Joel Miller/reader - Tumblr Posts

A Solemn Promise | Joel Miller x F!Reader Series

Summary: Joel thought he had lost it all. That the cruel bitter world had taken away his heart and soul piece by piece until there was nothing left. Everything he cared so deeply for gone. Turning him into a complicated man with a complicated heart.

But when he has to travel across the country with a young girl and his girlfriend that he thought was dead. Maybe, just maybe his broken heart and soul can mend.

----

Note: I've kept this series in the back of my mind and in my docs since the last episode of The Last of Us aired (back in March i think. holy shit). I've always thought about it, I've written some of it but never had the courage to post it. I've been very overwhelmed with writing this due to how close it is to the show and I want to be as accurate as I can. But I've been on a bit of a writing roll and Joel Miller has come back into my heart. So happy outbreak day (as I post this on Sept. 26) and enjoy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5: (TBD/ Coming Soon)

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (COMPLETED)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (COMPLETED)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Oh my! This was such a good read!!!

could I request a fic with these:

“is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?”

“let me stay like this in you for a little bit.”

forget-me-not

hello yessssssss love these 🤤

3.3k, joel miller x reader, no use of y/n

warning(s): angst, sex, 18+ themes, alcohol, qz!joel

*****

you wouldn't say you'd had high hopes for the night, but you definitely didn’t expect it to go quite like this. 

in a dingy booth of a boston qz speakeasy, you nursed a glass of whiskey. it was the real stuff, a true indulgence you could rarely justify, but you had a few extra ration cards this week and needed to blow off some steam.

you couldn’t get your mind off of joel miller. 

he’d saved your ass on countless occasions, and he exuded an intensity that you couldn’t get enough of. he was guarded but caring. chastised you when you slipped up and told you he wouldn’t be there to help if you were in trouble, but contradicted himself time and time again, always showing up somehow just when you needed him.

and now he was leaving.

when he told you, he'd said something about finding his little brother, somewhere out in wyoming. you didn't get much more than that but you're not sure if it's cos he didn't tell you, or if it's that when he told you, you could suddenly hear your pulse in your ears and your stomach plummeted and it felt as though ice water filled your veins and you could see his mouth was moving but you didn't hear anything else.

you'd lived down the hall from Joel for nearly four years, and you'd been sleeping together for two. the night it started, joel had gotten into a fight with some guy who’d managed to slash him real good on his right side. he'd seen light coming from below your door, and asked for your help. 

you'd stitched him up cleanly, a neat enough job that even joel seemed impressed. the air was charged and electric between the two of you. feeling bold, you asked if he'd like to stay--he'd clearly had a horrendous day and you'd like to make him feel better.

sometimes it’s hard and rough and feral, other times passionate and intense. you weren’t a couple, weren’t exclusive. but you both took what you could for as long as you could, because that was truly enough.

you remember he'd always talked about his brother, how they stayed in touch over radio. the past few weeks, joel's been more stressed, and it's been nearly a month since he'd heard from tommy.

you’d told him that you wished him the best of luck finding his brother, but you'd made it clear a long time ago that you weren’t planting roots somewhere new; you’ve travelled enough and lost enough for a lifetime, and told him from the very beginning that you weren’t picking up and relocating ever again. sure, a qz is a qz, but boston wasn't kansas city, and it wasn’t the wilderness either. it’s true, FEDRA’s detained you a few times (and broken a couple ribs in the process), but you’ve finally made a home somewhere, and you don’t have anything real to chase elsewhere. 

you both knew, if Joel left, you wouldn’t be leaving with him.

you weren’t worried about him, not really. joel knew how to take care of himself. you didn’t need anything to change between the two of you. knew you’d be okay, ultimately. but it still hurt, thinking about him off across the country, and you know for a damn fact you’ll never know if he made it. if he’s still alive.

the whiskey had warmed you, and you found yourself right at the comfortable point of relaxed and careless. you didn't let yourself get like this often, prioritising alertness over comfort, but tonight felt like a special occasion. you wanted to get loose, flirt, dance, and interact with people. you stood up to make a move for the jukebox, but in your state, you managed to backhand the whiskey bottle the bartender was reaching to cork.

the bottle catapulted into the air and landed with a sickening crash on the floor, glass spraying, and whiskey spattered seemingly everywhere in a fifteen foot radius. a hush fell across the room as fucking everyone, apparently, turned to look at the loss of an irreplaceable twenty year old bottle.

the glare the bartender aims at you sobers you up real quick.

"you'd best be able to pay for that, sweetheart," the bartender hisses, and your stomach flips. you absolutely do not have enough ration cards to pay for it. you do have something else, though. the chatter in the speakeasy resumes, and you feel like you have a little more privacy.

aiming for sultry, you look the bartender up and down and bat your eyes, "i'm sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement," you coo, and the bartender swallows.

you lean forward and deftly undo the top button of his shirt.

"i'm a little short on cards right now," you admit, "but is there anything else i can offer you?"

you don't miss how his eyes glance over you, pausing for a moment as he stares at your tits. fucking typical, but a good sign you might be able to get away with it.

before you can try and seal the deal, though, you feel someone push up to the bar next to you and slam down a fistful of ration cards.

"that should take care of it," says a gruff voice, and you know it's joel.

the bartender, confused as ever, looks between the two of you, adjusts himself, pockets the money and shrugs. most folks knew better than to fuck with joel if it could be avoided. and then you felt his hand gripping your shoulder and wheeling you out of the building.

"joel-" you say, and he practically hisses in response.

"save it," he growls, and you fall silent.

he's walking you back to your apartment, you realise, and you're both thankful and absolutely infuriated. how dare he swoop in like that. you were dealing with the situation. you're allowed to be tipsy, you're allowed to do whatever you wanted, and quite frankly, joel had no right.

"i had it under control," you spit and he laughs.

"sure looked like it," he snorts, and there's not an ounce of humour in his voice.

"i would've figured it out-" you stammer, before he cuts you off, turning you to face him.

"is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?"

your stomach drops, but heat pools between your legs.

"that is none of your fuckin business, joel," you glare. he's not wrong, but you're not ashamed. it's kept you alive. you're not gonna feel guilty about that, especially not for someone who has no fucking right.

he goes quiet for a moment, and then starts pulling you along again. "i'm taking you home," he says, and you don't argue.

when you step through the door, you expect joel to deposit you and leave. he's been busy, planning this trip out west, you've barely seen him these past few weeks.

instead, though, he slams the door behind him, staring you down. you feel minuscule under his gaze.

"you're really gonna act this reckless, hmm? gettin drunk and careless."

"fuck you, joel." you spit back, but he keeps going.

"practically begging to fuck that guy cos you couldn't pay? if i hadn't found you-"

"wait-" you cut him off, "i'm sorry, you were looking for me?"

you'd thought it was just coincidence he'd been in the same place at the same time. suddenly, the fury he'd exuded changed and he looked almost sheepish.

"i'm leaving."

"i know."

"in the morning."

"oh."

and then it hits you.

"you wanted to say goodbye."

he stares for a moment, and then nods. the hostility between you dissolves in an instant, all of a sudden replaced by something more vulnerable, and then, for the first time, you hear joel miller sound nervous.

"i- i know we've been doing this... thing. for a while. and i just. i didn't want to just disappear. tried knocking on your door but you were out, so i went to find you. managed to catch the tail end of you smashing that bottle."

"yeah," you snort, "not my best moment."

"thought it was a long shot finding you there, never thought you were much for public intoxication."

"special occasion."

he stares you down, eyes practically glittering, and you buckle.

"you've been on my mind. i'm really gonna miss you, joel."

he cups a hand to your cheek. "i'm guessing your answer hasn't changed, but you're still welcome to come with us," he murmurs.

you smile sadly and shake your head. "i'm not cut out for another trip across the country. i'd slow you down."

he nods. considers.

"i know we've never defined this," you say, "and it doesn't need to mean anything other than what it is. but you've been a part of my life for a while now. and... you are significant to me."

it feels like a gamble, the closest to any truth you can state. it's not love. well, maybe it is? but not the kind where you need to spend your lives together, or even want to. you just want the moment to mean as much to joel as it does to you.

you half expect rejection, for him to leave you there and leave without another word but instead, joel lets out a little breath and steps a little bit closer. goosebumps spread along your spine and down your arms, and your stomach does a flip.

"one last night?" he asks.

you nod. "one last night."

whatever space had been between you is closed in an instant, joel pulling you in, tongues and teeth crashing together. in the blink of an eye, you find yourself pressed up against your front door with joel trailing kisses down your throat, a leg between yours, and you rut up against him.

"let me take care of you, baby," he hums, and you can feel that he's getting hard against you.

"please-"

he manoeuvres you around and you feel weightless in his arms, like a rag-doll, pliant. you know you're wet at this point, feeling suddenly slick and tingly. before you know it, you're ass is on your dining table and joel's unbuttoning your shirt, laving kisses along your jawline, down your throat. you try to savour every moment. his moustache along your collarbone. tongue hot as he licks down and between your breasts, occasionally stopping to nip or bite at your skin.

it feels like an eternity before he's pulled your shirt off of your shoulders, leaving you bare and open.

"so fucking beautiful," he whispers, his fingers now deftly undoing the button of your jeans, and his words sound like a prayer. he helps you lift your hips so he can pull your jeans down, leaving only your panties. he rubs a thumb over the fabric and feels the wetness that's been pooling between your legs and practically growls in response.

pulling your panties to the side, he starts stroking your cunt with his thick fingers. long, long strokes that make you shudder, before he dips a finger into your tight wet heat and hums. dips a little deeper and pulls it back out and takes a moment to admire the slick coating him.

"all this for me?" he asks, and you nod, breath hitching.

without prompting, you open your mouth and he smirks, pressing the digit between your lips and lets you suck your arousal off of it, licking his finger like you suck his cock and letting out an involuntary moan.

with his finger still in your mouth, he holds your chin and tilts you up to look right in his eyes.

"gonna make you feel good, now, baby," he coaxes, and you inhale sharply. "eyes on me, now, don't look away."

you watch him as he lets go of your chin and drops to his knees. he hooks your panties to the side with his thumb, pries your legs further open, and begins to consume you.

his tongue licks along you as he digs his nose into your clit. long strokes become deeper and you feel your pussy vibrate as he moans into you. "yes, joel, please-" you beg, and you grab a fistful of his hair, which only makes him moan louder. a moment later, he's sucking on your clit and fucking you with two thick fingers fingers and his other hand's grabbing at your ass and the sensation is overwhelming.

it feels so good, so fucking good. a few more flicks of his tongue and you know you're about to come undone. you give joel's hair a quick tug and he looks up at you with those stupid beautiful dark eyes and then you're coming on his tongue, waves of pleasure rippling through you, his name on your lips.

it takes you a minute to come down from it, and joel's still buried between your legs, licking the slick from your thighs and your folds, being careful not to overstimulate your sensitive, swollen clit.

"fuck, joel," you whisper, and he laughs, and the warmth of his breath on your thighs tickles and then you're laughing too. this was stress release you needed, and you can feel the tension slowly uncoiling from you.

you're silent for another moment before you pull him up and into a kiss. it feels odd, you being almost entirely naked and him entirely clothed. you realise he even has his boots on, still.

you stroke his cheek with your thumb and look at him, really look at him. you love every bit; the crinkles around his eyes, the age lines, the grey in his hair, the scar on his temple, the curve of his nose. even the patchiness of his beard. you're thankful for every bit of this.

"i think you should fuck me now," you tell him, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

he stands up, wraps your legs around his waist, and hoists you up and carries you to your bedroom, tossing you onto your bed. you sit up and grab him by the lapels, feeling arousal pulsing through you again already. "take this off," you say, tugging at his shirt, and a moment later he's pulling it over his head and fumbling with his belt.

then he's bare in front of you, and he is beautiful.

"wait," you say, holding out a hand to stop him before he joins you on the bed. "i just want to look at you for a moment."

he swallows, and then nods. it feels almost... precious?

you look down his body and you aren't shy. his freckled shoulders are broad, arms muscled. you trace a fingertip from the hollow of his throat down his chest. you pause a moment to lean forward and kiss the silvery scar on his abdomen, the one you patched up for him two years ago. you carry on, taking a moment to leave kisses along his tummy, appreciating the curve of softness over lean muscle.

and then you lean back and look at his thick cock, still half-hard, hanging between his legs. you are absolutely objectifying the man, and he grins.

"c'mon," he says, and then you're laying back and he's crawling up to you. he yanks your legs up over his shoulders and you hook your ankles around him. you love this feeling, him holding you. guiding you. feeling him press the fat head of his cock into you, how his brow furrows as he watches your face, adjusting to him. then he inches further, hips gliding till he's fully seated in your swollen pussy.

"fuck me, joel."

he does. the first strokes are slow, but without much warning, he's fucking into you roughly. you can feel yourself dripping and you're so wet he's sliding into you easily. his hips thrust harder and harder, and you're letting yourself slip into the absolute unadulterated euphoria.

"you love this cock, don't you-" he hisses between breaths, "love the way i fill you up and fuck you good"

"yes- yes, joel, fuckin love it-"

"you're gonna feel me for days," he grunts, keeping a steady rhythm.

(that was one of your favourite things, feeling his ache deep in your core for days after he'd ruined you. enjoying every bite mark, every bruise, every scratch and hickey.)

"fuck me deeper," you whisper.

"really, baby? think you can take that?"

it's not a real question, you've begged him to fuck you deep dozens of times before and you can always take it. but it's a much-needed ego boost for both of you.

you nod, and he wraps one arm around you to pull you up as he kneels upright, so your ass is in the air and only your shoulders make contact with the bed, with your ankles still hooked on his shoulders. another hand wraps around you, pinching at your nipples, grabbing at flesh, thumb trailing down to trace small circles around you clit.

he's seated so deeply in you now, you can feel him in your guts.

"god you feel so good around me." he pants out, and you can feel the way his hips start to stutter. "so fuckin soft, so fuckin wet, so fucking tight around me- god you tasted so good and you feel even better."

"love how you split me open, how you tear me apart, how you break me down and make me come again and again and again-"

it's all things you've said before, but there's more weight on it now. this is the last time. this is the last time.

finally, after another stutter of his hips, he folds over and pulls you close again, kisses you deeply and you're breathing into one another. he grinds against you just right and it rubs your clit so nice.

"fuck, joel- i- i'm gonna come again," you breathe, and he somehow fucks into you even deeper.

"come for me baby," he coaxes, and you do, waves of pleasure wash over you. you feel his balls tighten against you and he shudders as he pulses deep inside you.

you stay like that for a while, appreciating every drop of sweat, every inch of skin pressed together, the rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

before you can say anything, he nuzzles into your hair and lets out a soft moan.

"let me stay like this in you for a little bit," he whispers, and you hold him closer.

hours later, you're still holding each other close.

"would you want me to stay with you tonight, even if it means i won't be there in the morning?"

you think for a moment.

"no," you tell him, "i think that'd just be harder."

he nods. he understands completely.

eventually it's time for him to leave, and he draws you into his arms for one final embrace.

"you'll take care of yourself, won't you?" he asks.

"i'll take care of myself," you assure him.

a beat of silence.

"i-" you want to say it but you don't know how to. "i'm going to miss you. and i hope you find your brother."

"thank you baby" he murmurs.

"will you forget me?" you ask, and it comes out almost a sob. it's somehow the most intimate question you've ever asked him.

he smiles, sad but firm. "couldn't forget you if i tried. i'll always be thinking of you."

somehow that's exactly what you needed to know. it's comfort.

he kisses you deep and rough, and then draws back to put a chaste kiss on your forehead.

"you never know, you might see me again someday," he whispers, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his eyes looked almost like they were glinting with unshed tears.

"be safe joel," you say, and he gives your hand one last squeeze.

then he's out the door, and you're stood alone in your apartment.

but now you know.

you know this means as much to him as it does to you, and in this world, maybe that's enough.

*****

ok this got angstier than i'd intended, and honestly got away from me, but i'm finally dipping my toes back into fic after a long, long time~

edit: just added a title to it

Agree. Fuck that rule. 🤣

GIVE ME JOEL MILLER AND THAT TOOL BELT ASAP!

tool time

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: cock worship, self imposed denial, blue balls for all, that tool belt, pet names (darlin', baby), mentions of oral sex and p in v, very brief mention of alcohol, no/pre-outbreak TLOU, no use of y/n. word count: 3k summary: He was always there to pull you both back from the brink, though you weren't sure there was any saving you this time. And it was all because of something as simple as a tool belt.

A/N: it has been one year to the day (and almost to the minute) since I published sleepless in 2023. happy anniversary to the fic that started it all. thanks to all of you for sticking with me, and thanks to Joel Miller for always being That Man.

thank you to @sp00kymulderr and a conversation months ago at this point that inspired this fic 💛

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

"Y'Starin'?"

You were. From the moment he walked in, actually.

Then, from the moment he slung that thing low around his hips this morning, you knew you were done for. Four weeks of pain and struggle, all for nothing.

The best laid plans, you guess, as you grunt back at him with a shrug.

It was on you, really. You were probably setting yourself up for failure the moment you had your first grownup sleepover with one Joel Miller. Sensible people don't do that to themselves. Not when they have rules to keep to. They may have been your own rules, but that was besides the point. Rules were rules, and you never did like breaking them.

Watching Joel move and shift, his bulge in his denim framed neatly by the leather of his work belt, you had a feeling breaking this particular rule wouldn't upset you for long.

Six weeks. That was the rule. Just two painful weeks away. Six weeks, and then you'd be free from this forced celibacy you'd put yourself into. It was a test for yourself more than anything - always too eager to throw yourself into intimacy with people who didn't care and, if you were being honest, with people who you didn't care about either. You figured if you wanted different, you'd have to make it different.

You just didn't account for the first man in your life after a months long dry spell to be Joel Miller.

From the day you said those words into his mouth - six weeks, give me six weeks and I'm all yours - he'd been all in. He told you he could wait as long as you needed, and from the moment he said it you believed him. The problem was, from the moment he said it, you also wanted to fuck him about it.

But you couldn't, because that was exactly the rule you were trying to keep to. No sex for six fucking weeks.

You weren't even sure why you picked six weeks in the first place. The exact whys of it all went out of your head the moment Joel committed to your stupid, self-imposed rule without question. Those reasons why grew further from you each and every week he calmly stopped your dates from going too far with a gruff don't wanna break your rules, baby.

Even when you were forced to stay the night after one too many drinks, or when a make-out session got too heated, there he was to pull you both back from the brink.

Though, you weren't sure there was any saving you this time.

And it was all because of something as simple as a tool belt.

You'd seen him in it before. It wasn't new. It was quite old, and worn, actually. Usually you'd simply see him throw it into the back seat of his truck, or onto his counter, or over his shoulder. On one occasion you'd caught him on his knees, belt strapped around his hips as he fixed up a broken cabinet in his garage.

It did the same to you then as it did now, but this time it was staying on and not being hastily discarded with an oh shit, I'm runnin' late.

Now, he stands and shifts his hips, legs crossed at the ankle, the bulge in his denim so perfectly framed you're sure the sight will be burned into your vision for ever.

"You're doing that on purpose."

Your eyes are looking through him. Fuck knows you can't look at him. Not right now, not when two billion reasons not to break your one rule couldn't hold you back from just doing it.

"Doin' what?" he asks in a voice so innocent you almost believe him. Until he shifts once again, hips rocking in your direction, the denim bunching between his legs over his soft bulge.

"Stop it, Joel."

"Stop doin' what?"

Maybe he doesn't have a clue what he's doing to you - what he's been doing to you every day for weeks. Maybe he's oblivious, or too innocent and pure and good to know just how ravenous you're feeling for him right this moment, or maybe he's hoping he isn't seeing the way you're looking at him, ready to devour him in one, so he stands some chance of getting to work on time.

Yes, you could be strong and ignore the way his hand engulfs the coffee mug he's drinking from - strong but delicate in a way you know it to be by how he lets his fingertips dance up and down your side in the dead of the night. You could look past how his eyes flick down your body, stood stiff and still as far away from him as you can get in your tiny little kitchen. You could even ignore the way he licks the dregs of coffee from his lips, swiping his hand across his chin as his cup clinks down on the counter.

But then, those strong, delicate hands find purchase on his belt, hooking through a loop you saw him tuck a hammer into that day in his garage, and - as though you hadn't decided from the moment he put the belt on his hips - the last crumbling ruins of your resolve crash to the ground.

"Fuck it."

"Darlin', you -"

You cut him off with a kiss - striding across the kitchen to grab him by the shirt before he could even realize what was happening.

"Shut up," you breath into his mouth, silencing him more with the pressure of your lips on his than with the words on your tongue.

Joel, still trying to be a gentleman, keeps his one hand planted on the counter, the other on his belt, white knuckle gripping as he tries to keep up with your frantic kisses. You bite and nip at his lips, the fire in your belly not letting up even though you're well aware neither of you have time for this. And, though his hands are still, he kisses back with a fire to match, setting the ruins of your rules ablaze right there on the kitchen floor.

But then you're gone, and he's chasing a mouth that's no longer there.

His eyes snap open just as you slip down his body, your hands releasing from his shirt to slide down the length of his torso as you descend.

"Darlin', I -"

"Shut up, Joel," you growl again as your knees collide with the kitchen tile. It's not comfortable, and it's certainly not romantic, but it's what you need, so you'll take it.

"Your rule, baby, I don't wanna -"

"Fuck my rule, Joel."

Your eyes drop from his to the belt in front of you, then lower still to the soft lump in worn denim. You'd only been this close in your dreams - and there had been a lot of them lately. Waking up wet and sticky between your legs after a Joel sleepover was something you were now well accustomed to. While the you of your dreams could make the man come in two seconds flat some nights, the real you - the one on their knees in their kitchen - didn't have a clue what got his blood pumping and his heart racing.

You press a lingering kiss to the front of his jeans anyway. Just to see, really. Then, by the way his eyes widen, pupils blowing black in his warm eyes, and his breath hitches, you have a feeling you won't have much trouble at all finding out what makes Joel Miller tick.

You chain together another kiss, and then another, and then another, pressing your soft lips to the rough denim as you listen to his ragged breaths.

"I -"

"Shut up."

You don't want him to speak. You don't want him to be sensible, or to stop you, not when you've already waited so long. Not when his cock is right in front of you, separated by nothing but a zipper and some fabric.

You press a firmer kiss to him, breathing deeply and letting your eyes slip closed as you inhale. He always smells so clean in the mornings, but this time it's mixed with something else. The soft scent of his laundry detergent is still there, but there's the earthy smell of his leather belt, just a few inches away from your face. It smells of wood and dust and metal - the fixtures and undoubtedly a few errant screws and nails dumped into the pockets and pouches accounting for the latter. Then there's something else too, as you take another breath, groaning against the denim that you nuzzle your face into, feeling him twitch beneath your cheek.

He likes this. If the stiffening lump beneath your lips, pressed against your nose, rubbed against your cheek is anything to go by, he likes this a lot. Who could blame the man, really. He'd waited as long as you had. Four weeks for you had been four weeks for him. Four weeks of you trying to break through his resolve, to crack him so he was to blame for your broken rule and not you. Four weeks of you edging closer and closer to his waistband each time you kissed on the couch. Four weeks of your hips shifting back into his crotch every night you went to sleep.

"You smell so good, Joel," you groan into his crotch, letting your head rest against his thigh as you sink lower on your knees. Your head feels floaty on your shoulders, and you wonder if he can feel the hot warmth of your breath against his cock through his jeans.

His thighs tense beneath your palms as you steady yourself on him. You should probably slow down, you think, but no sooner is the thought in your head when your fingers are already creeping up and up to stroke across the soft leather of his belt.

You want to pull it off and pull his jeans down and finally taste him. You want to leave it on, slung around his hips as it is, holding onto it to anchor yourself to him as he slides into you. You want to feel it slapping against your ass as he fucks you, face down into the mattress screaming his name.

Instead you pull, tugging his hips closer to your face. He grunts above you, shifting his own hips again as his cock swells in his pants, undoubtedly uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. You want to take it out - you could take it out. You could see it for the first time right now, right here. You could taste it if you wanted to. You'd imagined it enough.

But you don't.

Even through your desperation, there were things you still wanted for that first time with Joel Miller. Fantasies of the belt, and the need you had for him right now couldn't sway you from that, at least.

You'd have him stripped bare, and you would be too. Hands and mouths and tongues would explore first. And then, when the desperation got too much to bear, he'd slip into you like he'd always belonged there, sliding down to the root and burrowing himself in you.

"I don't want you to do anything you'll regret, baby," he whispers, holding your hand against his thigh, stilling you for just a second.

You could sob at how good he is, even now as you try to ruin him on your knees.

"How could I regret this," you murmur, white hot heat radiating off his cock as it throbs right beneath your chin. "Please, Joel. Fuck my rule. I don't care. I just want you."

You watch as his resolve begins to crack, shattering first in his eyes as he spares a heated glance down at you between his legs.

"Fuck."

You begin in earnest then. Your hands that were stilled go back to kneading, pawing at his thighs, reaching round to grab a handful of his ass as you press kiss after kiss to his cock, dampening the fabric of his jeans with your saliva.

"Wanted it for so long," you breath. "Need it. Fuck, Joel."

You're babbling into his crotch. You know you are. You don't care. All you care is about the wet heat between your legs and the cock in front of you, swollen and desperate as you are wet and dripping. In this moment you're made for each other, your pussy desperately clenching around nothing, as he throbs, pulsating with each kiss you press to him.

He gasps suddenly and you're pulled out of your trance, looking up at him as a wet patch blooms on the front of his jeans.

"Baby, you can't -"

"Don't you want to?" you ask breathlessly. "Don't you want to know what it's like?"

"I do - jesus fuck - I do, we just don't got the time."

You groan into his crotch. He's right. Of course he is. Still, you don't stop. He can feel your breath hot on him through the denim, you're sure of it. You want - need - him to know how much you want him. You need him to carry it with him all damn day until he's aching and desperate and ready to fuck you the moment he sees you.

He's not looking down at you the next time you cast your eyes up. Instead his head is titled skyward and his jaw is open in a soft moan you can barely hear from the blood pumping in your ears. The hand that was on his belt has joined the other, gripping the counter, twitching as if itching to grab at you when you run your teeth over the now solid mass in his pants.

"I want you," you whisper. "Wanted you for weeks."

You let your hands take over, cascading up and down his strong thighs, scraping nails down and dragging delicate finger tips up. With one more kiss to the heavy weight at the front of his jeans, you bring your hand up to cup him, palming the heat between his legs and gasping at the feel of it.

He feels so heavy, and warm, and perfect in your hand.

"Fuck," you hiss, squeezing gently at his covered cock. "Joel."

"Unngh."

He's wrecked. If his breathing and the way he can't look down at you is anything to go by, he may be past the point of no return. It sends a thrill through you, ruining your clean panties even more as the realization strikes you.

You could make him come like this.

And you shouldn't. The sensible part of you knows that. You know he doesn't have anything else to change into, and you know that time is rapidly ticking away by the ache gradually throbbing in your knees.

But, you could - and that just makes to too hard to resist.

So, you continue on, pressing kisses to his cock, wishing desperately you could cradle the heft of his balls in your hand as you took his head into your mouth. Your teeth nip at his thighs, scrape gently across the sides of his bulge. And then, your tongue slips out from between your swollen lips, and you lick gently at the precum seeping through his jeans.

You moan. Whine, really. Whimper, if you were being really honest with yourself. The rough fabric on your tongue and the bitter salt of his precum on your tongue almost have you coming right there on the kitchen floor. You quiver instead, holding it back as you spread your legs, desperate for relief that you don't have time for.

"Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me -"

The vibration of his phone in his pocket, twinned with a harsh beep, startles both of you. You look around, confused for a moment, before Joel scrambles for his back pocket.

"Tommy, hey," he says, clearing his throat. Tommy's voice booms back down the receiver. He's outside. Sorry I'm late, he says, and you could laugh if you weren't so painfully turned on and wrecked from the few minutes you'd spent on your knees acquanting yourself with Joel's cock.

"Yep. Uh-huh. Be out in a sec. Sure."

There's nothing but silence and the sound of your breathing when he hangs up. You can't bring yourself to get up any more than he can bring himself to walk away.

"We gotta get goin'," Joel finally says, hearing an impatient beep of a car horn outside.

"Tonight," you say with certainty, still on your knees. "You're fucking me tonight, Joel."

He helps you up, fingers twitching as they hold your waist. You don't have time for what you both want. Even a kiss could turn into something neither of you could pull back from now. You move to the door, together and desperate and messy in ways neither of you can say out loud, because the clock is ticking.

"Joel," you say, holding back a smile as you walk to your car. "Might wanna check the front of your pants."

He looks down, his cock still hard and uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. He'd hoped the short walk to the door would releave some of the pressure, but it doesn't. And then he sees it - the dark bloom of wet denim, evidence of the twin effort between you and his cock to ruin his day in the best possible way.

Joel shifts his tool belt, letting it sit lopsided on his hips. You can see by the look in his eye that he wants to push you up against your car and kiss you like he means it. You can see by the way his fingers grip that loop in his tool belt once more, holding onto it for dear life, biting at his inner cheek.

"Tonight," he growls, when he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, before stalking away to the waiting shadow of Tommy's truck.

You watch the leather of his belt slap against the full meat of his ass with every step, and you smile. Just one more day - ten more hours - and the denial would be over, the belt would be off and you'd finally, finally, get what you so desperately wanted.

Fuck your rule.

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Oh how I’ve missed poor pathetic stepdad!Joel 🫠😍🥰

I love him so muuuuuch!!!!

the downward spiral (one shot)

PAIRING: stepdad!Joel x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 3k

WARNINGS: 18+ smut, stepcest, jealousy, possessive Joel. dubcon if you squint. Manhandling, Unsafe PIV, improvised toy, creampie. Brief allusion to Joel as your father figure. Hair can be pulled, can sit on Joel's lap.

NOTES: title is a nine inch nails album. reader has an apartment, but she's visiting for the holidays.

—---

In the kitchen, Joel listens to the coffee maker and checks the time. Leaning back against the counter, he opens his New York Times Games app. He’s contemplating what to start with in WORDLE. “CUTIE,” he types.  

A snapchat notification from you pops up, making him giddy. He adjusts his glasses, and his thumb hovers over the notification. If it’s erotic, he’d prefer to save it for a more private moment, but not now. He’s been waiting for you to wake up, and he’d rather see you first.  The inner battle furrows his brow, then he watches himself tap the notification. His face relaxes at the sight of you, and his cheeks warm with affection. The shot is pretty innocent, but there’s a look in your eye just for him. And your lips are parted. Ugh, your perfect mouth. 

“Merry xmas eve,” it says. 36 hours since he last touched you. 

A shadow moves on the stairs, and he looks up from his phone to see you watching him, biting your lip with a little smile. You clasp your fingers behind yourself and stretch, then finish descending the steps.   

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” his hoarse voice greets you, then he clears his throat. He saves your picture to the chat, then slips his phone into the pocket of his gray sweats. He runs a hand through his hair, then braces his hands on the counter behind himself, leaning back as casually as he can, letting you know you’re in control. 

You take your time approaching, and his eyes lock with yours when you’re close enough for him to smell your shampoo. He takes a deep breath through his nose. You lift your arms to waist height as you close the gap between your bodies. You wrap your arms around his strong middle, and he exhales as warmth radiates from your chest. Your body presses gently into his. Warmth. Comfort. You’re made of joy. 

He hugs you loosely, and you rest your head on him. His chest vibrates with a low, satisfied, “Mm.” He presses the lightest kiss onto the crown of your head. 

“Mm,” you echo. 

His thumb brushes the nape of your neck, and his other hand rests lower on your back, fingers spread, rubbing a slow aimless pattern. You smell just as warm and cozy as you feel. Your hips push forward, making him flinch, but . Warmth rushes to his crotch, and you don’t pull away when it moves against you. He swallows, trying not to push back on you. 

“It’s ok,” you whisper. As he relaxes, his bulge nudges you, and there’s no mistaking his desire. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, 

“Don’t be,” you reply.  

God damn, you’re making this hard. 

The doorbell rings. “Prolly a delivery,” Joel mutters, and his thumb brushes behind your ear.   He savors every moment with you. 

A few seconds later, there’s a bunch of rustling around outside the front door. 

“Alright,” Joel grumbles. 

“Lotta packages out hea,” a Boston accent is heard through the door. Oh, great. It’s your neighbor down the street. The newly single one.  

You start to pull away. Joel’s chest begins to cave in, but the feeling is quickly muffled by irritation. “The fuck is he doin’ here?” Joel grumbles to himself, then accuses you, “That why you’re down here?”  With every muscle in his body tensing, he scratches the back of his neck. 

Your head tilts in disapproval. “Would you keep it together? Please?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“You sure? You good?” you ask. 

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and nods. 

“You’re doing good,” you reassure him, placing a hand on his chest. 

The doorbell rings again, and Joel’s nose twitches. “Get outta here,” he nods toward the stairs. “Now.”

“Chill, I’m going.” 

He waits for you to get all the way upstairs before answering the door. 

—

There’s Harold, crouched over, picking up one last package, trying not to spill his iced coffee in the process. He stands up straight and smiles with his bottom teeth, proud that he hasn’t dropped anything.  His navy, quarter-zip sweater is a little tight for his arms. “Happy holidays,” he says. 

Joel has one hand on the frame, and one holding the side of the door. His body blocks the entry.

They look at each other for a moment. Harold’s tired eyes fall on Joel’s gray sweatpants, tighter than they were ten minutes ago. With a friendly wink in his voice, he asks, “Catch ya at a bad time?” 

“Yeah,” Joel responds flatly. 

When Harold doesn’t leave, Joel bites the bullet and accepts the packages. 

“They were all out here,” Harold mutters as Joel takes them one by one. 

It would’ve been easier for Joel to bring them in himself rather than indulge this ridiculous balancing act. Joel rolls his eyes as he puts the packages down on the floor inside. As he stands up, he glances around and sees no sign of you. Good. He turns toward Harold and grips the side of the door again, ready to close it. 

Harold is standing there with a dumb smile and asks, “How ya doin’, man?”

“Not bad,” Joel forces, silently willing the neighbor to leave already. 

“Good, good,” Harold mutters to himself. “Me too,” he offers without Joel asking. “Well, ya know,” he adds with a defeated shrug. “All things considered.”  Right, his divorce. 

“Daughtah home?” Harold asks. 

As soon as Joel translates it to daughter, his nostrils flare. His blood pressure shoots up. His vision blurs, and his glasses do nothing. He’d like to kill this man. He takes a deep, calming breath and sizes him up in silence. Has he always been that tall? “Just ran into ya wife,” Harold gestures down the street with his thumb, bicep straining his sweater. “She said your daughter might wanna come to the–” 

“No,” Joel interrupts him. 

“New year’s party,” Harold mumbles. 

Joel unclenches his jaw long enough to say, “Kinda in the middle’a somethin’.” 

“Told ya wife I’d invite her,” Harold explains. “Only take a sec.” 

“She’s not dressed,” Joel blurts out. He stops short of clarifying that he’s not your father, either. He wants to be everything. He has to be every man you could ever need, and he cares less and less about who knows it. 

“Heh,” a faint blush rises to Harold’s face with a flash of his eyebrows. He rocks his plastic cup, making the half-melted ice jumble around. 

“bye, Harold,” Joel closes the door in his face, then watches through the window as this asshole walks down the driveway and raises his cup to a passing car. 

-

Joel steps back and cracks his neck in an unsuccessful attempt to release some tension, but it’s only getting worse. His whole body is wound up and ready to fight.   

He can't let you see him like this. He’s supposed to be keeping it together. 

He goes back to the kitchen and steadies his hand to pour half a cup of coffee. He holds the cup, watching the bubbles disappear. 

The bath turns on upstairs, and Joel groans inwardly at the \ urge to charge up the stairs and ravish you. He has a vision of you sitting on the side of the tub, nude. You reach back and dangle your fingers into the water to test the temperature. Every muscle in his body wants to bust through that door and take you. 

Another fantasy he’d never have the balls to act on. Right? 

He puts down his coffee and takes off his glasses, resting them face-up on the kitchen island. He eyes the stairs, then shakes his head at himself. His hands brace on the edge of the island and he straightens his arms, triceps stretching his white tee. Leaning forward, he hangs his head and closes his eyes, calming himself. He stands there and breathes for a minute. 

“Keep it together,” he whispers, but he can hardly hear himself over his inner caveman.

Kill. 

Breed. 

Kill. 

“Fuck,” he curses.

—-------

The water is loud enough that you don’t hear Joel’s heavy steps thudding up the stairs. When the door bursts open, you jump.  Your eyes widen as Joel shuts the door behind himself. He doesn’t look at you yet, despite your nakedness.  He braces one hand on the middle of the door and the other rests lightly on his hip. He looks down, still trying to conjure restraint. 

All you can say is, “Joel?”  

