Ayden, 27, he/they

no minors. I love bugs and dilfs.

[bemyluvr]

Crazy On You

preoutbreak!joel | jackson!joel

Okay, can’t stop thinking about preoutbreak!joel, young, hot and messy. Compared to jackson!joel, old, sappy and romantic, and their favorite sex positions.

cw: MDNI 18+, brief dad!Joel, pet names, rough sex, low-key mean!joel, backshots, doggy style, reader has enough fat to grab, spit, pull out method, dacryphillia, p n v, vaginal fingering, old man angst, dry humping, romantic smut, multiple orgasms, age gap, creampie, cock warming

wc: 2k

preoutbreak!joel

Being young and in love, you both move fast, date nights and road trips quickly become sleepovers and late night talks about the future together, your relationship quickly turns into something serious.

With Joel it’s easy, a true southern gentleman, he takes care of you. Cherishing the ground you walk on, he’s intense and loving with you.

He’s not just a man dating for fun anymore, he’s intentional, being a devoted father to a baby girl. As her sole guardian, he gives her his all, if he’s not working, he’s spending time with her.

The three of you create a new life together, routines become easy, watching him be a dad makes you love him even more.

Joel is always happy to get time alone with you, whether it’s quickies in the morning before the alarm goes off, or showering together, you two make it work.

Navigating between your busy schedules is hard but you make it work, so when Joel surprises you with a weekend home alone, you make the most of it.

After an expensive dinner and too much wine, you stumble into the dark house, giggling as your hand runs against the wall, unable to find the light switch. Joel’s right behind you, pushing his hips into you from behind, feeling his growing erection.

He runs sloppy kisses down your exposed back, as his hand fumbles with the zipper on your dress, eager to feel you.

“Shhh, you whisper, turning around to face him with a finger over your lips.

Moonlight catches against his features, as he takes your hand from your mouth as he brings it up to his own, pressing kisses from your fingertips to your wrist.

“We can be as loud as we want, baby, got this whole place to ourselves.” Joel, asserts as he kisses your lips.

Standing there as the kiss deepens, Joel’s hands linger down to grip your ass cheeks, he pulls back, peeling the dress off of your frame, leaving you standing there, in a pair of lace panties.

“All this for me huh?” He tuts, raking his eyes up and down your frame, groping your exposed breasts.

Your nipples harden against his touch, as he reaches down to grip your ass in his hand.

Suddenly, you push him backwards as he falls onto the couch, straddling his thighs as you kiss his neck, your lips run down his chest as you unbutton his shirt. Joel helps, pulling his arms through the rest of the fabric, you begin to sink down to the floor, unbuttoning his belt.

“We’ve got all weekend honey, need to be inside you.” Joel confesses, grabbing your hands to help you stand up.

Joel twirls you around, pushing your front into the soft cushion of the couch as he massages the globes of your ass. You welcome it, pushing into the couch, you arch against his hand allowing him more access as he slides the lace off your cunt.

He runs his fingers down your slit, collecting your slick as he pushes two fingers inside, stretching you out.

Groaning, you push back onto his hand, as he begins to scissor his fingers in and out of you.

“Joel, need your cock,” you mewl, turning your head back towards him as he removes his hand, sucking the juices off his fingers.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he growls, as he tastes you on his tongue.

Joel unbuttons his pants, allowing his cock to spring forward as he spits, pumping the slick down his cock with his hand. You look back at him again, as he jerks off to your spread pussy.

Lining up at your entrance, he runs the tip against your clit, circling the nub you whine, pushing your ass toward him.

“Patience baby,” he drawls, as he grips your hip, inserting himself into your folds.

Without warning, Joel doesn’t allow you to get used to his size, setting a brutal pace against the inside of you. The tip grazes your cervix with each trust, causing you to fall farther onto the couch, trying to wiggle out of his grip.

“Where do you think your goin’ baby?” He questions, leaning over your body, his hand pulls your back upwards into his chest, “you wanted to get fucked so bad, so take it.”

Tears prick your eyes as you feel him destroy you, the pain turning into pleasure as you throw your hips back to meet his thrusts.

It’s not too often for Joel to be behind you like this, hips slamming back and forth into the fat of your thighs.

He loves to make love to you, make you feel as good as you deserve, but there is something special to bend you over like this, watching your ass shake against him is secretly his favorite place to be.

To hear you cry, getting fucked stupid against his cock is his favorite song. As he feels his orgasm approach, he reaches around your front, thick fingers finding your clit to build you closer to the edge.

