bison, smoking pilfered cigarettes out back behind the bar, taking pills on the rare occasions he could get his hands on them. The nightmares returned no matter how blasted he got to chase them away and he was often moody from lack of sleep.

Joel still contributed to society in Jackson, but he did it in ways that he could keep to himself. Fixing things around town, building stuff in his workshop, taking the odd patrol shift with his brother. He avoided everyone but Tommy and Maria, and Ellie, if she didn’t flee from the very sight of him.

“Jesus Christ, Joel. What the fuck? Were you trying to get yourself killed? Because it almost worked!” Tommy was worked up, laying into Joel at the tail end of their patrol shift. He didn’t know if his older brother had a death wish or was just too hungover to pay proper attention, but Joel was nearly taken out by a clicker while they cleared their route. A clicker that he normally would have dispatched without much effort or thought. Joel cut it way too close this time.

Joel gazed at his brother with baleful eyes. He had nothing to say for himself. He did have a death wish, but how could he tell Tommy that?

Tommy knew Joel was struggling – his behavior was similar to what it had been after Sarah died, when he became a fraction of the man he had been. “Come on, let’s grab a drink at the Bison,” Tommy sighed. At a loss on how else to help him, Tommy often accompanied Joel to the bar despite already thinking his brother drank too much.  At least he could keep an eye on him that way.

They made small talk on the way, Joel’s responses little more that grumbles and grunts. Something needed to give, but what? Tommy didn’t know, but he sent up silent prayers for a miracle to save his brother.

Once they were seated at one end of the bar, Tommy ordered a round. “Joel, brother, what is going on, really? Is it just the thing with Ellie or something more?”

Two sets of deep brown eyes stared at each other for long moments, each waiting for the other to flinch or look away. Joel gave in first, clearing his throat, unable to meet his brother’s eyes as he spoke. “It’s… everythin’, Tommy. It feels like somethin’ inside me is broken, somethin’ that was just starting to repair itself until this thing with Ellie shattered it again.”

Tommy’s heart clenched. Life had done Joel dirty, even before the outbreak, and it seemed like it finally broke him beyond repair. “I know it ain’t been easy, not with… well, everything. Do you… would you ever consider talking to someone about it all? Like a professional, I mean. I know we got someone here who used to be a counselor.”

Brows pinched together, Joel’s stormy eyes glared at the bar top, avoiding Tommy’s searching gaze. “Fuck, no! I don’t want a stranger diggin’ into my psyche or whatever the hell they do, just so they can tell me I have daddy issues or some such shit. And talkin’ ‘bout it don’t help none, either. I’m talking to you and it ain’t doing shit but pissin’ me the hell off!”

“Damn, alright! Don’t gotta get all caveman on me.” Tommy held his hands up with a blatant roll of his eyes. His brother never did like the touchy feely shit and he should have known better than to bring it up. “Maybe you just need a sweet lil’ thing to take your mind off shit.”

That got Joel to laugh for the first time in a long while. “Oh yeah? You think getting my dick wet will solve everythin’?”

Tommy smirked. “Well, not everything. You’ll still be you afterwards. I’d pity whatever poor girl got stuck with you, honestly. But it couldn’t hurt none, right?” It was good to see his brother grin, nose and corners of eyes crinkling with the broadness of it, and they fell into a comfortable silence while people watching. Sudden movement at the entrance caught Tommy’s attention and Joel followed his eyeline.

You walked in with Maria, the pair of you had your heads tilted toward each other giggling madly about something. While Tommy only had eyes for Maria, Joel drank in the sight of you. New to Jackson, you arrived with a small group a few weeks ago and, while you were still settling in, you were eager to meet people and get involved in helping around town. Maria took an instant liking to you, and you spent a lot of time with her, quickly becoming part of the Miller group.

Catching a glimpse of his brother staring at you, Tommy slapped Joel’s back. “Speaking of a sweet lil’ thing. Maybe this is your chance, brother.” Joel scoffed in return. Girls like you don’t go for guys like him, at least not the guy he was now. It was the law of nature or some shit.

“Hey boys,” Maria greeted, taking a seat next to Tommy. With a knowing glint in her eye and an exaggerated wink, she gestured for you to sit next to Joel. You never should have mentioned to her how handsome you found Joel. She was becoming a menace with her not-so-subtle methods of teasing and pushing the two of you closer at every opportunity.

“Hi Joel.” You slipped onto the stool next to him, one hand placed on his shoulder for balance as you did so.

“Hey darlin’. Whatcha drinking?” he grunted, fighting to ignore the burning heat of your touch. When was the last time a woman touched him? It must have been Tess and that was… a long time ago.

“I’ll take a red wine. Cabernet or pinot noir, whichever kind is available, please.”

After relaying your request to the bartender, and with his brother’s attention focused solely on Maria, Joel turned his attention back to you. He was a miserable sod, but you were a beautiful woman – he’d be a fool to ignore the attention you paid him. “How are you settlin’ in?”

“Pretty good. This is some community.” You launched into a few stories about mishaps and people you’ve met so far, drawing a few chuckles from Joel with your interpretation of some of the townsfolk. You had a way about you that drew him out of shell of melancholy.

One drink quickly became two, then three, and before either of you knew it, Maria and Tommy left and the two of you were alone at the bar. The wine buzz left you feeling bold and brave, making a move you would not have normally.

“Do you want to go back to my place for a nightcap?”