His muscular back flexes rhythmically under his slutty white tee as he catches his breath. After a few seconds, his head turns enough to look back at you. His eyes are dark. 

“Tell me to leave,” he commands, with his voice deep and breathy. 

Your lips part, but you say nothing. You scan his body, lingering on his pumped up muscles. 

He takes his hand off the door and turns to face you head on. His fingers twitch at his sides as his dark gaze roves your body. His head tilts forward, casting a shadow over his eyes as he looks at your face again. “Tell me to leave, honey.”  When you don’t show any sign of answering, he steps toward the bathtub, chest heaving. His brows knit and he slightly shakes his head.

You sit there captivated by his energy. The drum in your neck beats harder as he gets closer. Your chest bubbles with excitement. 

He looms over you, and you’re lifting your head up to look at him when his large hand seizes your arm and he pulls you to your feet. He wraps his other arm around you from behind and grabs between your legs. Grunting under the roar of the water, he manhandles you toward the double vanity. 

He gropes your breasts, still holding you by the pussy. He abruptly pulls you tighter against him and the hard bulge in his sweatpants makes you throb. 

After releasing your breasts, but not your pussy, he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him in the mirror. 

“Last chance, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear.  

You answer, “Do it or leave.”

He releases your jaw.  “Uggh,” he groans in painful desire. Emboldened by your encouragement, he slowly slides his flattened fingers along your slit, finding you wet.  “This is mine.” his stiffening cock nudges you through his sweatpants. When you don’t reply, his voice gets firmer. “Say it.”

“It’s yours. I’m yours.” 

“Yeah,” he nods. 

He bends you over the counterspace between your sinks. A sweep of your forearm sends an unplugged hair dryer, a bottle of lotion, and God knows what else into the sink you barely use. 

Meanwhile, Joel has pulled down his sweats. He holds his hard cock, and his rocks onto the balls of his feet and back. He places a hand on your lower back. You tilt your hips as he lines himself up. His tip nudges into the right spot, pushing at your dripping hole. Then he grabs your hips and shoves into you with a sigh.  You grunt at the sweet burn of his sudden intrusion. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “gotta take it.” 

He only waits a second before withdrawing all but the tip, then slamming into you harder. He withdraws again. A bruising grip on your hips pulls you back as he slides into you, easier.  

The grip of his hands eases up as he buries his cock in you faster. He opts to hold you down. With your breasts smashed against the marble, he grunts as he fucks it all out on you. Your insides bloom with arousal, gripping his cock, pulling at him for more, deeper. Your heart tingles with exhilaration. 

His soft affection is a memory. A wild passion possesses him instead, evident with each thrust and grunt. This primal need has him desperate to own you from the inside out. 

“Ughh,” he groans, snapping his hips. 

You twitch and moan, muffled by the loud water. 

He grunts at the sound and fucks you harder. 

He needs to pour all of him in there. You have to be his. 

He slows down only to wrap a hand around your hair. His firm grip makes your scalp tingle. “Look at me,” he pants. As he begins to lift his fist, you push yourself up on your forearm and look up at the mirror with your breath fogging it. He drops your hair and pulls your upper body closer to his so you can see. 

You brace hands on the counter and marvel at this spellbound wreck of yourself.  Your movements aren’t your own. You’re controlled only by the rhythm of his cock and his hands. They make you feel small.  

 “Me,” he commands, and your eyes snap to him.

It’s the face of a man possessed. His eyes are wild and demanding. He grits his teeth. His neck vein bulges. His hair bounces with each unforgiving thrust. His hips move with a purpose -  deeper. More. More of you. His. Fuck. 

It’s the first time you've met his wild man. You've seen glimpses in the way he lashes out in jealousy. And his intensity has always been evident. But you didn't imagine a whole feral form of him. The way his veins bulge, the power of his body. You never fully noticed the build of his chest or how a v muscle cuts through his tanline. This has all been there, all along.  Every time he’s snapped at you, it's been this guy. 

“fuck, Joel,” you breathe. 

His mouth falls open with a silent moan. About to cum, he grabs your electric toothbrush and races to turn it on. He presses the smooth barrel of your toothbrush against you, with the bottom nearly touching his cock. Your lips part, and your eyelids fall. 

He bottoms out hard, and his shaft twitches against your snug insides as you’re vibrated from the outside. He twitches bigger, harder, and sighs with relief as his seed spills into you. A moment later, another burst, and the warmth spreads in your depths. 

He turns the vibration up. “Give it to me,” he demands. “C’mon, baby. It’s mine.” He holds you tight with another deep thrust. 

A massive throb of his cock sends you over the edge and releases another long rope. The climax seizes you, making you arch your back, grinding against the vibration. “I got ya,” he breathes, then moans with another shot of cum. Your nipples peak. A second later, your spasming pussy squeezes another burst out of him. 

There’s more, and more, until warmth is trickling down your inner thigh and his arms are relaxing around you as you finish. When your body relaxes, he turns off the toothbrush and rolls it onto the counter unceremoniously.  

-

As you catch your breath, Joel hugs you from behind, and his eyes soften. He buries his mouth in your neck, then kisses you on the head and glances at the mirror with a puppy dog look, with a gentle thrust deeper, making you spasm. 

He growls quietly.  God, he’s hot. 

“You okay?” He whispers above your ear. 

“Yeah,” you smile, looking down and tracing his knuckles. 

The bathwater is almost overflowing. Joel slides out of you and pulls up his sweatpants. Cum trickles all the way down your leg to the tile floor. Always such a mess. With a softening tent in his pants he goes and turns the water off, then checks the temp. He reaches in to unplug the drain and lower the water level, then asks, “that good?” 

“Yeah.” 

He sits on the edge of the garden tub, scratching one side of his scruff and manspreading as you approach.

“Hey. C’mere,” he says softly. 

You stand between his legs completely naked, and he runs his hands down your sides, then pulls you into his lap, helping you straddle him.  

“Sure you're good?” He asks. 

“Yes,” you reassure him. “That was amazing.”

He holds you in his arms, then adjusts your weight so his bulge is against your crotch, and your breath hitches. You’ve only come once. You could go for more, but it's not smart. 

He buries his head in your chest, then looks up, and pulls you down for a kiss that starts soft. His tongue parts your lips then he's trying to drink you in.  He pulls you tighter, kissing you hard, grinding you on him in a way that could have you quickly lose control. You're leaking all over him. 

Your lips break away. You cup his cheek, give him a peck, and he asks, “too much?” 

You nod and whisper, “we’re playing with fire.” 

He lets you out of his lap, then holds out his hand and you use it for balance to get into the tub. 

Your voices are hushed. “You want a bath bomb or somethin’?”

“You know about bath bombs?” You tease him. 

“Eucalyptus all the way,” he answers, then crouches down to an under-sink cabinet. 

“Linen closet,” you redirect him. 

He picks a rose one and fumbles with the wrapping until he comes back and drops it in. He sits on the side of the tub and his thumb brushes your forehead. 

“You should go,” you gently urge him. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and leans down for a last kiss. “Can I get ya anything else?” 

You shake your head no.

“silicone Joel's water resistant,”  he offers, pointing back toward your bedroom. 

You crack a smile and tell him, “Get outta here. Now.”

------

THANK YOU FOR READING

Well! I believe I would suffer from a case of Stockholm syndrome for Joel Miller 🫠

Man could do whatever he wanted and I’d just lay there “sleeping”

In Your Room

Joel finds you asleep in his bed and has his way with you. 2.6k

Tags - dark!joel, virginity loss, dubcon/noncon, implied age gap, implied abuse, somno, oral (f!receiving), fingering, just the tip but not for long, because then comes unprotected piv, brief comeplay and come eating, pussy pronouns, creampie. Possessiveness. Some sprinkles of morality. Daddy kink sprinkles too. A hint of aftercare. Spot the Radiohead and Depeche Mode references I dare you, also spooky fall vibes 🍂 Fic help - my main squeezes @endlessthxxghts @beefrobeefcal thanks for your eyeballs!! A/N - so I lied 🤥 promised to have my new series out for you all but as it happens I do not have it ready :( So here’s a snack sized fic to satisfy until I have the other shit, hopefully next week but no promises 💜 it’s been a very busy time for me recently. I've been wanting to write a dark!joel/raider!joel for a while, here's a little bit of that. If I do end up doing an actual series/au I'll keep you posted, this one shot could end up part of that universe.

Joel’s breathing heavily as he walks, inhaling the thick, heady smell of decaying leaves and the damp soil. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink, kissed by the chill of the fall air. Toes and ears are beginning to feel numb. The cold weather takes its toll on Joel like this every year. His house is visible in the distance and it won’t be much further until he’s home with you. He’ll spend the evening cooking you something warm and filling and holding you in his arms, maybe he’ll read to you. 

When he finally reaches his front porch, Joel leaves the rabbits he’s killed hanging on a hook in the cold. At the door, he fumbles a bit with the keys he’s used to lock it, his joints all stiff and achy. He’s greeted by warm air and an empty living room, logs burning in an unattended fireplace. Joel grumbles to himself. You were supposed to be watching that while he was gone. 

He toes off his boots and sits in the recliner in front of the fire, warming his stiff and aching toes. “Mmm…fuck,” he hisses when he bends forward, clutching his hands over the cold fabric of his worn socks. He massages his feet, works out the soreness from his trek. After letting his feet warm, Joel gets up to find you. He hopes for your sake, that you didn’t run off again. You should know better by now. 

Joel puts out the fire by spreading ashes over the flames to snuff them out. He then walks up the creaky steps, calling out your name. Nothing. He turns left into your bedroom, his hand lingering on the knob that doesn’t match his own. He replaced that one and the bathroom door knobs to ones without locks. It wasn’t an easy find, but it was necessary. Joel finds your bed made, light pink sheets with little yellow stars folded neatly over the warm, worn, navy plaid comforter. The book you’ve been carrying around isn’t on your nightstand like it usually is. Joel moves throughout the room, touching your belongings. He wiggles the pane of the window, making sure he can’t open it - because that means you can’t, either. 

Bathroom across the hall is open and empty, lights off. Where the fuck are you? Joel’s heart is beginning to pound. He’s trying to keep calm, not get angry or panicked like he’s prone to do. You didn’t run off again, right? Joel felt a little sick to his stomach after he caught you trying to leave last time. What he did to you, the marks he left, the way you cried and looked so scared - fuck, it broke his fragile heart. But you had to learn somehow. 

Joel’s bedroom door is cracked open. Fuck. He’s sure he’d left it locked before he left. Maybe he forgot. There’s been a lot on his mind lately. He spends a lot of time worrying about you. He doesn’t keep his window bolted shut like he does yours, but you wouldn’t jump from the second floor, would you? Surely you’d break your leg and he would have heard you crying from a half mile away. This time, he’d let you sit with the broken leg for a day. Make the lesson stick. Joel’s a little afraid of what he’ll find in his bedroom. What weapons did he leave here? What if the window’s open, curtains blowing with the wind, and you’re nowhere to be found? Maybe you’re hidden behind the door, waiting for him to walk in. You’ll try to hurt him, get some good hits in probably. But he’ll subdue you with ease, just like he always does. Joel keeps his hand on his holster as he pushes the door open. 

A light snore, a quiet murmur of something incoherent. The curtains are drawn and you’re in Joel’s bed, wrapped in one of his flannel shirts, tucked under his blankets the way he tucks them in for you each night. He breathes a sigh of relief. What are you doing here?

Joel thinks about waking you, berating you for leaving the fire unattended. But he can’t bring himself to. You look so peaceful right here, lips plump and drooling onto his pillow, eyes gently shut as you sleep on your stomach. Joel pushes a bit of hair out of your face to admire how beautiful you look, you’re always so beautiful. Your skin is so soft under the rough calluses of his fingertips, a little cold to the touch. Poor thing. 

He strokes your back, warm palms gliding over his rough and scratchy flannel shirt you’re wearing. He chuckles. That warms his heart a little. He pulls the covers down your hips and exposes your ass, pulls the shirt back a little to get a better look. You’re wearing thin, lily-white panties that he can see your pubic hair through, a simple lace detail lining them. “Goddamn,” he murmurs. You don’t know what you do to him. 

Joel considers himself a patient person but Christ, he’s only a man. He’s been waiting to take you, make you his. When he’d asked if you’d ever been touched by a man before you had told him no. “You nervous?” he asked as his fingertips danced across the bare skin of your thigh. 

You nodded. “Yeah.” 

“S’normal,” he replied. “But you got nothin’ t’be afraid of. I’ll be right there with ya.” 

But that didn’t ease your anxiety much. “Will it hurt?” you asked.

“It might,” Joel said. You looked away and bit your inner cheek anxiously. Joel took your chin between his thumb and forefinger and made you look at him, his eyes dark and his brows raised. “But I’ll try an’ go easy on ya, hm?” 

You nodded, a small, tight smile on your lips. “I want it to be special,” you said.

“I’ll make it special,” Joel said. “Make it real special for ya, kiddo.” 

-

Joel’s been so patient it hurts. And you on display like this isn’t helping the cause. There’s something so special about you, you’re so submissive. Inviting. That dark desire flows through Joel like ichor, filling him with need, animalistic in nature. With the careful slipping of his finger Joel could be finally feeling your soft folds, the warm, slippery arousal at your entrance. 

He can’t help himself. Joel uses his thick finger to push your panties to the side, exposing your cunt. He drags his finger up and down, teasing your clit, watching how you become wet from his gentle touch. He sucks your slick off of his fingertip and groans, “Fuck, sweetheart.” Christ, he needs more than just a quick taste. But he should wait until you’re awake, take what he wants from you while you’re lucid. Make it special, just like he promised. Joel watches your slick hole drip with that little bit of arousal and he wonders, if you’re not awake, would it really be happening?

No. Not really, at least. The way a tree falling in an empty forest doesn’t make a sound.

Joel quietly lifts off of the bed, careful to not let the springs creak too loudly. You stir a little in your sleep, mumble something incoherent. While you lie prone on his bed, Joel kneels behind you. He leans over you to grab a pillow you’re not hugging or resting your head on and wriggles his other arm under your tummy. He lifts you up just enough to slip the pillow beneath you, then sets you down on it. You tense up and stretch, your toes wiggle and spread out. Joel smiles to himself - Christ, you’re precious.

He pushes the fabric of his flannel up and over your ass and slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, down your legs, crumpling them into a ball before shoving them in his back pocket. 

Joel palms your ass cheeks, squeezing the flesh so that it billows beneath his fingertips. He sinks low behind you so that he’s lying on his stomach, then spreads your lips with both of his thumbs. He blows hot air on your cunt and watches you twitch. “Mm,” he hums, teasing your dripping hole with his finger before pushing it inside, all the way down to the knuckle. “What a mess you’re makin’. She fuckin’ needs me, baby.” 

He presses a couple of kisses against your inner thighs before touching his lips to your pussy, feeling your clit pulse against him. He dips his tongue inside you. Sweeter than honey, just like he expected. 

Joel drags his tongue up and down your folds, circling your clit every other time as he teases you, and feels you begin to soak his face, his nose still cold from the chilly air outside. He loves how warm your skin is against his. 

Joel doesn’t even have to make you come if he doesn’t want to. Could just get your pussy wet enough for him to fuck. Joel kisses you, sucks your clit, finds exactly what makes you tick. What makes you arch your back into him, what makes you stir and whimper softly in your sleep. He savors it all, the taste of your innocence and your pleasure. His tongue parts your sensitive flesh, the coarse and wiry hairs of his beard and mustache tickling you. “Mmm,” you mumble. 

“Shhhh,” Joel hushes. He pulls away from you for a moment and watches your body relax into his bed again before going back for more, swirling and flicking his tongue against you. When Joel sucks your clit, you squeeze his pillow and whine. “Oh, I know, I know, I know,” he coos. “I know.” 

It’s probably best if he stops here. He got his taste, anyway. He’ll smell you in his facial hair as he pumps his cock, he’ll come thinking about your soft folds under his tongue. Joel unbuckles his belt and shoves his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, palming his hard shaft. He squeezes himself and rubs his thumb over his slit, spreading that bead of precum over his thick head. What he wouldn’t give to be inside you right now. 

He leans over your body and drags the tip of his cock through the folds he just tasted, all wet and slippery. He moves it up and down, catching himself against your clit and then your hole, deciding if he wants to push himself inside you. 

Just the tip, he decides, notching himself inside you. He pushes in, then pulls out, then pushes in a bit further. Your cunt squeezes around him, welcomes him so kindly. If he wanted to, he could slide all the way in, bury himself in your wet, pulsing folds and you’d be none the wiser. Because you’re not here, and this isn’t happening.

That slow, gradual slide inside you has Joel sucking his breath between his teeth as he watches his cock disappear inside you, a deep groan spills from his lips when his hips meet your ass. His brows are knitted together in concentration, his eyes flutter shut as he breathes deeply. He pulls out all the way, then pushes in again. “Ohh, s’good,” he moans. “You’re takin’ it so good, kiddo.” 

Joel imagines how much better you’ll take him when you’re awake. Eyes tear stained and rolling back into your skull, your arms and legs wrapped around him, clinging for dear life. Your sweet moans, your face buried in his chest.

Joel sets a slow pace, slower than he likes. He feels the warmth and wetness of your walls, if you were awake right now you’d feel every vein and detail of his thick cock. He pumps himself in and out of you, rolling his hips achingly slowly. You throb and arch against him without any say in the matter. 

“Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. 

“Shh,” Joel whispers, slowing his body. He bends down to stroke your hair and press a kiss against your cheek. “S’just a bad dream. You’re alright. I gotcha.”

Once again, Joel waits for you to relax. When you do, he continues those slow strokes. Against his better judgment, Joel reaches under you to press his fingers against your clit. He moves them in steady circles against your swollen, sensitive bud, and wears a crooked smile when he feels you begin to twitch and jerk a little. Little breathless and desperate moans of Joel’s name catch in your throat as you tremble. Joel fucks you a little deeper and there it is, you’re coming for him. You whimper and moan, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Yeah, there it is, sweetheart,” he breathes. “What a good girl.” 

Miraculously, you stay asleep through it all. Joel fucks you steadily, chasing his own release. Sweat is dampening his hair, dripping down his forehead and down the tip of his aquiline nose. He pulls you flush against his body as he comes, your back warm against his thick middle. His muscles tense and relax and he groans as quietly as he can, mumbling your name. His cock throbs as pleasure surges through him and he paints your insides with his spend, rope after rope until he’s milked himself entirely. 

After catching his breath, Joel pulls out of you carefully and slowly, watching the mess drip from your swollen cunt. He pushes a little back inside you, then sucks his finger clean. He tucks himself back inside his jeans, buckles his belt back up and then folds his comforter back over your body. The loss of his weight on the bed is what finally wakes you. 

“Joel?” you murmur. 

Joel tenses a little. He turns around to see you, confusion painted over your face, all puffy with sleep. “M’sorry, kiddo. Didn’t mean to wake ya.” 

“Mm,” you grumble. Joel chuckles silently. You’re always grumpy when you wake, poor thing. 

 “Got a bone t’pick with you, y’know,” he says. “You shoulda’ been watchin’ that fire while I was out.”

“Sorry,” you say. “I was tired.” You’re so confused. You know it’s cold outside, but Joel’s face is flushed like he’s warm.

“I gotta be able to trust you,” he chastises. “S’what we talked about, hm?”

You nod and close your eyes as you shift in his bed, but you feel something wet and sticky between your thighs. You wonder if you started your period. You lift your sheets and find milky-white between your thighs, your underwear gone. You’re embarrassed when Joel sees the mess too, quickly covering your lap back up with the sheets. 

“Don’t you worry ‘bout that,” Joel says. “S’just your system’s way of cleanin’ itself out. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. We could go take a bath, hm? Clean you up.” 

You nod again. “Yes, daddy.” 

Joel smiles. “What’re you doin’ in my bed anyway?”

“There was a spider in my room.”

“Spider, huh?” Joel presses his palm against your cheek.

“Mhm. All big and black and scary. I couldn’t sleep in there.” 

 Joel pouts mockingly. “I’ll find him later and put him outside,” he says. He pulls his covers and sheets all the way off your body, then sits you up. Joel takes your hand and helps you off the bed, then leads you to the bathroom. “Let’s go wash ya off, now.”  

Please please please reblog with your thoughts or send me an ask!!! Your kind words go so far in keeping me motivated to write 💜

MORE SWAT!!!!

I have been SO excited for this!

And the fact he was kinda nice even when he’s such an asshole and gentle?! MY FUCKING HEART, LO! MY HEART!!! 🥰😍🥰😍

sweet as cherry wine

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: dub-con (power imbalance, reader was paying a debt), unprotected PIV, period sex, the joys of menstruation, fingering, derogatory names (slut), mentions of malnutrition/lack of food, positive weight gain, ghost of anal sex past and future, drug reference, asshole Joel, no use of y/n word count: 5.1k summary: a different kind of rude awakenin' than you were promised ruins your Sunday plans but, of course, you find yourself at the mercy of Joel Miller anyway.

A/N: she's here! another mini-kinktober SWAT series of oneshots for you to enjoy and for me to be horny about in theory, stressed about in practice. if you want spoilers, check out the SWAT masterlist for what's to come.

once again, please ignore the total and utter bastardisation and improper use of hozier lyrics. this one is particularly heinous but out of context I couldn't resist.

title from cherry wine by hozier

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You felt more alive these days. Whether it was the bright, cool days, the extra food you could suddenly afford to eat, or the regular fucking you got from Joel, you couldn't tell, but the world felt lighter and, at the very least, your father's bad days didn't feel so difficult to manage.

It was easy to forget that these things couldn't last - the cloud was incoming whether you liked it or not, and whether it was a short shower or a downpour, you were going to get wet.

It was a fact that became painfully apparent the very morning you had an appointment with Joel.

It wasn't a strict appointment, more an offhand comment that you planned on cashing in on. When a man like Joel fucks you from behind and taunts you with threats of fucking your ass again and you think fuck yes so hard the words spew out of your mouth as you babble into the sheets, what else is a girl to do. And when he makes doubly sure you heard him by kneading your ass as you ready yourself to leave and whispers in your ear the filthy things he wants to do to you, and if you want them to happen you should come over Sunday afternoon, it's basically a done deal.

"If you thought that was an ass fuckin' before," he had said, "You're in for a rude fuckin' awakenin', sweetheart."

By god did you want that rude awakening.

But, staring into your underwear that Sunday morning, the distantly familiar gnawing ache in your abdomen suddenly had a name, and there your plans went, flushed down the drain right alongside the first signs you'd seen of your fucking period in years.

You remembered the pain, but it'd been long enough that you'd forgotten about the other discomforts periods could bring. The hunger, the aches, the tender nipples and the throb in your head. Not to mention, the last thing you wanted was Joel anywhere near any of your holes, asshole definitely included.

With your plans ruined and an ache that was rapidly spreading to your back, you didn't bother leaving the house that day, or sending word to Joel that you wouldn't be coming. Your rude awakenin' would have to wait, and your dad would have to stretch his pills for a few more days.

Three days in, you can't wait any longer. Or rather, your dad can't. You still feel rotten, and though the pain and bleeding have eased off a little, you just want the sit in your apartment and eat - the very luxury that got you in this mess in the first place.

But, you're here instead. In front of Joel's door, hands clasped at your sides, berating yourself - and your father - for even needing to be here, when Joel pulls open the door with a scowl.

"This look like Sunday to you?" he grouches, the furrow between his brows deepening as he looks you up and down.

You try to ignore it. Just like you've tried to ignore the gnawing ache in your belly all week. But, despite yourself, you can't speak, can't bring mention to Sunday and your own disappointment, and instead reach a hand deep into your jacket pocket and pull out the small number of cards you'd agreed would cover your dad's meds.

"Just here for a refill."

Joel rolls his eyes, and when he pushes away from the door frame, he beckons you inside, pushing the door shut behind you the second you scurry through after him.

"The fuck is wrong with you," he says, slamming an old worn container onto the table a second later. "And don't say nothin', I can tell you ain't right. Seen dead bodies with more life in 'em."

It hadn't occurred to you that he'd know. That he'd see right through you and know that you'd spent the days since Sunday feeling shitty as you curled into yourself. It hadn't occured to you for a second that you might look different - probably just as shit as you felt - and that Joel, a man who never seemed to be put off by anything, might be put off by this. By you.

"You sick?"

You hadn't even noticed he'd stopped rummaging, hands now on his hips as he stares at you with what you could almost mistake for concern. It pulls at you, somewhere deep inside, and you find a need to scramble for the words to reassure him, to tell him you'd be okay in the vaguest terms, that you'd be back to normal next week, if he still wants to go ahead with Sunday, because by fuck do you want to.

But instead, just one word comes out of your mouth in a sudden burst much louder than you intended.

"Period."

Joel blinks. Once. Then twice. As if trying to work something out, or maybe he's disgusted that you bleed, or maybe he's relieved you aren't pregnant at all and the little procedure to keep his swimmers at bay was still effective.

"Y'ain't had one o' them before," he starts. "I mean, since..."

You want to tell him that maybe you have. Maybe you hid it - didn't want him to know - but you both know you're a shit liar.

"Guess eating works wonders," you joke instead, not missing the frown that tugs his brows down, or the way his eyes scan back over your body to settle on the jacket that fits more snug than it ever has, or the thighs that now fill out your jeans.

The entire time, he doesn't make a single move to grab your father's pills. You want to scream at him to hurry up and give them to you - the longer you're standing here, the longer your cunt has to throb and clench at the mere thought of him. For the first time all week, you're not sure the wet feeling between your legs is blood.

"Got everything's you need?" he asks, his eyes briefly flicking down to your belly then back up.

You do. You tell him as much, now keenly aware of the feeling of the cup sat securely inside you as he stares holes through your head, searching for the lie, before giving up and shrugging when he doesn't find one.

He starts rummaging in the small container again, pulling out a half used packet and gesturing to you with it. "You hurtin'?"

You shake your head, turning down his offer of free prescription meds to ease your aches and pains. "Not so much any more."

Joel slowly takes a step towards you, and your pussy pulses again, gripping the cup lodged inside you and making you wish it was something else entirely.

"Still up for fuckin' if you are."

Nothing can keep the scoff of disbelief from bubbling out of your chest. Not two seconds ago you thought that maybe he'd be put off by you, if not by how you looked, then by the mess between your legs.

"No way are you fucking my ass, Joel," you say through a laugh.

He shrugs, before moving closer and pulling open your jacket. "Never said that. A fuckin' is a fuckin', don't matter which hole. Could have you comin' on this cock and leavin' feelin' better than you have in days, if you want it."

"You got a magic dick or something?" You laugh again, though smaller this time as Joel stares down at you through dark lashes.

"Think you know the answer to that better than I do," Joel says, running his tongue along his teeth. "Doubt you been rubbin' that pretty thing between your legs too much these last few days, huh?"

He's not wrong - making yourself come has been the last thing in your mind lately. You spent most of your time Sunday scrambling to find your menstrual cup and learning how to use it all over again so you weren't free bleeding all over the place. Since then your days had been filled with torturously slow work days and hiding away in your room with a pillow cluched firmly to your stomach.

"Didn't think so."

In a blink, he's gone, moving away from you so quickly your head spins. He's pressing the lid firmly back onto the container, the loud clicking echoing around his apartment as he readies it to be stashed away. You look away as he turns from you - not wanting to see if it's hidden in the usual drawer or elsewhere in his home - and turn just in time for a threadbare towel to be thrown your way. It's worn, and stained, but soft and clean in your hands.

"Go get yourself cleaned up."

You gape at him. Mostly in disbelief that he would want to touch you at all right now, but a small part of you stares at his form - broad and strong - wanting desperately to leap on him right here with no mind paid to the thing currently lodged in your cunt, feral with the knowledge that he actually wants you.

"But what about the mess," you say feebly instead, grinding your knuckles into that soft part just below the pooch of your belly as a sudden ache - no doubt brought on by the fluttering in your cunt - takes hold of your womb.

He laughs then, low and throaty, before making his way back to you and gripping your chin between thumb and forefinger.

"Good job I like it when you're a mess for me, sweetheart."

You're gone in a flash - his deep chuckle the only thing you hear as you rush to the bathroom and close the door, stripping down as quickly as you can before hopping into his shower. The water is deliciously warm as it pelts your skin, a forgotten luxury that you wish you'd had two days ago at the worst of your aches. Still, you relish in it, and find yourself tentatively stepping out of the steamy room with the tattered towel wrapped around you and your cup cleaned and discarded on his bathroom sink far sooner than you'd like.

There's a soft yellow light beckoning you into Joel's bedroom as you pad your way across his floor. He's there, just beyond the doorway, laying another towel across faded sheets. His jeans are off and his sweater discarded, his bare, muscular legs flexing with each movement in the golden light as he puts together the space you're about to fall apart in.

"You gonna keep starin'," he says with a final flourish of the towel before giving it a gentle pat with his hand. "Or you gonna sit your ass down before you drip on my floor."

Rolling your eyes, you walk to the bed, Joel barely giving you space to maneouver by him, before doing as your told and sitting your ass down. There's already a soft lump forming in the front of his boxers when you cast your eyes up to him.

"Show me," he says, dragging a finger across your hand where you grip the towel to yourself, and in an instant it drops away from your body, falling into your lap and exposing your chest to him.

"Y'know, I thought they'd got bigger," he says, letting his finger trace from your hand to your palm and down to the soft swelling of your chest. "Bouncin' in my fuckin' face more than usual lately."

His broad hand encases your breast, gently holding but not squeezing as his fingertips caress your soft flesh. His thumb drags gently across your nipple, the sensitive bud of it tightening and sending a zing straight down through to your core. It should hardly come as a surprise to you - the soft fabric of your own t-shirts had been borderline painful in the days leading up to your unpleasant surprise. Still, it makes you gasp, a thing that Joel notices with a cocked eyebrow.

"Ass too," he continues, hands stroking softly at your tender nipple before crouching before you on creaking knees. "I'd fuck it any chance I'd get, but somethin' about it lately..."

Resting back on your palms, you look down at him beyond the swell of your breasts. He's gazing at them, watching as they heave with each breath you take. For good measure, you take in a deep sigh just to watch his eyes darken as they rise and fall right in front of his face.

"Show me," he says again, with a nod and, while his eyes never leave your tits as they sway in front of him, you know what he really means.

Part of you wants to clamp your legs together and hide from him. You want to ask him why - why ever, but mostly why now, when you're like this. But you don't.

Instead, you pull the towel away and let it fall from your thighs. For a second, you wonder if Joel has even noticed. He still seems entranced by the way your tits move. That, or he's somehow being polite - a weird thing to even consider given how very naked and very close to him you are right now.

Then, he flicks his eyes between your legs for a fraction of a second, before standing and pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth movement. The tent in his boxers is even more pronounced now, the trail of hair that slips beneath the waistband drawing your eye easily to the swelling bulge hidden beyond the fabric.

"Eyes up here, sweetheart," Joel says. "Think you can take it?"

He's stroking himself over the fabric now, you can see it in your periphery. His broad hand gently squeezing and rubbing the very thing you wish was in you.

Words lost, you nod. Then, his knee descends to one side of you, calloused hands pushing at your shoulders, and you're falling softly backward until you collide with the mattress, and the worn towel covering it.

The mattress gives way to your weight, dipping softly where you lay. Joel's over you, his massive frame cast in golden light from the lamp as he touches you more gently than you think he ever has. Your nipples pucker, his hands not even close to them as you arch into the touch of his rough palm across your side, your belly, your hip.

And then, he's dipping his fingers between your legs, not caring of the mess that might be there, and drags slick fingers through your folds until you're panting and writhing underneath him, legs spreading and hips rocking your pussy into his hand with each swipe of his wet fingers over your clit. You didn't notice how sensitive you were. The last few days you'd tried your hardest to ignore any sensation coming from your cunt that wasn't an alarming feeling of warm and wet. Now, while you were definitely warm and wet, you were practically electrified too, blood humming with need as Joel gently stroked at your pussy until you were begging him to make you come.

"I'm gonna, sweetheart," he growls. "Gonna make this needy pussy come all over my cock. Make a mess o' me."

You feel yourself flutter as his finger pushes lightly into your waiting hole. You're dripping, no telling really with what at this point, but you don't have it in you to care. He can have the mess he so desperately wants, as long as he makes you come and leaves you panting and bone tired right here on the mattress.

His face burrows into your neck, shrouding you in him while he sucks kisses down and onto your shoulder.

"Joel..." you moan, arching into him again when his finger plunges deep, gently curling forward while his palm grinds against your clit. You could make yourself come on him if he just kept like this. Except, you don't want to. You don't want to do the work. You want to lie here and take it, have him split you open on his cock and work you apart until you crumble underneath him.

He works another into you, shallow thrusts of the digits working you up and sliding easily through you. His thumb finds your clit, swiping messily over it until you twitch and grip his arm, forcing his palm flat against you so you can grind and grind against him. But he stills - the soft kisses he was peppering with you having reached the jiggle of your tits - and looks aup at you with a quirk to his brow.

"Beg me for it," he whispers, pulling his sopping fingers out of you and wiping them on the towel between your legs. "Not gonna fuck you until you do."

Your desperation cuts through the anger that flares in your belly. You were close when he pulled away, his hand now simply teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh. You were so close your cunt was throbbing, sending small aches up through you. Whether they were from him, and the relief he so quickly took from you, or the making of your own body, you couldn't even tell, but you had a sneaking suspicion they were working together to fuck you over. They always did.

"Fuck me, Joel. Please."

Joel is already settling between your thighs, boxers yanked down his legs and cock springing free, by the time you even finish asking. He presses forward, letting his cock slip against you as his mouth hungrily finds your nipple, sucking and making you gasp. A sudden sob wrestles its way out of your chest while he grinds against you, your clit twitching against the slip and slide of his length, your hands finding his arms to steady you. He's solid, and steady above you, while you quake and writhe beneath him - always the picture of fucking composure, even with his cock heavy and dripping between your legs.

He rears back then, completely naked before you, the shadow between his legs ignored as you make a point to stare up at him, his own eyes favoring the mess between your legs rather than your face. His fingers find your thighs again, spreading them, holding them, before lining himself up with your entrance.

As he presses his tip into you, there's something glaringly obvious, and different, that you notice.

He's being gentle with you. Sort of.

And you're not entirely sure you like it. A very big part of you wants him to say fuck it and pound into you, fucking the pain out of your mind to leave you moaning and boneless and far too messy to comprehend. Unfortunately, you're definitely sure that'd hurt much more than it'd actually be enjoyable, and you hate that Joel and his animal brain have understood that before you and yours.

He catches your frown before you do, and rolls his eyes at you with a gentle squeeze to your thighs. His cock is still slipping gently in and out of you, just pushing in past the head, careful not to go too deep too quickly as he spreads you apart to take him.

"I ain't a fuckin' animal. I know when a pussy's gotta be treated sweet and nice and when it needs to be fucked hard."

You really do try not to pout, but the slow drag of him suddenly doesn't feel like enough and it's all you can do not to cross your arms and glare at him. "What if I don't want sweet and nice?"

"Yeah, you do," he whispers, so sure of himself you want to fucking slap him. If his hands weren't so distracting as they slide up and down your thighs, gently massaging away any ache in tandem with his cock in your cunt, you probably would reach up and give a smack to that beautiful fucking face of his. "And even if you think you don't, she does, and, unlucky for you, I ain't listenin' to you right now."

The moment he starts talking about your cunt, his brings his thumb down to gently tease along your lips where he splits you open, drawing a slick combination of your own blood and arousal up to your clit where he swirls it around.

And, traitorous bitch that she is, your pussy throbs in approval, as if to say yes, yes we want sweet and nice, and you know you've lost the battle. Where Joel was concerned, you were a slave to your pussy - it wasn't even a point worth contending at this point, and you're not sure you ever would've fought to hard against it anyway.

So, you nod, slipping your eyes closed as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you. In an odd way it does feel like a massage - the stiff length of him pushing in past the tense grip of your cunt until you're putty right there on the bed, a leaking, dripping, groaning mess, all of Joel Miller's making. He never bottoms out. Never once hammers home. Never once takes your soft pleas and moans as direction to go faster, harder, even though part of you still wants him to.

You just lie there, soft and pliant against the sheets, taking the steady slip of him in your needy hole until your brain turns to soup in your head.

"Kiss me," you mumble through another moan when his hands drag up your body to swip rough fingers over your nipples again. "Joel, kiss me."

Your legs push back as he falls forward, the sudden movement pushing him deeper and making you gasp. He stops for a moment, searching your eyes as they fly open, pupils blown in the lowlight of his bedroom. He rocks tentatively, at first, before beginning the slow slide in and out of you all over again, until your head thuds back against the mattress.

You'd thought he'd undone you before. Right in this room. You'd thought his fist in you had ruined you, his cock in your ass, his hand in your hair. So many things before now should have torn you apart, but none of that had prepared you for this. The soft, sweet, dirty way Joel Miller fucked all the aches and pains out of you right on his tired mattress.