“Fuck Joel, stay right there-shit just like that.” You gargle out, feeling the euphoria in your gut.

“Gonna cum for me? Don’t be shy darlin’, wanna hear it.” Joel grunts in your ear.

You feel the rubberband snap as you cum hard, vision blurry as you blackout, as Joel holds you up. After a couple more thrusts, Joel pulls out his cock, jerking it in his hand as his cum paints your back. You feel the warm liquid run down your spine as you fall onto the couch breathless.

Joel doesn’t say a word as he walks off, grabbing a warm wash rag, he comes up behind you and begins to clean himself off of you.

“Sorry honey, got a little carried away there,” Joel murmurs, kissing your shoulder blade.

You don’t respond as you lay there, allowing him to take care of you, happy to have him to yourself the rest of the weekend.

jackson!joel

The trauma seeps deep through Joel, older and greyer, he’s a broken hearted man. The loss and betrayal has hardened him into a stubborn, mentally closed off shell of his past self. Beneath the surface, Joel longs and he’s desperate for love. He doesn’t want someone to try and fix him, he wants someone to meet him halfway.

He believes he’s not a good man, the things he’s dealt with in his past to survive shows that, and no one can change that. Joel just desires to be understood, wanting someone who sees through his silence, to stay, not pity him.

Meeting you, his layers slowly become undone. Joel was untrusting at first, with the whispers in town about him being a killer distanced himself even further with the community, he feared you felt bad for him.

You were just some young, kind girl with bright eyes and a gentle grin, you were full of something he didn’t quite understand yet. You never try to fix him or fill the silence, instead you sit with him, listening without judgment. You see the man he once was before, seeing the man behind the anger and hurt. You make him feel alive, and for the first time in years, he cherishes it.

The years haven’t been the kindest on his body, and he wished he could provide more for you in the bedroom. Although you never complain, his body aches to take you how he would have twenty-something years ago. Joel loves being as close as possible to you, breathing in your skin, with you riding his cock into the early mornings.

It started out as a one time thing, during late night conversations as he holds you in his lap, stroking your hair. As you begin to relax on his knees, your panty-clad ass grinds perfectly against his sweatpants.

Joel adjusts himself, feeling his boxers tighten, hips accidentally bucking into yours.

Suddenly, you stop in the middle of your sentence, words unable to fall out of your mouth.

You're breathless as a moan slips out, looking up to him and he's already looking at you.

Joel tests the waters, kissing your plump lips as he takes your hips into large hands, gently rocking them back and forth.

You both groan at the sensation, thin fabrics rub against another as you soak through your underwear. At first you allow him to lead you, resting your head against his chest, you melt into his touch, allowing the sensation to build inside your tummy every time his tip hits your clit. But, you become antsy, grinding your hips into his faster, guiding the pace exactly how you want it.

Whimpers fall from your mouth as you feel the fuzzy feeling in your stomach, grinding harder into him as he snakes his hands into your t-shirt. He’s touching every part of your skin and it makes you dizzy.

His cock is stained through his pants, hard and aching against your slick as you chase your high.

Joel’s fingers slip to your breast, pinching your nipple between the digits, the pleasure going straight to your clit. You feel your orgasm approaching, rutting against him like an animal, you lift your head to stare at him.

“Take it, you have me.” Joel puffs, watching you like the prettiest thing he’s ever witnessed.

You scream, orgasm crashing through your body as you grip his shoulders, Joel allows you to ride it out, panting against you.

Suddenly, you look down at the mess you made, feeling Joel’s rock hard cock against your butt, you look up to him, “want me to take care of that?” You question, slipping your hand into the material, “you deserve to feel good too.”

Joel groans, feeling like he’s the luckiest man alive as you fumble him out of his pants.

“You’re too good t’ me,” he exhales, running a rough hand up against the small of your back.

As his cock springs up to his belly, you maneuver your hand down to your panties, moving them to the side as you stare down at his red tip.

Joel takes himself into his hand, swiping a thump over the precum glazed tip, he rubs it against your soaked folds.

Still sensitive from your first orgasm, you jolt, mewling at the feeling against your swollen clit.

You raise your hips to help him stuff himself inside of you, hissing at the sensation as you sink down on him.

“Taking me so well honey,” Joel groans, hips faltering as he tries to contain himself.

Adjusting to his size your hips start up again, rocking back and forth against the fullness, you feel stuffed. “Wanna feel you cum,” you groan, chasing his release, forgetting about your own pleasure.

You start to slam down against his hips, walls clenching against his member, you feel his body stutter against yours.