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed, brows pinched, at once drifting back under the dark cloud of hopelessness and unable to meet your heated gaze. “You don’t want to waste your time on me. I’m a lost cause.”

“Why don’t you let me decide what and who I waste my time on,” you challenged.

Joel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at your tenacity. You were a beautiful young woman and for some unfathomable reason you were interested in him. He had absolutely nothing to offer someone like you, except for a one-night stand, at best. He was good at those – they didn’t require deep connections or feelings, two things he was avoiding like the plague. Maybe Tommy was on to something though – sex would take his mind off his miserable existence for a bit.

“Okay then. Let’s get outta here,” he replied, downing the last of the amber liquid in his glass, and leading you out of the bar with a large, warm hand at your lower back.

The journey to your house was cold and quiet and you began to wonder if you’d made a huge error in judgement. You weren’t a one-night stand kind of girl, preferring the comfort and security of relationships instead, but something told you that this would be the only way you’d get to have Joel. There was a darkness about him, a deep residing mass of regret and remorse, and you felt a burning need to fix him, to be his sunshine, even if only for a little bit.

Your hands fumbled with the latch when you finally reached your house. The warmth of Joel’s large hands suddenly overwhelmed your senses as he helped you, and you were flinging yourself at him before the door even closed behind you.

His kisses were anything but tender, all harsh presses of his lips, teeth, and tongue, like he was a man starved. There would be marks left on your tender skin come morning, but you didn’t mind, giving him the same treatment as you sucked at his neck, soothing your tongue over the spots you just sunk your teeth into.

“I have a bottle of wine. Do you want some?” you breathed against his lips, taking a moment to slow the momentum before the pair of you spontaneously combusted.

A smirk crossed Joel’s lips as an idea struck him. “Sure, why not.” He watched you open the bottle and pour two glasses before returning to him. Accepting one of the stemless glasses, he clinked it against yours before taking a sip. The momentum picked right back up after that first taste of the dark liquid.

Fingers frantically working to undo the buttons on Joel’s flannel with one hand, you walked backwards up the stairs to your bedroom, pulling him along with you without a spare thought about the wine spilled on the wood flooring as you went. Patience wearing thin, he tore your clothes from your body with his free hand, leaving you naked and yearning as you continued working on his shirt. Placing his glass of wine on the nightstand, his hands were everywhere, he could not get enough of your smooth, soft skin.

You were the antithesis of him, bright and bubbly where he was dark and brooding, soft where he was hard, adaptable and happy where he was rigid and sad. You were ripe like fresh fruit ready for plucking. You were everything he wish he could still be. Perhaps he could get just a brief taste of happiness being with you, inside you.

Once his jeans and boots were shed, Joel tossed you onto the bed, watching with hungry eyes as your tits bounced with the movement. He was on you in a flash, hands and mouth exploring every inch of your body. Sharp teeth scraped against your puckered nipples, making them impossibly harder, and the sensation shot a bolt of pleasure right down to your core, where the weight of his hardened cock rested, twitching for attention.

Nails scraped down his chest and belly until you reached his cock, slipping your slender hand around the heft of him. He was huge – both long and thick, a combination you’d not experienced before, and your mouth watered with the desire to taste him. If you only had one night together, you wanted to make it a memorable experience.

It took great effort to get Joel to detach his lips from your breasts, the whine that emanated from him as you did so had you downright aching for him.

“What are you doin’, darlin’?” his deep voice rumbled, dark eyes rolling back in his head when you moved down his body and slipped your plush lips around the head of his cock. “Oh, fuck!”

After spending so long living in hell, your mouth felt like heaven as you licked and sucked on his length.

“Wait, doll, I wanna try somethin’.”

Sitting up against the aged headboard, Joel grasped the wine glass and brought it down to rest on his belly. Two thick fingers dipped into the dark red liquid and swirled, coating every bit of surface area from fingertip to second knuckle before he brought his drenched fingers down towards you. His hand hovered over his cock and you both watched as droplets of translucent ruby red liquid dripped onto his hardened flesh.

Your mouth watered as you watched him repeat the process, eager to taste the heady mix of the bitter tang of wine and his salty pre-cum. Ravenous, you slurped at the liquid trails running down the length of his cock before lapping at the bulbous head, leaving no hint of wine behind as you wrapped your lips around him.

Joel was a panting mess when you took him as far as you could, his weeping head hitting the back of your throat. The glass of wine was forgotten, slipping from his hand to stain the hardwood floor next to the bed. That was a tomorrow problem as you focused on devouring his beautiful cock. He was close to the edge within minutes, the sensations too much, and he pushed you off him none too gently, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

“My turn, darlin’,” Joel murmured, nestling his face between your legs. He’d been told that his current lifestyle was bad for his health, that all the drinking and smoking was hopeless. They weren’t wrong, but it felt like that was all he needed, the only thing that set him free from his sorrows. Now that he’d tasted you, he knew that was utter bullshit. You could so easily set him free if he got to have you, taste you every day. You were enough to change a man like him.

“Joel,” you mewled his name between long moans as his tongue teased at your clit, thick fingers exploring your folds before dipping inside you. He drew an orgasm from you effortlessly and you clawed at his back as the blinding flash of pleasure washed over you. “I need you inside me. Now. Please.”

He could refuse you nothing, shifting to hover over you. “Save me from myself,” he murmured against your lips as he sheathed himself inside your tight warmth. “You’re the only one who can.”

“Always,” you replied breathlessly, rocking your hips against his. Your mouths met in a kiss full of promise.