Through it all, you almost forget you'd asked him to kiss you until his mouth finds yours, and you excitedly accept the pressure of his lips. You'd be embarrassed by it, and by the giddiness in your head as he nips and sucks at your mouth, if you hadn't long lost that feeling around him.

"Forget how much of a slut for kisses you are," he mumbles when he pulls away. "Slut for everythin'."

A weak protest forms in your throat, but his hips jerk forward and silence you with a moan instead.

"No denyin' it. Ain't met many who wanna be split open on this dick when they're on the rag," he's grinning into your shoulder as he taunts you, biting and sucking soft bruises you'll worry about later you as he grinds deeper in you now. "Startin' to think you're some kind of masochist."

You can feel his smile against your skin - a sign he already knows by now that that's more than true. Even so, like most things with Joel, this wasn't something you'd even considered before, let alone considered you might enjoy, until he did it. There's an ache as he stretches you, sure. And an ache in your belly too. And, somehow, one is soothing the other, the grip you have around his cock distracting you from any other feeling in your body as he slides through the mess between the two of you, bringing you close to a euphoria that feels deeper in your belly than it ever has.

He notices the change before you do. Your soft, contented moans turn into deep yearning cries as he grinds his cock deep, heavy balls sitting wetly against your ass as your slicked up hole seems to draw him in further and further. His fingers push between you, the slip of sweat, and blood, and your own slick easing his digits between your bodies until he finds your clit again.

With a soft movement, he jerks it between two fingers, watching and listening as you whine pathetically, eyes pressed so tight you see stars. A quick slip lower, feeling the sticky slip of you around his cock that has the telltale feel of your arousal and not blood, he moves back up and begins swiping his finger over your swollen clit in earnest.

Your clit twitches and pulses beneath his finger, your cunt fluttering around his solid length as it slowly presses into you, barely moving, just watching as you become exactly the kind of mess you feel.

It aches, and it hurts, and it feels so fucking good that you sob out a cry, a moan, a garbled plea, all at once as you come, shaking into the deep arch of your back as he fucks slowly and slowly and slowly, his fingers sliping endlessly against your clit, jerking the nub until you can do nothing but let out a deep, breathy, scream.

"That's it," he groans, his own cock throbbing in you as you pulsate around him. "Messy fuckin' girl. Come on it. Come all over it."

"Please," you gasp stupidly, not knowing what you're begging for, the height of your orgasm coming crashing down as it suddenly all feels too much. "Please."

While you don't know what you're begging for, it seems like Joel does. One moment his hand is between you, and the next it's rubbing against the towel before gripping gently at your shoulder, holding you steadily underneath him as you shudder and gasp.

And then, like reading your deepest wishes straight from your mind, he starts rocking in shallow thrusts - unsatisfying on their own, but paired with the filth from his mouth, it sends you close to the edge all over again.

"There we go," he moans in your ear, breathy and desperate as you. "S'all you needed."

You're starting to think Joel Miller's cock maybe is all you need - for some people it's love, or riches, but for you, at least in this moment, the heavy length impaling you and curing all your ailments is all you need. For now, at least.

He's wrecking himself with it all too, you notice. The way the pressure of his hands on your body increases and releases over and over as he fights with himself to be gentle as he fucks you to his own release isn't helped by the way his mind is racing, his mouth barely keeping up with whatever filth is rattling around in his mind.

"Gonna take it. Gonna dump my load right in this messy fuckin' hole. Y'gonna be fillin' up that fuckin' cup with my cum after this. Gonna be spillin' outta you. Needy - fuckin' - slut."

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes," you babble, holding onto his arms through his gentle thrusts, your cunt threatening an orgasm even as a new ache settles back into your core.

"Like bein' a slut for me?" he gasps. "Like bein' mine?"

"Yeah. Yours. Please, Joel. Fuck."

"Tell me. Tell me s'mine."

"It's yours. Your hole. I'm your needy - fuck - hole!"

"Damn fuckin' right you're my needy fuck hole. Fuck. Shit. You want this?"

And god you do. You want more besides, but right now you'll take it, on the brink of coming as the rough thatch of hair at the base of his cock grinds relentlessly into your clit.

"Said, do you want this."

His shallow thrusts speed up, and you just about have time to gasp out a yes before you're twitching and coming hard around his cock again. He follows soon behind, gasped curses bitten into your shoulder as your hands slip against his sweat soaked sides, filling your cunt with thick ropes of cum, thanking him in mindless chants as you feel each pulse of his cock fill you more and more.

You're limp and just about as lifeless as he said you looked when he first opened the door. You don't care. You feel more relaxed than you have all week, the pain completely gone as a warm floaty feeling courses through your veins.

Joel pulls out, asking if you're all good and accepting the wobble of your head as a yes, before wiping his cock with the towel and using it to gently wipe at your thighs.

There's not as much mess as you expected, as you look down. You expected carnage - a bloodbath - but there's nothing more than a soft streak of red on the towel when he pulls it away and tosses it into the corner.

He flops heavily next to you, pulling part of the towel you're laying on over your body in a vague attempt to keep you warm as you both come down. The chill in the room had been kept at bay until now, mostly thanks to Joel's body heating yours from the inside out. Now, sweat dries on both of your bodies, and you find yourself shifting closer to his warmth to stave off the cold.

"Y'think these gonna be a regular thing now?" he asks as he tugs part of his bedsheet over himself.

You shrug, offering up your uncertainty. It had been years since your last - your fathers declining health and your subsequent lack of good meals had seen to that. There was no telling if there'd be any regularity to them and, if you were being honest, you didn't want to see one again for a very long time.

He's silent for a second, thoughtful features pinching in the warm light of his bedroom before he speaks again.

"Alright. How 'bout I give you that ass fuckin' in a couple weeks, then?"

It's not exactly what you expected. You'd almost forgotten about it yourself. But, now, as he pins a new date for your promised rude awakenin' you find yourself ready to pout again, this time at the idea of having to wait two more weeks.

"Two weeks? I'll probably be finished with this by the end of the week. I can come over Sunday, or in the week or -"

"I know," he says simply. "Like the idea of you bein' like a bitch in heat and me fuckin' a load into your ass when your cunt is so desperate for it, though."

Anything you were going to say is totally lost in an instant, your jaw flapping on its hinges as you try and fail to find the words that were just on the tip of your tongue. Any protest, question, or suggestion, is gone and, you realize, replaced with one thing, and one thing only.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

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This is so stinkin’ sweeeeeeet 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Goodnight Kiss

joel miller x f!reader

Joel’s a good dad. You try to remind him.

warnings/tags: MDNI. pre/no-outbreak!joel miller. babysitter!reader. joel is in his 30s but sarah is a toddler because i said so. reader is in her last year of college; do with that what you will. sickening fluff. some borderline impure thoughts. self-depreciation. praise/comfort. intimacy. single girl dad!joel. overworked man finds solace in a sweet girl. not beta'd & hardly proofread. wc: 1.5k

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His keys jingle in the door lock an hour after your shift was intended to end.

You don’t mind. You’re used to this routine by now. He still has the courtesy to text you that he’ll be running late, and he always pays a little extra for the additional hours. You’re only here for the summer, and every penny helps grow the savings fund you’ve been eagerly building before entering the less-than-reliable job market next year.

There is also the matter of your employer himself, and knowing that there are far more deplorable summer jobs than babysitting his sweet daughter.

You’re certain of it, in fact. Because you’ve never known a man quite like Joel Miller.

He’s the most hardworking person you’ve ever met, not only providing for his daughter and himself, but his brother. You’ve only seen Tommy a handful of times, and despite his flaws, Joel remains hopeful that his intervention will prompt a turnaround.

He signs Sarah up for anything and everything she’s willing to try, and somehow, finds a way to get her there on time. He fixes the panels on his elderly neighbor's roof before they’ve even noticed one is loose. Sometimes, he’ll snatch your keys off the counter when he gets home at a reasonable time and tells you to stay put while he fills up your tank because gas ain’t an expense you needa worry about right now.

He’s overworked, underpaid, and still finds it in himself to be kind.

You tuck your bookmark into the pages sprawled out across your lap, rising from the couch to greet him. Sarah’s been in bed since seven, and while Joel has made it clear you’re welcome to the fridge or the TV, you always hesitate to overstep.

You grab your tote off the armrest, slinging it over your shoulder and sliding your book inside before pattering towards the front hallway.

“Hey,” you call softly. He’s toeing off his boots and tossing his keys into the bowl by the door. He gives you a tired, apologetic smile.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from a long day's work. The low vibration sends goosebumps up your arms which you nonchalantly rub away, hoping he won’t notice.

Joel Miller is also impeccably handsome. Another fine quality you’re certain he fails to notice.

“M’so sorry. I know it’s not fair of me to keep doin’ this to ya. The plumbing guys are not cooperatin’, so I—”

“Joel, it’s fine.” You take another step toward him, the golden porch light illuminating his features through the front window. You tilt your head at him, shrugging your shoulders. “I’ve got nowhere else to be. And besides, I love Sarah. She's such a good kid.”

You watch the rigidity in his shoulders fall, if only a little. He’s looking you over as if he’s the child, and he’s just been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. He shakes his head, muttering something discouraging under his breath. You have the great urge to soothe him.

The feeling is not new nor unfamiliar, but you’re tentative with the actions it threatens to elicit. A million grey lines begging to be crossed.

“Was hopin’ to be back in time to tuck her in,” he sighs, placing a hand on his hip while the other rubs at the tension in his brow. “Been too long since I have.”

You can’t help but smile. Not at the berating of himself or his clear display of stress, but because it’s endearing how much he cares. How blatant his love for his daughter is, whether she’s in the room or not.

“Well, I made sure to give her an extra kiss goodnight to make up for it.”

When he looks at you again, it’s with that same sort of sad, guilt-ridden smile. His appreciation for you cannot make up for the condemnation of himself, and while this would not be the first time Joel Miller confided in you about his shortcomings, you can sense tonight weighs heavier than most.

“Just feel like m’not… doin’ enough, I dunno.” His shoulders rise and fall defeatedly, and he’s shaking his head as if to further scold himself. “Worried she’s gonna grow up to resent me or somethin.’”

That strikes a nerve. You suffocate the strap of your bag with your grip, an attempt to redirect some of the outrage that fills you.

How could he even think such a thing? You know Joel’s a smart man, he can’t possibly be so blind to the things other children lack from their parents—none of which he ever falters on.

Your brows knit low over your eyes, serious. “She will not resent you, Joel. She adores you.” You make a point of emphasis; you want him to hear you, loud and clear. Know that there are things you see from the outside that he doesn’t, that a four-year-old may be far more perceptive than he gives her credit for.

“She talks about you all day,” you continue, and that seems to get his attention. Your heart aches at the tired, hopeful look in his eyes. You wish you could alleviate some of the exhaustion. “Everything we do is can’t wait to show Papa this, or we gotta tell Papa that.”

He chuckles a little, likely somewhat due to your poor impression of the toddler's voice, but you still aren’t convinced your words have sunk in.

You do something a bit uncharacteristic, then. You reach out, take another step forward, and place an honest hand on his forearm. The muscle below your touch is firm and warm, but his eyes that follow the path of your fingers are wildly more intense.

“You’re a good dad,” you tell him, voice dropping to a whisper. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”

He blinks, and when he peers at you now, there’s a glint of something different. You’ve seen it before maybe a handful of times, but it’s always fleeting. A shared understanding that whatever it is, there’s never been any time to acknowledge it.

But this time, it lingers. It festers between your bodies that, only now, do you notice how close they have drifted in the already cramped entryway. Who shifted first, or when, matters very little with Joel’s eyes on you, gentle and focused. You see them flicker, once to your hand that still rests upon his skin, another to your eyes, and then your lips. There’s the sound of crickets in the night. The familiar scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and dust. The sight of his face, all sharp edges and scattered freckles and a furrowed brow, but his eyes. In all the time you’ve know him, they’ve always remained kind.

Your breath catches in your throat when he finally leans in.

He doesn’t reach for you. Instead, he flushes his chest against yours and lets the weight of his lips drive the kiss. Your fingers dig into his forearm for purchase. You can’t say you’re caught off guard, though pleasantly surprised.

There’s an innocence to it, tender and sweet. He lingers for a few long beats, never pushing further than the plush of his lips delicately upon yours, and then releases.

You don’t open your eyes right away, selfishly idling in the newfound thrill a beat longer. You can still taste him—coffee, mint, something sweet. He remains close; you still feel the brush of his lips, the tip of his nose bumping yours, the fanning of his breath.

“M’sorry…” he starts to mutter, and you can tell he’s retracting. Your eyes fly open and your grip on him tightens.

“No, don’t be.”

You have difficulty finding any trace of guilt in his expression, a fact that turns your stomach. An anxious thrill, the precipice of something.

His tongue traces his bottom lip as if he’s trying to salvage another drop of you. A somewhat devious grin breaks out at the corners.

“Had to put it somewhere, I guess.”

You’re all soft chuckles and sheepish smiles after that, and you feel your cheeks heat up with an array of excitement and nervousness. It was one thing to endure Joel Miller and his charm without the prospect of more, but now?

You aren’t sure how you can possibly contain yourself.

A million questions rattle through your mind as you stare at one another, but you notice the time on the wall clock behind him. You’re no stranger to the bags under his eyes, the paleness on his cheeks after a long day, so you set your selfishness aside. After all, you’ll be back in this very spot in a handful of hours.

You swallow hard, slowly releasing his forearm, though your palm aches to remain.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He isn’t subtle about his hesitation. His eyes do an elongated once over of you before he shakes his head, and bites at his lower lip to prevent another laugh from escaping. You have half the mind to yank him back to you by the t-shirt, but digress when he steps around and opens the door for you.

You’re slow in your exit, doing a full one-eighty once your feet are planted on the porch to flash him one more dazzling smile.

“Goodnight, Joel.”

You see the dimples cave in his cheek before he quietly closes the door.

“Night, darlin’.”

You can’t seem to fall asleep fast enough.

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AHHHH!!!! This sweeter side of SWAT!Joel is doing things to me!!!

Lo, I cannot take this sweet asshole of a man!! 🫠🥰 Got me feeling all gooey when I just know he’s gonna be an asshole again 🤣

you all the way down

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pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: vaguely dub-con (power imbalance, reader was paying a debt), masturbation, oral sex (f and m receiving), face sitting, spanking, cum swallowing, no use of y/n. word count: 4.3k summary: You have a rare moment of privacy, a chance to luxuriate in bringing yourself closer and closer to a peak you've been teasing yourself with for hours.... Until a knock at your door snatches it all away.

A/N: I hit a follower milestone this week - thank you all so much for your follows, comments, reblogs, friendship, sneaky trips into my DMs and asks, and for loving the same silly, absurd, and horny things I do.

see you next week 💛

title from I, Carrion (Icarian) by hozier.

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You didn't often do it like this. You didn't often have the time. Or the privacy.

It was a rare luxury to have the apartment to yourself, and so, for the best part of an hour - maybe more - you'd been slowly and steadily teasing yourself. With no plans and no work, you could take your time, turn the slow drag of your hands all over your body into steady smooth movements that dipped between your legs. Fingers that pinched nipples, scratched at your belly, dragged themselves over your thighs found themselves nestled between your legs dipping down and teasing. Down, and up, and around, and back down again. Sweeping through wet folds and swiping over your clit in gloriously slow strokes. You were making your own skin prickle, your own breath catch in your throat, and it was divine.

How long you teased yourself and made yourself smile and sigh in the confines of your own room, you didn't know exactly. It didn't matter. Your dad was at work and you weren't. You were here, alone, finally pushing one slicked up finger inside yourself and making yourself gasp.

Fuck, did you deserve this. You deserved the soft and the slow way you teased yourself, brought yourself close to the edge and then eased off. You deserved the way you made yourself moan, catching yourself with a laugh when you heard yourself through the blood in your ears.

You deserved to come, right here, nestled in all your soft things, thinking glorious thoughts about hands and bodies surrounding yours, overwhelming you until you came, shuddering, in their grasp.

You deserved to come begging and urging yourself on to the emptiness of your room, your own filthy mouth finding flight and soaring, working with the fingers in your cunt and on your clit to bring yourself to an edge you'd let yourself teeter on, almost making yourself cry as you held back, held off, and kept that fierce explosion at bay.

Until a knock at your door snatched it all away.

Your body registers it before your brain does. The fuse you'd ignited sputters out, your fingers still working over your clit that has suddenly gone shy and numb and unfeeling, making you twitch uncomfortably. Then, your door rattles with a heavy handed knock again, and you sit up with a start.

Fuck this asshole.

Tumbling from tangled sheets, you frantically reach for something to cover you. As you hop through your apartment, one leg in your pants, the other out, another knock hammers at the door.

"Okay! I'm coming!" Only you weren't, because that was ruined now, thanks to this heavy handed asshole and their impeccable timing.

Wiping damp fingers on your pants, you huff out a frustrated breath and try to pin a fake smile onto your face before opening the door. It swings inward, just as the start of another impatient knock begins, and in with it comes a man you should be surprised to see.

Joel Miller breezes past you - barely having to push his way in as you stare at him in stunned silence - to stand in your living room, looking curiously around at the small space.

"Nice place," he says, with a look on his face that says differently. You know it's far from a nice place. There wasn't a single apartment in this building that was a nice place. If this were normal times, the whole block would have been condemned years ago, but here you were, stuck at the end of the world in a shitty apartment that was the only place you had to call home.

As you close the door, you take a quick glance down at what you'd thrown on. The pajama pants have seen better days - everything had seen better days - and the shirt you'd grabbed has more holes in the seams than you care to even check for. It was in your pile of things to fix that you hadn't quite got around to yet and now here it was, hanging off your body like you were wearing lace, not flannel.

"What're you here for?" you ask, trying to hide the holes in your with a not-so-subtle movement of your arms.

"Like to check in on my clients from time to time," he says, finally looking you over and noticing your arms tucked tightly over your chest. "Am I disturbin' somethin'?"

Yes. "No."

"You ain't workin'?"

No shit. "Day off."

"Alright," he says, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "What's got your panties in a bunch?"

You aren't wearing any panties. "Nothing."

He's crossing the small space to stand right in front of you, and you know from the second his nostrils flair that he knows. He probably knew from the moment he came in, probably somehow even from the other side of the door. You weren't exactly being quiet, or discreet, and if there's one thing you knew it was that Joel Miller knew you just about better than anybody else.

"Bullshit, sweetheart."

If you weren't already so turned on at your own hand, you know you'd be rapidly getting wetter. Just the smell of him in your home is sending your mind, and your pussy, into overdrive. He's never stepped foot in here before, and you know you shouldn't like it. A man like Joel, a man who has clients to come check on, isn't someone you should be happy to have snooping about in your apartment and your business.

But one look at that cocky smirk on his face, and you know you'd be very happy to have him snooping around your business. In fact, by the way your pussy pulses at the sight of him, you think you'd be happy to have him very deep in your business right here pressed up against your front door.

Instead, in a last ditch effort to retain your dignity, you push the frustration back into your voice and step around him, throwing your hands into the air.

"You just come here, pound at the door, and then bust right in here the second I open it! I was - I'm busy, Joel."

"Busy?" Joel scoffs. You can see the thought as it comes to him, sly smile twitching the corners of his mouth as he fakes disinterest. "Then go right on ahead and get back to what you were doin', don't mind me."

You stare him down, heart pounding in your throat. The distance between you is still small. You could be on him in an instant. You think you could use the element of surprise and tackle him to the ground. His coat would come off easy enough, but beneath that who knows what he's wearing. Probably layers. Fucking Boston. Still, you didn't exactly need all of them off, you only needed access to one thing, and when your eyes flick down to the bulge in his jeans you resolutely set your shoulders and turn around.

"Fine."

A button falls from loose threads as your hands fly down the front of your shirt. In no time at all you're flinging it over your shoulder, hitting Joel square in the face where he stands in your bedroom doorway, watching.

He catches it in one hand, fingering one of the holes. "This what you call, busy?"

The pajama pants you'd tied about your waist drop to your feet and in no time at all you're naked again, climbing onto your bed, the pillows and sheets you were nested in welcoming you back in - still warm. "Like you didn't know, asshole."

"I ain't got a sixth fuckin' sense, sweetheart."

You glare at him from across the room and he shrugs, leaning casually on the doorframe as he watches you lie back. If you didn't know better, you'd think he didn't know where to look. One moment he's looking at the scowl on your face, and the next he's looking down at your breasts, the curve of your ass, taking a peek between your legs as you shuffle down your bed. It's all going so fast, you think for once you may just have the upperhand. Joel Miller, you think, is flustered.

He watches you as you stroke down your body, quicker than the slow, teasing pace you'd set with yourself earlier. Your thighs fall open as your hands reach your hips, and your fingers reach down to spread yourself as he watches on.

"This what you were doin'?"

"Yes, now can you shut up."

You shut your eyes and get back to where you left off. You're still wet and slick, your fingers slipping easily back into the grip of your pussy. If you just try to block him out, standing in the doorway staring between your spread legs, you can get right back where you left off. You can find that edge again, even through the oversensitivity. You know you can, and this time, you're going to throw yourself screaming over it.

Curling your fingers, you reach down and twist your torso until you can reach that delicious spot you found earlier. Then, your other hand begins working back over your clit, spit slicked and swiping eagerly over the sensitive nub. Picking up the pace, you try to ignore the twitches in your legs and the way your thighs already want to clamp shut on your own hands.

You ignore it, that is, until Joel chimes in from the doorway.

"You're gonna rub the fuckin' thing clean off if you keep goin' at it like that."

Hitting the bed in frustration, you growl and sit up again, staring wild eyed at him. "If you're such a fucking expert, then why don't you get over here and help me. I am naked, Joel, and my cunt is right here."

Your mouth snaps shut the moment you gesture down to your spread legs. You snap them shut too. By the way he's silently peeling off his coat, you're certain you've fucked up, though you can't say you're too mad about it. With any luck, he'll fuck you to within an inch of your life in a way so satisfying your ruined orgasm will be all but forgotten.

With his coat discarded, he pulls off a sweater and unbuttons his shirt - flannel and significantly less holey than the one you've just thrown at him. Then, he grabs a pillow you'd discarded earlier and sits at the edge of your bed.

"C'mere," he beckons as he lays back, folding the pillow and shoving it behind his head.

You don't move. You're frozen in place as he shifts and gets himself comfortable. You don't know what this is, what he's planning, but you're certain it's something he's never done before. And it's going to happen right here, in your bedroom, the very place you'd spent night after night dreaming of the many wonderful ways he would fuck you.

"You want my help, or not?" he says in frustration, looking over to you where you're rooted in place. You nod stupidly, and follow the beckon of his fingers until you're kneeling by his side.

His rough hands find your thigh and push you until you're sat up on your knees. Then, he's dragging one of your legs over his clothed chest until you're straddling him, trying to keep the wet mess between your legs from soaking through his shirt.

"Up here," he says. "Want that pussy, and I ain't kneeling for it."

And suddenly it all clicks into place and you are mortified. For everything he'd done to you, for how much you knew he loved to look, you'd never once done something like this to him. You felt awkward even riding him, until his flithy words of encouragement and the drag of his cock inside you knocked every thought out of your brain.

Now, he was wanting you to sit on his face, somehow not suffocating him in the process. So, you laugh, shaking as you hold your weight above his chest.

"Look like I'm jokin' to you?" he says in a tone so stern and serious your eyes force their way down to where his face sits perilously close to the apex of your legs.

Which, of course, is a fucking mistake. He's licking his lips and looking up at you - all over every inch of you - eating you alive with his stare.

He pushes and pulls you then, dragging you up his chest until your knees are settled either side of his face. You can feel the gust of his breath against your thighs just before he hauls you forward a little more until his half face is completely covered by your cunt, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose visible now.

"Fuckin' christ. You're a mess down here. You been goin' at it for a while, huh?" he says, and you can feel every word blow against you even as you hover as far as you can above his face.

"Uh-huh," you say, a kiss sucked to your thigh striking stealing all thought from your mind.

"Get real close?" he says, with another kiss, hands kneading at your thighs and ass as they wrap around you and try to tug you closer.

You nod, hoping he can see you as your eyes slip closed with the feeling of him right here, between your legs, in your room.

"Hm. That's a damn shame, sweetheart. Bet you're achin' for it somethin' fierce right now, ain't you?" he asks from between your legs. You look down and you know in that moment the fucked look on your face says more than you ever could when he hums, spreading your thighs apart with his strong fingers.

"Better sit your ass down then," he mumbles into your thigh, pulling you down. "That's it, bring it here. Ain't strainin' my fuckin' neck for it, give it to me."

So you do. You settle down slowly onto his face, listening as he guides you down until you feel the first broad swipe of his tongue up through your folds.

"What'd I say," he says, swallowing the taste of you. "A fuckin' mess."

He kisses around your clit, nudging it with the curved tip of his nose when he finally licks up into you again. And then, he's pulling your flush to his face and feasting.

The noise that leaves you is stupid. Somewhere between a gasp and a moan and a question all at once. His nose is pressed against you, his laughter fanning out across your mound as you try not to squirm and wiggle against him, fearful of crushing his head beneath your weight, or at the very least suffocating him.

His face burrows deeper, his hands holding you firm, squeezing and scraping calloused fingertips against your delicate skin. The scruff on his cheeks feels rough against the places you were so soft with earlier, and you don't care in the slightest.

It works, you think.

Where the soft feel of your own hands felt too much - too familiar - to the parts of you that were now too sensitive to them, the rough, all consuming movements of Joel's mouth on your swollen pussy feels like a welcome relief as he laps at your hole, slick and dripping from your thwarted solo session.

His hands move from anchoring you to his face, locked around your thighs, to pressing against your ass, gripping the globes of them in each of his broad hands.

And then, as if it wasn't all so much already, he begins to stroke up and down your seam, pulling you apart, dipping into your dripping cunt and teasing over your exposed asshole as he laps and suckles away at your clit.

Still, as good as it all is, you can't let go. You can't get back to that place you'd climbed so close to. You feel exposed, sat upright with the frigid October air of your bedroom encasing you. Self-conscious too - all chins and bad angles and slouchy shoulders. And, most of all, you were terrified you were going to hurt him. One wrong twitch or snap shut of your legs and his air supply would be gone, or his neck snapped, and you'd have a dead man in your bed and -

A sharp slap connects with your ass cheek, Joel's strong hands pulling you upwards from his face, cheeks glistening and lips swollen red.

"Lean forward," he says, with a nip to your thigh.

As you go to move, walking forward on your knees, a hand grips your waist, and another slap hits your thigh, rippling your skin where it frames his face.

"Said lean, not fuckin' move off. You're gonna sit right here 'til you come, but you ain't comin' any time soon if you don't fuckin' lean and relax."

A strong hand pushes at your lower back then, making you hinge forward until your elbows collide with the bed. Your ass is in the air, legs spread just wide enough that your bare cunt is tantalizingly close to Joel's mouth, and now you get it. You shift on your knees, soothing the small ache that had built up, and look down at the brown-grey hair between your legs that's sucking hickies into your thighs.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs as he marks you, delivering swift, gentle smacks to your ass as you groan, planting your cheek firmly against your bed.

You drag a blanket toward you, covering yourself a little and tucking your face into the softness of it. Joel's smacks turn to scrapes of his blunt nails over the backs of your thighs and then, when your brain finally switches off and you fall into that mindless, soft place that has you feeling heavy and floaty all at once, you press your hips forward and drag your bare pussy across Joel's waiting tongue.

Joel's groan of approval blends into your own wanton moans. What was a soft drag of his tongue on your clit quickly turns to the sensitive nub being sucked into his eager mouth, your hips winding and grinding now you can finally relax.

"Fingers. Please. Need your fingers."

It doesn't even sound like you. It's breathier and more pathetic than you think you've ever sounded, but you can't bring yourself to care when suddenly Joel is releasing your clit to slurp on two of his own fingers, before plunging them deep into your empty pussy.

"Yes, yes, yes, like that. Fuck. Joel."

Each orbit of his tongue on your clit sends a new throb directly through your core, clenching down on the digits curling into you, and you're right back to teetering on that edge. You figure you could let yourself fall over it now. It'd be more like collpasing over it in an exhausted heap, but you know it'd be a satisfaction you wouldn't otherwise have got today.

Or you could wait. You could hold yourself back and use his face to tease yourself, to bring yourself back from the brink once, twice, before you take the final running jump right over it.

Your hands have made up your mind for you when you card trembling fingers through his hair and pull him back, forcing his head down into the pillow he'd propped under it not long ago, and stopping your orgasm in its tracks.

One.

Then, when he's licking broad stripes up and down your glistening folds, something takes hold of you and you begin to fuck yourself against his fingers, swiping your pussy against the flat of his tongue as you rock gently back and forth. His tongue, then his nose, grind against your clit with each rock of your hips, and soon your shaking legs can't move yourself any more.

Two.

Whatever running jump you'd hoped for isn't in your hands now. It's not in your control from the moment Joel tucks a third finger into your pussy, so slick and dripping you're certain you'd have no issue taking more if he decided to give them to you. Instead, you're being carried by him, limp and panting in his arms as he throws you mercilessly over the edge, and you let him.

You come with a cry, fists balling in sheets. Your hips rock and cant against his face, twitching uncontrollably as you pulse and gush around his fingers. His tongue is relentless on your clit, circling over and over until you're begging a jumbled garble of words, too weak to lift yourself off of him.

Then, in a last ditch effort, you throw yourself forward, still coming as you finally release yourself off of his face.

It takes your brain a second to reconnect with your body. Even after the aftershocks have subsided, you're still panting and groaning. Or he is. Maybe both of you are.

Both of you are.

Still quivering, you turn to him. His eyes catch yours before you can take in the state of him. They're darker than you've ever seen them, his blown pupils turning his irises almost black. Then, you see the glistening wet on his chin, his plush lips turned plumper, red and swollen from kissing and sucking at you. And, even lower still, you see the movement of his arm, his bicep rocking in a steady movement, his forearm flexing with each jerk of his fist, his cock weeping in his hand.

"Get down here," he growls.

You scramble to turn, limbs clumsy, and flop down against his side, knees tucked awkwardly under you. His free hand grips your ass, kneading and spreading you so he can look at the mess he made of you, while he guides his cock to your mouth with the other.

"C'mon now, ain't gonna take much. That's it. Fuck."

He groans when you swallow him down, almost gagging when you take him too deep too quickly. Your fist curls around the base of him, taking up the space you can't quite reach, and you bob your head, swirling your tongue, unable to keep your moans quiet as you taste him.

No sooner have you started, and he's twitching beneath you, the muscles in his groin flexing to hold back, to hold on.

"Want you to swallow it all," he pants. "Don't want - fuck - you to miss a single drop."

His fingers push back into your tender hole then - the inviting warmth of it obviously too much to resist when it's swaying there right in front of him, and you welcome him back in with a sigh.

"Such a fuckin' mess."

You moan in agreement, sucking his cock deeper into your mouth. You can't see him. You don't need to. You know he's close by the way his balls draw tight and his moans get so desperate, his fingers stilling their slow exploration inside you.

And then, he's spurting into the back of your throat - you bet he has his eyes closed - and you swallow over and over, the salty burst of him barely registering on your tasetbuds as you eagerly swallow everything he has to give.

"Get it all. That's it. Swallow it. Fuck, sweetheart."

You suck and lick until his fingers pull out of you and grip your thigh, too sensitive for you to carry on your gentle licks against his head.

With one last gentle suck, you release him with a pop and flop beside him, smiling dozily to yourself as your hands play against your belly.

Joel lays with you for a moment too, his cock going limp against his belly before he tucks it away and sits up.

"Y'always like this after you fuck yourself?" he asks, and you nod, watching the way he stretches his neck and shoulders. You think you are, anyway. Mostly, you fall straight asleep. It's only on these rare occasions you get to fuck yourself with your fingers and take your time that you ended up smiling and satisfied at a job well done.

"Get up here," he says again a moment later, tugging gently at your limp arm. He could manhandle you - he's done it before, he's plenty strong enough - but he doesn't. Instead he waits patiently until you're on your knees in front of him, almost matching his height where he stands and you kneel.

"What'd'ya say?" he asks, pinching your chin. "Tha..."

"Thank you, Joel," you say, with a roll of your eyes. "But, technically, it's your fault I even needed your help in the first place."

With a quick slap to your ass, he pushes your chin away with his thumb, before dragging your face right back to his. "Alright smartass. C'mere."

Then, he kisses you. Full on the mouth, kisses you.

And, when you slip your tongue against his bottom lip, tasting yourself on the fullness of it, he doesn't object. He meets you in the middle instead, tasting himself on your tongue as you taste yourself on his.

"Always go so fuckin' dopey for kisses," he says with a laugh against your mouth, and you moan an agreement as your head falls back. You're exhausted, right down to the bones, and now the mornings events are catching up with you.

"I do. You don't mind tasting your cum."

Honest too, apparently, and Joel shakes his head.

"S'mine, and I fuckin' put it there. Nice knowin' you taste of me, sweetheart. If it ain't one hole, it oughta be another."

He shrugs his jacket on, and pulls his shoes onto his feet, before he sees himself out. He pats you gently on the ass as he leaves, closing your bedroom door behind himself. You listen out for the front door, and when it slams, you let the fuzzy feeling take hold - your eyes catching sight of his flannel shirt on your dresser right before you're dragged under.

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When Joel drifts off, the skin of his chest sticking to the skin of your back, he knows he’ll wake up to a glittering world of white that melts in the warmth of the morning sun. Winter doesn’t yet have its talons around Jackson, and grief hasn’t quite gotten its claws around Joel either.

The BEAUTY of this last paragraph!!!

🌿 9.first frost with joel please <3

hi hi anon, i loved this request so i'm kicking off the milestone requests with it. hope you enjoy! x

first frost

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader summary: joel comes home to find you just how he likes you. wc: 1.1k (let's pretend this was 1k words or fewer like I said it'd be) tags: angst, smut [masturbation (f), fingering (f!receiving), unprotected piv, blink and you'll miss the orgasm denial, cum eating], daddy kink (oh no it's happening), sad boy joel, use of religious imagery, one long metaphor a/n: out of my writing dry spell! can't wait to keep going on all of these requests, thank you to everyone who submitted something!! x liv's 1k fairy circle

main masterlist | read on AO3 | @5oh5-notifs for fic notifs!

The weather is getting colder, and Joel feels strangled by it. The warm air is slipping between his fingers, the comforting breeze turning to ice across his cheeks and threading through his hair. He knows that in a few short weeks he’ll be out here, miserable, ice forming in his beard and his eyelashes, blinking back the tears that form to keep his eyes from drying in the bitter wind. Winter arrives before he’s ready every year in Jackson, the frost forming before he can prepare himself to see it.

The warmth of summer always makes something like hope return to the corners of his mind, dusting out the cobwebs and turning on the lights. In the summer it’s easier to tell himself lies, easier to believe that maybe someday she’ll forgive him. When the days are long and the sun eases low into the sky well into the evening, it’s easier to forget. In the winter, in the cold and dark, it’s easier to drown.

There is one thing he knows will be waiting for him, warm and wet and perfect despite the cold air that dries out his hands and cracks the skin over his knuckles. When he’s out on horseback, he thinks only of you and the warmth of your body that will surround him when he comes home. He’s surprised that it hasn’t gotten him killed yet, the way the memory of your moans and the softness of your skin dulls his senses and slows his reactions. He doesn’t deserve you, of that he’s sure, but fuck if he doesn’t revel in the sweet sin of it – of having something he shouldn’t. He figures he’ll answer for his crimes eventually, perhaps at the gates of Hell, murmuring something about how he always knew you were too sweet for him, too gentle, too soft amidst the fucked up apocalyptic nightmare that ravishes everything and everyone. Sorry sir, I couldn’t help it. Maybe God’ll take pity on him, and maybe he won’t. It doesn’t really matter anymore. Sometimes he forgets there was anything other than this, that there was a life before. A normal life. The only glimpses he gets of that now are when he’s buried between your thighs, when the wasteland fades to a blur and the voices go silent, replaced only by your panting breaths and soft little moans.

When he kicks off his muddy boots at the door, they’re already less muddy than usual, the earth starting to harden below them. He hears you before he sees you. He’d know the hitch in your breath anywhere, know the little whimpers that filter through the cracked door even in his sleep. Even in death, he thinks.

You hear the click of the door, listen as his boots come up the stairs. Your mind is a little hazy, teetering on the edge of oblivion. You’re just where he likes you, and you always want to be exactly what he wants. Your fingers are buried in your cunt, desire dripping around your knuckles and smeared across your thighs. You don’t quiet your breaths or fight to control them, knowing that he’ll be here in a matter of seconds to give you exactly what you want.

When he does, his voice is graveled, low and syrupy, and you’re so close already you feel you could fall apart just from the sound of it.

“What’s all this then, angel?” he coos, even though he knows the answer. He just likes to hear you say it. It softens him, a little more each time. “You haven’t come yet, have you?”