“Prettiest girl in Jackson, taking care of her old man, yeah?” He grunts, lifting his hips to match yours.

You are a groaning mess, feeling the familiar warmth in your stomach, you stabilize yourself against him, putting a hand to his chest.

“Don’t think I can last much longer darlin’, gonna cum inside, keep you warm, always gonna take care of you, right honey?” Joel says, gripping the fat of your waist.

You move together seamlessly, you can’t tell when Joel ends and you begin as you both chase each other's highs.

Curses fall from your mouth, as Joel groans against you, and suddenly your second orgasm hits. Throwing your head back, you rock your hips into his, riding out your orgasm as Joel comes right behind you, thick ropes spurting inside of your cunt.

You don’t move, sitting against him you allow him to go soft inside of you, plugging his seed into your abdomen. Leaning back, he lays down with you on top of him, and he stays inside of you the rest of the night.

This becomes your typical position, holding each other close as you help another get off, and you wouldn’t want him any other way.

[youthereader]

Still Works

pairing: Old Man!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

summary: 5.9k words. It starts with seeing him alone at the dance, nursing a drink like he’s half there, half somewhere else.

rating: E. Praise Kink. Old Man Joel. Unspecified age gap. Reader wears a dress. Oral (m & f receiving). Gentle to Rough Sex. Joel is tender and intense. Creampie.

a/n: I miss Joel and I will forever be super horny for older Joel. I don't feel guilty about that and never will be.

You’d seen him before, around Jackson. Everybody had.

Joel Miller was the kind of man you noticed, even when he was doing his best to disappear. Tall. Broad. Grizzled in a way that didn’t make him look old so much as worn-in—like something that had survived a fire, all scorched edges and bone-deep quiet.

He didn’t talk much. Didn’t smile either. You’d never seen him dance, never seen him drunk, never even seen him laugh. Just watched him pass through town like he was only borrowing space. A shadow in flannel. A man-shaped warning sign.

You knew better than to want someone like that.

But that didn’t stop you from looking.

Not when you saw him fixing the east gate with Tommy, sleeves rolled up and veins flexing along his forearms. Not when you passed him in the cold storage shed and caught a whiff of sawdust and leather, the scent sticking to your clothes like it meant something. Not when you heard that voice—low, cracked, Southern-soft around the edges—muttering something in passing.

You’d tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Just a dry spell. Just curiosity. Just loneliness.

Until the dance.

You hadn’t planned to go. These things made you itchy—too many strangers pretending the world hadn’t ended. But you’d been convinced to show your face, put on something soft instead of tactical. You wore a dress that hugged your hips and sipped something sweet and flat, standing along the wall like an outsider at your own party.

And then you saw him.

Off to the side, where the light didn’t quite reach. Sitting on a bench with one leg cocked, elbow braced on his knee, a bottle of whiskey hanging loose in his grip. He watched the crowd with a face carved in stone—tired, unreadable. The kind of quiet that wasn’t asking to be filled.

His eyes lifted and caught you.

You should’ve looked away, pretended not to care, but his gaze held you, and before you could think better of it, your feet were moving.

He straightened a little when you stopped in front of him, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. His expression didn’t change much, but something behind his eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. Curiosity.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him. The scent of whiskey and cedar and something darker.

“You always sit alone like this?”

His eyes dragged slowly over you, and when he spoke, his voice was like worn gravel. “Ain’t much of a dancer.”

You smiled faintly, looking back at the crowd. “Me neither.”

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Just thick.

He drank. You watched his throat move.

“You look nice,” he said, rough and quiet, like the words had been pulled from him.

You turned toward him. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He cut his eyes at you, cautious. “You flirtin’ with me?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Would that be a problem?”

He paused. Swallowed again.

“…No,” he said. “Don’t reckon it would.”

You shifted slightly on the bench, resting your forearms on your thighs, mimicking his posture. It felt easier that way. Like maybe he’d meet you in the middle if you didn’t ask him to come all the way.

His gaze stayed on the crowd, but you could tell he was aware of you. Aware of how close your knee was to his. How your voice sat low in your throat, casual but edged in something warmer.

“You here alone?” he asked, like it only just occurred to him to ask.

You shrugged. “Came with someone, but not like that. Friend thing.” You let the pause linger. “Left early.”

He nodded, once. He didn’t look at you, but he shifted just enough to make room for the possibility.

You looked over at him, taking your time. The faint glow from the dance hall lights caught in his hair, picking out the silver. He looked tired. More handsome for it, somehow.

“You?”

