summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.
smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming ||
a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!!
wc: 11k
The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.
But this morning was far from beautiful.
You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.
Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.
Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.
But still.
There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.
But you sure as shit were terrible at it.
Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.
Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.
It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.
Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.
But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.
He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.
“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”
“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”
“That ain’t a bet.”
“It is if I’m right.”
“You’re not right.”
“Two ration cards says I am.”
“For Maisie?”
“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"
The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.
“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”
But you'd turned without lowering your gun.
Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.
A loud sound cracked through the clearing.
It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.
Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.
For one second, no one moved.
Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”
Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.
The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"
"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.
More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.
"Give me that."
You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.
You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.
Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.
Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"
Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.
“Go.”
You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.
“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”
You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.
You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?
“I—”
“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.
For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.
That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.
Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.
Sometimes you saw Joel.
He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.
He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.
But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.
You stopped hiding.
The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.
“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.
Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”
Joel said nothing.
You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.
Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"
You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.
"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."
Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”
“No,” Joel said stiffly.
“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”
“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.
“You always have work.”
“Funny how that happens.”
You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”
You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.
Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”
You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.
“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.
Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.
Because fuck him.
Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.
You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”
Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.
"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.
You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.
Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.
Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.
And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.
Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”
And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.
You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.
But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.
It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.
A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.
You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.
But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.
You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.
But you couldn't shoot.
In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.
Even Joel Miller.
He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.
So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.
You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.
On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.
You stared at it for a moment.
Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.
Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.
As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.
It made your boots sound so loud on the road.
When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.
Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.
You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.
"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.
He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"
In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.
You stared at him for a long, long moment.
He just stared back.
The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.
Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.
"Kid, I don't know what yer—"
"Shut up."
Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.
"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.
"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."
His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.
When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.
Go on then.
"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."
"Never said—"
"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."
Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.
"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."
"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"
"No."
Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.
"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."
There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.
"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"
"Nope."
He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:
"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."
You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.
"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."
Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.
He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.
"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.
You nodded.
"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."
You nodded again, and then—
"Joel?"
He turned.
"I um... I promise I won't let you down."
He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.
He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."
The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.
He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.
It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.
You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.
Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.
“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”
You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.
“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”
"I know, Joel."
"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.
"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.
"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."
"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.
"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"
You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.
“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”
You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.
“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”
You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.
He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.
"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."
You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.
“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."
Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.
"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"
"—am not—"
You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.
"Now—"
You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.
“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”
"Joel—" you protested.
"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”
You sucked in a shallow breath.
He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”
You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.
His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."
You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.
"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.
When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.
Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.
The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.
You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.
“Shit—”
“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.
"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.
“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”
You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.
As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.
But…you didn't.
You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.
He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.
"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"
You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.
"You're welcome." he whispered.
Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.
He was so warm.
Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.
He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.
His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.
Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.
His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.
Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.
How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.
You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.
“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.
He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.
Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.
“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”
Your nails bit into the back of his neck.
“Joel—”
“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”
You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.
“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”
“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”
"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.
Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.
"Oh!"
He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.
“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”
"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.
"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"
"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.
His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.
“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”
You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."
He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."
The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.
"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"
“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”
You blinked up at him.
"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.
"I mean—you—"
He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.
"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"
Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.
His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.
"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."
"Yeah, you were." you pouted.
“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”
“Then don’t,” you whispered.
"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"
Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.
“Truth?” you offered.
He nodded quietly.
Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.
"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.
His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.
"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"
He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.
“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.
His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.
“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”
You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.
The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.
You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.
“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”
He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.
He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.
Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.
“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”
You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.
As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.
His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.
Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.
“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”
Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.
"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."
Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.
He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.
He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.
"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.
"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.
"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.
"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.
“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”
“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”
He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”
Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.
“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”
"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.
"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"
"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."
He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.
"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."
"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"
It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.
Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.
When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.
Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.
He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.
Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.
“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”
He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.
You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.
“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”
You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.
“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”
Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”
He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.
“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”
Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.
You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.
“Don’t think so.”
He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.
“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.
He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”
You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”
“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”
He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.
“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”
You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.
What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.
“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.
He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.
“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”
Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.
His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.
“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”
Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”
“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”
Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.
“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”
One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."
“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.
“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”
Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.
Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.
“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”
“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”
He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”
He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.
His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.
The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.
“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”
You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.
“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”
“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”
“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”
Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.
“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.
He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.
“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”
“Jooooel,” you whined.
But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.
“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”
“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”
“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”
He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.
“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”
You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.
“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”
“So good,” you murmured between moans.
It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.
“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”
You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.
“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”
You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.
“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”
He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.
Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.
Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.
Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.
“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.
Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.
For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.
Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.
The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.
You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.
"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.
He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.
The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.
“Chilly?”
“Only a little.”
He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.
You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.
"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.
"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."
He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.
You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.
Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”
You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”
His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.
Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.
“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.
You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.
"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."
He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.
"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."
He smiled crookedly, "I was too."
You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."
He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."
You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.
I almost forgot that I could finally post this illustration publicly, the progress of which my Ko-fi supporters have been able to follow since August.
It is, in a way, a twin illustration to ‘The Shepherd of the Damned Souls’, which depicted Copia riding on a festive mound of skeletons rather happy with their fate.
On Perpetua's side, it's more of a soul gathering, at least that's what we can understand from the sight of these bodies emerging from a muddy mass and, as they rise upwards, reforming from flesh and shreds of skin.
It doesn't look anything like it, but what inspired this idea was Adolf Hiremy's ‘The Sea of Acheron’ (1898). Obviously, what I had in mind was completely different, but I ran into a whole host of technical limitations and skill constraints. Nevertheless, I hope you like it.
You can find it as a print here
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