Like the thaw of spring your voice melts the freeze that permeates his bones, the one that’s settled, deep and destructive, since the day he lost everything. When he leaves again, leaves the warmth of this house and of your body he knows the frost will return, the ache will spread low in his chest until he finds his way back into you. “No, daddy. Waiting for you.” Innocent, sweet, everything that shouldn’t be. Everything he’s fucked up too many times to deserve.

“Good girl.” Good girl, good girl. Maybe the only good thing left in the world.

Within seconds his fingers replace yours, his flannel still stretched across his shoulders and biceps straining at the worn fabric as he rocks his palm into your clit and his fingers hammer relentlessly into your g-spot, but you’re falling apart before he can even find a rhythm. You’re begging him, tears running down your cheeks, and he thinks of the spring’s rain and the fall’s frost, of all the exquisite wonders that still remain even in this circle of damnation to which the world has found itself abandoned. “You can come, little one.”

What’s the use in depriving himself of one of those exquisite wonders? There are so few left now.

He barely gets himself out of his jeans before he’s sinking into you, the rough denim of the fabric scratching against the skin of your inner thighs, the zipper of his jeans dragging through the coarse hair of your mound. You’re writhing beneath him, cunt squeezing the life out of him, and he happily buries everything he’s ever felt as deep inside of your body as he can possibly reach.

You come again in mere moments, and he realizes he hasn’t asked how long you’d been playing with yourself before he got back. He loves the thought of you toying with that pretty pussy that belongs to him, aching and wanting and waiting. He loves being the one to do it even more. You’re chanting his name like it’s the only thing you can remember, and he hopes you’ll never forget. He stands no chance, his body finally relaxing and mind turning so crystal clear he feels for a moment like nothing bad has ever happened. When he spills himself across your belly, you moan even louder. “Daddy, please, I need it, please.”

He kisses down your jaw, tracing the thick vein in your neck with his tongue before smearing kisses down your sternum until his mouth meets his own mess. With a swipe of his tongue, he collects it, before feeding it back to you with a lick into your mouth that he thinks should embarrass him, but the groan that you feed back to him proves that it never will. He doesn’t register the sound that comes out of his own throat.

When Joel drifts off, the skin of his chest sticking to the skin of your back, he knows he’ll wake up to a glittering world of white that melts in the warmth of the morning sun. Winter doesn’t yet have its talons around Jackson, and grief hasn’t quite gotten it’s claws around Joel either.

thank you for reading! x

WIP wednesday!

Nobody tagged me I'm just deeply avoiding work and feeling anxious about posting fics again for the first time in years!

1. post snippets or summaries of each of your WIPs.

2. send me an ask about any WIP that caught your interest if you want to!!

tough love (joel miller/ f!reader) Multi-chapter long ass fic inspired by the song Tough Love by flyte and laura marling.

Reader is married and looking to engage in some consensual infidelity to cope with her partner's lack of sexual interest. Joel is in peak middle age realizing Sarah and Tommy are both getting too old to need him and he might be ready to start getting back in the dating game. Thus... an intense and slightly dysfunctional arrangement arrises between the two of them. These two deny their feelings and are terrible at hiding it. I've got most of it mapped out (very messily) and the first two chapters drafted.

(this one gets a snippet because I'm excited and have quite a bit written for it!)

"I need…someone. One person, once or twice a week. There are rules, it's nothing personal." You continue, tapping your fingers on your coffee mug. "No strings attached."

Joel is at a loss for words.

"No commitment, nothing emotional, your house preferably. And you can't tell anyone." You add, almost as an afterthought.

“And your husband," he hedges, "What's his name?"

You shake your head firmly. "He's not involved."

"Fine," Joel sighs "but he knows about all this?"

"He’s fine with it. But he’s not involved."

Joel takes a moment to absorb what you've said. What annoys him the most, is he can't think of a reason to say no.

untitled mom fic (no outbreak, joel miller/ f!reader)

established relationship. Starts with 6-year old Sarah asking Joel when she can start calling reader 'mom'. Difficult conversation ensure. Fluffy sweet moments transition into Joel getting emotional (and horny???!!!!) over being a lil family.

“I’m so lucky.” He whispers in between kisses. The scratch of his beard, hot wet press of his tongue followed by the nip of teeth. He’s so desperate, you can feel his need radiating off him.

“That was so- ” you struggle to find the words “‘- so sweet of her. I’m kind of scared.”

“Don’t be.” he laves kisses onto your shoulder, silencing your worries with a weighted grind into your hips.

Big Sur (joel/f!reader)

Sort of a jackson era au! In tlou part ii they mention there was a firefly outpost in big sur, and it got me thinking about what it might look like if the jackson commune where somewhere by the sea. I like the idea of texas born and raised joel being forced to live near the ocean, which is just as angry and unpredictable as he is. I don't have much written for this, but lots of scenery and drabbles in the doc.

tagging: literally anyone who wants to I love hearing about y'alls wips!!

Born lucky, under a bad star.

Summary: Joel has always been lucky, in the worst of ways.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~13k (sorry)

Warnings: game!Joel, major spoilers for tlou part 2, angst with a happy ending, major injuries and recovery, anxiety, depression, relationship healing, mentions of death, mentions of violence, suicidal ideation

Disclaimers and A/N: Though this fic was based around some events in tlou part 2, almost all of the canon after the divergence from the canon timeline is thrown out. This fic is also based entirely around game events, characterization, and canon. This is honestly one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It took months and many many drafts, but I'm very proud of her. I hope you love her too, she was a labor of love.

As always, thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red. - Kait Rokowski.

The lights of the clinic are so bright they’re blinding.

Your hands are still shaking, covered in Joel’s blood. It’s been hours since you returned to the safety of Jackson’s walls but there’s still a frantic, frenetic energy in the air. Everyone is shaken. It feels a little like a thousand year old tree has been felled, like a giant has been swung at and leveled, like something monstrous and infallible has been brought to its knees. 

You’ve seen it happen before. Rebar right through his belly. It should have killed him. It would have killed anyone else. You’ve pulled more bullets out of Joel than you would care to count, and swaddled him in probably several football fields worth of bandages over the years.

Still, nothing like this.

Because Joel has always been lucky, even when he hadn’t wanted to be. 

Lucky, in all the worst ways. 

That fucking rebar, you think bitterly. It should have hit at least one organ, should have severed his fucking spine. But it didn’t. He walked it off, really, mostly, at the end of it all. 

This though — to see him tortured, beaten, bleeding to death slowly—

Your edge of your vision tips black, like your mind is already refusing to go back to that room, like you’ll pass out if you think of it for too long. 

A part of you wonders if maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you forgot to stick lavender in his pocket before he left that morning, like you always do.

Someone pushes the door open, snow swirls in against the tile. Voices, rising and falling. The cold that rolls through the tiny waiting room is frigid. 

It’s still so red, his blood, even dried and crusted around your fingers and up your wrists. 

Tommy is still bleeding and even Maria hasn’t been able to convince him to sit down and let someone look at him. No, all attention needs to be focused on his brother. Anyone with any medical know how, has to be with Joel. 

You agree. 

Tommy, you, anyone else—can fucking wait. 

Ellie is sitting next to you, looking just as numb and shocked as you feel, her fingers twined with Dina’s. 

The chatter reaches a crescendo. Something about the worsening storm, something about tracking folks with that big of a headstart through a storm like this one, something about the rapidly deepening darkness, night coming on, something about well who could do something like that anyway? Who the fuck would we even send? 

The quiet that follows is painful. 

Joel. 

Joel is the one you send. Joel is the one that could get a job like this one done, the one that could track people through a blizzard with a dogged determinism, with pragmatism and infallibility. 

“What did they want?” Someone asks the room at large. You aren’t sure who asks, you can’t make the shapes in the room resolve into people you know. “Why us? Why Joel? They wanted something right? Who were they?” 

You and Tommy look at each other, Ellie makes a half muffled, pained sound beside you. Joel crossed a lot of people, maybe there wasn’t any sense in guessing. 

No one answers. You look at your hands again and wonder if the crimson will ever fade.  

Someone says your name and you look up. A coat is tugged over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering and you don’t know what happened to your own coat. One of the patrolmen is looking at you, his name slips your memory but Jesse is standing behind him, Maria on the other side. 

You feel the ghost of Ellie’s hand against your arm. Odd, you think distantly, because she hates you. She has for a long time. 

“What happened?”

You look around, but Tommy isn’t where he’d been standing just a moment ago. Did they ask him, too? 

There’s a dark hole in your memory. 

“I don’t know.” 

And it’s the truth. 

There’s no one more dedicated, more involved, in keeping Jackson safe, than Joel. 

Aside from Tommy, maybe.

Joel is an effective killer, like an executioner with a mission. It’s the thing that scared Tommy the most about his brother, and it’s also the thing that had kept him alive long enough to get his second chance in Jackson. It’s the thing you have always loved most about Joel, the violence born of necessity. 

And, you suppose, that’s what he’d been. Dispatcher, destroyer.  

Protector. 

At the heart of it all, the meat of it is, that it had always been that with Joel. It had always been in the name of protect, provide, survive. He never shied away from telling you of his days as a hunter, or, something close to a hunter. And even then, it was keep Tommy alive, it was survive until Boston, it was we needed fucking food. 

Survive and provide and protect. 

Joel. 

Jackson had been wary of him, at first. The stories of his dealings with infected and raiders alike at odds with the way he moved in the commune, with kindness and a certain gentleness, a competency and dependability, with something so soft in his gaze when it came to that little girl he arrived with. 

That reticence and worry had dissolved as quickly as it had come. 

They describe him as quiet and funny, because he’s prone to good natured teasing. They describe him as fierce and short to anger, because no one can say a word about him or his. They describe him as wonderfully dependable, ask Joel for something on a supply run and you would have it in short order; sigh about the state of something in your home and it would be taken care of, fixed, the very next day.

Jackson loves Joel.

Especially that softened up, gentle creature that had emerged in the wake of everything that had happened between Boston and Jackson. Joel had always had a soft interior, trotted out in brief glimpses over the years, but the shell he wore had been so thick and sharp it was near impenetrable, nearly unknowable. 

Ellie is around plenty in those first couple of weeks after. She even takes to sleeping on the living room couch. She doesn’t say much to you or Joel, hardly anything at all, but she’s there and you figure that’s what matters. It seems like she isn’t sure what to say, and desperate for the connection that nearly shattered. 

The first few days when Joel comes home from the clinic, someone knocks on the front door every couple of hours and you open it and have the same conversation over and over and over again. It’s always people worriedly asking after Joel’s wellbeing, dropping off food, expressing their anger that something like this could happen to one of their own, that it could happen to someone so widely and wildly beloved.

When the knocks finally stop coming, and you can convince Tommy to go home to Maria, before Maria has to walk over and collect her husband again, you take the stairs slowly up. 

You’re exhausted. You hardly sleep and when you do, you have nightmares of Joel. Formless, mind numbing dreams that you can never remember when you wake up gasping. You aren’t sure if Joel dreams of it, too. He’s always mumbled in his sleep, eyes flickering behind closed lids, so it’s hard to tell. 

And he hasn’t really been coherent enough, awake enough, to ask, anyway. 

“Hey,” Ellie says when you round the doorway into the bedroom, lowering the comic book in her hands. She’s beside Joel, sitting on your side of the bed, back against the headboard. “Sleeping again.” 

“Was he awake?” 

“A little. Drank some water.” 

Despite the tension of the last few years, you know she’s thinking of another time that Joel had slept a lot, injured and only half alive. 

Now isn’t like then, but in some ways, it’s worse. 

You nod and take a seat at the edge of the bed by her feet. “That’s good,” you reassure her. “It’s a good thing that he’s sleeping. He needs it.”

Ellie just holds up the comic in her lap and then jerks her chin at the box on the bedside table, Joel’s glasses and book about space pushed aside. “I, uh, found them in the study.” 

You shrug. “He always picked up any he found on supply runs.” You watch her from the corner of your eye and then shift your gaze to Joel. The slow rise and fall of his chest is reassuring in its steadiness, though you hate how still he is. 

The skin by his temple is puckered and red, the stitches a neat little row up to his hairline. It still looks raw as a live nerve, the swelling extending to his eye, purple and shadowed in a dark bruise that trails down his cheek and jaw. 

“He never said—” She stops and shakes her head. “So stupid.” 

“Well,” you scoot closer and pat her extended leg. “You didn’t exactly want to talk then. We tried giving them to you, once. Left them outside your door. They got a little rained on.” 

“Yeah,” she says, mouth twisting to the side. “Some of them are. . .can’t fucking peel the pages apart.” In that moment, she sounds like that little kid you left Boston with, being told not to touch something and doing it anyway.

That might have been when you fell in love with Ellie, watching her snap at Bill, and watching Joel react like any father would. It had come back to him so quickly, so naturally. 

There’s a long pause in which Ellie flips rapidly through the comic book and doesn’t say anything, her fingers nervous. She looks how you feel — exhausted. “Why don’t you go get some sleep in your own bed?” You ask, reaching out to twitch a fallen lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You’re just across the yard. If anything happens, you’ll know.” 

She looks up at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I was fucking mad at you too, you know,” she whispers suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You drop your hand and shake your head before looking back at Joel. He sleeps deeply now, deeper than you thought possible for someone like him, even drugged and injured. 

There’s a knot tangled in your chest, that only tightens further with her question. “It wasn’t my place. He didn’t. . .he didn’t say anything to me about it for a long time, either. Wouldn’t explain what happened while we were separated. He told me the same lie. And you were going to be mad at me, too, no matter what. It had to be between the two of you.” 

“And you think he was right,” she accuses hotly. 

“And,” you level your eyes to hers, “I think he was right.” You dip your head. “I wouldn’t change anything, Ellie. I wouldn’t. You know Joel wouldn’t either. You matter more than that.”

Her bottom lip trembles for just a second. “Even knowing this happens?!” She gestures around the room, maybe just the situation at large. 

Some of the tension knotting up your shoulders bleeds away. “He’s still here. It’s not too late.” She glances away and sucks in a harsh breath. You wait until she meets your eyes again. “And Ellie, it is not your fault. It’s not. None of it.” 

“It almost was.” Her voice is strained. “Too late.”

You shrug. “He knows you care. Trust me, he does.” 

She scrubs roughly at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Yeah, uh, well, I’m still gonna sleep on the couch.” 

“Why don’t you just stay right here, then? With Joel?” You ask and stand. “I’ll take the couch tonight.” 

It is the ultimate admission of how scared she is, that she does not argue, doesn’t even try to.  

For the first few weeks after the attack, Joel is in and out of consciousness. He sleeps much more than he’s awake.

And, it’s hard to tell, at first, why he’s sleeping so much. The pain medicine? That carefully doled out, nearly impossible to come by miracle drug — was it just knocking him out? Was he just sleeping because that’s what his body needed? Or, was it something deeper? Brain damage? 

“He’s fucking. . .old!” Ellie says to you one morning around a mouthful of toast. It’s kind of odd, how easily she’s taken to old routines. And how weird the old routine is, because the third piece of your puzzle is missing, sleeping. “Old people take longer to heal, right?” 

Right. 

But he’s also Joel. And he isn’t that old. 

It feels wrong, that he’s so still and silent. 

“It’s not—” Her fist opens and closes. She sets down the toast in her other hand on the plate and turns, pacing the length of Joel’s kitchen, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes, white morning light slatting over her. You eye the toast. It’s hard to get her to eat, these days but you figure most of one piece is better than nothing. “His leg. It’s not infected or something, right? We’d know if it was.” 

“It’s not infected,” you agree. When your own hands start to shake, you set down your mug, afraid to drop it or spill hot tea all over the floor, and make Ellie even more anxious in the process. 

You don’t like to talk about it. You don’t like to think about it. The memories are like a hot brand. 

The staircase creaks with the heavy thud of footsteps, before Tommy appears in the kitchen archway. You’ve always thought Tommy and Joel resembled each other, but now you see similarities in the kinds of expressions they make, too, the quirks in their movements that only siblings could share, and Tommy is sometimes a little hard to look at. 

“Heading out?” 

“Yeah, he’s, uh, sleepin’ again.” He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest.

Ellie doesn’t say anything, just slips past Tommy and heads up the steps. Tommy looks after her and then back at you. “She won’t say it but she doesn’t like leaving him alone,” you explain. 

Tommy nods and then pushes away from the door to settle at the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t like the idea of it either. Good she’s with him.” He tips the chair onto its back legs and tilts his head. “How ya holdin’ up?” 

“Probably about as good as you are.” 

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Maria told me you want off partols.” 

You swallow and look away from him as you take the seat across from him at the table. “I - I know we’re down people already but I can’t. . .Tommy I can’t even look at the goddamn gate without feeling like—” You shake your head. “I just don’t think I can do it. I’d get somebody killed.” 

“All right,” he says, not unkindly. “We’ll figure it out. It’s okay.” 

A burn starts at the back of your eyes so you stand again and swipe your fingers against your cheeks. “You want coffee before you head out?” 

“Nah, save that for Joel.” Then, “How you think this is gonna go? When he’s awake more?”

“I don’t know. You’d know better than me.” 

Tommy laughs. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as he stands. He looks tired, and worried. It’s an odd look on him. It isn’t like Tommy at all. You and Tommy have always bonded over teasing Joel. There’s none of that now. 

“Like hell. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with him, not me.” 

“He’s your brother.” 

“And you’re the love of his damn life.” He pauses and leans on the counter next to you. 

That makes your mouth twitch, the pleasantly warm feeling in your chest consumed in the next second by a lancing pain that can only be an approximation of grief for someone and something that still breathed. 

“I just can’t help worryin’,” he continues. “This might be enough for us, but not for him. If Joel can’t ever do anything again—”

“He just needs time, Tommy,” you cut him off quickly. Not able to stomach the thought. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out,” you say with more conviction than you feel. “We can probably figure something like a prosthetic out. People have been making them for thousands of years. We can do it. It’ll be fine. But it’s going to be different.”

Tommy’s right. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with Joel. You aren’t sure who you are without him anymore. You aren’t sure you know how to get along without him anymore. And you never want to have to find out. “He’s alive,” you finish with a nod. “Everything else, we can figure out.” 

He nods. “You think we shoulda went after ‘em?”

“Maybe. But this is more important.” 

Before he goes, Tommy wraps you in a hug. “So long as you and that girl stick around, it’ll be all right.”

“Ellie’s been playing the guitar up there,” you answer. 

He nods and pulls back, one big hand clapping down on your shoulder. “See? Things might be all right yet. Always told Joel she’d come around eventually.” He releases you and heads toward the door then. “And get some sleep. Y’look terrible,” he calls over his shoulder. “Orders from Maria.” 

For the first time in weeks, Joel wakes with some semblance of clarity. The bedroom is warm and dark, the tiniest pool of light washing over the form next to him from a little light plugged into the wall.

It’s the nightlight he found for Ellie when they first got to Jackson and her nightmares gave her more grief than she cared to admit to. 

His whole body aches. He feels sick. 

The sharpness of the pain is disorienting. He’s only been awake in brief, muddled flashes, the dulled fingers of drugged pain lancing through him and consuming most of his thoughts. He’d only been awake long enough to eat or drink or be helped to the bathroom like some kind of damn—

He remembers Tommy at his bedside. He hears the ghost notes of music in the air, your voice in his ear, the gentle slide of warm fingers over his skin. He remembers Ellie reading aloud, curled on her side next to him, like she used to do when she was younger, like when they’d stop for the night on the road.

That can’t be right, though. She hasn’t done that in years. She wouldn’t do something like that. Not anymore. 

You’re next to him now, face tilted against the edge of his pillow. It’s hard to make you out in the dark, the shape and slope of your features hidden in the dim light. 

When he says your name, you twitch, the slightest wrinkle to your nose, the tiniest spasm of your fingers against the sheets. “Darlin’,” he tries again. His voice grinds, catches and snags around his teeth. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. 

He reaches for you and it’s agony, because his shoulder must be broken. His ribs contract painfully right, like the shrapnel of the bone is digging up into his lungs, piercing his heart. But your skin is soft and warm, pliant, beneath his fingers. It smells like you’ve been burning sage again. He wants to burrow his fingers beneath your skin, you’re so warm. 

The cut of your cheekbones are sharper, the angle of your jaw reminds him of winter in the QZ, winter traveling with you and Ellie. Discolored circles line the space beneath your eyes like little hollows. You look exhausted, wan. 

You blink, slowly at first, then more rapidly. “Joel?” Your voice is a whisper, like the dark is stealing it away. 

Your fingers slide through the backs of his against your cheek when you shift closer, so careful about it, until you’re pressed to his side. “Joel,” you repeat, eyes sliding shut, forehead against the edge of his sore jaw.

He breathes you in, the warm scent of your skin, the smells of hearth and home, lavender and sage and woodsmoke. He closes his eyes for just a second when you shift up and tilt your forehead against his, breath whispering against his chin. “Joel.” 

“You all right?” His voice still sounds rocky but clearing it doesn’t seem to help any.

Slowly, you sit up, hand still in his when you pull it away from your face. “You’re asking me that? You’re kidding, Joel,” your voice creaks. You’ve never really been a crier, but there’s a thickness in your mouth, softening out the vowels and snapping at the consonants. “Are you - We didn’t want you to be in pain. But you’ve been sleeping for so long, we gave you a lower dose so that—” 

“I feel okay,” he interrupts your fretting, sweeping his thumb against the back of your hand. “Considerin’.” 

You swallow and nod. “Hungry?” You glance at the window, where a gray, pale morning light is starting to leech into the room, the color of dirty snow. 

“Yep.” He wishes you’d keep your eyes on him. “If you’ve got somethin’ ready.” 

“We have anything you want,” you assure him. “Anything.” 

Joel nods and attempts to push himself up next to you, chest and shoulder aching something awful. He bites back a groan but it still pushes past his teeth.

“Careful,” you say sharply. Before he can protest, you’re up and around the bed, one hand behind his back. “Your shoulder is broken in a million places.” 

“A million?” He grunts. 

“Three.” 

“That ain’t a million.” 

You don’t laugh and your hand doesn’t move from his back. “And broken ribs. Now lean back.” He does as you ask, real careful about it so you don’t worry.

An odd feeling creeps up inside his chest, dulled by the lighter dose of pain medicine coursing through his veins. It ain’t just a sick feeling, but something else. A helplessness, maybe. It feels wrong, in more ways than one. 

Joel becomes acutely aware of what he already knows, every single injury, the graveness of them. He knows about the broken shoulder and ribs that had to be reset, torn skin that had to be stitched together, that he has internal bruising but by some miracle no internal bleeding. His face throbs suddenly, his temple tight with pain. He feels his heartbeat behind his eye and in the swelling in his cheek. 

And, the worst of it, leg amputated to just above the knee. Sick crawls up the back of his throat. He doesn’t dare look. 

The feeling in his chest swells until it chokes him. 

Helpless, useless — something hard and fanged digs into his mind. It feels like grief, but what is he supposed to be mourning, exactly? 

Everything, maybe. 

His whole damn life. 

“I’m fine,” he grunts suddenly. Sharply. “Quit fussin’.”  

He feels like fucking crying. 

“Just - shut up, Joel,” you snap back. “You almost fucking died.” 

A fist curls around his throat, warm and tight. He almost can’t breathe through it. “Yeah,” he croaks, voice breaking the word in two.  

“Yeah,” you snarl. “So shut up and let me fuss.” 

You turn and leave before he can say anything else, footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. Voices trundle up, creased and folded, rising but muffled. You’ve always been mean when you got scared, ever since Joel can remember. You were mean as hell when he first met you, a hissing kind of frustrated, new to the QZ and new to trying your hand at smuggling. 

You’ve softened up over the years. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time, maybe not since you got separated in Salt Lake City. 

More footsteps, this time heavy, stomping, coming upwards. 

Ellie appears in the doorway a second later. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wild. She’s in sweatpants and a shirt that’s too big for her. She looks tired but unharmed. The knot tangled up around his lungs eases just a little. “Hey, kiddo.” He tries not to sound surprised. 

Her eyes flick over him and then away. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t leave either. Instead she picks up a book from the corner of the dresser and settles in the chair across the room. 

A firm but unyielding presence. 

He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall, and tries to push down the feeling of failure rising in his throat like a tide. 

Joel’s fingers are clumsy. 

He can’t walk, can’t work, can’t do much of anything without irritating every ligament and tendon and bone in his body. 

But even worse than that, he can’t remember how to play the guitar. 

And nothing makes him feel so helpless as that. 

Even after not playing for twenty odd years, the notes and the placement of his fingers on the strings and frets had come back easily to him, almost like he’d never stopped playing at all. 

Now, it doesn’t. 

In part his shoulder is to blame. Even nearly healed, it’s stiff. But the other part of it is that he can’t remember how to play. Every note seems wrong, and he can’t decide if he’s hearing it wrong, if there’s something wrong with his hearing, his perception, or if the note really is just wrong. 

Ellie plays for him, instead. 

It’s easier than talking. Neither of them are really good at that, anyway. He’s just glad she’s around at all. 

He can’t help but think of that last conversation he’d had with her on the back porch, that she wants to try to forgive him, even if she thinks she might never be able to. He supposes this is her way of trying her hand at that.

Sometimes he wonders if it would be like this if he hadn’t almost died, if he wasn’t collecting sympathy from everyone like there was some kind of shortage. Maybe that conversation on the porch would have meant nothing, otherwise. 

The thought hurts him, no matter how glad he is that she’s there. 

One evening, pretty late, as snow peppers down through the early winter black that curtains the window, she stops playing. 

The living room is quiet, aside from their breathing and the crackle of flames in the fireplace. 

“I was going to invite you over to watch a movie.” 

The metallic twang of the last note she plucked hangs in the air. 

“I was - I was going to fucking ask you to watch a movie with me. That night. One of those dumb action movies you like. Like the ones we used to watch, remember? Curtis and Viper 2.”

She doesn’t look at him. She stares at her fingers, idly, nervously, twisting the tuning pegs of the guitar. “Think I saw that one before,” he answers, voice a little choked. “Pretty good.” 

Ellie rolls her eyes and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Yeah, you would think so, old man,” she replies eventually but still doesn’t look up, her mouth twisting to the side. “I just - don’t want you to think I’m only here because you—” She shakes her head, and props the guitar against the wall before she stands and paces the room twice, toying with her fingers in that way she always has. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. Even when I was really mad.”

“Ellie,” he says but she doesn’t seem to hear him. “I know.” 

“Anyway, I meant what I said.”

“Ellie.”

“I wanted things to get better. I wanted to try. I was going to.” 

“Ellie.” 

She spins suddenly toward the front door, one hand on the back of her neck, rubbing awkwardly. “I gotta get going.” 

“Kiddo.” This time she turns and finally looks at him. The scent of pine and smoke fills the room. The red of the flames flash across her face, so serious and anxious. 

When they first came to Jackson, they spent a lot of nights on the couch together. His neck always ached the next morning from sleeping upright but he’d never complain about it. Then the distance between them had grown, and he doesn’t know when the last time something like that had happened. 

But that same distance is slowly shrinking now, even if things might never, never be the same again. 

So many times when he looks at her, he still sees that fourteen year old kid. He’d had the same problem with Sarah, looking at his twelve year old and seeing her at five and eight. It was just how it went, being a parent. 

“I know, Ellie,” he reassures her. “I do. It’s all right. Even if you didn’t mean a word of it, it’s all right. I meant what I said, too.”  

And even though she said she needed to leave, she nods and sits down again. She plucks a few notes out on the guitar when she pulls it back into her lap. 

“D'ya still wanna watch it?”

She does. 

Joel is whittling.

It is decidedly not going well. 

He’s too distracted for it. He never realized how much pressure settled on his shoulder, how much it pulled at the muscle around his ribs, from doing something as simple as this, and he doesn’t like the nausea that comes with the pain. 

But it’s something he can do, so he does it. 

It’s snowing outside again, wind raking against the siding, rattling the window panes. There’s a thin stream of air coming in around the window’s frame, cold. 

His hands are chapped and raw, blood pooling at the seams of his knuckles. 

The fix would be easy enough, but everything he needs to do it is in the basement. And the basement is a near impossible location for him to reach, so he puts up with it, hands growing more frustrated by the second because he wants to fucking fix it. 

You use the office, his work space, often enough, and it’s one thing for him to be cold and uncomfortable, but another thing entirely for you to feel that way. 

But he can’t make it down to the living room without help these days, let alone down two flights of stairs to the basement, and then back up them, too.

“Joel?”

He glances over his shoulder to find you standing in the doorway. You have a pair of shears in your hands. 

“Still want me to cut your hair?”

He wants to do it himself. But you’d offered earlier, because you’ve been doing it for him for a long time, for years and years now. And he’d always liked it because your hands are kind with it and you’re better at doing it, anyway. But now it just feels like one more thing he can’t do for himself, one more thing he’s relying on someone else for, and that makes guilt and shame choke him. 

Joel can’t seem to do a damn thing, not for himself, but, worse, not for anyone else either. 

“Joel?” You ask again when the silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable. “I don’t have to; you can do it yourself.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s all right, darlin’.” You start forward when he labors up from the chair, teeth gritted, but quickly stop when he meets your eyes, warning you away with a glance. 

You don’t say anything else, just back out the door and pad down the hall to the bathroom. 

He isn’t sure if your feelings are hurt or not, all his focus directed on hauling himself upwards and then limping down the hall with one crutch under his arm. Feeble threads of pain lance up his leg, centering in his joints, the hinge of his knee. The space under his arm is sore too, from the crutch, even wrapped in cloth. 

Joel is used to pain. He’s used to temporary aches, the sharp stab of healing wounds, the quick rip of a bullet or knife through skin, chronic pains from age and long healed injuries. On cold days, his side aches something fierce, like that rebar never really came out of him. 

But this pain is different, without origin, and he’s having a hard time adjusting to it. Or maybe he’s just having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is not a healable injury, at least, not in the way he wants it to be. 

For the rest of his life, he will be disabled. He’ll never get back to himself, never be what he once was. 

The bathroom light is gold. It washes his skin into a better color, not so pale and strained and pained looking. 

He hates looking in the mirror now. Joel never considered himself particularly good looking, never thought about it much, really. And, for most of his life, looks haven’t really mattered anyway. 

But seeing his reflection now is a reminder of his failures. It’s a reminder of everything he can’t do.

His whole body is nothing but reminders. 

He is a patchwork quilt of scars. 

He doesn’t know how you can stand to look at him. But you just brush your hands through his hair when he leans the crutch against the counter and sits heavily on the stool you dragged upstairs. 

The bathroom is thick with the scent of lavender and earth. Every winter it turns into a makeshift greenhouse, all the plants that can’t survive the winter dragged inside for the season. 

The feeling of your hands through his hair is soothing and the tension in his shoulders slides away. 

“I can do it myself,” he grumbles, despite himself, and without conviction when you run a comb through his hair. 

You hum under your breath, not really paying him any mind. You know he doesn’t really mean it. Even if he feels like a fucking burden for it, it’s something you’ve always done for him, so it’s a little easier for him to accept. “I know. I like to.” You tilt his chin up and Joel steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror. “Besides, I’m better at it. You take to it like it’s a hack job.”

The trim doesn’t take long, since he keeps his hair longer anyway. It’s mostly an excuse for you to rake your fingers through his hair. 

“The window needs fixin’,” he says when you slide in front of him and set about trimming his beard without asking. That’s fine, too. “I know you been, uh, kinda cold in that room.” 

“It’s not so bad,” you say when you finish with him, brushing your fingers against his cheeks and then through his hair. You smile, eyes crossing his face, tracing his features like a well known map, before you twitch a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You gonna fix it for me or what?” 

“Mighty big ask of ya,” he grouses, irritation itching at the edge of his mind. 

You’re still smiling faintly, touching his face, the curl of hair behind his ear, the scar along his hairline and then the one over his nose. 

“I just can’t see how,” you say and Joel almost snaps. He wants to. He wants to say you don’t fucking get it, that you don’t want to get it, that it’s different now. He wants to say he’s not the man you’ve always known, that shit ain’t as easy as it’s always been. He can’t do shit for you, anymore, and isn’t that the reason you’ve stuck around all these years? 

But then you continue. “I left that damn caulking gun on the side table three days ago.” 

“You what?” 

You shrug. “Thought you might have noticed it too. And I’ve always been so bad at that stuff.” 

The guilt that settles in him is heavy, but familiar. The shape of it is different, but it's still like shrugging on an old coat, it’s so natural and intimate.

He must be destined for some kind of failure, born under a bad star, something.

Everything he touches falls apart, no matter what he does. Everyone he holds dear, leaves him, one way or another, somehow. His mama, Sarah, and then Tommy, and then Tess. Most recently Ellie, though maybe things there were being mended. Maybe you were next, soon as you came to your senses. 

Joel has spent most of his life taking care of people. And when he wasn’t taking care of people, he was moving, working. He hardly ever sat still. He didn’t have time to sit still. 

Not before the outbreak, and certainly not after. 

Even in Jackson where the pace of the world is slower, he was always busy. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was on wall duty, looking after Jackson’s security. Or, he was fixing something for someone, building something, helping with the horses. If he wasn’t doing any of that, he was improving his house, he was working on a new carving, he was playing the guitar.  

Healing up, it’s involved a whole lot of sitting still and feeling useless. It had involved a lot of other people fussing over him. 

A lot of sitting still and feeling like he was failing everyone he knew. Like he had already failed everyone he knew. For all the effort he put into it, it would never be enough. He cares wrong, he loves wrong, and now he can’t even do that. 

He fails you in this, too. Of wishing he could accuse you of all the things he thinks of himself. 

Joel knows you think of it too, you just haven’t gotten frustrated enough with him to say it yet. You haven’t had the full weight of his broken, uselessness on you, yet. 

That day will come. There’s no way it won’t, because he can’t do for you what he’s always done, what he was put on this god forsaken earth to do. The one thing he’s always been able to do. Not just for you, but for everyone. Ellie, Tommy and his family, Jackson at large. 

It’s always been the thing he could point to and say look, this is why I am like this, this is why you need me, why I’m around. You survived because of me. Because I made sure you did. 

So he’s not worth much now, really, and all the promises he made you and all the promises he made to himself, he can’t keep them anymore. And isn’t that why you stuck by him all these years? Despite all his shortcomings? 

“Sorry, darlin’,” he cups your face in his hands, smoothes his thumbs over your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll get right on fixin’ that for you.” 

“I know you will. Thank you, Joel.” The full weight of your head tips into his hands, and your eyes slide shut. His hands are large against your jaw, scarred and calloused, harsh. Reminders, maybe, of what he used to be. He looks at the hollows beneath your eyes, the raw, worried skin of your bottom lip. 

You don’t sleep anymore and when you do you have nightmares. You hate to leave the house. And sometimes you flinch even when nothing is happening around you, like memories are snapping at your heels. 

He did all that to you, too. Terrible gifts he’s given and can’t take back.

When he glances back up to your eyes, you’re staring at him, a worried, anxious kind of look lodged there that he absolutely hates. 

“What?” He asks, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks and then the delicate hinge of your jaw.

“Nothing.” Your eyes shift away from his, and you twitch in his grasp. He already knows what you’re about to say, because you’ve never gotten better at saying it, just like him. He doesn’t need you to say it, but you do anyway, and he hates how much he likes hearing it. It’s like a ray of golden sun. “I love you, Joel,” you murmur and hook your hands around his wrists.  

For a long time, you just look at him, the silence is heavy with unsaid words, but he isn’t sure which of you is the one not saying something. “That enough?” He eventually grunts. “For you?”

You frown. “Why wouldn’t it be? Do you think it’s not?” 

It shouldn’t be. All those promises stack up in his mind again, everything he can’t keep.  

“It shouldn’t be.” 

You pull his hands away from your face with a shake of your head and lean in to kiss him. Your lips part softly against his, the hitch of your breath sweet against his mouth. The heat of you is so close and intoxicating, it’s something he never wants to have to give up, not when your thumbs are pressed to the pulse in his wrists, and not when you taste like apple, honey. 

He shakes one of your hands away to wrap his arm around your back and pull you closer, until the warmth of your body is pressed securely to his chest. Your tongue slides against his, teeth nipping gently at his bottom lip. Something warm floods his cheeks and his chest goes tight. 

When you pull back, you tug on a piece of his hair then touch the blush pinking on his face. “You look real handsome, Texas.”  

He tucks his forehead against your collarbone, and you fold your hands against the back of his head. “It’s enough,” you say. “Always has been.” 

The next day, he finds that most of his tools have been relocated upstairs, either to one of the cabinets in the living room, or to the office upstairs. 

Either way, he no longer has to traverse two staircases down and back up. 

He isn’t sure when you had the time to do it, or why he didn’t at least hear you doing it. 

Joel’s chest swells with love for you, right alongside the guilt that does nothing but grow. 

He fixes the window. 

Some days are easier than others.