A flick of his eyebrows. “Me what?”

“Are you here alone?”

He made a soft noise in his chest, something close to a laugh. “Always.”

You liked the way he said that—dry and dismissive, like he didn’t want pity. Like he was just stating fact.

Another beat passed.

“Don’t usually see you at these things,” you said.

“Don’t usually come.”

“So what changed your mind?”

His lips twitched. He glanced your way, finally meeting your eyes. “Not sure yet.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Maybe I’m the reason.”

He exhaled slowly, long and steady. “That what you’re hopin’?”

You watched him. Watched the way his hands flexed against the neck of the bottle. How his jaw tensed under the beard.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you murmured. “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You that sure of yourself?”

You tilted your head. “You gonna deny it?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He turned the bottle in his hands, watching the whiskey catch the light. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges.

“You lookin’ for something?”

It was an honest question. Guarded, yes, but not cold. Like he was trying to decide what you were made of. Whether you were playing a game he didn’t know the rules to.

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head to meet his gaze full-on.

“I think I’ve already found something,” you said. “Just trying to figure out what happens next.”

That got him. You saw it—the way he blinked, slow and deliberate, like your words had landed somewhere deeper than he meant to let you reach.

But he didn’t pull away.

He just looked at you for a long, long moment. Like he was reading something on your face that he didn’t expect to find.

“…I don’t do casual,” he said finally. Low and hoarse. “Not good at it. Not lookin’ to mess with anyone’s head.”

You gave him a small smile. “Good thing I’ve got my head on straight.”

“You sure?” he asked.

The question wasn’t teasing. Not even a little. It came out quiet, weighted. Like it mattered to him. Like he wanted the answer to be yes, but couldn’t quite trust it.

You didn’t look away. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His eyes searched your face, not hungrily—just carefully. Like he was still trying to work out what kind of person you were. Whether you’d flinch if he showed his teeth. Whether you were real.

“I’m not young,” he said eventually, voice low and gruff. “Not soft. Don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Good,” you said. “I’m not interested in soft.”

His mouth tugged to the side, like he almost smiled. Then he looked down at his hands again. Big hands. Veined. Strong. He turned the bottle in slow circles against his knee.

“You don’t know me.”

You shrugged gently. “I know you kill chickens in one blow. I know you say thank you when people hand you tools. I know you bring Ellie snacks from the stockroom and pretend it wasn’t you.”

He blinked, like that caught him off guard.

“I’ve been watching,” you said, softer now. “Same way you’ve been watching me.”

Joel exhaled, slow and steady. A breeze passed through the open door, lifting the edge of your dress. You smoothed it down absently, aware of his eyes there now too.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a good idea.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “I’m not lookin’ for a good idea. I’m looking for something that feels like it matters.”

His gaze sharpened. That hit somewhere. You could see it.

“Just want honesty,” you added, your voice slower now, almost shy. “And maybe a reason to stop pretending I don’t notice how you look at me.”

That silence again. Full of static.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not just at your mouth or your legs or the line of your dress—but at you.

“I look at you,” he said finally, barely more than a rasp. “Because I can’t help it.”

Your breath caught a little, and he must’ve heard it. You watched his throat work around a swallow, his eyes flicking to your lips for just a second too long.

“But I don’t want to break anything,” he murmured. “Don’t want to ruin what’s good.”

You nodded. “Neither do I.”

More silence. Only now it didn’t feel like waiting—it felt like something opening.

“I should take you home,” he said.

Your pulse stuttered. “Are you offering?”

“I’m askin’,” he said. Then, quieter: “Can I walk you?”

You stood up slowly. Smoothed your dress. Looked down at him with a curl in your lips.

“You can.”

He rose beside you, slow and solid, and didn’t touch you—didn’t even reach for you. But he walked beside you all the way home, like you were something worth guarding.

You walked beside him in silence.

Not awkward. Not stiff. Just… aware. Every step in sync. Every brush of fabric had sparks.

You could hear the thud of your boots on the dirt path, the crunch of his heavier steps. Jackson was quiet at this hour—music still fading from the dance hall, chatter thinning behind you.

The wind was cool. You felt it on your skin where your dress dipped low. You wondered if he noticed. Wondered if it was driving him as crazy as it was you.

He didn’t speak until you reached the edge of your street. Then, he cleared his throat.

“I’m older than you,” he said.

You didn’t answer right away.

You turned to look at him—really look. The hard lines of his jaw. The streaks of gray in his beard. The way his eyes stayed on the ground as he said it, like he expected that to end things right there.

“I figured,” you said, voice soft. “What gave it away—the knees or the grumbling?”

He huffed, almost smiled. Almost. “Most people don’t take kindly to bein’ reminded of death.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But you don’t remind me of death.”

He looked up at that.

You stopped walking.

“You remind me of something that lasts,” you said. “Something that’s still here. Still kicking.”

His eyes searched your face again, same way he had back on the bench. Only now you saw something else flicker in them—something unguarded.

“You’re not a warning sign, Joel. You’re a goddamn billboard.”

That almost made him laugh. You could feel the breath of it when he shook his head.

“You think I’m kidding,” you added, stepping a little closer. “But truth is… I didn’t realize it did it for me until I got here.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Men like you,” you said. “Strong. Scarred. Quiet. Stubborn as hell. Built like a brick wall. Bit of a temper. Walk around like they’ve got nothing left to give but still show up when it counts.”

He blinked.

You smiled, just a little. “You’re exactly my type.”

Joel looked like he didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. His mouth opened, then closed again. His brows pulled together, like he was trying to decide whether you were fucking with him.

You reached for the doorknob behind you. The porch creaked beneath your feet.

“I don’t invite just anybody inside,” you said.

Joel hesitated. Then stepped closer, onto the first stair. He looked up at you from beneath the brim of his brows.

“You sure about this?”

You held his gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “I’ve been sure.”

You opened the door. Stepped back.

He walked past you slowly, and still didn’t touch you. But when you shut the door behind him and the latch clicked into place—

The air between you changed.

You hadn't even made it three steps inside before he turned to face you.

No words. No rush. Just a long, steady look.

You stood still under it. Let it warm you from the chest out. The door was shut, the night locked away behind it. The only light came from the little lamp on the counter, casting everything in a low, amber haze.

Then he reached for you.

Not all at once—he didn’t grab or push. Just lifted his hand, slow and deliberate, and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The calluses rasped over your knuckles, thick and dry and warm. He held you like he was holding something breakable, but still his. Then, without a word, he turned your hand over in his. Examined it.

Ran his thumb down the line of your lifeline. Touched the pads of your fingers.

You swallowed. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you through those thick lashes, quiet.

“Just tryin’ to remember how this feels.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you tried to break the tension. “I could make us coffee,” you said, voice soft and a little shaky. “If you want.”

He let out a low breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“I don’t want coffee.”

You waited.

“I wanna fuck you.”

The words hit you like a wave. No hesitation. No build-up. Just a raw, unvarnished truth in that voice of his, deep and hoarse and thick with restraint.

Heat surged low in your belly. Your fingers flexed in his.

“That so?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

That was all it took.

You stepped in and kissed him, hard. Fisted your free hand in the front of his shirt, rising up on your toes to press your mouth against his. He kissed you back immediately—hungry, rough, like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

His hand moved to your waist, fingers curling tight around the curve of it. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the heat of his body crowding into yours.

Your lips parted and he groaned into your mouth, pulling you closer. He kissed you like he needed to taste you before he could believe you were real.

There was nothing polite about it. No careful step-by-step. Just tongues, teeth, gasps—your bodies locking together like you’d already dreamed this a hundred times over.

He kissed like a man with history. Like someone who’d been starved of touch.

And you kissed him like you wanted to make up for all the years he’d gone without.

When you finally pulled back for breath, your forehead leaned into his.

“I meant it,” you whispered.

“So did I,” he said, voice rough. “Still do.”

Your lips were still damp from the kiss when you whispered it, breath warm against his cheek.

“What do you need?”

Joel’s hand flexed on your waist. His breath hitched.

You shifted back just enough to look at him—really look. His eyes were dark, clouded with heat, but underneath that was something deeper. Something tired and aching and full of hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted.

You lifted your hand, brushing it along the seam of his jaw, your thumb grazing the grayed hair just beneath his ear. “How do you want me?”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. You saw his throat work. Felt the tremble in his fingers where they still clutched your waist.

When he answered, it was barely a voice at all.

“Close.”

That was all. Just one word. But it broke something open in you.

You pressed into him again, your chest against his, your thighs brushing his jeans. You brought both your hands up to cup his face and kissed him slow this time, not soft, not gentle, just slow—like you had time.

He let you. Let you guide him. His mouth opened under yours, patient and hungry, letting you taste him. Letting you feel how much he wanted this—wanted you.

Then he pulled back, just enough to whisper: “Turn around.”

Your pulse fluttered, sharp and bright.

“Yeah?” you breathed.

He nodded. “Want to see you. All of you. Take it slow.”