He has good days and bad, and some of the bad days are worse than others. He sows the feelings up inside himself, cocoons the bad away inside his chest. It’s easier that way. And it’s necessary now. It’s just another thing you’d have to deal with. 

He’s never been good at saying the things that needed said, anyway. 

He tries not to snap at you. He’s trying not to get mean, and he can’t just walk away like he used to be able to when his mind got messy. But he’s been failing because he wants you to fight with him, wants you to hate him. 

Joel wants you to say that he fucking failed, that he’s been failing his whole life at the one thing he was supposed to be able to do. The one thing he’s really good for. 

“Stop it,” Joel snarls one day in the spring, when you offer your hand down the steps to the living room. 

He doesn’t mean to snap at you like that, but he doesn’t take it back either. He’s in too much pain. And he doesn’t want to admit it. 

The smile slips off your face as you step back from him, a stoney expression sliding over your face instead. It’s routine, you helping him, and maybe that’s the problem. He grits his teeth, that look reminds him of Boston, reminds him of the time before you used to trust each other. 

“I ain’t helpless.” 

You raise your hands and take another step back, looking away from him as you do. 

The breeze that comes in the landing’s open window is cool. It isn’t quite warm enough for the window to be open but the house needs airing out after such a long winter, such a hard winter. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and the lavender hung in dried clumps above each doorway. 

“I know, Joel.”

When he looks at you, you visibly brace yourself. 

A wave of self-hatred so hot it burns immediately follows the guilt. But it also doesn’t stop the angry, frustrated pulse beneath the surface of his skin, pressing against the back of his teeth. 

“I don’t know why you didn’t just leave me there.” The words are bitter, poisonous. Accusatory. “You should have left me to fuckin’ die.”  

Whatever you might be expecting him to say, it isn’t that. Your breath catches hard. 

You can be cruel, too. He waits for your anger, the burn of words he deserves to hear, something mean and hateful but true. 

But the words don’t come; your anger doesn’t come. You just look tired and empty, sad. 

You pace the landing, the soft shush of your footsteps echoed by the creaking of the floorboards. Your silence pricks at him. He wants you to scream at him, blame him, for failing, for being so fucking stupid. 

“What if it was me?” 

Your voice is so low, he almost doesn’t catch your words. 

The quiet of your footsteps come to a halt. “What if it had been me, Joel? It could have been. It could have easily been me. They knew who you were. We’ve done a lot of the same shit. We’ve made a lot of the same enemies over the years.” 

Your hands are shaking, your breath comes in quick little pants. The acrid, bone aching feeling of cresting anxiety and panic floods the little landing. “Me and you and Tess, we were kind of a package fucking deal. So, what if it was me?” 

The breeze sliding through the open window feels different now. Colder, older, more brutal. 

“That’s fuckin’ different and y’know it,” he snarls. 

“Why?” Anger floods your face, the curl of your fingers harsh against your arms when you cross them. “Why would that have been different? Because you think I always need to be taken care of?” 

He doesn’t answer. He looks away from you, but he can’t go anywhere. He’s at your mercy and you both hate it.

Joel leans heavily against the wall, his right hand curling around his left wrist, a nervous, anxious tick he’s never been able to shake. 

“Tell me,” you beg. “Say it, Joel. How is it different? Why?” 

He shakes his head once, slowly, and doesn’t look up at you. “You can say it,” you continue, your voice eerily quiet. “You never trusted me to have your back.”

That ain’t it at all. 

It’s not your failure. It’s his, in every single way. He doesn’t blame you or Tommy or Ellie or anyone else. He doesn’t believe for a second that you don’t know that. 

It would have been better, probably, if he died. 

He doesn’t understand the guilt you feel. 

He can’t take care of you anymore, can’t protect you anymore. 

Worse, he can’t do that for his kid. 

If he’d died, maybe that final sacrifice would have been enough to make up for everything else. Maybe it would all just be done.

He’s the one breaking promises, not you, just like he always has been. 

Sometimes, when he thinks of Sarah, he can only remember her final moments. He can’t think of anything else but her blood, how red it was in the dark. He can’t think of anything else than what could have been. He can only see the halo of that mounted flashlight glaring into his eyes, his own voice pleading. Please don’t. 

If he’d just been shot, he would have died first, he wouldn’t have ever known how bad he failed in that moment. He would have died first, like a parent was supposed to. No good father should ever outlive his kid.

Maybe, this had been his second chance, to finally die first. 

Born lucky, bad star, like always. 

So, what would he do, if it had been you? He’d have taken care of you, just like you’re doing for him. But that is not anathema to him; that is just how things are supposed to go. It wouldn’t have been a failure. 

He’s no use to you anymore, no use to anyone.

He doesn’t say any of that. 

Instead, he nods. 

“You’re right.” He shrugs and pain splinters across his shoulders. “It would have been different.” 

Your expression flickers blank and you turn away. It would have been easier to stomach if you screamed at him, if you slammed a door. 

But you’re just quiet. 

Once, during the late autumn, when you were traveling with Joel and Ellie, you noticed Joel wasn’t eating. 

Food was in short supply. None of the houses or buildings you looted turned up anything edible, and wild game had been elusive for weeks as the weather turned wetter and chillier. 

You’d noticed him doing it a few times before, but nothing like then. Joel would dole out carefully rationed food and not allocate any to himself. The bags under his eyes deepened. His temper was shorter. He’d gotten pale and hollows appeared in his cheeks that meant he hadn’t been getting enough. Joel had always been huge, broad and strong and tall, with thick arms and thighs, but when he dropped weight, it always showed in those little hollows first.

Then, one evening, after clearing out a barn of infected, he’d stumbled, hand to his forehead, pale as you’d ever seen him. “Christ,” he’d mumbled. 

“Joel?” Ellie’s voice had pitched up with worry. She’d looked at you, and said, “He hasn’t been eating.” The words were all a rush, accusatory and begging for you to do something. 

“Ellie—” He’d growled. 

“I know she’s right, Joel,” You’d interrupted with a snap. “You think we wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t notice?”

He’d gotten pissed off and marched off into the woods to the stream to refill your canteens. You’d given him a wide berth for several hours, making the newly cleared barn into something livable for the night with Ellie. When dark had started to set in you went after him, boots crunching through frozen leaves.

He’d been sitting by the creek bed, an inscrutable expression on his face. “We ain’t got enough,” he’d said, not looking at you. “You and Ellie need it more. I’m fine.” 

“But you're not. You can’t just not eat. You can’t take care of us if you aren’t okay, Joel.” 

The air had smelled like earth and decaying leaves and stagnant water and ice. The scent reminded you of better times, of apple cider and cinnamon and new beginnings, of autumn fairs and coffee shops. 

You’d sat behind him, pulled him against you for just a moment, chin on his shoulder, and said, “It’s all right to let me look after you, too.” 

You figure that even with the change in circumstances, things are still like that with Joel. He’s always doing the metaphorical equivalent of making sure everyone else eats first, even if it means he’s starving.

He’s never been one to give up or give in or let go. When Tess was bitten, Joel hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d wanted to stay and fight. To fight a useless and unwinnable fight. That mindset was never going to fade.

You don’t speak for a few days. Guilt swallows the whole of your heart and leaves you dry and empty. Joel blames you, you think, even if he won’t say it. 

He comes to you late one night. 

It’s dark and the bedroom is overly warm. He sits heavily but without help at the edge of the bed. He’s getting better at that, even if he doesn’t think he is. 

His hair is longer and it falls into his face when he leans over you, fingers against your forehead and temple and then your cheek. 

“When I was real young,” he says. “My dad died. We didn’t have much money and my mama worked all the time.” 

You turn on your back and try to make his face out but his expression is unreadable. 

Joel hardly ever talks about his folks. 

“I got my first job when I was fourteen, to help with the bills. Money was better on account of half of it not bein’ drank away, but we still needed the cash.” Joel pauses and you scoot over. It takes a minute for him to find a comfortable position with you but when he does, he continues. His voice echoes against your ear, the beat of his heart pounds against your cheek. His chin rubs against your forehead, one large hand splayed across your shoulders. 

“Since she worked so much, I was always takin’ care of Tommy, of damn near everything else. And my mama, too, sometimes.” He swallows, and you feel the bob of his throat against your forehead. His chest is warm beneath your cheek, even through the two layers he always wears. “So I knew I was young when Sarah came along, but I didn’t really feel it. I took care of her and her mother, ‘til she went her own way. Just the way I always had.” 

The rise and fall of his chest is steady. He cups his free hand around yours and tucks your palm against his heart. 

“I know I’m not easy, in any sense of the word. I never have been.” A heavy tug of shame weighs his voice down. “Too mean and bitter, I guess.” There’s a long pause, and you want to protest but you’re sure if you interrupt, Joel won’t finish saying whatever it is he needs to. 

“So anyway,” he continues. “I try to make up for it. By doin’ what I always have, even if it means I end up alone. I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t know what I’m good for if—” His hand slides up your spine, thick fingers resting at the base of your neck. “And I can’t do it anymore. Can’t take care of ya. So, it woulda been different, if it had been you. Because it’s you we’re talkin’ about.” 

Joel goes quiet after that. His palm continues its nervous path over your spine. The bristles of his beard are soft against your temple. The rhythm of his breathing is still slow and even, but you feel the prickle of nerves in the way he touches you. 

It isn’t easy for Joel to say the things he feels, even to you, even all these years later. 

His body is so familiar to you, so warm and strong beneath you. Comfort, in short, in its purest form. 

You aren’t expecting him to say any more, but he does. “Things. . .they always have a way of fallin’ apart, in the end.” 

When you lift your head, he doesn’t look at you. You press a finger against the edge of his jaw, turning his head gently until his eyes meet yours. “Joel,” you touch your forehead to his. You aren’t good with words either, but you try. “You are more than that. More than what you can do for people.”

He’s quiet for a long time, eyes fluttering closed, his breath a calm pool against your mouth. “And I’m more than that? To you?” 

“Joel, if I only wanted some guard dog, I would have gotten one that could listen better.” 

He snorts, and a little of the tension melts away. “Yeah, I reckon you would have.” 

The dark is a warm cocoon of things less easily said in the light.

“Yes,” you say quietly after a long, peaceful silence. “Joel. You’re so much more to me than that.”

It’s late spring again. The Wyoming air is mild, and heavy with the scent of blooming life. 

Sage grows in dense clumps up in the mountains, deep between the ridges of the sharp peaks. The smell of it, earthy and crisp, chases itself on the breeze, all the way down to Jackson. It twines with the smell of flowers painstakingly planted along his front path. 

Arrowleaf. Goldenrod. 

Lavender, right by the mailbox, courtesy of some superstition held onto from before the outbreak. 

It’s thick, cloying, pungent. 

It’s overripe, rotting. It smells like death. 

It’s making Joel fucking nauseous. 

He squeezes your arm, a warning without words that he needs a break. 

It’s the smell. 

It’s the sun and the gentle breeze. 

He tells himself the sick, crawling pain mixing sourly in his stomach has nothing at all to do with his newly fitted prosthetic leg. 

Slowly, without a word, you turn and guide him back through his familiar backyard to the porch. 

He sits heavily on the steps, just inside the cool pool of shade, and pulls in deep breaths that rattle in his lungs and do nothing to stave off the dizziness, or the pain. 

Your hand slides up and down his back before your palm settles against the back of his neck and urges his head down between his knees. 

Joel feels like a fucking kid. His hands are shaking. 

“Damn thing is useless,” he growls after a minute when the nausea passes and he can lift his head, because it’s the only thing he can do, because it’s goddamn humiliating. 

Everything is, these days. 

You just bump your shoulder into his and hum low under your breath, used to his attitude, used to his bark that only sometimes has a bite. 

You’re patient with him, but tough, not willing to indulge his foul moods. “It’s just something you have to get used to,” you assure him. “It’s not going to be like before.” 

Joel doesn’t want to admit that he wants to take the prosthetic off. It’s like admitting defeat before he’s even gotten a chance to fight. 

And he’s tired. 

Exhausted, really. 

“Hey,” you dig your nails into his wrist. He meets your eyes, pragmatic, practical, his match in everything. “We aren’t supposed to go at it so hard anyway, remember? You did really well.” 

He doesn’t want to admit that, either, that your praise washes pink in his veins, that he likes to hear it, thrives on it. If he’s doing right by you, good in your eyes, things can’t be awful as they might seem. 

That’s what he latches onto. Your pride. Your acceptance. 

“This was just the first time, Joel,” you continue. “You’ll get the hang of it.” 

He ain’t so sure about that, not with the way his leg aches. A leg that isn’t even there anymore, chopped off right above the knee, to save his life, apparently. It’s part of why it hurts so goddamn much. Feels like he’s pushing his calf into something it can’t fit in, like the long gone meat and bone are getting ground up into his thigh. 

But if he gets the hang of it, then things will be better. He’ll at least be able to move on his own. He might be able to find some way to work again. Wall duty was looking pretty good, because all you really have to do is sit there and watch the horizon and be able to shoot pretty well. 

There is hope in the future. There is hope in you reminding him of that, realistic to a fault, pragmatic to your core. 

And unlike Joel, you’ve never had it in you to lie. 

Joel tightens his hand on your forearm again, pressure on your sun warmed skin. It’s a poor substitute for the thank you that you deserve. You seem to get his meaning though. Your hand feathers through his hair again and the sun doesn’t feel so abrasive, and the smells of spring don’t seem so weighed down by death. 

“Ellie’s coming for dinner,” you offer. “Said she’s got a movie or a game or something that she wants to show you.” 

Yeah, so maybe the day ain’t so bleak as he thought it was. 

“All right.” 

You offer him a hand up, and slip your arm behind his back. He carefully drapes his arm around your shoulders, mindful, even now, of his weight against yours. “What a strong thing you are,” he comments, not able to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. You look so determined.

It’s the way you always look, when put to task.  

You roll your eyes. “Lucky for you.” 

“Lucky for me,” he says, soft about it.  

The stairs are the worst part of getting back inside, but it's much easier than it had been before. 

It’s a relief to collapse into the couch and take the prosthetic off. The phantom pains still ache and stretch painfully tight, like the skin is being pulled taut, like there was a knot that just needed massaged out. He grits his teeth and represses the urge to reach down and rub sore muscle that no longer exists. 

It’s a relief to collapse into the couch, even if guilt punches him in the chest for it. 

It’s an even bigger relief when you press yourself into the space next to him. He doesn’t know how you stand it sometimes. How you can look at him and still not hate him for every mistake he’s ever made. 

“Knee always fuckin’ bothered me anyhow,” he comments, turning his head so his words brush against your temple. “Don’t gotta worry about it gettin’ stiff now, I reckon.” 

You reward him with a snort, the scrape of your fingernails against his cheek, a kiss. 

It’s easier to get around, with the prosthetic that he hates. 

But he’s slow. Slower than he’s ever been in his whole life. And sometimes, most times, it frustrates him. 

Being able to walk is one thing. It’s a fine thing. But he needs to be able to do more than that. Run, fight, shoot. A fucking pipe dream. But he’s back to building, carpentry, and that’s something at least. Something useful. 

Joel has tried asking you about that day, because he doesn’t remember a whole lot besides the pain. But your chest goes fluttery with panic, the rise and fall of it unfamiliar to him. You don’t get nervous. You never have, not over anything. 

But when he asks about that day, you mutter something about Tommy and blood, and he can’t get anything else out of you. Tommy does the same, eyes cast to the side, thumbs hooked in his belt, foot starting a nervous rhythm. 

He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with either of you, what the goddamn problem is. 

In some ways, Joel’s always thought you were tougher than him, a balance of brutal and rough and unforgiving with softened sweetness. Bash the skull of a hunter in with a metal pipe, then use your unsullied hand to stroke back Ellie’s hair, to offer help to strangers, to pat the nose of your horse gently. 

He would never want to be on the other side of the wrath you kept wrapped up inside your heart. 

But, now, you don’t leave Jackson anymore. You haven’t been outside Jackson’s walls since that day. 

Tommy tells him you can’t even bear to take a shift on the wall, which mainly comprised of sitting at the top of the wall and doing a whole lot of nothing, looking at the horizon, shuffling your feet to keep warm.

It’s unlike you. You love to patrol, just like him. 

That’s his fault, too. Your nightmares, your sleeplessness.

Ellie plays the guitar for him, even after he gets the hang of it again, even after he’s walking on his own again, the chords coming back to him easier and easier. They don’t have to talk much, that way. 

She’s still mad, but he almost died, and she’s willing to try with him. 

She comes over for dinner. She always brings a movie. 

It gets easier. 

And slowly, by the end of the summer, she smiles when she sees him.

He’s gotten the hang of walking again, which is never a sentiment he thought he’d have about himself. Joel always assumed he’d be killed before something like really old age could set in, or something like this, a disability he doesn’t want to learn to live with. 

It’s rained recently and the yard smells like perchitor and the ever present mountain sage. The grass is just a little muddy from the many loops around the yard. “You’re going to fall and break your neck, old man.” 

“Breakin’ my neck can’t be much worse than what it is right now. We ain’t goin’ around the yard anyhow. Now c’mon, put your shoes on, kiddo.” 

“It’s still raining,” she complains. 

“Means no one’s outside to see me humiliatin’ myself.” 

Ellie only rolls her eyes but does it anyway. He doesn’t need a hand anymore, but he’s shaky sometimes and despite your best efforts he’s still refusing a cane. But he also hasn’t been using the track in the yard in weeks.

That, and he actually has somewhere to be these days, figuring out better security for Jackson, looking after the patrol teams, assessing who was ready to be put into rotation. Managing is what he should be calling it, though he doesn’t care for it. He and Maria butt heads too often for it to be anything close to enjoyable. 

When they pass the mailbox, Ellie points to the lavender. “I never thought to ask about it before. It’s everywhere. Some nailed above the door and everything.” 

“Some kinda thing about protectin’ the home,” Joel explains. “Far as I remember, it protects from bad energy. Somethin’ like that.” 

“I thought that was sage?”

“Sage you burn,” he explains. “And we get plenty of that too. Whole damn house smells like it.” 

“Seems like the kinda thing Dina would do,” she says and then seems to realize who she’s said it to. But she doesn’t change the subject. “Didn’t take her for the superstitious type. Doesn’t seem like it really works anyway.” 

Joel shrugs. “She was before the outbreak, I guess.” He watches Ellie from the corner of his eye. She’s steadfastly not looking at him, but she also doesn’t usually say so much to him. “Didn’t have reason to think of it for a long time. Lavender wasn’t exactly in high supply in Boston.” 

Ellie nods.

“She used to, uh, put some in your backpack when she knew you was goin’ out. Same with me, always put some in my pocket.” 

There’s a long silence. Jackson’s streets are oddly empty in the pouring rain. Lights glow in the windows; inviting, homely. “She didn’t have to do that.” 

He shrugs and his shoulder only aches a little for it. “It’s just the kinda thing parents do, even if it don’t make any damn sense.” 

“Yeah,” Ellie agrees as the turn toward the center of Jackson. “You wanna stop in the Bison?” 

“Sure,” he agrees. “For a minute.” 

“Full schedule?” She teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your sunset years?”

“Well, gotta have something to fill up the days, kiddo. Maybe one day you’ll actually be able to keep up.”

She just scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

Joel tries not to smile.  

Being mobile again, busy again, feels good. 

It feels good, but it also means he’s in near constant pain.

He tells himself it’s good, that pain sharpens him, makes him better. 

Until he’s slumped on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, heaving his guts up from the ache in his leg. 

You find him there, sweaty and panting, with a glass of water in hand. Joel pushes himself upright against the wall with a sigh as you close the lid of the toilet and flush it before sitting beside him on the cool tile. 

“You’re overdoing it again,” you say, not unkindly.

“I ain’t tryin’ to,” he mutters and takes the glass of water when you offer it to him. 

“I know.” You cover his free hand with yours. “Wanna get up?” 

You smell faintly of peppermint, burned incense. 

When he shakes his head, you stretch to flip the light switch over your head. He’s plunged into darkness, alone, for just a moment, before you settle again. The warmth of your head against his shoulder feels stolen. 

For a long time, neither of you say anything. He breathes through the pain still crawling around his knee, the phantom flesh of his calf. 

“I was a goddamn fool,” he whispers into the silence. “You know what I was thinkin’ that day?” He’s not sure where the words come from, the confession. It feels a little like the words are being pulled up out of his body, yanked right from the center of his chest. 

“Tell me,” your nose is warm when it bumps against his collarbone. 

“‘Bout Ellie. How I’d want someone to help her, if she needed it. So I helped that girl. Almost got all of us fuckin’ killed.”

You don’t answer, not at first. But eventually, you lean into him and say, “If you want me to blame you, I won’t. I will never find fault in kindness.” Your thumb strokes his knuckles slowly. “Never. Especially not yours.” 

He brushes his mouth along your hairline, skin silken against his mouth. “Y’know when we was on the road, I was sure you’d get us killed. But y’always knew when to trust someone. How much to trust ‘em.” 

“I. . .” you start and then trail off, fingers squeezing around his. “I was always lucky, and I always knew I had you at my back. If I messed up, you were always there.” 

His eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the bathroom, and when he meets your gaze, he can see the glaze of tears in your eyes. You suck in a shaking breath and clear your throat but don’t continue. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there the same way.” 

“This ain’t on you,” he says. “Don’t think that. It’s me. It was a long time comin’ somethin’ would catch up to me.”

You settle in against him, one hand digging into the sore muscle of his thigh. The heat feels like, the flex of your gentle fingers even better. The pain that doesn’t exist fades just a little. 

“And for the record, darlin’, you were there the same way.” 

It’s autumn again when you go back onto the patrol rotation. There’s frost on the windows and on the spikes of overgrown grass in the front yard. He just got back from a night watch on the wall.  

You’re taking his old routes with Tommy, and you don’t tell him about it until the morning of. Not a fucking soul breathed a word of it to him, and he’s the one figuring out the goddamned rotations. 

And Joel realizes though he’d been worried about you not wanting to leave Jackson anymore, not even being able to go near the gates, he was glad you hadn’t wanted to. It meant you were safe. Even if he couldn’t keep you safe anymore, the walls of Jackson could.

“I’m not doing this with you right now,” you say before you leave, pretending like he can’t clearly see your hands shaking before you walk out the door.

He follows you onto the porch. He can’t remember what he says, just that you look upset and then hurt, just that you don’t say goodbye when you walk away and that you probably don’t have lavender tucked into your pocket like he always did. 

“Please.” A word he hardly ever says, a plea he never gives into. 

He says it to your retreating back as you pass the mailbox, but you either don’t hear him or choose to ignore him. 

Maybe he didn’t say it at all.

That day is hell. It’s long and pocketed with anger and anxiety. If something happens to you, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t like that you left him upset. 

Maria doesn’t entertain his outburst about it when he finally corners her after looking for her all morning. “She was ready.” 

“I didn’t even know we were considerin’ sendin’ her back out!” 

Maria just levels him with a glare that could freeze hell over. “That isn’t up to just you. And why do you think she didn’t want to tell you?” 

He’s at the stables with Ellie that evening when you come home, waiting. It’s cold and his leg is aching something bitter and awful but he doesn’t move and Ellie doesn’t suggest going back home because she knows he won’t hear it. Dina stops by and he listens to them talk. Ellie’s face softens when she looks at Dina, cheeks a soft pink in the fading light, ducking her head and fidgeting with her fingers. 

Joel tries not to pay them any mind, but it's hard not to find endearing. 

When you and Tommy get back, it’s full dark. He wants to throttle his brother for not telling him you were going back out on the trails, but it’s too cold for much of that. All thoughts of strangling Tommy fly from his head as soon as he sees you, because you have a smear of blood on your cheek and down your neck. 

“Goddamn it, what happened?” He demands, hands against your face before you’ve even fully dismounted. 

“I’m fine.” 

“That ain’t what I asked,” he sweeps his thumb over your skin, flakes of red shifting to the ground. The knot in his chest tightens as he watches it flutter through the air. “What happened?” He growls again. “Tommy?” 

“The usual, Joel,” you pull his attention back to you. “It was just cleanup. A couple of infected. Nothing.” 

“Uh huh,” he tilts your face one way and then the other. 

“Just some splatter.” You shrug and smile at him; your mouth twitches, and he realizes you’re teasing him. 

“Splatter,” he repeats flatly. “That ain’t funny. You ain’t funny. C’mon, let’s go home.” 

Ellie and Dina have disappeared with your arrival but they aren’t far; he can hear their chatter as they walk along the street toward the center of Jackson, the echoes of their voices reaching back towards him. “I’ll deal with you later,” he says to his brother. 

Tommy just raises his hands and says he’ll stable the horses. But he’s grinning and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s been awhile since his brother has seemed himself. It’s been awhile since the two of you have given him grief together. 

“Leave Tommy alone,” you say as you walk toward Rancher Street. You seem steadier than you had been that morning, more confident, more yourself. It isn’t a long walk back, even with his leg, though he limps worse than usual because of the cold. You wrap an arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his back pocket, body warm against his side. “We did good together today.” 

“Mhm. I’m sure you did.” 

“You mad at me?” 

“I wish you’d tell me,” he murmurs. “When you’re goin’ off to do somethin’ stupid. I need you to talk to me. Worried the whole goddamn day. You ain’t exactly in practice out there anymore.” 

You hum and then nudge closer to him. “Put your arm around me.”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, maybe a little harshly. 

“Joel,” you laugh and nuzzle your face against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’m cold and I had a rough day. Put your arm around me.” 

So, he does. And he leaves it there until you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter in front of him, lavender plants stacked in the sink behind you once again as the colder weather sets in. 

This is better. So much fucking better, than the other way around. This is right.

He cleans the blood away, finds the swell of a bruise on your shoulder and a cut lengthways over your collarbone. 

It’s easy enough to take care of. It isn’t as bad as what he’d been imagining all day long. 

He’s well in practice for this sort of thing, for bandaging and assessing wounds. 

“Sorry,” he says as he works. “For this mornin’.”

“Mhm.”

“I worried all day. Not much I can do now, if you get into a spot of trouble.”

“I handle myself fine. Tommy was there. He’s a good partner out there.” 

Joel grunts, dabs rubbing alcohol along the cut. “He is,” he agrees reluctantly. He supposes if you had to go on patrol with anyone, he’d prefer you go with his brother.  

You touch him as he works, fingers patting over his jacket, the collar of his flannel, the frayed edge of the t-shirt beneath that. “I had to go back out, Joel. You would have argued with me and I can’t be afraid and useless forever.”

“Useless,” he scoffs and unspools a length of bandage. “You don’t know nothin’ about that.” 

“Joel,” you say softly, exasperated. “Baby, you don’t know what it was like that day. I thought you were already dead.” Your voice trembles and you have to swallow harshly before you can continue. “Helpless and useless doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt. What I still feel.” You shake your head and cup your fingers around his. “I dream about it every single night and I still don’t really remember what happened. That scares me a lot.” 

He slides his thumb along the gauze, your eyes wide and worried when he meets them.“I’ll never be who I was, sweetheart.” His voice sounds mournful to his own ears. 

“You’re exactly the same man, Joel. I’m just happy you’re here and alive and you’re worried you aren’t alive the right damn way.” You shake your head. “I can’t ask for much more than what I have. Than what we do. Me and you. Ellie back in our life. A home. Food. Family. You,” you touch his jaw and smile. “Still here. Still taking care of me.” 

There’s a lump in his throat, hard as a stone. “Yep.” He coughs in an attempt to clear his voice but he sounds just as wrecked when he speaks. “Patrol musta been real good to y’today.”

You just laugh, and the sound of it is wet. “Yeah. It was. I thought it would be terrible but I missed it.” 

“I know you did.” 

“You should come on a ride with me sometime,” you say slyly. “I bet it’d feel good to be back in the saddle. You’ve always been a good shot from the back of a horse.”

He has. 

Maybe he should. 

💞 If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

How to Endure Ardor:

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel teaches you how to love him.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Post outbreak; QZ Joel Miller; I'm saying this, but the setting is sort of ambiguous anyways, Stream of consciousness, Character Study, Alternating POVs; PIV sex; The troubles and toils of breaking up and then making up with a fucked up old man; Uncaring Joel; Mentions of painful sex; Toxic relationships or situationships or whatever you want to call it; I think I'm addicted to the idea of a Joel who'll never love you and I should probably see a doctor about it

A/N: she remembers how to write, who'd of thought!

Word Count: 1.3K

Read on AO3

This is a lesson:

“Tell me again,” she says, and it’s a begging.

A begging like what? Something that carries shame and smallness in the shape of it. Stay a little longer. It humiliates him for the wretchedness it pulls from him. Joel, please. Seeping blood the color of her supplication. Please, she says, please. And who else says please to him anymore? Who asks him for anything anymore but her? The only ones who ever had are long past and gone, and he can’t even barely remember they were ever really there to ask anything of him to begin with—can’t remember what it feels like to owe someone something and want to give it to them in a way that will actually make him. 

Tell me what again? That I want you? That I’ll stay? That I love you? I’ll come back, he says instead, the only thing he can promise and keep. And he wonders if it humiliates her too, the way he lies, the way he runs, the way he swears, the way he always comes back and comes back but never returns with the things she needs. A humiliation just like it is a begging. 

The thing they have: it’s strange, fickle, honest in its lies, very, very ugly. An ugliness that is shocking in a world gone to rot already. The sky doesn’t shine anymore and they bask in it. 

But also, and, the thing they have: it’s physical, saving.

This is obvious too, even if only to them.

He slides inside and you’re what? Hot and wet and slick, and—yes, a thing like a dream, but still only a thing. Something to have, something close to desire, but not quite, more like biological want. Woman turned possession. In his mind this is an excuse, a reason, a begetting. Like, what—like what? Like when you want a thing very badly but it is very bad for you, and you need to make up any excuse to have it, lie and lie and lie—to your mother, your best friend, the mirror—a begetting like that. Easy to understand only if you’ve been there. 

It started simple, it started like nothing, it started like the first time you meet someone and you know they’ll matter, you know they’ll mean something. So it started like what? Like a lie. 

Shifts at the QZ, long and toiling and reminders of the sort of life that died in an outbreak of monsters, only if for how unlike that past it was. Humans or fungus or—

—men who hurt—you, men who refuse your love, Joel Miller.

The crutch of your age, of you being weaker or smaller or in need, him being easily felled, wooed, easily conquered by something young and given without a try because there was never the opportunity for trying before. 

Now, it is like this: you take my cock and you take my come and you take my nothing, and I give so little and yet you still find a way to take and take and take, leech of a girl, dream of a girl, hungry. And with the excuse that it’s only in a way you contrive for your own self. But in the end, what does that make you? What do I make you into? 

These are the things he asks himself. 

Perhaps she goes away for a time, tries the route of escape, of variety. But when she inevitably comes back because addiction is riddled always in the same sorts of ways: did you try different bodies? Did you try different flavors and sounds? Did you look for me in all of them? 

The answer is usually yes.

At reunion’s turn: he rolls her over to face her, Joel, damp and panting and trying to be something—perhaps better, more honest—after a season of variety and honest attempts and shut eyes. He’s so hard for her, always is. 

Again: he slides inside and you’re what? His, undeniably. Not yours. Something to want but not desire because it’s too romantic a notion, and yes, there’s a difference even if he can’t put into words what that difference specifically is. Body and heart, perhaps, definitions that differ between disparate anatomical parts or levels of deniability. 

Nothing either of you have ever been able to put into words when lust and love aren’t things you can even say out loud for the shame of them, even if they exist within said same anatomy. 

You come together, the season passed, the separation passed but still kept at hand for the next time the closeness becomes too much. 

“Tell me again,” she says, and this time he remembers what she’s asking for.

“I fucking missed you, baby. Missed this pussy.” Because he can’t say it’s her heart he missed. Because Joel Miller does not have honesty in his arsenal. 

He spreads you wide, knee to shoulder so it hurts and pulls, so it’ll be sore and reminding tomorrow. The slap of his pelvis against the back of your thighs is obscene, wet and lewd, a string of girl cum keeping you connected, such togetherness, curve of your ass to the root of his cock—the two of you are together again. 

You know what I thought, when I tried to go away, you say. He doesn’t want to know, but he doesn't tell you so either, only slides in again, the mouth of your womb right there, threatening. I’m never going to feel like this again, and I hate how certainly I know that. He wonders if the unsaid part is that he’s the recipient of that feeling, the hate. 

He wonders if the pinch inside him is hurt. He wonders if the throb is love. 

All he says because he can’t say the rest is, I missed you, I missed you, and if he could look himself in the mirror—something that’s twenty years past lost—he’d ask: are you alright? Just tell me you’re okay. And it sounds in your own voice and with your own care and the feel of your own warmth. Is there anything I can do?

Other times, he sees himself through your own eyes, and then he knows for certain that the throb is love 

So he makes up for lost time, hard—and if it was a thing he knew how to be— loving. Mouth to cunt first, primed and soft and begging, making you come again and then another once more, then inside of you. Slow, splitting you open, red cunt like a wound, balls slapping wet, pulling out to watch the gape of the space he’s carved for himself. His cock is so hard and missing you something desperate. And he’s reminded of what it is to really miss something in a way he hadn’t been in twenty years of apocalypse, he’s forced to realized that it’s been so long since he’d had something to love that he’d not realized the feeling of missing that long past someone had gone away, only faint memory remained. 

Violent, is what this makes him after that realization—thrusts turning hard and punishing. How dare you give yourself to me? How dare you then take yourself away? You come around him again, the gift of your orgasm. How dare you not be able to accept the little I’m able to give when I’m trying so desperately fucking hard to give you even just this? 

He fucks you mean, he fucks you in the way of a man who doesnt know how to say the things he needs to say, in a way that’s confusing, that could make a less discerning woman feel only the hurt. 

But then again, you know him.

Fucks you in a way that is a little bit like love.

And so, amidst all of it, there is an honesty amongst the lies. A truth unspoken that they both know—I’ll come back because I need you, because you’re the only one who can give me the things I'm not strong enough to ask for out loud. 

You’re not sure which of the two of you is the one saying it.

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Updates Blog

like real people do (joel miller x f!reader)

i will not ask you where you came from. i will not ask, and neither should you. honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss, like real people do.

summary: a temporary arrangement leads to permanent feelings that joel can’t seem to shake — for you. but do you feel the same?

warnings: post-outbreak, jackson!joel, age gap (28/56), smutty thoughts & happenings, jealous!joel, angst, pining, reader has curves & wears joel’s jacket, masturbation (m), typical canon violence & weapons, graphic description of wounds, cursing, blood, food, alcohol, unprotected piv, 18+ minors dni.

notes: this is my contribution to @undercoverpena’s april showers challenge 💛 jo, you are such a light. thank you for organising this, i had the best time!

as ever, i am indebted to my flawless beta @macfrog - max, i can’t ever thank you enough for the way you transform my work. i love you. big love to @frannyzooey & @swiftispunk for the encouragement and reassurances. you both rock my world.

Joel shakes his head like a wet dog, wipes his brow so he can see past the droplets clinging to his lashes. He can just about make out the gates of Jackson in the heavy rain, the reins slipping between his hands. No matter, really. Blue knows his way; the horse’s damp ears pricking at the sight of home.

His only concern is you.

Joel twists in the saddle, ignoring the protesting muscles in his spine as the wind screams in his ears.

You’re behind him, just like he needs you to be.

You’re soaked, bleeding through his hasty bandaging, wincing in obvious pain. But you’re there. Upright, still breathing. He can heave a sigh of relief.

Today was a close call. Too fuckin’ close.

It’s not like Joel didn’t know you were going to be trouble.

He did. From the moment you showed up on his doorstep, his brother’s arm over your shoulder.

He knew.

Joel stirs to the sound of incessant knocking on his front door. Sunlight spills into his bedroom, a pool of honey over his sheets. He’s not due on patrol today; a rare twenty-four hours of freedom lay ahead of him. And he’d planned to spend a good portion of those in bed, or sat with his guitar.

Clearly, someone has other ideas.

“‘m comin’!” he shouts, cricking his neck and reaching for his jeans, discarded on the floor beside him. He figures he best pull on a shirt, too - he has no idea who’s pounding at his door, but at seven in the morning, on his day off?

Surely can’t be a sign of anything good.

Joel grumbles as he heads down the stairs, pulling at his zipper and shaking his head. This better be fuckin’ important. He reaches for the door none too gently, ready to reprimand whoever’s stood the other side.

He opens it to his brother.

Joel’s readying himself to launch into a tirade borne out of week-long exhaustion. He doesn’t expect to see Tommy’s arm round the shoulder of a terrified-looking young woman.

You.

You’re covered in grime, sneakers falling apart at the seams, shirt splattered with blood.

“Mornin’, Joel,” Tommy starts, his voice soft and pleading. Joel stares into eyes so like his own, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m needin’ a favour,” he continues. Joel’s gaze flits to you for a beat, and he swallows.

“I guess it couldn’t wait till after breakfast?”