Your hands slipped from his shirt. You turned without a word, facing the nearest wall—just a few feet from the kitchen table, the old floorboards creaking faintly under your feet.

You heard him step behind you. Felt the heat of his body close. He didn’t touch you yet. Just looked.

Then—fingers light at first—he ran one hand up your spine, tracing the zipper of your dress. He caught it and tugged, slow, inch by inch, the metal teeth parting with the softest sound in the room.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

You let the straps fall from your shoulders. Let the fabric slip down your body, pooling at your feet.

A sound came from behind you—low, broken. Joel breathing through his nose, holding himself in place.

You stood there in nothing but your underwear, hands resting at your sides, the soft glow from the kitchen lamp warming your bare skin.

“Is this close enough?” you asked, voice like smoke.

Behind you, his hands finally touched your hips. Firm. Unshaking.

“Not even close,” he said.

He kissed the back of your neck—just once, hot and open-mouthed—and pressed the weight of himself along your spine—slow, firm, steady.

You felt it instantly. Hard against your ass, hot even through the denim.

You choked out a laugh before you could stop yourself.

“Jesus Christ,” you said, head tipping forward against the wall. “You’re hard.”

Behind you, Joel let out a low groan that almost sounded like a laugh too, if he weren’t so clearly straining to hold himself together.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That part, uh… definitely still works.”

You laughed harder, breathless now, grinning even as your skin flushed. “No shit.”

He leaned into you then, arms bracketing your waist. You could feel the rumble of his chest against your back.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he asked, voice pitched low beside your ear. “Laughin’ while I’m like this?”

You wriggled back against him just enough to feel him pulse in his jeans. “You think this is funny?”

His mouth brushed your shoulder, his breath hot. “No. Think it’s fuckin’ torture.”

“Want me to stop?”

His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. “Don’t you dare.”

You smiled again, slower now, biting your lip. Then you reached behind yourself and slipped your fingers along the waistband of his jeans. “Then maybe you should do something about it.”

Joel’s breath caught. His lips ghosted along the back of your neck.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You felt him move—rough fingers sliding down to unbutton his jeans, the rasp of denim and zipper filling the space between your shallow breaths. Then his hand was back on you, under your panties, squeezing the curve of your ass like he needed to feel you, full-palmed, skin on skin.

You arched into him with a soft gasp.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said into your shoulder. “Since the first time I saw you.”

You swallowed. “And now?”

He kissed your spine. Once. Twice.

“Now I’m gonna take my time.”

He let go of you just long enough to step back, the heat of his body peeling away like sun slipping behind clouds. You almost whined at the loss.

You turned to face him.

Joel stood in the amber glow of your kitchen lamp, jeans hanging low on his hips, shirt wrinkled and half untucked. His hair was mussed, jaw shadowed thick, and there was something raw in his eyes—like this wasn’t just lust, not just a need. Like this was something he hadn’t let himself want in a long time.

You stepped closer.

He met you there, hands returning to your waist, calloused palms skimming the sides of your thighs. His touch was firm but slow, reverent even. When he slid your panties down your legs, he knelt to follow them. His fingers dragged down the backs of your thighs, and he stayed crouched for a beat longer, just looking up at you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Quiet.

Your chest tightened.

“Stand up,” you said, voice gentler now.

He did, and you tugged at the hem of his shirt. He let you undress him, arms lifting as you peeled the fabric over his head. Beneath it, he was all muscle and scars—hard-won strength etched into skin that had seen too much. You smoothed your palms over his chest, drinking in every inch.

He reached for his waistband next, pushing jeans and briefs down in one motion. His cock was thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip.

You licked your lips before you could help it.

He didn’t move toward you. Just stood there, letting you look. Letting you want.

You reached for his hand instead.

He blinked, surprised, and let you take it.

You brought his fingers to your lips, kissed the tips, then slipped two into your mouth.

The growl he let out was sharp and quiet, barely audible, like it scraped against the inside of his throat.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You sucked gently, tongue gliding over rough pads and calloused edges, slow and warm and dirty just for him. You wanted him to feel it—to see what it’d be like to have you wrapped around more than just his hand.

He was breathing harder now. Cock twitching between you. You pulled off with a soft pop and met his gaze.

“You want me to stop?” you teased.

Joel swallowed hard. “No,” he said. Then, rougher: “Where’s your bedroom?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just reached for his other hand, curling your fingers through his.

“Come on,” you said.

And led him down the dark hallway, step by step, until the two of you crossed that threshold together.

The bedroom was dark, the door clicking shut behind you with a quiet finality.

You didn’t bother turning on the light. The glow from the hallway was enough to see the outline of him—bare-chested, cock hanging hard and heavy, eyes still fixed on you like you might vanish if he blinked.

He didn’t expect what you did next.

You dropped to your knees.

“Wait—” he said, voice gone gravel-thick with surprise, but your hands were already curling around his thighs, steady and sure.

“Let me,” you said softly. “I want to.”

He stopped breathing.

Your hands slid up the backs of his legs, slow and deliberate, and then you took him in hand—felt the heat of him, the weight, the way he twitched under your palm. You leaned in and pressed your lips to the tip, just a kiss. Then your tongue flicked out, tasting him, teasing.

Joel’s breath shuddered out of him. One hand hit the wall behind you. The other found your shoulder, holding—not pushing, not guiding, just holding.

“Goddamn,” he rasped. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

You took him into your mouth, slow and steady, your lips stretching around him, your jaw aching in the best way. You felt the tremble in his thighs, heard the low groan he tried to swallow down.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “That mouth… shit.”

He was big. Thick enough to make your eyes water, and you loved it—loved the weight, the stretch, the way he pulsed against your tongue.

But before you could take him all the way, he pulled back—gently, firmly, both hands cupping your face as he looked down at you.

“Enough,” he said. Not harsh. Not breathless. Just… solid.

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t like it?”

“I fuckin’ loved it,” he said. “Which is why I need you on the bed. Now.”

He hauled you up with a strength that made your knees weak, hands big and sure on your waist as he backed you toward the mattress. You fell back onto it, breathless and grinning, and he followed—settling between your thighs like it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be.

He kissed the inside of your knee first. Then your thigh. Then the other. He took his time, lips dragging over your skin like he wanted to learn every inch.

By the time his mouth reached you, you were already slick and aching.

He groaned when he tasted you. “Fuck...”

He set to work. Languid. Unrushed. His mouth was patient, lips parting you, tongue stroking soft and deep. He sucked your clit only when you were already close, never too soon, never too sharp.

He held your thighs open, kissed you through the first orgasm, coaxed you through the second—his voice murmuring praise against your skin.

“Good girl. That’s it. Let me have it, baby.”

And only when your thighs were shaking, your breath stuttering, did he finally lift his head.

“Now,” he said, voice dark and thick, “I’m gonna fuck you.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved—rising from between your legs, mouth shining, beard damp with you.

You reached for him, half-dazed. Ready to feel him above you, finally heavy and full inside, pinning you down. But instead of climbing over you, Joel sat back on the bed, broad legs spread and shoulders slack. He reached for you.

“C’mere.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He nodded toward his lap, voice low and steady. “Come sit on it, baby.”

You flushed all over. The raw want in his tone made you ache. You crawled forward and climbed onto him, knees bracketing his hips, your thighs still trembling.

The head of his cock dragged between your folds, hot and slick and perfect. You rocked instinctively and gasped when the tip caught on your entrance.

Joel growled softly. “You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed.

He leaned back slightly, watching you like it was killing him to keep still. “Take it slow. Sink down on me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

You reached between your bodies and held him steady, your hand small against the thickness of him. And then, slowly, you lowered yourself onto his cock.

You both moaned—his hands gripping your hips hard, your mouth falling open as he stretched you, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You’re—Jesus, Joel—”

“Shh,” he rasped, panting through his nose. “You’re takin’ me so good.”

You rocked once you had him buried to the hilt, hips shifting instinctively. The fullness made your whole body tense. Your muscles clenched around him and he groaned.

“That’s it,” he said. “Ride me. Show me how bad you needed this.”

You moved slowly at first, lifting and sinking onto him, but it didn’t stay slow for long. He met you halfway with every thrust, hips punching up into yours. His hands guided your rhythm—one wrapped around your waist, the other gripping your ass, fingers digging in like he needed to anchor himself.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t sweet. It was rough, a push and pull that felt like it could tear you open and still wouldn’t be enough.

You kissed him like you couldn’t breathe without it—messy and open-mouthed, tongues dragging, teeth clacking. Your fingers dug into his hair, gripping tight, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, moaning into your mouth.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to his. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” Joel grunted, slamming up into you. “You love ridin’ this old man’s cock?”

You whimpered. “Yes, Joel, fuck, I love it—”

He shifted under you, pulling you forward, closer—until your chest was pressed to his, sweat-slick skin against skin. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced between your shoulder blades, holding you steady as he fucked up into you, deep and relentless.