Tommy’s laugh is strained, false grin tight across his cheeks as he squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t take no notice, darlin’. Bark’s worse’n his bite, I promise.”

“This young lady here arrived late last night,” he says as Joel folds his arms across his chest. “We found her up on the ridge, nobody else with her. As you know, the Pattersons took the last available house we got, and Harley’s nursery took up our spare room,” Tommy jerks his chin over the street, and Joel has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Now that Ellie’s moved out ‘n all, Maria was — we — were wonderin’ if we could put her up here, with…With you,” he finishes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Joel desperately wants to ask him if he’s lost his goddamn mind, but you’re looking at him with the same haunted gaze he’s become so familiar with in the past two decades.

Joel isn’t a monster. Those live outside the very walls that now keep him safe. He has no desire to ask how you made it past them, though; he knows you’ve seen things you never want to talk about again.

There’s something inside him: buried and dormant. It’s not your fault. You’re not asking Joel to house you, to spend his day off getting acquainted with you. You just look like you need a shower, and a week’s worth of sleep.

It’s not your fault.

“Temporarily?” he asks, clearing his throat as you stare at the ground. “Yes, Joel,” Tommy grimaces at his bluntness. “Temporarily.”

Tommy tells you to come find him and Maria when you’re settled, that they’ll fix you up with some more new clothes, give you some time to adjust. He hands you a backpack, and you step over the threshold. Tommy heads off with a curt glance towards his big brother, leaving the two of you alone.

You still haven’t said a word.

“‘m Joel,” he says as he closes the door, more gruffly than he means to. You nod, offering your name quietly in return. You look so fucking afraid of him, and he hates that. He holds out a hand to shake, and you take it.

Soft.

Your hands are so fucking soft. Your fingernails are caked with dirt, knuckles scarred, but your palms feel like warm velvet. Joel clears his throat, drops your hand like it’s burned him.

“This way, ma’am,” Joel instructs, a distant memory of his mama telling him to mind his manners. You follow him up the stairs, and he ushers you into the room that used to belong to Ellie. It’s empty now; Ellie having relocated her collection of belongings to the outhouse in the backyard.

“My, uh, kid used to stay here. She’s moved out, now,” Joel tells you, thumb pointing behind him. You’re nodding again; he can tell you’re exhausted, the way you’re moving like you’re carrying the weight of a thousand people on your shoulders. He knows that feeling, wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. Shower’s just down the hall, so feel free to use whatever’s in there. Won’t be anythin’ fancy, mind,” he shrugs, and is surprised when you smile at him in return. It opens up your whole face, lifts your eyes, a ray of sunlight carving a path between you both.

You study him for a second; Joel feeling your eyes assess him, straightening his back instinctively. “Here I was, expecting five stars,” you comment, and Joel’s taken aback by your gentle teasing, your quiet confidence.

For one strange moment, it’s like you’ve claimed the space already. Like this room has always been waiting for you, somehow.

“Don’t know what my baby brother’s been fillin’ your head with,” Joel smirks, “but I’ll try my best.”

You look at him one final time before he leaves the room.

“Counting on it.”

Joel learns that you’re twenty-eight, the only survivor from a group who broke away from the Kansas City QZ. He recognises the shadow that falls across your face when you tell him about it, knows all too well the living hell it became.

You compare stories with him one morning over a breakfast he prepares for you both, before you silently agree not to discuss it again. Jackson is a new start: a place all about reclaiming that sliver of human decency that’s left on the Earth, the one thread of connection and community that binds the residents together.

Joel wants you to know that.

Weeks turn into months, and before he knows it, Joel’s memorised your gait, your scent, the way you always forget the creak in the stop stair. He watches you with Ellie, how you understand their relationship with a slow nod of your head, no further questions asked.

You and Joel gossip with one another, leave notes scribbled in broken pencil. You bake for him, and in return he builds you a chair to join him on the porch. Joel remembers the jolt when you’d hugged him for it, kissed his whiskered cheek. So goddamn soft.

He begins to feel a creeping shame over the way he’d treated you on that first day; broken and worn down on his steps. Joel had no idea how peacefully you’d co-exist: sharing meals and laundry loads like two normal housemates would, if the world wasn’t so fucked.

The fact that you’re so beautiful is neither here nor there.

Joel’s tried not to notice it.

Your smooth skin, the curves of your body beneath the shapeless clothes Maria’s given you. Unfortunately, he knows just what you’ve got on under them. He almost felt lightheaded one day watching you hang your panties out to dry: delicate, wispy things; items he has no idea how you got your hands on.

Before long, Tommy’s prepping you to start patrol, and Joel makes time one evening to reassure you about it. He can tell you’re nervous, the way your hands are twisting, rubbing at your forehead frantically.

“If you really don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Joel offers, and you sigh.

“Nah. It’s about time I started pulling my weight around here.”

Joel smiles at your tenacity, the way your mouth sets firmly. “Alright, then. Want to go over the routes one last time?”

Your eyes are wide in thanks, staring up at him from the couch, blinking through your lashes. Everything about the situation is innocent, besides every single thought running through Joel’s mind.

Tommy put this girl with you in good faith, asshole.

Woman.

Not a girl.

He reminds himself of that when he’s in the shower that night; tugging frantically at himself, thinking about the tight curve of your ass in the jeans you’d traded for.

Yeah. You were fucking trouble alright.

“I always wanted to be a teacher, back when I was a kid,” you tell him one night, as Joel clears the soup bowls away. “Miss Macy, she was my favourite, kinda inspired me in a way. I loved English; reading, writing, all these imaginary worlds I’d create. I’d still like to do it, if I can.”

Joel loves the way you laugh when you share stories of your childhood. It’s the same kind delight he sees on your face watching Jackson’s children giggling as they chase each other round the streets, playing tag and missing dinner time.

“Teach?”

You nod, and Joel’s suddenly back in Texas, Sarah tugging on his hand across the parking lot as they head towards her parent-teacher conference. Sarah’s a hard worker, and fantastically talented when she applies herself. Unfortunately, she lets herself be distracted by other students, and I’ve had to separate the group several times.

He smiles. “Scary bunch, teachers.”

He watches your eyes roll, chin resting on your hands. The light outside is fading, both of you full with a warm dinner. Your movements are languid; the way your fingers dance across your collarbone, the way your shirt rides up a little when you stretch your arms out above you.

Again, Joel tries not to notice it: the sliver of bare skin above your waistband, gentle fingertips he’s found himself thinking about more often than he really should.

“Big, bad Joel Miller? Afraid of me?”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, throwing a rag in your direction so you can help him with the drying up. “Maybe in your dreams, darlin’.”

You smirk, taking your place beside him as he hands you the cutlery. With difficulty, he pushes all thoughts of your soft body and kind eyes from his mind.

Joel bears witness to you thriving in Jackson, unfurling like a butterfly born in the spring. You make friends, tell him all about them each evening as you trade stories about your day. Soon, you’re invited to gatherings that he isn’t, and you tell him stories about people he’s never met. He hears you come in late, starts to notice that you don’t rise to join him at breakfast.

Still, he doesn’t ask Tommy just when this temporary agreement might come to an end. For some reason, he just can’t find it in him.

Joel figures you won’t want to spend all your precious free time with a man pushing sixty, so he’s not mad about it. You’re not family, but he thinks you’re starting, maybe, to become a friend.

He makes the most of Ellie when he can, watches her glow when she talks about Dina. Tommy’s the same: content with his life with Maria and Harley, Joel’s nephew. He can hardly believe - even after two years in Jackson - how life just goes on. Despite it all, people found a way.

Joel finds himself thinking about Sarah a little more than usual. He can’t bring himself to process the fact his baby would be thirty-four now; maybe married, career of her own. She’ll forever be fourteen to him: curls bouncing, soccer trophy under her arm, innocence in her heart.

Joel tells you about her one day; tells you how, for the first time in twenty years, he’s been able to just stop and give time to his thoughts. To sit with them, feel the ache bloom in his heart. No need to fight for his life every day, to make sure he sees another sunrise. He’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

“It can be both, Joel,” you say, wrapped in a blanket he brought out to you. You’re sat on the front porch together, chairs side by side, watching fireflies dancing in the late afternoon light.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and move to take his hand. Something stops you, letting it fall into your lap. There’s something in your gaze that tells him you’ve felt the same pain, bled the way he has. Joel clears his throat, asking if you want another drink.

“No, thanks. Especially if it’s that fucking whiskey,” you grimace, and he chuckles, rolling the tumbler in his hand. Your profanities make him smile; he’s let you spend too much time with Ellie.

“You really hate it that much?”

“Uhuh,” you mutter, getting to your feet. “Hey, Ryan is having a few of us over for a card game evening. I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up,” you inform him, with that grin he’s become so fond of.

Joel tells you to have a great night, watching your retreating figure head into the dusk. He collapses into sleep on the couch not long after, book resting on his belly when he wakes to the sound of the front door opening.

“You really didn’t need to walk me back,” you giggle, and Joel stays frozen in the dark. He shouldn’t. It’s rude to eavesdrop, to listen in to your private conversations.

Still. He doesn’t move.

“S’okay. Still sharing a place with Miller, then?” he hears Ryan ask, and he assumes you nod in lieu of a reply. “Heard he can be a pain in the ass,” he adds, and Joel listens to your tinkling laugh. “He’s alright.”

“Hopefully you’ll get a house of your own soon, though, without an some old guy hanging around. You can start hosting me instead,” Ryan continues, and Joel fails to miss the suggestive undercurrent in his tone; the way it makes his jaw tick.

He doesn’t hear your response, and the door shuts with a click. You switch the lamp on, gasping in surprise to see Joel sat there. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” you say softly, and Joel just shrugs, frowning.

He watches you move around the kitchen - his kitchen - with a familiar ease, seeking a glass to pour some water, searching for a hunk of cheese to nibble on. Again, Joel’s hit with that feeling he had on that first day he took you to your room: this house has always been waiting for you, the lock aching for the slide of your key.

Which is why the notion of you leaving causes him so much pain.

“Guess you won’t have to worry about wakin’ anyone when you get your own place.”

He hates how petulant he sounds, but he can’t help it. Joel hasn’t been that short with you in a long time; he can see on your face how taken aback you are.

“You heard that, huh?” you ask, watching him over the rim of your glass.

“Yeah. Y’can always speak to Tommy, see if there’s anything goin’. If you feel trapped here, that is.”

You sigh, hands flat on the dining table. Joel built it himself: not his finest work, a little rough around the edges.

A direct reflection of how he feels right now.

“You don’t want me here anymore?” you ask, face half shrouded in darkness, half lit in an orange glow.

Joel chews his lip, watching you blink at him.

“Just sayin’. This wasn’t ever meant to be permanent, anyway,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. You fold your arms across your chest; eyes narrowing. You look.. You look hurt.

By him.

“Ryan seems like a good kid. ‘m sure he’d treat you right.”

Joel knows he’s projecting his own insecurities onto you. He’s fucking afraid: he’s come to care for you so much more than he realised, and every time Joel cares about someone, he loses them.

A bite. A bullet. A new family.

But this? For some reason, this cuts just as deep. Joel won’t let it happen again. No matter how bad he wants you.

“Where’s all this coming from?” you ask. You’re quiet, voice flat with disappointment. It makes Joel’s heart ache; he’d rather you told him to fuck off, call him out for being a dick, tell him you’ll pack your stuff and go.

You don’t.

Your shoulders just slump when he doesn’t respond, staring at him imploringly.

“Well?”

Joel should tell you he doesn’t want you to leave, not in the slightest. All he wants to do is kiss you, crush your lips to his, run his tongue over every inch of your flesh, slide inside you and make you scream his name. Tell you he’s better for you than anyone else in Jackson; that he can take care of you, keep your bed warm every night, better than any fucker half his age.

But he doesn’t.

He just lets you go, watching as you shake your head and turn on your heel, leaving him alone in the dark.

Breakfast the next morning is a solemn affair.

You’re already gone - which isn’t unusual - but there’s no note from you, no sandwiches wrapped in paper to take out for patrol. Joel feels a little disgruntled: it’s your turn to prep them today, as per the agreement you have when you’re both scheduled for a shift.

You must be really pissed at him.

He wolfs down his bacon, throws on his jacket. It needs patching up, almost worn through at both the elbows. Joel recalls you telling him you’re nifty with a needle and thread, that you’ll do it for him at the weekend.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never learned how to sew,” you smirk, sizing up his jacket, throwing it over your shoulders. Joel can’t help but admit how good it looks on you; the fact you’re wearing his clothes doing something inexplicable to his groin.

“Just like you never learned how to drink?” he teases you, and you hold up your hands in defeat. “And don’t be forgettin’ I made you a whole goddamn chair.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sing, admiring yourself in the cracked mirror. Joel shakes his head; eyes lingering on the tilt of your hips, the way your breasts push at the fabric.

“Guess I owe you.”

He supposes he’s better off taking it to the seamstress on Main Street, now.

The sky outside is grey to match his mood, brewing ominously with the threat of rain. Nothin’ worse than patrol in the rain. Boggy trails and limited visibility never work in anyone’s favour, and he prays for an uneventful shift.

Blue’s tacked up and ready for him; Joel slips the horse an apple from his pocket, pulling at his forelock gently as he says hello.

“Gotta stay outta trouble today, boy. We’ll be home soon enough.”

He hears his sister-in-law’s voice from outside the stable, calling his name.

“Mornin’, Maria.”

She smiles, hands on her hips as Joel leans against the stable door. “Your brother has done an irresponsible thing and gotten sick,” she sighs, eyebrows raised.

“Y’sure he ain’t just had some bad eggs?” Joel chuckles, and Maria shakes her head.

“Judging by the way he’s shivering, I think it’s the real deal. In any case, we need you to take his partner today,” she tells Joel, thumb over her shoulder.

She moves aside, and he freezes.

Fuck.

Of course: it’s you.

You’re adjusting Shimmer’s stirrups, unaware Joel’s even there. Those goddamn jeans sticking to your thighs like glue, eyes rimmed red like you haven’t slept.

Maria continues, tapping her foot. “I’m assuming that won’t be a problem? She’s still settling into it, as you well know, and we haven’t had her go up —”

“S’fine. Not a problem.”

Maria raises her eyebrows at Joel’s brusqueness, turning on her heel and leaving the stables.

You look up, watching her go. Joel swallows as your gaze tracks upwards, locking with his.

“Hey.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Look, I know this ain’t ideal, but we’ll talk when we’re back. Yeah?”

You roll your eyes, laugh sarcastically. You brush past him, knocking into his shoulder as you go.

“Counting on it.”

Joel scrawls both your names in the log book, heaves his rucksack back onto his shoulders. They’re aching, as per usual. Almost as stiff and awkward as the whole morning with you has been.

“We all good to go home?”

It’s the first sentence you’ve uttered since you both left Jackson, your tone still clipped, not leaving much room for any forgiveness.

Home.

Joel wonders if that looks different to you now; wonders how soon he can expect your possessions in boxes by the front door, to see the disappointment in his brother’s face when he hears how unreasonable he was towards you.

All because he doesn’t know how to fucking tell you.

The descent back to Jackson from the ski lodge is slow, clouds low and threatening in the sky. Thunder echoes atop the mountain ridges, lightening flashing across the jagged peaks.

Then, the rain comes.

It starts as a drizzle, just enough to dampen the leaves on the trees, for Joel to hear you sigh disdainfully behind him. “Stay close,” he calls, and you tell him you will.

Soon, the rain falls in a barrage, hammering down on you both as your charges slide in the dirt. Joel’s soaked to the bone, the storm moving directly overhead as the sky flickers and crackles above.

He doesn’t like this. Not one fuckin’ bit.

He feels exposed, vulnerable, the hairs on the back of his neck raised; an ancient warning sign —

“Joel!”

Your scream is agonised, drawn-out, hurtling past him in the swirling wind. He wheels Blue around, startled.

Three men. Two guns, from what he can see. A machete.

Shimmer rears high on her hind legs in panic, one of the fuckers dragging you from the saddle. Another has his gun aimed at your head; the third is advancing towards Joel, silver weapon brandished in his hand.

Their faces are gaunt, eyes sunken. They’ll murder you both, take anything they can find, leave your bodies to rot until you’re found by the next band of raiders, or worse.

You fall to the ground with sickening crunch, still yelling his name, body crumpling against the exposed rock.

No time to think. He needs you to survive.

One, two, three.

The shots ring out through the valley in quick succession, blood soaking through the shirts of your attackers. They fall like marionettes, slithering to their deaths amongst the grass and mud.

Joel dismounts, scrambling to get to you. You’re not unconscious, thankfully. No obvious wounds to your head, either; Joel cradles your face in his hands, asking you to tell him your name, to open your eyes.

“My back, Joel. My fucking back,” you moan, and he grits his teeth, turning you on your side as gently as he can. You cry out in pain, and he sees the laceration above your hip, your skin sliced open.

“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel reassures you instinctively, shrugging his rucksack off to retrieve the bandages he needs

You grip his forearm, fingernails piercing him. “Don’t leave me, Joel,” your voice breaks, tears joining the wetness on your face as Joel swipes a thumb across your cheekbone.

You’re still miles from Jackson, bleeding out onto the rock beneath you, horses loose in the valley. The rain pounds, the wind howls, and Joel makes his promise.

“Never.”

Maria puts you on bed rest for a week.

You recuperate, slowly but surely. Joel had carried you to Jackson’s version of an infirmary, watched your wound be painstakingly stitched up. Turns out, the fall had smashed two of your ribs, too.

Joel nearly chews his lip in half when he finds out.

So fucking stupid. He should’ve insisted you go in front, acted more on instinct. Joel was supposed to take care of you, keep you safe.

Hasn’t he learned?

You’re due back home today. Joel’s changed your bed linen, lit a fire in the sitting room, gathered some flowers to fill the cracked vase you covet on your nightstand. The arrangement was clumsy, but he hopes it’ll be the first step he can take on the path back into your life.

At the very least, Joel hopes they make you smile.

You arrive when he’s pouring your favourite soup into two bowls, setting them at opposite ends of the table. It hurts him to do so, considering you’d usually sit side-by-side, stealing the bread off his plate, your legs folded underneath as you caught up about your day.

Still. He has to take this slowly.

“You didn’t have to do all of this, Joel,” you say softly, and he shrugs.

“Figured we’d need to build your strength back up,” he says, pulling your chair out for you.

“And soup is the way to do that?”

“Quit arguin’,” he chides gently, setting your dinner down in front of you. Candles burn in the centre of the table, the night closing in outside. Everything is quiet for a while, spoons scraping against decades-old china as Joel sits with you — and his thoughts.

“So.”

He looks up, watches you settle back in your chair. You swallow, picking at your nails, avoiding eye contact. Joel waits, doesn’t want to interrupt whatever it is you’re finding hard to say.

“I feel like almost dying has put some things into perspective for me,” you say, and Joel can’t help but laugh at your sarcasm, and soon enough you’re giggling too, until you wince sharply.

“That bad, huh?” Joel murmurs, and you nod, hand over the bones that broke. “You mind if I go sit on the couch?” you ask, and Joel comes to help you to your feet, your hand in his.

Fuck, he’s missed it. Soft, warm and smooth.

Once you’re settled, he sits at the other end, still keen to give you space. “You know what? I think I want a whiskey,” you muse, leaning into the cushions. “Will you join me?”

Joel’s eyes narrow in confusion, but he fetches the tumblers anyway, sets them down on the coffee table. He pours you a small measure and hands it to you tentatively.

“I didn’t think you’d hit your head when you fell. Maybe I was wrong,” he comments, and you roll your eyes, swirling the amber liquid and observing it closely.

“Maybe you were.”

You toss it back, and Joel does the same.

“God, no. Definitely still tastes like shit,” you splutter, face contorted as you swallow the liquid down. Joel can’t help but grin as he watches you place the glass on the table, soft features glowing in the orange flames.

He feels the instant hit of alcohol in his bloodstream, loosening him up and relaxing his muscles. He lays back on the couch, head lolling as he turns to look at you.

“I wanted to say thank you. Y’know, for saving my life,” you tell him, staring into the fire burning in the grate. Joel can’t believe what he’s hearing; for a moment he sits stunned, unsure what to say.

“It was my fault. I was too slow, and too fuckin’ deaf to hear ‘em comin’” he admits. “I’m not who I was. Years ago, I would’ve destroyed ‘em. I’m sorry — fuck, I’m so sorry. You nearly died, because of me” Joel sighs, and you reach out to take his hand.

“Joel, I’m alive because of you. Nobody could’ve known that was going to happen - there’s been no talk of raiders for months now. Guess we both just got complacent,” you tell him, and Joel tsks under his breath.

“You’re still new to patrol. I should’ve let you go in front, brought up the rear. I can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he whispers, and is horrified to find himself close to tears. “‘specially after the way I behaved the night before.”

You squeeze his palm gently, the firelight flickering in your eyes. “I want to leave it in the past. But if you don’t want me here, I need you to tell me.”

Joel faces you properly, holding your gaze for the first time all evening. For you to still think he doesn’t want you here breaks him: after the sleepless nights he’s had, tossing and turning, the echoes of your scream breaking him into a sweat that never dies.

“It.. It ain’t that. Hell, I love havin’ you here. I’m ashamed I ever made you feel like I don’t.”

You smile shyly, releasing his hand. “Then, why..?”

Joel breathes out, long and hard.

“You started movin’ on with your life. You didn’t need me as much, and I guess I let that hurt me. I let you down with how I reacted.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” you murmur, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, like it’s not what you wanted to hear. Joel’s puzzled, praying he hasn’t done anything wrong.

The atmosphere still feels tense, like you’re waiting for him to say more.

Like you know there is more.

“You look different, by the way.”

Your gaze find his as he digests your statement, and you tilt your head, lip pulled between your teeth. Joel wishes you wouldn’t fucking do that.

You’re twenty-eight, for Christ’s sake.

He’s fifty-six. He’ll go to hell for what he wants to do to you right now. You don’t want him: you want Ryan, someone your age, someone who can offer you stability and safety in the way he so clearly can’t.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks anyway, feeling his breath shorten as you lean in closer to him. Your skin is so smooth; reflected in the firelight, breasts fighting against the tank top you’re wearing.

Joel can smell vanilla, wants to taste it, too. But he can’t.

“More.. Relaxed. No frowning,” you tease, reaching out a thumb to his forehead, pretending to smooth out the crease that usually has a home there.

“Could say the same f’you, too.”

You smile, and suddenly you’re right beside him — above him, and Joel knows he’s powerless to stop you. The whiskey is warm in his veins, and he wants you. So, so badly.

You hitch a leg over his jeans, trap him beneath you.

“You know, I’ve had just about enough of you.”

Your hands are slipping from his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. Joel can’t help himself; he cants his hips up into you, relishing your gasp, the way you’re already so frantic for him.

Your lips beg for permission messily against his, thighs squeezing him tight. Joel grants it gladly; savours the taste of your tongue in his mouth, the way your breasts feel against his coarse fingertips as he ventures carefully under your flimsy shirt.

Your skin is hot beneath his touch, and he wants to tell you how good you are; letting him touch you like this, letting him pinch the pebbled flesh he finds, soothing it over with his mouth. He manages to be mindful of your sore ribs, the gauze above your hip, but it’s not without trying.

Joel’s so caught up in you: the sweet sounds you’re making as you kiss him so deeply, the way you pull at his hair, grind down onto him. He’s painfully, pathetically hard; it’s only when you come up for air that he takes a second to think.

Fuck.

“Hey — look,” he starts to withdraw, hands moving to your shoulders, holding you back. You pause, eyes narrowed, realisation dawning across your features.

You shuffle out of his lap like you’re ashamed. “I’m sorry, Joel. That was — that was too much.”

“No, don’t be,” he sighs, longing to reach out and cup your jaw in his hand, pull you back to where he so desperately wants you to be. “It’s the whiskey talkin’.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You won’t look at him; gaze cast downwards, swallowing thickly.

“It’s not.”

You say it so quietly, Joel wonders if he’s imagined it.

“No?”

You shake your head, and Joel breathes out, capturing your chin with his finger. His heart is hammering in his chest; your lips are parted, sweat dewing in the column of your throat.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

“I want you, Joel. I know you think you’re not worthy, or too old, or whatever you’ve made yourself believe. I haven’t been able to do anything but lie there and think, for a whole seven days. You know what I thought about?”

Joel waits, agonised.

“You. Everything you’ve taught me, shared with me. The way you’ve let me into your life, into Ellie’s. I turned up here alone, and now I’ve never felt less lonely. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to give you up,” you tell him, and press your lips to his.

“If you’ll have me, Joel, I’d like to stay forever. You and I, in our chairs, eating soup.”

Joel’s grinning now, tugging you back to him gently. “You mean that, pretty girl?”

“Uhuh. And forever starts now,” you press your forehead to his, then pull him to his feet. You keep hold of his hand, traipsing through the darkness, past walls you know so well.

It’s heaven. You’re heaven.

Joel wants to take it slow, but he can’t: not with you. He takes his time, though, sliding your shirt off your head, pressing a kiss to your battered ribs.

Your jeans drop to the floor soon after, and finally, you’re bare for him. He’s salivating; you’re a vision, soft and supple as he runs his hands along your thighs, the curves of your tummy, up over your sternum.

Joel revels in the sounds you make, the way you’re so responsive to him, whimpering as his hand closes over your throat gently, tongue back inside your mouth with a renewed ferocity.

“Wanted this for too damn long,” he says gruffly, hand under the bend of your knee, your body so pliant beneath him. You arch your back wantonly as he touches you, teeth sinking into his neck, red marks from your nails down his back.

“I’m yours, Joel. Just like I said.”

Joel slides into the wet, slippery heart of you, both of you groaning at the stretch, the shared feeling of euphoria.

Home.

somehow didn't read this until it hit ao3 this week and OH MY GOD I devoured it.

This healed me after a long week!!!

- boyfriend's dad!joel masterlist -

dividers by @saradika-graphics

ao3 ♡ fic tag

status: ongoing pairing: joel miller x f!reader summary: moments between you and your boyfriend's father, joel miller, who you have a secret relationship with. no outbreak, no use of y/n. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (reader is early 20s, joel is mid 40s), daddy!kink, praise kink (use of babygirl), dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, oral (both f and m receiving), facials, creampies, cheating

safety

stress relief

quickie

snack break

prove it

words

wait

needy baby

I loveeeee this pre outbreak Joel! This was so perfectly hot and sweet at the same time! 🥰

37 Minutes [pre-outbreak!Joel x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Last of Us

Ship: Joel Miller x you/f!reader

Tags/warnings: Cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, (kind of) forced orgasm, squirting, PiV sex.

Summary: You wake up one morning needing Joel, and he comes as soon as you let him know that. And while his life may be busy, he takes the time to thoroughly satisfy you.

Words: 2,092

A/N: This is inspired by this post by @swiftispunk. It came across my dash around Easter and it's been living rent-free in my head since then. Finally had time to write it. Enjoy!

It’s just one of those mornings when you wake up with that itch that your own hand or your box of toys can’t do anything about.

Getting out of bed and pulling on a t-shirt, you grab your phone and go out to the kitchen to put the coffee on. You send Joel a text, short and to the point: Got time?

He calls you immediately. You smile as you press the green receiver.

”That was fast.”

”You read my mind,” he tells you in a muffled voice. ”I woke up thinking about you.”

”Then come over. And you could’ve texted me that.”

”Texting takes twice as long, I ain’t got time. See you in fifteen.”

You barely get to finish your coffee before you hear Joel’s truck on your driveway, and you’re not even by the front door when he knocks on it. As soon as you open the door, he’s through it, arms around your waist, lips on yours. He’s in a hurry, you can tell, but you love these hurried meetings, if only because he wants you so much. You love being wanted this much, this hard, this desperately.

He tastes of coffee, same as you, and a little sweat on his upper lip. It’s early, but the temperature is already in the mid-eighties. Your AC is keeping your home nice and cool, though.

You shove the door close and wrap your arms around Joel's neck, kissing him back and groaning when his hands slide down to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pushes you up against him. He is already stiff, and you wonder if he’s been so during his entire drive here.

"Don't have long," he lets you know between the kisses. "Gotta get to a building site across town in an hour, and - "

"Then make it count," you cut him off, and Joel reacts immediately, grabbing the hem of your t-shirt, and pulling the garment off of you. He presses his lips on yours again, hands on your tits as he walks you backwards to the bedroom. The kiss breaks only for as long as it takes him to get rid of his own clothes before he pushes you down on the bed. He immediately kneels before you and pulls down your panties before leaning in to kiss your cunt. You sigh out the first little hint of pleasure, but that sigh turns into a moan as Joel wastes no time teasing you. His tongue, quick and agile, starts to work your clit.

“Joel…!” you keen, legs opening wide to give him better access between your thick thighs. He’s sloppy and loud, but not aimless in his endeavor. His hands travel up your thighs to your belly, then to your breasts, where he rolls your nipples between forefingers and thumbs. You buck against him, keening to encourage him to go on, take hold of his hands and push them against your tits to make him grab them. He hums against your clit, looking up and grinning at your enthusiasm. How he can smile and have his tongue do that to you at the same time is beyond you, but you do not dwell on it as Joel puts it into a higher gear. Tongue on your clit, he pushes you quickly towards your peak, and when the pleasure turns more intense, you start to grind against him, your fingers plaiting with his and holding on, head thrown back to your Yes, yes, yesyesyes! until his tongue takes you over the edge. Your legs twitch as you try to catch your breath, but Joel doesn’t give you much of a respite.

“’nother one, beautiful,” he murmurs, licking his lips and letting go of your hands. “You taste so fuckin’ good.”

He attacks your clit again, licking, pushing, and prodding. Your hips buck up but are immediately locked down to the mattress by one of his strong arms placed across your lower abdomen. Your pussy clenches when you feel his fingertips at your opening. The second after, he slides two fingers inside you, his tongue and lips still on your clit as he finds that magical spot on your front wall. You shout out, back arching off the mattress, hands digging into the sheets as he massages that spot.

“God, Joel, oh God, don’t stop, fuckfuckfuck!”

He’s breathing heavily against your folds, but his tongue doesn’t stop, and his fingers are insisting on drawing a second orgasm from you. It’s almost too much, but you woke up wanting him, needing him, so you let your mind go blank and surrender, your moans turning more and more breathless the further you go. When you come, there is no sound, only a momentary stiffness in your entire body before you fall apart. You’re trembling all over, but Joel still goes on licking you. Your clit is on fire, your pussy is clenching, but goddamn him, he doesn’t stop.

“Joel,” you cry out, “stop, I can’t, I need a rest!”

“One more,” he tells you gasps, letting your clit be for just a moment. “I know you can, baby, be good for me now, gimme one more.”

You shake your head and press your thighs together, trying to crawl away, but Joel exhales sharply and grabs your waist.

“Just stay where you are, sweetheart, it’ll be over soon.”

He pries open your legs again, and this time he plants his mouth on your clit, and sucks. Your upper back shoots up from the bed but Joel already has his arms around your thighs, holding them open, locking his head firmly between them. The pleasure is almost painful in its intensity, shooting through your entire body, and you’re desperately trying to hold onto his head, the sheets, yourself, anything to relieve the force with which he’s sucking your overstimulated clit. But Joel doesn’t budge, and when you start to kick, he gets up onto the bed and lifts your lower body up into the air. Never once does his lips leave your clit, and you feel his scorching, labored breath on you, but nothing else suggests that he’s having any trouble lifting half of your heavy body off the bed. You kick, and he growls, finally letting go, but only to grab he backs of your thighs and bend you double. Your swollen pussy is obscenely on display, and you don’t get to ask him to wait before he slots his lips over your clit again.

You’re helplessly trapped, bent double and held in place by Joel’s strong builder’s hands, moaning and cursing until the pressure becomes too much. You hear a splash, Joel who hums and slurps, and you laugh without knowing why. Warm liquid is running down between your ass cheeks, and Joel latches back onto your clit, this time gulping the wet before getting a hold.

The third orgasm finally tears through you, and Joel releases you to tremble before him. You want to close your legs, but your hamstrings are so intensely stretched that you have to roll over onto your side to press your thighs together. Your clit is throbbing painfully, the skin around your pussy is grated raw by Joel’s facial hair, but he’s already nudging you to return onto your back.

“You did great, darlin’,” he praises you thickly, his tongue stiff after its service. “Just lemme grab a rubber, and I’ll fuck you good, okay?”

You whimper in return and blink your eyes open. Joel’s face, blurry at the edges, is somewhere above you, smiling at you before disappearing out of sight. You can dimly see the ceiling fan rotations, but truth is you can barely see at all, so you rub at your eyes before drawing your fingers through your hair.

Joel returns next to you, and you dimly hear the rustle of the condom wrapper. He takes his place between your legs, opening them gently.

“Be a good girl for me, or I’ll eat you out again,” he asks you sweetly, and you know you won’t survive that, so you let your knees fall to the sides, even if your hips are getting tense.

He slides into you slowly but surely, one inch after the other until he’s fully sheathed. Bending over to kiss you, his tongue slow now, he gives you a moment to adjust before he straightens his back, takes you by the waist, and starts to pump into you. It’s fast and shallow, and he gets breathless quickly, huffing out each quick breath before sucking in new air in time with his thrusts. You don’t even know if you’re breathing at all anymore, but you’re catching up with him now, and raise your hips slightly to meet his thrusts. He growls and comes down onto his forearms, getting in deeper. You embrace him, pull him down and into you, guide his head right next to yours where he hides his face in your neck as you pant your encouragement into his ear. You kiss, bite, and suck his neck, scratch your nails down his back, and slap his ass.

“Harder, Joel, harder, I need it harder!”

He snarls, his head snaps up from your neck as he gulps air into his lungs. His arms curl around your head as he picks up the pace. His cock is so deep, so hard, filling your pussy to the brink of annihilation it seems, and he doesn’t stop, he just goes on and on fucking you, his body slick with sweat that rubs off on you, his breaths growing increasingly audible for each thrust.

“Fuck!” he finally grunts before pulling out. “Roll over, baby.”

You obey, getting on all fours, and are immediately shoved down onto your chest as he slams into you. Hands on your hips, he goes hard and fast, groaning now as he breaths, one hand scrambling for a grip on your lower back without finding. His cock keeps assaulting your pussy, you are in heaven, and you still keep asking him to go harder. He pushes you down, hands pressing into your lower back as he goes on fucking you, reaching impossibly deeper each time, until you’re screaming and have to muffle yourself by pushing your face down into the sheets. Joel swears, his hips start to move erratically, and then he drives himself deep inside and stays there as he roars, pushing even deeper.

He slumps down next to you, panting like after a marathon. You turn your head to better breathe, but you can’t turn move your legs. Joel lies next to you, eyes closed, mouth open as he draws shallow breath after shallow breath, skin glistening with sweat. You want to say something but have to lick your lips several times before you can form words.

“Fuck, but you’re good.”

He blinks, and slowly turns his head towards you.

“What?”

“You’re so fucking good at this.”

“Am I?”

His cluelessness is adorable.

“Yes, you are, Joel!”

“I don’t know…” He makes a move that resembles a shrug. “I just enjoy you.”

Like this is just any ordinary fuck. You smile widely, a new kind of warmth spreading inside you. Joel just is that kind of humble person.

He now draws a deep breath, sighs it out, and then sits up. He leans over you to kiss your back, shoulder, neck, and finally mouth.

“I gotta go.”

“Sure.”

He leaves the bed, throwing a glance at the bedside clock radio.

“37 minutes. That’s a new record.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You hear the rustle of clothes and manage to roll over onto your back. Everything hurts so good, and you’re grateful you don’t have work today.

Joel sighs. “You look so fucking pretty, baby.”

You hum, smiling at him. As he picks up his t-shirt, you remember something. 

”Put it on the right way.”

“Huh?”

“You had your t-shirt on backwards and inside out when you got here,” you giggle. “Make sure it’s the right way now.”

“But then Tommy will notice, and he’ll know where I’ve been,” Joel points out pragmatically, still putting the t-shirt on the right way. It immediately gets dark spots in the front.

“I think he’ll know either way,” you yawn. Joel returns to bed for one last kiss.

“Fuck, I wanna stay.”

“I want that too.” You cup his cheek to keep his lips on yours for a moment longer.

“Mmm…” he hums into your mouth. “See you this weekend?”

“Absolutely.”

He presses one last kiss on your mouth before leaving you to your boneless rest.

as you've always been [pre-outbreak/no outbreak!joel miller x f!reader]

summary: Life didn't turn out the way you thought it would. the only things keeping you going are your daughter, the PTA, and the strong, steady presence of Joel Miller. Chaperoning an overnight field trip changes everything. Or: there are two beds, but you only need one. rating/warnings: E [themes of infidelity and motherhood, slow build-up, teen pregnancy, reader is a mom and wife, named daughter/named husband, emotionally unfulfilling marriage, extremely hot Joel Miller, girldad Joel Miller, flirty Joel Miller, look he’s a fucking dreamboat in this idk what to tell you, angst, fluff, smut, unprotected PIV, oral (f receiving), spitting, bossy/dom Joel, breeding kink if you squint] wc: ~9.3k a/n: Please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! This was written for moth & bird's mother's day challenge! It turned out much longer than I anticipated. I've never written infidelity or really anything to do with motherhood, so I hope I did it justice. Thank you to my @mothandpidgeon, and happy mother's day to her and all you beautiful mamas out there! Please enjoy Joel being a babe.

masterlist | joel miller masterlist

No one’s supposed to marry their high school sweetheart, not these days, no matter how many books or movies romanticize the idea. You’re supposed to go off to college and find a good job. That’s how your mother raised you—be independent, rely on yourself. 

When you got pregnant at seventeen in a small town in Texas, there were no options. You’d be having the baby and dealing with the consequences of your actions, as your mother said. She was furious for months, while your father stayed decidedly neutral. 

Rob wanted to get married immediately, and you didn’t see any other way. He was ecstatic, supportive; drove you an hour each way to all your Teen Parenting classes in Dallas. He found a job while you finished your high school education, walking across the stage eight months pregnant in June heat. 

And then the baby came. 

Casey was a blessing, but Rob was wholly uninterested in the harder aspects of fatherhood, as it turned out. He liked to come in and pick her up and snuggle her, but the moment the diaper needed changing he disappeared again. He worked long shifts for the electric company and brought home good money, so you tried not to complain or ask for too much help. 

It stayed that way. 

Rob was never mean or abusive, not in any way you could articulate, but it was like the boy you’d met in the tenth grade had disappeared completely by the time Casey turned two. He wanted dinner on the table and a clean house and a quiet kid. 

You were very good at playing the happy, if somewhat exhausted, housewife and stay-at-home mom, and he was very good at pretending he was happy with the life he’d insisted upon. The only thing that saved you from eventual mental collape once you moved with him to Austin for work was the Parent-Teacher Association, of all things. 

JOIN US WEDNESDAYS AT 7 PM, OPEN TO ALL

On the fourth day of Casey’s first grade year, a flier flew at your feet on the breezeway outside of her classroom after drop-off like a movie. Like fate. 

Rob seemed pleased that you’d found something to do. 

And so you went, hoping none of the other parents noticed how much younger you were than everyone else. Whether it was Austin’s more liberal mindset or if life had just made you seem older, you’re still not sure, but they welcomed you with surprisingly open arms. 

That’s how you met Joel Miller. 

He was on the younger side, about five years older than you, and ridiculously handsome. He stood out with, especially with the lack of other men in the room.

“He’s in PTA?” You’d asked Melissa, the new secretary who’d been going over membership qualifications. She’d glanced over her shoulder and laughed. 

“Kind of,” she’d said. “That’s Sarah Miller’s father. Joel. I think she’s in the same grade as Casey. He’s more of a floater. If we need him for heavy lifting, he shows, but he doesn’t come to many meetings.” Melissa had leaned toward you conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “He’s raisin’ that little girl all on his own. Her mama ran off to Europe with another man when she was a baby and never looked back. I hear she sends money every now and then. Can you imagine?”

You thought of Casey’s little hand wrapped around your index finger the day she was born. “No,” you said. “I can’t.”

It was a casual thing at first, just attending as an active parent, but the more years that went by the more involved you became. 

You didn’t have a conversation with Joel for an entire year. He was only around a little, just like Melissa said, and spent most of his time building when he did show up. H

Not that you could complain about that. Sometimes he brought his much more personable brother around and you got an eyeful of the beginning of every eighties porno. Especially when the weather got warmer. 

He was polite to you, at least. Maybe there were no conversations but he did smile and say, “Afternoon, ma’am.”

You tried to pretend you didn’t find him attractive; that you were happily in love with your successful, supportive husband. You even tried to make yourself believe that for another ten years. 

Ten very long years. 

You thought of going back to work, but who’d hire you? All you have is a high school diploma and your employment history consisted of three months at Burger King between your sophomore and junior years of high school.

So you make the most of it. You can focus on being the best mom you can be until Casey leaves for college, and then, when she’s out of the house, maybe things will be easier between you and Rob. 

So what if you never get to experience the kind of love or passion you read so much about? 

That doesn't exist. 

That’s why you don’t feel too bad about flirting with Joel. Just a little; just for fun. After your first real conversation with him over your coffee preference, he started to approach you more. 

Sometimes the other moms raised their eyebrows, but no one ever said anything. Except Melissa, but Melissa’s more concerned with finding reasons for you to spend time with him, like making you stay until ten at night to paint a set for the sixth grade play knowing good and well Joel Miller wouldn’t let you stay here doing that all on your own. 

It’s a safe crush to have. You only see him at school activities and soccer games, and Casey and Sarah have never really run in the same friend groups, so he has no reason to be in your life more than a few times a month for a few hours at a time. 

Then, the unthinkable happens. 

Casey asks if Sarah can spend the night.

“Sarah Miller?” You ask. This is a legitimate question. There are a lot of Sarahs in Casey’s eighth grade class. Sarah J, Sarah S, Sarah P, Sara with no ‘h’.

“Duh,” she says, all fourteen of her years showing at once. 

“Did she ask her dad?” 

“She said he’ll bring her over at six and pick her up in the morning. Please, Mom?”

You sighed and wiped your hands on a dish towel. Casey rarely asks for anything. 

“Y’all’ll both be needing to eat, I guess?” 

“Mister Joel said he’ll pay for pizza,” she says. You’re too tired to decline that. A night off cooking sounds too good to be true. 

“Is your room clean?”

“Technically—”

“Go clean up your room and take out the trash and she can stay over. Deal?”

Casey beams at you and disappears up the stairs—she’s never been more agreeable to a chore in her life. You forget to ask when she and Sarah became such good friends, but you doubt you’d get more than an eyeroll and a heavy sigh if you did. You’ll have to clean the living room and kitchen tonight rather than tomorrow, but that’s okay. As long as Casey’s happy. 

The doorbell rings at 6 pm precisely, and Casey streaks past you in a whirlwind of excitement. The girls scream like they haven’t seen each other in years. Casey grabs Sarah’s hand and pulls her into the house, straight past you and to her newly-cleaned room. 

Clean-ish, at least.

In Sarah’s absence, Joel Miller stands in the doorway with two large pizza boxes and two smaller boxes. It looks expensive, and you make a mental note to get some cash for him. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling at you as he steps over the threshold. There’s something uncanny about seeing him in your home—he’s only supposed to exist in a school building or on a soccer field. He’s not supposed to be real. 

You saw him once at a grocery store and fled before he could recognize you. He’s not supposed to be part of your life. 

“Hey there yourself. Come on in,” you say. You should’ve worn something more flattering. Just to be a good hostess, obviously. Not because you want him to want you. Not that he would want you. 

Right?

“Where can I set these down?” He asks, still holding the boxes. 

“Shit! Right in here.” You lead him into the kitchen and point to the breakfast nook. “Sorry for the mess, I’m still cleaning up.”

He glances around, one eyebrow raised. “I think me and you got different definitions of mess.”

You laugh. That’s not the first time you’ve heard that one.

“You got a lovely home,” he says, and it’s such a sweet compliment it catches you off guard. 

“Thanks. Girls!” You call. “Y’all gonna come eat?”

No answer. 

“Girls!” Joel shouts, so deep and loud it startles you. Sarah and Casey run into the kitchen giggling. “Come eat.”

“We’re in the middle of something,” Casey says. 

“Yeah, Dad,” Sarah confirms. “It’s important.”

“Sounds like trouble,” he says as he puts his hands on his hips. “Come eat this.”

“We will! Just a few minutes,” Sarah whines.

“It’s fine, really,” you say. “They can always heat it up in the microwave.”

Joel squints toward the stairs. “All right. S’long as Sarah behaves herself.”

You move to the cabinets and pull out some plates. “Would you want to stay and have some?”

He blushes. “That sounds good, ma’am, but I doubt your husband wants someone imposin’ on his night.”

“Rob?” You ask, like you’ve forgotten he exists. Which is not entirely wrong, honestly. “He’s out of town for work for the next couple of weeks.”

Joel’s face falls a little. “Oh,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t know that. Well, I still…I got a date in a little while.”

That should not make your heart sink, should not disappoint you so much that your daughter’s friend’s single father has a date, but it does. And you’re either crazy, or he looks a little disappointed, too. 

“You should really go get ready for that,” you say, but he lingers. Or you’re being delusional. “Go on, women don’t like it when men are late.”

He gives you a sweet smile, and you resist the urge to poke your finger right into that disarming little dimple. “Y’all have a good night. Let me know if you need anything, all right?”

“Thanks, Joel. And thanks for the pizza! I’ll get you some money—”

“That’s not necessary,” he says. “My treat.”

You envy the girl he’s taking out without shame, trying to remember the last time Rob took you anywhere at all. He always talked it up—saying he’d take you out to dinner at a nice place when he got back into town after being gone for a few weeks, but you know better these days. He’d get home and be too tired—not too tired to have sex, of course.

You eat your pizza and try not to think too much about it. Joel sprung for extra cheese. You don’t know why it makes you want to kiss him. 

This is a mess. 

After that night, Casey and Sarah are inseparable. They spend all their free time together, and when summer finally rolls around, Sarah becomes a staple at your house, despite Joel trying to drag her home every now and then. 

“I work late a lot,” he explains. “But her uncle can usually watch her if it’s too late. I just don’t want her imposin’ on your good hospitality.”

But you don’t mind at all. Sarah’s polite and cleans up her messes and is, to your delight, a very good influence on Casey. And you hate the idea of her sitting there alone until it’s late enough for her uncle to come over. 

“Let me give you some grocery money at least. The kid’ll eat you out of house and home if you let her. She’s a skinny little thing, but don’t let that fool you.”

He’d slipped a hundred dollar bill into your hand before you could protest. 

“Sarah says the shower in Casey’s room’s not workin’?”

You freeze, turning from your task of arranging the cupcakes for the Halloween carnival bake sale. 

“Uhhh.” 

There’s plenty of stuff not working around the house, but that one’s probably the most embarrassing. It’s been like that for a month now, and you’ve obviously had the girls use your shower instead, but your husband was supposed to fix it the last time he came home. 

He’d promised, but it just didn’t end up happening. Trying to find a plumber with an affordable rate and openings for non-emergencies was almost impossible. You’d tried to fix it yourself and ended up with water all over you, the bathroom, and two giggling teenagers who’d insisted on watching. 

That’d been earlier in the week, and Sarah had gone home wearing Casey’s clothes. Joel must have noticed. 

“Yeah,” you say, still clutching Cindy Malone’s famous raspberry buttercream cupcakes and trying to decode his tone. “Sorry, Rob hasn’t been home—”

“He was home for three weeks, wasn’t he? Sarah said it’s been a couple of months.” 

Joel Miller just has to pay attention, doesn’t he? 

You shift from one foot to another, not sure what he’s getting at with the scowl on his face. “Well, yeah, it’s just—I mean, I have another bathroom they use, and a plumber’s really expensive, so I didn’t think it was a big deal, but—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he says. “I’m not scoldin’ you, honey. Was just gonna ask if you’d let me come take a look at it. Sounds like a water pressure issue, and that’s simple enough.”

“Oh, um, that’s sweet, but it’s the end of the month and we’re strapped right now.”

“Ain’t chargin’ you for it,” he laughs. “One shower and three women in the mornin’ sounds like hell, and since Sarah’s usin’ it half the time I might as well help out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, finally setting down the cupcakes—which you suspect Cindy gets from a local gourmet bakery and pretends to have made—and looking down at your fingernails. “I don’t mind having Sarah over, really, she’s a good kid. You don’t owe me anything for that.”

Joel squints at you and rubs the middle of his brow with his thumb. “I know that, honey. I’m offerin’ because I want to.”

This goddamn crush. 

It’s only gotten worse since the girls became friends. In your heart you know you should tell him no, thank you; hire a plumber with Rob’s credit card and just deal with his foul mood later. 

But you accept. It’s too tempting to have your bathroom back. 

“And that’s Miss Honey to you,” you tease as he walks off. 

“My mistake, Miss Honey,” he says, holding his hand to his heart and bowing his head.

You are in trouble.

Joel is not the type of man who spends his time chasing married women. He’s not the type of man who chases women, period. He’ll ask once, maybe twice, but if she says no, he’s not one to push too hard, no matter how pretty she is. Before the girls became friends, it was easier to pretend he wasn’t chasing you.  

He never liked Rob. They met a few times when the man was actually in town during one of Casey and Sarah’s soccer games; watched him play the role of good dad as Casey’s eyes lit up, basking in the glow of a supportive father. 

It irks him, all this work you do and the credit that man gets. Joel reckons he knows more about Casey than Rob does, and he never could abide a man completely absent from his family. He almost loses it the day Rob tries to give Casey an apple slice in the middle of a game. 

“No thanks,” Casey says, like she doesn’t want to upset the man one of the few times he shows by just telling him the truth. 

“It’s good for you,” Rob insists. 

Joel stiffens, trying to let Casey handle it, trying not to get involved. He knows damn well the kind of reaction he could get from stepping in. 

“I don’t want it, Dad,” she says.

“You said you were hungry, eat,” Rob argues, his patience burning thin. 

“She’s allergic,” Joel says suddenly, squaring his shoulders. 

“Excuse me?” Rob asks.

“She is allergic,” Joel repeats. “Face swells up, throat closes up, whole thing.”

Who brought apples, anyway?

Rob, to his credit, doesn’t argue with Joel. Instead he turns to his daughter to confirm. “That true, sweetheart? Since when?”

“Since always,” she mumbles. 

You’re in the stands, watching the conversation. 

“Aw, baby, I forgot. I’m sorry,” he says. 

It’s not enough for Joel, a man not knowing about his kid’s allergies, but he tells himself it’s not his business. He’ll mention it to you, maybe, and you’ll handle it like you always do, but you deserve better. 

You try not to be alone with Joel, and you always fail miserably. It’s not just the physical attraction—and God, are you ever attracted to him—but he makes you laugh. He compliments your new shoes, your new hair, your new necklace. 

He notices. 

The other moms notice him noticing, of course. They ask, they giggle, they tell you he definitely has a thing for you. And you deny it—no, no, the girls are just friends so we see each other a lot. 

You don’t exactly shut the attention down when he gives it to you, though, even if you know you should. It’s not like Rob’s given you a compliment over something other than your cooking since Casey was in diapers. 

So you lap up Joel’s words; you let them wash over you, repeat them over and over in your head with a vibrator pressed to your clit, buried under the covers to dampen the sound. 

When’s the last time someone made you come? 

Joel could do it; you know he could. He could throw you around with those big strong arms, make you shudder with his lips on your neck, make you moan as his hand makes its way up your skirt.

You should’ve been paying better attention to the door. It was late in the afternoon, and just a few of the PTA had stuck around to help with decorations for Homecoming. 

Joel still didn’t come to meetings often, but as always, if there was work to be done and he had the time, he was there. Especially if you were there—and you were always there. 

This gym was unfamiliar to you. The girls had just started high school a couple of months ago. There’d been a glitter spill—there was always a glitter spill—and you needed a broom. The janitor’s closet was the obvious choice.

Joel followed behind you, insisting that he didn’t want you in a creepy closet all on your own at a new place, but you don’t know if you believe that even now. 

Something distracted Joel, and to this day he claims he doesn’t remember what it was, but the heavy metal door slammed shut behind it. 

“Well, shit,” he’d murmured. 

“Seriously?” You whined, ignoring his laugh as you jiggled the handle. “It’s locked. How is it locked? What if a kid gets stuck in here?”

“S’pose they ain’t supposed to be in here, anyway,” Joel said. He was far too relaxed for this situation, but his slow drawl kept you calm. 

“Yeah, teenagers are famous for following rules. I’m complaining,” you griped. “If Casey’s anything like I was in school she’ll be looking for these spots soon. I’d rather her not get stuck in one of these.”

“She’s fifteen,” Joel laughed. 

“Don’t I know it.”

You’d spent a couple of minutes hollering for help, but no one came. 

“Fuck,” you sighed. “Of course.”

Without the rustling of your movements to distract you, you finally noticed just how close he was; how tiny this little closet was. And it didn’t even have a broom. 

Joel, you think, realized the same thing at the same time you did.

The only light came from a crack between the door and the concrete flooring. You could just make out his face looming over you, and you sighed at just how handsome he was. 

“Hi,” you said, leaning back with your hands trapped between the door and the small of your back. As if that would keep you from reaching up and running your thumb over the patchy salt and pepper beard. 

“Hey, Miss Honey,” he said. He didn’t keep his hands behind his back. He got closer, in fact, resting one hand flat against the door beside your head, the other hovering in mid-air as though he was thinking of what to do next. 

Your shaky exhale was deafening in this tiny space. He rested his hand on your hip and you didn't protest. 

“Really a tight squeeze in here, huh?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” you said. 

“You all right?” He asked.

You had no answer for that. Your heart was beating out of your chest, but not from being locked in here. It’d been a long time since someone had been this close to you on purpose, leaning over you with less than innocent intentions. 

He wanted to kiss you, and you wanted him to kiss you.

“Someone in there?” 

His hand flew from your hip and you jumped apart in the tight space you had. 

“We’re in here!” You called. “Can you open the door?”

An amused custodian found you both rumpled and annoyed. “It locks from the outside,” you found yourself fussing, trying to distract from the situation. 

The custodian shrugged. “Kids don’t go in there. Take it up with the principal.”

“I will!” You said, and marched away, the feeling of Joel’s big hand burned on your waist. 

You’d started to suspect he hadn’t seen anything in there at all. 

You never mentioned that day in the closet to him, and he never brings it up, either. Joel half expected you to never speak to him again, but you go on with life like usual. Still your bright, beautiful self, no matter how tired you are.

He tries to ease that trouble, even if it’s inappropriate. He doesn’t really care what people have to say. 

Joel’s office phone rings, startling him awake from a nap he’d dropped off into. He works from home when he’s not out on a job, so he doesn’t have to worry about a boss catching him sleeping, but he’d rather not be nodding off at all. Sarah, however, had kept him up three nights in a row watching old spaghetti westerns. She’d fall asleep at ten, and he’d be up watching the damn thing under it was finished. 

“Hello?”

“Joel?” He smiles to himself. 

“Miss Honey?” 

You groan at the nickname. “Still?”

“Still.”

“Listen,” you continue, but he can hear the little smirk on your lips. “I hate to ask, but you know the girls’ game is in Houston this weekend?”

“Yep,” he says, glancing at his calendar. Sarah had drawn a little soccer ball on every game day. 

“I know I was supposed to take them, but my car’s in the shop and Rob’s still in the field. I’m in a loaner from the dealership, but I can’t take it out of town, and I know you just got that new truck with the backseats, so I thought maybe—”

“Of course,” he says, sitting up straight. “No problem, I can drive. I don’t have anything else.”

That is a lie. He has a date, another damn date with another perfectly nice woman who will fail to keep his mind off of you, but he might as well cancel. No sense in wasting her time. 

“I’d really wanted to go,” you sigh. 

“Got room in the truck for all of you,” he says. 

“Huh. I guess that’s true,” you say. “And you’d be okay with us all staying in a hotel room together?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You pause, then laugh. “I’m not sure.”

But he thinks he knows why. 

“I’ll pick you up Saturday mornin’,” he says. “Seven?”

“Sounds good. Thank you, Joel.” You sound so relieved it makes him sad. 

As if he was ever going to say no. 

You can count on one hand the number of times the earth has shifted under your feet, knocking you off kilter and sending you careening into some dark abyss. When you got pregnant, when your mother passed, when you realized it was really just you and Casey all on your own with or without a marriage certificate. 

This might be the time the dirt finally opens up and swallows you whole.

Nothing prepares you for what to do when you walk in on your husband of fifteen years balls deep in the new next door neighbor. Do you scream? Do you cry? Throw his clothes on the front lawn? Cause a scene?

You watch him for a moment as he slows his movements, the neighbor trying to hide her body and push him away before you see too much. You look away from her, give her some kind of dignity as she scrambles off his cock. 

She’s so young—not much older than you were when he got you pregnant. Barely twenty, if you had to guess. You should feel worse, you think, more heartbroken at the actions of this man you’d put your whole life on hold for, but the only thing bubbling in your chest is the stab of incandescent rage.

He has the audacity to chase behind you, tripping over his own feet as he tries to stuff his pathetically flagging cock into his khakis. 

“Baby, I can explain—” 

“Don’t you fucking dare, Robert,” you snarl. “What are you doing here? What if Casey had seen this?”

He winces, confirming he hadn’t thought of that at all. 

“You’re supposed to be in Houston,” he explains, handing you his phone to show you the texts. He’s right—you did, indeed, send the wrong date.

“Oh!” You laugh. “I’m so sorry! My fault! Next time I’ll be sure to send you the right days so you can fuck the new neighbor uninterrupted!”

You haven’t even introduced yourself to her yet. How had he met her?

It doesn’t matter—she’s fleeing from your house, and you doubt you’ll ever see her face again if she can help it. 

“Honey—” 

“Don’t call me that,” you snap. “I want you to get your shit and leave. Casey and I will be gone tomorrow and will come back Sunday. We’ll talk about it then.”

“But—”

“Leave.”

He doesn’t argue—of course not. You wish it was more of a relief; that your feelings weren’t all mixed up in the leftovers of first love and the only man you’d ever been with fucking someone else on a bed he barely sleeps in.

It hurts. 

You strip the sheets and throw them out, and when Casey gets home from soccer practice, you ask if she wants to go to Olive Garden. 

“Can Sarah come?” She asks. 

“Whatever you want, baby girl,” you say.

Joel has spent too much time wondering what’s on your mind to not notice something’s wrong. You’re quieter than usual as you and the girls pile into the truck, and even quieter on the way to check in at the school.

“Go sign yourselves in,” he tells the girls, and they run off, leaving him with you in the passenger seat, not saying a word. 

“Everything all right?” He asks gently. 

“Fine,” you sigh, but it’s definitely not fine. You look like you’re going to say something else, but the girls come back before you can. 

“Mommy,” Casey says, and Joel recognizes that tone. Sarah looks up at him, the picture of innocence. 

“What do you two want?” He asks suspiciously. 

“Why would you think we want anything?” Sarah asks, batting her eyelashes. 

“Spit it out, kid,” he says. “Ain’t got all day.”

Sarah scowls, her ruse . He chuckles to himself. 

Casey’s still trying. 

“Mommy, if Mister Joel says it’s okay, too, can me and Sarah ride with Tiffany Malone? Ms. Cindy says there’s plenty of room in her car.”

Uh-oh. 

He doesn’t have much issue with Cindy Malone, other than the occasional flirtatious comment he sidesteps with ease, but something about that woman irks the hell out of you. Your lips thin out, but hope sparks in his chest. 

He could have you alone for a while. 

Across the parking lot, Cindy Malone waves cheerfully from a very shiny new minivan. You sigh and step out of the truck. After a quick conversation you cannot run away from fast enough, Casey and Sarah grab their things, barely listening as you and Joel yell for them to behave. You bite your lip as you watch them climb into the van and shut the door behind them. 

Maybe he can get the truth out of you now. 

He circles the truck and opens the door for you.

“You ready?” He asks, leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. You turn to him, a little lost, and he stretches his hand out to you. “C’mon, Miss Honey. We ain’t got all day.”

You smile, eyes on the ground, but you take his hand and let him help you into the truck. 

“Thanks, Joel,” you murmur. 

Three hours. 

He has you all to himself for three hours.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You’re not usually in the passenger seat holding a set of directions printed from MapQuest as you keep an eye on the exits and hope there aren’t any detours or closed roads. On Texas roads, you know this is a lot to ask. 

“You hungry?” Joel asks, and you aren’t, really. You haven’t had much of an appetite since it happened. But you can feel yourself getting crabby and tired already, so you nod, and he pulls into a McDonald’s. 

He won’t let you pay. 

He got gas before he came to get you, too. 

Sneaky. 

Joel turns on the radio, some station playing inoffensive adult contemporary. It’s perfectly fine background noise, but you’d rather listen to pretty much anything other than Sheryl Crow right now. You glance around the front seat and twist to the back, bobbing your head like a meerkat until you find it. 

A big black CD case.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Joel asks. 

The case is weathered, like he’s had it for a long time, and at some point it looks like Sarah got ahold of it and painted little flowers all over with pink nail polish. You pull it to the front and he groans. 

“Half that is Sarah’s,” he warns. 

“Mmhm,” you say, unzipping it. “Worried I’m gonna judge your taste, Mister Miller?”

He chuckles. “Just sayin’.”

You flip through the cracked plastic casing, warm in the sun despite the chillier temperature. Some of them obviously belong to Sarah—Destiny’s Child, Britney Spears, TLC, Christina Aguilera—but Joel gets antsier the further back you go. 

“Not bad. Garth Brooks, classic. Trace Adkins. Toby Keith? Ugh. Nirvana. Three Doors Down? Hm. Ooooh, Linda Ronstadt. It’s not so bad in here, Joel.”

You keep flipping, finding mostly a mix of nineties country music and alternative rock, until you get toward the back and find what it looks like he’d been worried about.

Mix CDs. 

“Ohhhh my god,” you giggle.

Some are from Sarah, decorated in little flowers and labeled in her neat handwriting, and some are clearly just Joel’s attempt at organization—ROCK MIX #3—and you manage not to ask what happened to numbers one and two. 

Others, though, are not either of theirs, or Joel’s brother, for whom he blames the almost obscene amount of Linkin Park. “Y’aint done yet?” He asks, when you come upon one just labeled Joel with a heart instead of an ‘O’. 

“Dare I ask?”

He just scowls at you. 

“What happens if I try to play it?” 

You’re not really going to, but it’s too much fun, teasing him like this. You make a move to pull the CD from the case, and he moves just as fast, reaching one big hand over the middle of the truck bench and squeezing your knee. You shriek and drop the CD, giggling as he squeezes again. 

“Fuck, Joel, that tickles,” you gasp.

“I know it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. 

“Bastard.” You shove the disc back into its casing and close the binder, tossing it into the back where you found it. His hand lingers on your knee, drifting very slightly up your thigh before he pulls back. “I’ll find out one way or another.”

You stretch out, suddenly more comfortable than you probably should be after that little bit of physical contact. Your gaze drifts to his fingers wrapped tight around the wheel, calloused from his work, and wonder—not for the first time—what they’d feel like on your bare skin. 

Joel is very careful around you. He’s only touched you a few times in all the years you’ve known him, and never so casually as he just had. You set your hand on the seat beside you, palm down, pinky finger twitching with nerves. He glances over, just out of the corner of his eye, grunting as traffic slows to a crawl in front of you an hour outside of Dallas.

You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?” He asks.

You shrug. 

Solid, calloused warmth engulfs your hand. He squeezes it, drawing your full attention, those big brown eyes full of sincerity. “I’m serious. Something’s wrong. Know you better than you think I do.”

You don’t move his hand, even though you probably should. Instead you flip your palm up, breath catching in your chest as he interlocks his fingers with yours. Electricity crackles between your palms, and his big thumb strokes the back of your hand. 

Safe.

He makes you feel so safe. Safe enough to ignore the guilt, safe enough to open your mouth and give him what he asks for. 

“I want to tell you,” you say. “But I can’t right now. Not yet.”

“Is it Rob?” He asks. His jaw clenches at your husband’s name. You don’t answer, and he nods. “All right, Miss Honey. You let me know when you feel like talkin’. I got all the time in the world for you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, leaning over to turn up the radio. 

He only moves his hand—reluctantly—as he gets into the city. You read off the directions, and for once, the roads give you a break. 

The last thing you want is to leave this truck, to be away from him, but parenthood waits for nothing, not even the smallest crackle of something new. 

Watching Joel with both of them, you let yourself dream. Casey with a present father; Casey with a sibling you always meant to have. You shove the guilt, the dread, the anger, all of it, as far down as it’ll go. 

The most painful part, you think, as your daughter runs and kicks and yells with the kind of uproarious joy only children have, is knowing that you wouldn’t change a single thing if it meant you never had her. 

You’re too exhausted to even think of saying no when the girls ask to stay in Tiffany’s room. Cindy Malone got adjoining rooms, apparently, because of course she did. 

“Behave, please,” you tell Casey. You always tell her that, and she always does, and you tell her you love even if she didn’t behave, too. And she rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue, and you have to tell her that her father slept with another woman and that’s why he’ll be around even less. 

Fuck. 

You watch Joel lug the girls’ bags five doors down from your room, and it hits you as Casey waves from the doorway and leaves Joel in the hallway that you will be alone with him again. 

All night long. 

Something soft and needy catches in your chest as he makes his way back to you. He’s always been beautiful, and you’ve always had to deny, deny, deny. 

You open the door and wait for him. 

The room is only lit by the dying sunlight filtering through white curtains. It looks like every other economy hotel you’ve ever stayed in, two queen beds with lumpy-looking pillows and scratchy bedspreads. When you and Casey (and rarely, Rob) travel you almost always bring spare comforters, but you’d had other things on your mind today. 

 Joel shuts the door. Your back is turned to him, and you can feel him hovering behind you, waiting. 

“Honey,” he says softly, and you turn around, heart hammering in your chest as you close the gap between the two of you and press your lips to his. 

He’s not a gentleman, thank God. He doesn’t try to stop you, just cradles your jaw in his big hands and lets your tongue slide across the seam of his lips. Joel yields easily, and he feels so different from the only thing you’ve ever known. 

Joel tastes like Chapstick and spearmint. He smells like Old Spice deodorant, and you want to bury your nose in his skin and inhale that and only that forever. His mouth on yours is soft and plump, and you finally lick the divot on his bottom lip just like you always wanted.

His hands slide over your shoulders and down your waist, and for a while you just kiss him, panting and moaning, lost in this feeling until he pushes you gently toward the bed. You just barely find the strength to press one hand to his chest and he freezes, pulling his lips from yours. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

“It’s…look, I think you should probably know something,” you sigh, sitting on the too-firm mattress. He sits next to you and turns his body so that your knees touch, waiting for you to speak with pinched eyebrows. “I found Rob with another woman yesterday afternoon. Like, inside her.”

“Jesus Christ.” His nostrils flare out like an irritated bull, and he clenches one fist open and closed. “You tellin’ me he came home early to fuck another woman on your bed?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “I sent him the wrong date for the trip. He was trying to be discreet, I guess. That’s why I’ve been upset, and why I…you know I’m not…”

“I know,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll get another room if—”

“No,” you interrupt him, and he falls silent. “No, I don’t think I want you to get another room.”

“What do you want?”

The air’s heavy again. “I’m a mess, Joel. And I’m angry. I’m so angry. I wish I was sad or heartbroken or anything else, but I’m just mad. I spent my whole life raising his child and waiting for him to come around, just so he could fuck the twenty-year-old neighbor.”

He curls his finger under your chin and looks at you with those big eyes. “I don’t blame you for that,” he says. He opens his mouth, then closes it. After a pause he continues, “You could get back at him.”

You cock your head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you could…s’just us in here. And you gotta know I think you’re fuckin’ gorgeous by now,” he says. His voice is low and soothing, like warm water pouring over your skin. “You could use me.”

You part your lips, saliva pooling in your mouth as you process his proposal. You should say no, probably, because what if this ruins everything? What if it’s weird, what if it affects the girls, what if he doesn’t like you with your clothes off? 

“When’s the last time you had someone’s mouth on you, Miss Honey?” He asks softly. You shiver and dip your head down—it’d been years since Rob had done anything as risqué as go down on you. “Uh huh. Thought so. Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’ll make it good.”

You don’t doubt it. He kisses you again, hungrier this time, one hand curling around your hip and squeezing. 

“Let me take your clothes off,” he murmurs. 

So you do. He undresses you slowly, like he’s savoring the moment, until you’re naked in front of him. You try not to think too hard about your body, about how wet you are, about how you never quite managed to lose that last bit of baby weight even now. He doesn’t seem worried about any of it.

“Prettier than I even imagined,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. How often had he imagined? 

There’s a growing bulge in his jeans. He spreads his legs and holds out his hands. “C’mere, mama, lemme see you.”

“You got all your clothes on,” you sigh as he rests his hands on your hips and kneads the soft flesh. 

“You want me to take my shirt off?” He grins at you, teasing you, and you do—you really, really do. You tug on the fabric instead, pulling it over his head with no resistance. You push him down to the bed, rougher than you mean to, but he looks at you with pupils blown wide and you don’t think he minds it at all. 

You’re not sure what you’re doing, really, just that you want to explore. Sex with your husband is wash, rinse, repeat, and you want to see if Joel can do all those things you thought he could; if he’ll let you be needy and desperate and maybe a little domineering. 

The outline of his cock sits right underneath you where you straddle him, and you give one curious roll of your hips. It feels good. He bares his teeth as you grind down. “Goddamn, you’re sexy.”

It feels good, pressing yourself against him like this, like he’s all for you to use how you please, but you want him naked. If this is the only time, you want him naked, inside of you, all of him, so you unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans. He sits up and pulls you even closer, pressing sloppy kisses against your lips. 

“Let me get it, baby,” he says against your mouth. “These damn boots are a pain in the ass. Go get comfortable for me.”

You really like when he calls you baby.

He doesn’t let you go immediately, too busy kissing you and massaging your tits in his big hands, but eventually he rolls you over on your back. “Get up there,” he orders, pointing to the pillows. You waste no time obeying. 

He’s right—those work boots don’t come off easy—but eventually he’s pulling off his jeans and you’re biting your lip at his thick, strong thighs and chest hair, drooling over the hair that trails down his soft belly into the dark thatch of curls.

You expect his cock to be big—you don’t know why, you just do—and you’re pleased to see that you’re right. It’s gorgeous, too, leaking precome as he grabs the base and pumps himself while he stares at your body. There’s something so primal about his expression, like he’s a wolf that’s come upon the loneliest little deer.

“Show me how you like it,” he says, crawling up between your legs and kneeling. Your breath hitches at his implication—you don’t even remember the last time you touched yourself in front of someone else. He picks up on your hesitation. “You don’t need to be shy around me, baby. Been thinkin’ about this for a long time.”

Your lips part in surprise, and your legs follow suit. “How long?” 

“You touch yourself and I’ll tell you,” he says. Your fingers glide down to your pussy and he gives you a satisfied hum. “Good girl. Relax for me.”

Your head reclines, eyes closing as you dip your fingers between your slick, puffy lips and rub circles around your swollen clit. “That’s it,” he murmurs. 

“Tell me,” you demand. His encouragement makes you brave. “Tell me how long.”

“That night we stayed late paintin’ that set. Wanted to make you scream my name instead,” he admits. Your eyes fly open at the sounds of his tugging on his cock in earnest, soft slaps of skin filling the room. For the first time in what has to be years, the only thought in your head is this feeling and the way Joel’s lip is curled, his eyes not sure where to rest.

“Joel,” you sigh, and he grits his teeth. 

“Let me taste you,” he says, stroking himself slowly.

“Oh,” you say. “You don’t have to do that. I know that’s not…I know men don’t really like that.”

Joel stops, frowning, and he’s quiet for just long enough that you start to squirm. You’d said something wrong already, embarrassed yourself already. You pull your hand away from yourself, waiting for him to tell you this was a bad idea after all. 

He sets his hands on your knees and rubs his thumbs back and forth, face softening. You still can’t read his face. 

“Why would you think something like that?” He asks quietly. 

“Well…I mean, that’s what Rob said,” you tell him, stomach churning at having to mention his name at all. “He said…he said that no one really wants to do that.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. “Sounds like he don’t wanna do that to me,” Joel says. “Because let me tell you what I want, all right? All I want is to bury my face in that perfect little pussy. Wanna make you come all over my tongue. And then I wanna make you come again, and again, and again all over my cock. You gonna let me do that, Miss Honey?” 

He inches down your thighs with each whispered word, lips brushing against your skin until his face is level with your cunt, clenching around nothing. “Hm?” He prompts. 

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes, please do that.”

Joel chuckles, cupping your ass with his big hands and squeezing as he slides his thumbs up and down the sides of your lips and pulls gently, opening you up and sighing as he just looks at you. 

Your legs shake, cheeks burning—you don’t think anyone has ever been this close to you, not even when you had Casey. You swallow all the insecure questions dancing on the tip of your tongue—is it okay, do I look good, do you like it? 

“Shh,” he murmurs, squeezing with his thumbs, the pressure sending shockwaves through your body. “Just feel it.”

Warm saliva dribbles from his mouth onto your pussy and you writhe at the obscenity of it. “I’m gonna make you come,” he warns. 

His tongue, soft and wet, licks at your clit, zoning in on just the right amount of speed and pressure, and he barely comes up for air. Your hands find their way to his curls and he moans at the little tug, louder when you pull. 

It’s never been like this; the bedsheets are drenched, and you’re not sure if it’s your arousal or his saliva, or vulgar mixture of both. 

One thick finger circles your entrance, and you gasp as he slips inside. “Fuck,” he grunts. “You feel so fucking good.”

But it’s nothing compared to the way he feels. 

You can’t help it—you bear down, fucking yourself against him, and all you can hear are his grunts and the squelch of him pushing in and out and in again, until he adds a second finger. Some thin, reedy noise comes straight from your chest as he curls his fingers up and toward himself, sending pleasant tingles from your cunt all the way to the tips of your fingers. 

You’ve never been able to reach this far yourself. 

“Joel,” you whimper. He doesn’t answer, too busy latching his plump lips around your clit and sucking. You can feel your body tense up, muscles clenching as he holds you in place with his unoccupied arm. 

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

Your moans come out all high and breathy, with star showers in your peripheral vision and hips bucking against him as he tries to hold you down. He’s traded his fingers for his tongue, lewd groans vibrating against your cunt. Your slick release drips onto him, and he spends a moment with his forehead pressed to your mound, kissing your pussy in a beautifully reverent way. 

You come back down to Earth still panting to find him hovering over you with slick lips and lust-blown eyes. He smiles at you, peppering kisses on your forehead and eyelids before he presses his lips to yours. 

You expect him to push his cock inside of you now, take his pleasure after giving you yours, but he doesn’t. “How do you want my cock, honey?” He asks. 

Oh. 

That’s a question Rob stopped asking years ago. 

You swallow harshly—you know exactly what you want. You shouldn’t, maybe. You should want to see him for your first time, should offer to suck his cock before—God knows you’d love to get your mouth around it—but that’s not what you want. What you want is for him to pound you so hard you’ll have trouble walking.

“Behind,” you whisper. His mouth slackens, eyelids fluttering with desire. 

“Turn over,” he grunts.

You can feel him looking at you again on your hands and knees, spreading your ass cheeks apart and spitting there, too. He’s so nasty it makes you clench. He says nothing, just grunts and pushes his cock into you with embarrassing ease.

You learn that Joel is noisier than you thought he’d be. You thought he’d be quiet, with a grunt here or there, but you’re wrong. He matches your noise level, hissing and moaning as he slams into you from behind. 

“Perfect—little—pussy-”

He praises you, calls you a good girl every time you grind back to meet his hips. The room smells like sweat and sex, and in the back of your mind, you think you might have to send Cindy Malone a thank you card. 

“Arch that back for me, sweetheart, that’s it—just—like—that—”

He hits something deep inside of you, encourages you with his fingers curled around your thighs, pulling you against him. Your second orgasm takes you by surprise, gentler than the first but just as pleasurable, and his grunts as your throb around him are drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. It’s like being underwater.

Your legs are shaking, and Joel notices, murmuring, “On your tummy, baby.” 

You like when he tells you what to do. 

He spreads your legs a little further, draping himself over you and holding himself up with his forearms. His face is buried in your neck, grunting and sweating and whispering your name. 

“Where do you want me, baby?”

You’re both old enough to know better, and it doesn’t stop you. Disconnecting from him now is not an option. “Inside,” you sigh. 

He comes with a long growl, biting your shoulder and grinding deep, deep inside of you, pumping you so full of himself you can feel it start to leak out halfway through. It’s like he’s trying to get you pregnant, trying to make sure it takes, and even though you know that’s not in the cards or even appropriate to think about, something about it sends a thrill of need up your spine. 

It takes a moment for everything to go still, for Joel to stop running his tongue over the teeth marks he’d imprinted earlier. He doesn’t move immediately, just stays inside of you until it’s too much. You can feel him pouring out of you as he does, cooling rapidly between your legs. 

He rolls you over, still panting. “You okay?” He asks, and you nod. “Hang on. Be right back.”

Joel leaves you on the bed, naked and dripping, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. He comes back quickly with a washcloth and cleans you, gentle and warm between your legs. He discards on the floor and wraps his arms around you. Neither of you speak. 

Emotions bubble in your gut, guilt and relief and freedom and anger all swirling around inside you. Tears prick the corners of your eyes and you let out a long, loud sob. 

Joel doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t let go—he holds tighter, says nothing. He kisses your shoulder and rocks you back and forth, and it just makes you cry harder. You don’t know the last time someone held you like some delicate thing deserving of comfort, and it makes your chest tight and your stomach ache. 

You sob and sob and sob; everything breaks, finally, years of frustration and restlessness and unworthiness at the hands of the father of your child, swaddled tight in the arms of a man who has waited. “Joel,” you choke out. 

“Yeah?” He asks softly. 

“I don’t want to use you.”

“I know.” He nuzzles your shoulder, waiting for you to finish. 

“But I can’t—I can’t just jump into something. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do now. I don’t know if I can be what you would want, or need, and I’m so scared. I’m so fucking scared—”

Joel shushes you, gently; not interrupting, just calming your spiraling thoughts.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” he says. “I got nothin’ but time. You’ll get through it, and I’ll be right here. Whatever you need.”

You look at him, lips parted. Is he serious? 

“You have enough going on. I can’t ask you to do that,” you say. You felt bad enough for asking him to drive this weekend. 

“Didn’t say you had to ask. I got you. I got Casey, too. S’gonna be fine. You’re amazing, baby. Too bad that sorry motherfucker can’t see it. You let me know what you need,” he says. 

“But—”

“Honey,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Miss Honey, sweetheart, I been waitin’ for you for a long time, and that’s just how it is. I don’t expect nothin’ from you, but I’ll be here regardless. You understand?”

His eyes are wide, sincerer than you’ve ever seen him. 

“What if you don’t really like me? Rob didn’t really like me,” you whisper, your worst fear slipping out and hanging in the air. 

“His loss. I like you just fine. I—” 

He stops, and you thank God he does. It’s too delicate right now. You believe him, you might even feel the same, but you can’t do it right now. 

“Let me help you,” he says quietly. 

Help. 

It was a new concept after doing everything on your own for the last fourteen years.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay, Joel Miller. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You let me listen to that CD.”

He nuzzles you. “Hope you like Careless Whisper, darlin’.”

You’ll have to face everything in the cold light of day. You’ll have to tell Casey as much as is age appropriate. You’ll have to find a lawyer, a new place to live, a job. You’ll have to explain to your family that, yes, they were right all along. But for now it’s still dark, and Joel’s still nuzzling the back of your neck, and you smell like him, like leather and wood chips. 

And you are safe.

dividers and support banner by @saradika-graphics

'roommates' masterlist

Pairing: pornstar!joel x f!reader

Series Summary: Your roommate, Maria, introduces you to her boyfriend's brother. You hit it off immediately, but when you find out the true nature of his profession, you both decide to remain just friends. But once the four of you eventually move in together, things get... complicated.

-or-

A lovers to friends to lovers fic

Series Warnings: no outbreak AU, language, smut (18+ MDNI), slow burn, cigarette use, some descriptions of porn (obviously), angst, mutual pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, infidelity (reader cheating on OC), alcohol use

Status: in progress

A/N: this idea hit me when I was reading @shellshocklove's I Wanna Be Your Lover. If you haven't had the pleasure, I recommend you reading it. It is a great story and very well written.

Chapters:

1. you're joking, right?

2. sparks on the Fourth of July

3. fun in the sun

4. swipe right

5. roll the dice

6. pitching a tent

7. jack and jill

8. forever

9. hold onto each other

10. home

Asks/BTS/Inspo/Extras:

Joel's Likes/Dislikes

Floor Plan

lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

Roommates | 7. jack and jill

Pairing: pornstar!joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: You and Joel organize Tommy and Maria's bachelor and bachelorette party together, making it the first time you've spoken to each other since you moved out.

Chapter Warnings: language, discussions revolving mental health and therapy, insecurity issues, anxiety, angst, alcohol and food consumption, idiots in love but won't admit it, cigarette use, one bed couch trope

WC: 6.8K

Series Masterlist

Five Months Later

Everything was fine. Everything was going to be fine. There was no need to be nervous.

Okay, so you were going back to the house for the very first time since you moved out. You didn't count the time last month when you idled in the driveway in your car, waiting to pick Maria up to go to her dress fitting. You avoided it as much as you could, but eventually she asked you to come over to help with wedding planning. She wanted to look over the seating chart and because it was so big and she insisted on making a physical floor plan instead of a digital one, she guilted you into coming to the house.

You didn't have the nerve to ask if Joel would be there, but when you pulled up to the house, your stomach doing cartwheels and threatening to bring up your breakfast, Joel's truck was gone.

Relief and disappointment flooded you all at once.

When you approached the front door, your hand hovered over the doorknob. Should you knock? Do you just walk in? You stood there a minute too long, going back and forth, undecided, until the door swung open with Maria standing on the other side.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

She rolled her eyes and opened the door wider. "Don't be weird," she told you as you slid past her into the familiar hall to kick off your sneakers.

Although the house was generally the same, it felt different now.

"Is anyone home?" you asked timidly as you followed her into the kitchen to grab some drinks.

"Tommy's got work," she replied, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. You took a deep breath and inwardly groaned. She was really going to make you work for it.

"And... Joel?"

She stopped and looked at you like you were speaking another language. "Have you still not spoken to him?"

You chewed on your lower lip and her shoulders sagged.

"C'mon, you promised us you would work things out before you left."

"We will! I've just been... busy, I guess."

"It's been months. You need to talk to him," she scolded, brushing past you as she headed to the dining room table where her seating chart was all spread out. "We're getting close to the big day and you guys need to plan our Jack and Jill."

You cocked an eyebrow at her and took the glass she extended your way. "Jack and Jill?"

"Yeah, y'know, where the bachelor and bachelorette parties join into one big party?" You must have looked confused because she frowned and popped her hand on her hip. "I mentioned this three months ago."

"I know, I know, I just forgot."

"You need to get your shit together. You're my maid of honor! I need you."

"I will, I promise," you said firmly, taking a sip of wine. "I'll text him tomorrow and I'll set something up so we can start planning."

She eyed you up for a moment before dropping into a chair with a sigh. "Thanks. Sorry, I know this is tough but you guys gotta work things out. You're both too important to us."

"We will. Don't even give it another thought." You sat down across from her and glanced around while she opened up a notebook with her guest list. "So, where is he?"

"Well, if you would have called him in the past five months, you would know he moved out."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "When?"

"Like, two months ago, I think."

"Good. That's... good. Good for him."

"He bought a house."

You nearly choked on your wine. "He did?"

She nodded and bit back a grin. "A lot of things have changed. You'd be surprised."

"What's that mean?" you asked with a frown. She just shrugged.

"You'll have to talk to him and find out."

You tossed a piece of popcorn across the table at her and she giggled. "Enough about Joel. Let's get down to business. Like where am I going to put my Aunt Cathie when she refuses to speak to anyone on my side of the family?"

You tapped your chin and looked down at the poster. "Kitchen?"

In hindsight, picking a coffee shop was a bad idea. You were nervous enough as it was, the last thing you needed was extra caffeine. But still you found yourself sitting at a small table by the window twenty minutes before you were supposed to meet Joel, tapping your foot anxiously on the tile floor and turning around every time one of the doors opened.

To kill time, you stared down at your texts from earlier in the week, rereading them over and over, trying to pick up on his energy so you could get an idea of what you were walking into.

Hey

Then, two painful hours later:

Hey

I was hoping we could meet up sometime soon if you're free? Maria not so subtly pointed out we need to plan their Jack and Jill party.

You remembered at the time, the little text bubbles appeared and disappeared over and over, as if he were changing his mind until he finally sent:

Sure. Thursday?

Thursday works. Java Joint on third?

I can swing by after work around 4

Okay - looking forward to it :)

Then... nothing.

Maybe the smiley face was overkill.

You drained the last of your iced latte and got up to throw it in the trash. When you sat back down at your table, a flurry of activity caught your attention through the window. Three girls were bouncing on their heels and giggling into their palms, grabbing each other's shoulders with their phones in their hands as they spoke to none other than Joel fucking Miller. He had his sunglasses on and a white Henley shirt, the material stretching across his broad chest and arms. Paired with the confident smirk on his face, he looked devastatingly good. You watched with a twist of envy in your chest as the girls all took selfies with his arm wrapped around their shoulders before he finally jutted his thumb towards the coffee shop and gave them a final wave, turning on his heel and then heading in your direction. Once his back was turned, the girls collectively lost their shit while looking down at their pictures, but you couldn't pay them any more attention because Joel was about to walk through the door.

Butterflies burst in your stomach when he pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, locking eyes with you, and suddenly it felt like no time had passed at all. Memories of watching movies with your feet tucked under his thigh and making dinners together flashed before your eyes while you forced yourself to give him a shy wave.

He simply nodded in return and motioned towards the counter, indicating he was getting something to drink, and when his gaze finally left yours in favor of reading the menu, you let yourself fully take him in. He looked really fucking good. Something was different but you couldn't put your finger on it. Healthier, maybe? Or maybe he just looked happier now without all the stress you brought into his life.

He must have said something flirty to the barista because she giggled and the tips of her ears turned red and, after he paid, he sauntered down the counter, casually resting his elbow on the hard surface while scrolling his phone.

From the look of it, he was no where near as nervous as you felt, which just made your anxiety spike more.

The barista slid his coffee across the counter with a wide smile and he gave her a wink before turning to weave his way through the tables. You straightened up as he approached and tried to look normal.

"Hi."

He sat down across from you, putting his coffee down with a grunt. "Hey."

Your heart was practically wedged in your throat and your fingers wouldn't stop tapping nervously on the table.

"H-how are things?"

He shrugged and took a sip from his cup. "Alright. Busy."

He was looking everywhere but your eyes. You supposed you deserved that, but it still stung.

"How's work?"

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "We don't gotta do this, y'know."

"Do what?"

"This," he said, waving his finger back and forth between you. "We can be civil for the sake of Tommy and Maria but we don't gotta pretend this is somethin' it ain't."

You tried to hide the hurt from your eyes but he must have clocked it because he pinched the bridge of his nose and made a frustrated sound.

"Don't gimme that look."

"I'm not," you replied defiantly, staring down at your fingers now. "I'm sorry, Joel. For all of it."

"You made that pretty damn clear when you left."

Your eyes snapped up to him as he took another sip from his coffee and looked around the café. Then your gaze fell onto the writing on his cup: a name with a phone number and a little heart and your stomach rolled but you took a deep breath, just like you practiced, and let it go.

"I didn't leave because I regretted it," you whispered. His eyes finally landed on you, patiently waiting for you to speak again. "I left because I couldn't stay away from you."

His eyes softened but he remained quiet, so you took a shaky breath in and continued.

"I needed time to think over what I did and why I did it and what I really want," you nervously began to shred your straw wrapper as you spoke. "And I couldn't do that with you so goddamn close because there's just something about you that drives me fucking crazy."

His lips twitched. "Crazy in what way?"

You sighed and slumped down in your chair. "Crazy as in every time I see you I want to kiss you and laugh with you and tell you about my day and just... be near you."

"Then why the hell didn't you wanna try 'n make it work?"

"Because of your job," you groaned pathetically, knowing full well you sounded like a broken record. "It's not your fault, Joel, it's mine. I have... issues. But I'm working on it. I've started seeing a therapist-"

"What issues?" he pressed.

"Jealousy, insecurity, self-doubt, anxiety... you name it."

He took a deep breath and readjusted in his chair so he was facing you instead of the café. "I didn't know you were goin' through all that. Is it helpin'?" he asked softly, and for the first time you thought you heard the Joel you used to know.

"Yeah, but it's hard," you replied. "It takes a lot of work to change the way you think and react to something. But I'm trying. Really, I am. Because-" you took a deep breath and raked your fingers through your hair. "No one makes me happy the way you made me happy. And I really, really fucking miss you." Tears welled up in your eyes that you quickly blinked away. Crying in the middle of a coffee shop was not on your list of things to do that day.

"What are you tryin' to tell me?" he asked, dropping his head so he could catch your eye. "Hm? Say it."

"I know I blew my chance with you and I don't deserve another one, but can we please try to be friends again?"

His gaze bounced back and forth between your eyes, studying your expression before slowly straightening up in his seat. "Friends?"

You nodded weakly, your lips pressed into a thin line.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered it.

"What'll that look like?"

You frowned and gave him a little shrug. "Joke around. Inquire about each other's lives. Help each other out. Be supportive of one another."

He nodded along as you listed everything off with a confused look on your face, unclear as to why he was asking you to define friendship. "That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"That's all you want?"

And there it was again: that undeniable pull, that undercurrent of tension bonding you together, making you question every word and every look.

"Yes," you finally answered quietly. It was a lie, of course, but you were too scared to put yourself fully out there. You already felt vulnerable enough with what you confessed and you couldn't stand the rejection if you told him the truth.

He ticked his jaw to the side and you could have sworn in that moment, he saw right through you. But maybe you were wrong, because his next words were -

"Alright, then. Let's be friends."

Your eyes lit up as he pulled out his phone and opened his calendar app.

"Thank you, Joel."

He nodded without looking up. "What weekend were you thinkin' for this party?"

"So you two kissed and made up?"

You scowled at Maria over the aisle at a local florist.

"We did not kiss, thank you."

She grinned and rolled her eyes before picking up a deep pink carnation. "It's a figure of speech, but you never know."

"Things are fine. I mean, they aren't like they were before, I doubt it ever will be, but you have nothing to worry about. We can be in the same room together without anything getting weird. I don't like that one," you added when she picked up a red poppy. She plunked it back down in the bucket and kept browsing.

"Good. And how's the party planning?"

"Really good, we're almost all done. I just need to pick up the shirts and the favors and we should be good to go."

"I can't thank you enough for organizing this for us, I'm so excited! It's gonna be the best weekend ever," she gushed, picking up a few other flowers in similar shades of pink.

"Well, hopefully your actual wedding will be a better weekend, but I appreciate the sentiment," you giggled.

"How are we doing ladies? Do you have any questions?" asked the florist, an older man who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Maria launched into a laundry list of questions and you grinned before leaning against the register and pulling out your phone. You had to actively stop yourself from opening up your text chain with Joel. In the past, aside from Maria, he was your person. He was the one you always texted silly things to whenever you were bored or lonely. Even though he agreed to be friends again, it had yet to feel the same. In fact, you still hadn't seen him since that day in the coffee shop. You had managed to do all the planning for the Jack and Jill over the phone, but you didn't want to tell Maria that. Something told you she would want you to try harder with him and you were too nervous to stick your neck out there. The shame you harbored for the way everything fell apart after the camping trip was too great.

"You wanna grab lunch?" she asked once she was done going over in excruciating detail the flowers she wanted in each bouquet and centerpiece.

"God, yes."

There was a nearby Mexican place you both loved so you ordered a couple margaritas while you waited for your food.

"Can I ask you a question that I've been dying to know the answer to but wanted to get you loosened up on booze first?"

You quirked an eyebrow at Maria and nodded hesitantly.

"Have you talked to Sam?"

You closed your eyes and groaned.

"Very briefly, only once. About a month after... you know."

She sipped her drink and nodded. "And?"

"It went about as well as you could expect. I tried to apologize but he was so hurt, I think I just made things worse."

"Thank god he got that new job. The timing couldn't have been better," she said, then winced when she saw the look in your face. "I'm sorry, I just meant at least you didn't have to worry about work being a factor. You had enough going on as it was."

"I know what you meant, it's okay," you assured her.

Maria stirred her drink with her straw for a moment, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence while you listened to Latin music over the speakers and blankly watched some soccer match that was muted on the TV over the bar.

"Can I ask you another messy question?" she finally asked. You grinned and shrugged.

"Go for it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and dropped your gaze to the table. "What was I gonna say? 'Oh, by the way, I'm fucking your boyfriend's brother behind my boyfriend's back?' You would have slapped me."

She laughed and leaned back in her seat to make room for the sizzling fajitas that got placed down in front of you both. She eagerly picked one up and began to pour salsa and sour cream on top before she spoke again.

"I don't think I would have slapped you, but I definitely would have made you to dump Sam and get with Joel."

"Yeah, that's not something I would have wanted to hear," you told her with a laugh.

"So," she said, wiping some sour cream from the corner of her mouth, "you didn't wanna date him because of his job, but fucking him was okay?"

You paused your chewing and gave her a blank stare. "What happened didn't make a ton of sense, but I can tell you this much: I was in deep denial over what was happening with Joel. I told myself it was just a friends with benefits thing and it didn't mean anything, but there's just something about him that I can't describe. Like we have some connection that's impossible to ignore, or something? Even the annoying things about him make me smile. I know I sound crazy, I'll shut up," you said when you noticed the incredulous look on Maria's face.

"Girl, you love him."

You balked and nearly choked on your taco. "No."

"Yes."

You shook your head and took a big sip from your margarita. "I care about him deeply but I'm not in love with him."

Maria widened her eyes in disbelief and looked back down at her food. "Okay... just sounds to me like something more."

You quickly changed the subject to her wedding dress, which easily distracted her while you let what she said about Joel marinate. Were you in love with Joel? Is that why you couldn't let Sam in? Were you that blind?

In the end, you decided to let it go. It didn't matter, anyway. What you had with Joel was over, and after the way things ended, you couldn't imagine a situation where he would ever want to give you another chance, assuming you could get past all your insecurities surrounding his profession. Therapy was helping, but you had a long way to go, and ultimately you were seeking help to better yourself overall, not to make things work with Joel.

Maria had told you Joel bought a house but for some reason, you imagined it was a small ranch house somewhere, not a gorgeous two-story relatively new build. Or so, it looked new as you walked up the driveway and stared at the new black roof and white siding. You could feel your heart beginning to beat faster the closer you got to his front porch, gripping the brown paper bag at your side with sweaty fingers.

Stop it, you're just leaving the shirts at his door, there's no need to be nervous.

You climbed the creaky wooden steps and looked at the two Adirondack chairs with a table in between and suddenly you felt a pit form in your stomach. Two?

Why hadn't it occurred to you before now that he could be seeing someone? What if he was bringing her as a date to the wedding?

Stop. It. Drop the bag and fucking go.

You nestled the paper bag behind one of the chairs and turned to leave when you heard the front door squeak open.

"What're you doin'?"

You closed your eyes and silently cursed to yourself before spinning around with a forced smile on your face, only to have it immediately slip with you saw Joel had greeted you completely shirtless with his hair a disheveled mess.

Shit.

"Hey, I'm, uh, just dropping off the shirts for the guys," you pointed to the paper bag, his eyes following your finger.

He opened the screen door, stepping out to pick it up and you had to look away. He was wearing basketball shorts and the material clung around his bulge just a little too well.

"Why didn't you just knock?"

"Um," you took a breath and met his gaze, refusing to let your eyes drop lower than his neck. "Didn't wanna bother you."

"It's no bother. You wanna come in?" he asked. You finally picked up on the gravelly sound to his voice once you were able to ignore his smooth, broad chest.

"Did you just wake up?"

He shrugged and gave you half a smirk while he held the door open.

"Worked late."

"Ah," you replied, gaze dropping to the porch while you rocked back and forth on your heels. Work.

"You comin' in or not? I'm lettin' flies in."

"Uh, sure," you finally decided, sneaking past him, purposely holding your breath so you wouldn't breathe in his intoxicating scent.

His front door opened into his living room, which was about how you expected it to look: a dark couch with a matching chair surrounding a glass coffee table in front of a big screen TV with green and blue plastic clamshell video game cases scattered on the floor.

"Want somethin' to drink?" he asked, brushing past you as he ambled into his kitchen. You followed, noting his house seemed to lack... something.

"Water's fine."

It was bare. That's what it was. It hit you when you were in the kitchen. He had all the essentials but there was no warmth, no decorations, no pictures.

"Did you just move in?" you asked, then thanked him when he handed you a bottle of water.

"'Bout three months ago."

"Oh," you replied before taking a slow sip of water, your eyes darting around the sparse kitchen. "It's nice," you finally said when you pulled the bottle from your lips.

At least you could be sure he wasn't living with a girl. His home practically screamed bachelor pad.

"Thanks. How's your ma?" he asked before picking up a half drank mug of coffee.

You leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed your arms. "She's good. She's already found a new boyfriend. And here I thought I was doing her a favor by moving in and keeping her company," you said with a soft laugh. "Now I feel like I'm in the way of her exciting social life."

Joel nodded and sat down at the kitchen table with a grunt, his legs spread wide as he leaned back into the chair.

"Been meanin' to apologize to you," he said, staring down at his coffee sitting on the table. "Shoulda been there to help you move out, or at least say bye. I'm real sorry 'bout that."

That took you by surprise.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," you said immediately with a shake of your head. "It would have been too painful, anyway."

Joel took a deep breath through his nose. "Yeah, reckon that's why I bailed that day."

Neither of you said anything for a moment, both of you thinking back to that week when everything fell apart.

"I'm so sorry for what I did to you, Joel," you said quietly. He frowned and looked up.

"What you did to me?"

"Yeah. For pulling you into my mess and hurting you. It was never my intention, but I recognize it was my fault. I started it. I kissed you. I came to your room that day. It's all on me, okay?" You looked at him with raw pain in your eyes and he sighed.

"Darlin', if you didn't start it, I would've. It ain't all on you," he told you softly.

You nodded and you felt tears welling up in your eyes, so you dropped your gaze to the floor and pressed your lips into a thin line, trying to stifle your emotion, but Joel could see it.

"It was fun while it lasted though, huh?" he joked, then grinned when you laughed and swiped away a stray tear.

"Yeah," you sniffled with a smile.

Joel pursed his lips and looked back down at his mug, his middle finger gently tracing the lip of the ceramic when he asked, "you seein' anyone?"

You shook your head. "No. I think it's probably best I take some time to work on myself first."

The same question for him was on the tip of your tongue but you couldn't bring yourself to ask because if the answer was yes, you weren't sure you were ready to hear it.

"Well, anyway," he said with a slap to his thighs, "everythin' ready for tomorrow? Need me to do anythin'?"

You smiled and shook your head. "Just handle the guys and I'll handle the girls. I have all the money to pay the limo bus driver. Did you have enough for the booze?"

"Mhm, no problem there," Joel said after taking a sip from his now lukewarm coffee.

The goal was to bar crawl some local spots in downtown Austin and in between, party on the limo bus.

"Just make sure to have a good playlist ready so we can connect to the speakers on the bus," you told him as you headed for the front door.

"Y'leavin'?" he asked, getting up to follow you. You shrugged and slid your shoes back on.

"Yeah, unless there was something else?"

He scratched his beard while he struggled to come up with anything that might make you stay. It just felt too nice to have you around again and he didn't want it to end.

"No, nothin' else," he finally said. "See you tomorrow."

Back to the scene of the crime, you almost let slip, but fortunately common sense kicked in and said, "Tommy and Maria's, 8pm so you can help me pack up the bus before everyone arrives."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you jog down his porch steps, tossing one more wave over your shoulder before getting into your car. As he watched you drive away, he tried to stifle that familiar, desperate feeling he always felt whenever you left and forced himself to go back inside.

The party bus was already wild before it reached the end of the street. You just sat down after passing around Jell-O shots and making sure the snacks and waters you brought were readily available to the entire bus when Maria shoved a solo cup in your hand.

"What's this?" you asked over the roar coming from the speakers blaring AC/DC and the guys screaming along to the lyrics after they all did a toast to Tommy, throwing back shots of tequila.

"Jungle juice!" she replied with a grin. You took a sip and raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"Not bad!"

The lights on the bus dimmed and you looked up to find Joel playing around with the knobs at the front of the bus. Suddenly, brightly colored lights that lined the floor and roof of the bus turned on, painting everyone in a red glow that faded to orange then to all the colors of the rainbow.

"Come on, Tommy! Show us what you got!" one of Maria's bridesmaids yelled when Tommy stood up and leaned on the stripper pole in the middle of the floor for support when the bus took a turn.

"I ain't drunk enough yet, ladies!" he replied with a lopsided grin. Joel chuckled as he made his way back to his seat.

"What about you, Joel?" she asked, then all the groomsmen began whooping and pumping their fists, encouraging him, but he shook his head and sat down.

"Gotta pay me extra for that," he smirked. He brought his beer to his lips and glanced briefly in your direction before looking away.

The whole bus was wearing matching white shirts with Tommy and Maria's names printed on the back with the date of their wedding and a note at the bottom that, depending if you were a girl or a guy, said if found, please return me to the bride/groom.

On the front of the shirts was a big box where everyone could tally all the drinks and shots they had that evening with the sharpie necklaces you handed out as everyone boarded the bus. So far, most people had at least one drink or shot under their belts.

"Alright, who wants to play Tipsy Hoe?" you called out while holding up a stack of index cards. The bus cheered so you began to explain the rules. "We pick one card with a specific word on it that nobody's allowed to say. The person who says it first has to take a shot and then we pick another one."

Another of Maria's bridesmaids eagerly volunteered to pick the first card. You fanned them out as she carefully chose one from the middle and read it. "The word is Bride!" she announced, and half the bus collapsed into laughter.

"Take a shot, you can't say it! Just hold it up!" you giggled when she laughed and buried her face in her hands. "Okay, go again."

After taking a shot and drawing another tally mark on her shirt, she picked another card and this time, held it up for everyone to see: dress.

"What's that say? I can't read it?" Joel teased from the back, and she stuck out her tongue.

"Ha ha, not falling for it."

You sat back down and took a sip from your cup before leaning into Maria's side to take a few selfies only for them to come out completely blurry from the dim lighting, but you saved them anyway.

Joel brushed past the two of you to go to the front of the bus and direct the driver on where to drop the group off for the first bar, and as the bus slowed down, most people chugged the rest of their drinks and added a mark to their shirts before standing up and filing out the door.

"Jesus, Tommy, when'd you have four drinks?" Maria asked when she saw his shirt. He grinned and draped an arm around her shoulders.

"What can I say? The guys can be persuasive."

"Hey, don't you know that girl over there?" Joel asked when he suddenly appeared at your side with a cigarette hanging from his lips. He pointed over to a group of three girls standing right outside the bar with sparkly outfits on and heavy eyeshadow.

"Which one?"

"The one in the blue."

"The blue top or the blue dress?"

He smirked and shot you a wink before taking a deep drag of his cigarette. You groaned and slapped your palm to your face.

"I can't believe I fell for that."

He laughed, a plume of smoke rolling from his lips, then tossed the cigarette on the ground. "C'mon, I'll buy you the shot."

"It's the least you could do," you teased, following him inside past the bouncer. The bar was dark and really fucking loud as you weaved your way through the throngs of sweaty people until Joel managed to squeeze his way to the bar and flag down a bartender. While you waited for your drinks, you tried to locate the rest of the group, but the only people you saw were Maria and Tommy down at the other end of the bar with one other groomsman you didn't know very well.

"Bottoms up," Joel told you after handing you the shot and a mixed drink. You winced when you tossed it back, then handed him the empty glass. He pushed it back across the sticky bar along with his own empty shot glass then pointed to your shirt.

"Ah, right," you mumbled before uncapping the sharpie around your neck and scribbling a tick mark on the fabric. Joel stretched his own shirt out and you hesitated for just a second before drawing a quick mark on his shirt and tried not to focus too much on the sweat that had soaked through the collar already.

"You stayin' at Tommy and Maria's tonight?" he asked. He brought a bottle of beer to his lips and took a long sip but didn't take his eyes away from you.

"Yeah, I can't imagine driving home at this rate," you replied while motioning to your shirt with your free hand. He nodded and let his eyes drift around the room behind you, head nodding slightly to the beat of the music before he said, "Maybe we can watch a movie. Like old times."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. "You're staying over, too?"

He nodded again and took another drink as your heart fluttered nervously in your chest. Maria conveniently failed to mention he was planning on staying the night, as well. Where the hell did she expect you both to sleep when there was only one couch?

You scanned the bar and found her laughing at something Tommy was saying, waving his hands around dramatically as he told some story. Narrowing your eyes, you hoped she could feel the heat from your stare, but of course she was oblivious.

Just as you were about to reply to him about the movie, you felt someone's arm snake around your waist right before their overpowering cologne made you gag.

"You wanna dance?" a voice slurred in your ear, and you immediately twisted away from his sour breath and turned to face him. He wasn't with your group, just some other patron, and he looked completely wasted. A thin sheen of sweat covered his neck and face and his eyes looked glassy as he stared down at you, waiting for an answer.

"Uh, no thank you! I was just leaving."

"Aw, come on, just one dance?" the stranger pushed with a lopsided grin but it just made him look even more sloppy.

"She's with me," Joel said defensively before tugging you closer and tucking you under his arm. You could smell his deodorant and soap and it instantly transported you back in time to the point where you had to fight the urge to bury your face against his chest and breathe deep.

"My bad," the guy said, raising his hands defensively before walking away.

"Thanks," you said so softly you weren't sure he could hear you over the music, but he did. He dropped his arm and cleared his throat as you tried to create a bit of space between you again without being awkward, but it was hard to do.

"I hope you don't feel like you can't dance with other guys 'cause I'm here," he said.

"No, I know, I'm just not looking for... that right now," you assured him before taking a long sip from your drink and glancing around the bar.

"Right, you mentioned that," he replied. The topic of your love life caused a heavy silence to settle between you even though you were surrounded by noise. Right when you were about to make an excuse and leave, he spoke again.

"How's all that goin', by the way? Therapy?"

"It's... going okay," you said. What was he getting at?

He tossed back the rest of his beer and slid the empty across the bar.

"Okay enough to start datin' again soon?"

You swallowed nervously. Was he asking for a specific reason?

The look on your face made him switch gears because he grinned and shrugged. "Friends ask 'bout each other, right?"

Oh.

"They do."

He nodded, his smile faltering a moment when his gaze slid to your lips before he forced himself to look away. "C'mon, let's find the rest of the party." Then he took your hand and led you through the crowd.

Stop it, get it together, he's just being nice, like you asked, you told yourself. But you really, really hoped you were wrong.

"Here's some extra pillows and blankets," Maria sang gleefully with a shit eating grin.

"I can't believe you," you seethed quietly so Joel wouldn't hear you from downstairs.

"What? I forgot Tommy told Joel he could stay over," she said with a tipsy shrug.

"I'm half tempted to call an Uber."

"Don't you fucking dare. Now be an adult and go sleep with your ex," she giggled, giving your shoulder a shove to make you move towards the direction of the stairs.

"Hilarious," you replied dryly, but before you took another step she pulled you into a hug.

"Thank you so much for tonight, we had such a," she hiccuped before pulling away, "great time."

You blew her a kiss before giving her the finger. "Love you."

"Love you, too!" she practically shouted, and you turned around halfway down the stairs to shush her. She slapped her hands over her mouth and giggled before stumbling into her bedroom and shutting the door.

"Wha' the hell was she shoutin' for?" Joel asked groggily from his spot splayed out on the couch, remote control hanging limply from his fingers as he blinked at the TV, trying to clear his vision.

"Nothing. Here," you said, tossing him a pillow and blanket. He reached out to catch them but missed, then started to giggle when he accidentally slid from the couch onto the floor to pick them up. You grinned and threw yours on the other end of the couch and wandered into the kitchen, returning with two bottles of ice cold water. "Drink this," you said with a yawn. He took it and you plopped down on the other end of the couch while Joel flicked through title after title on one of the many streaming services Tommy and Maria had.

While Joel continued to browse, you shifted uncomfortably before setting down your water and reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. With practiced ease, you pulled it out from under your shirt without having to remove any clothes and tossed it on the floor. Joel's eyes widened when he saw it and looked at you.

"Don't get any ideas, I just can't sleep in a bra."

He smirked before picking a romcom and settling in under his blanket. "Next you gonna tell me you can't sleep with panties on?"

You snorted and felt your cheeks flush but thankfully the lights in the living room were off, leaving only the glow from the television to light the room.

"You wish."

The alcohol was making both of you way flirtier than you intended to be, so you shut up. You watched the movie hazily for a while, laughing softly at Hugh Grant's charismatic humor. It was quiet for so long that you had assumed Joel fell asleep until he suddenly spoke again.

"This's nice."

You rolled your head to the side and smiled at him. "Yeah, it is."

He smiled back, his eyes bright from the glow from the television, cheeks still a little pink from the booze as he looked you up and down. "C'mere."

You pinched your eyebrows together. "Why?" you asked slowly. He rolled his eyes and waved you over.

"Jus' get your ass over here."

With a sigh, you scooted over to his end of the couch and once you got close enough, he threw his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. You let out a quiet oof when the side of your face came in contact with his chest, but god the way he smelled had you reeling for the second time that night. Even with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor, he still smelled amazing. He smelled like him. A comforting smell you missed so much in the past five months that it almost hurt to have it back again.

His hand gently stroked your back as you watched the movie. The steady thrum of his heart beating against your ear combined with the alcohol and his warmth made your eyelids droop and before you knew it, you were out like a light. When Joel realized you were asleep, he looked down at you and smiled before turning off the television and slowly rotating you both so you were laying (albeit, scrunched) together along the couch. His arm remained wrapped around you and your face was buried against his chest with one of your legs draped over one of his and everything finally felt right again.

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