You clung to him—arms looped around his shoulders, your mouth pressed to the side of his neck. You felt him everywhere now. Inside you. Against you. Beneath you. Around you.

The thrusts weren’t graceful anymore. They were desperate. Messy. Wet sounds filled the room—your soaked cunt taking him over and over, your bodies slapping together. Every time he slammed up, you gasped, your breath catching hard in your throat.

You could feel the way his muscles bunched under your hands. Could hear his breath ragged in your ear, the low, broken sounds he made when your pussy clenched around him.

“Fuck—baby—you’re so tight,” he groaned, voice torn and breathless. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You kissed him blindly, teeth clashing, and moaned into his mouth. Your hips rocked erratically, your thighs burning, and all of it—his cock, his mouth, the way he held you like he needed to fuse your bodies together—was pushing you right to the edge.

Joel felt it. He could feel the way you started to tremble. He leaned in, lips at your ear now. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Give it to me. I want to feel it.”

You shook your head, like it was too much. You were too full, too stretched, too fucked to handle one more second of it.

But then he fucked up hard—once, twice—and wrapped both arms tight around your body, burying his face in your neck.

You shattered.

It hit like a wave slamming into a seawall—violent, unstoppable. You came with a sharp cry, back arched, nails clawing into his shoulders as you convulsed around him.

Joel held on. Fucked you through it, groaning into your throat.

“Jesus, fuck—there you go, baby, there you go—”

You came hard, loud, legs shaking in his lap, mouth falling open in a raw yell that cracked at the edges.

Joel didn’t stop. Not until you collapsed against him, trembling, soaking, gasping for air.

Only then did he slow down. Pulling you tighter against him, one big hand smoothing along your spine.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

You nodded into his neck. Still wrapped around him. Still full of him. Still pulsing with aftershocks.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want him to, either.

So he stayed there—cock still buried inside you, heart pounding against yours—and let you breathe together.

Joel shifted under you with a quiet grunt. One hand splayed across your back, the other gripping your hip as he rolled you both onto your sides. You landed with your face buried in his neck, your legs tangled with his, his cock still hard and still buried deep inside you.

You gasped at the movement—still sensitive, still twitching from the last wave of pleasure. His hands gentled instantly, rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing your hair.

You nodded, breath catching as his hips rolled, just slightly, nudging deeper. “Too good.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his breath warm on your cheek.

But he was still inside you. Still thick and pulsing.

You felt it now—the way he was holding himself back. The strain in his arms, the tightness in his jaw. His body was shuddering with restraint, his cock twitching inside you every time you clenched around him.

“You haven’t come,” you whispered.

Joel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.

You lifted your head, lips brushing his. “Why’re you holding back?”

His voice came out ragged. “You came so hard, baby. Felt you shake all over me. Just… wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Your heart fluttered, warm and aching. But you weren’t finished with him. Not like this.

You rolled your hips, slow, grinding your slick heat down over his cock. He hissed through his teeth.

“I’m not glass, Joel,” you whispered. “Don’t hold back.”

He groaned—low and wrecked—and kissed you.

It was slower this time, but no less intense. His mouth claimed yours in long, deep drags, tongue sliding against yours, hands gripping your waist as he started to move again.

You moaned into his mouth as he thrust. Still tight from your orgasm, your cunt clung to him with each stroke, slick and hot and perfect.

He fucked you slow, chest to chest, breath mingling, bodies sliding together in the dark.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You’re still squeezin’ me like that.”

Your arms curled around his shoulders. “I want you to come,” you said against his mouth. “Want to feel it.”

His hips snapped harder, rhythm faltering, every thrust heavier now. You kissed his jaw, his throat, anything you could reach.

Joel buried his face in your neck and groaned—loud, raw, the sound of a man losing his grip.

And then he was there.

He growled your name like a prayer and shoved in deep, holding you flush as he came—hot and thick, pulsing inside you with a low, broken moan.

You held him through it, stroking his back, whispering, “There you go. That’s it.”

He trembled. He kissed you again, slower now, panting between breaths.

When he finally stopped moving, both of you a tangle of sweat and skin and breath, he stayed right where he was—inside you, heart pounding against yours.

Joel didn’t move at first.

He stayed deep inside you, chest to chest, limbs tangled up like ivy. Your legs around his hips, your arms looped around his shoulders. His breathing was still rough in your ear, his cock twitching in the slick heat of you—spent but still buried, still wanting to stay where it was warm and safe.

You could feel the thump of his heartbeat, steadying slowly against yours. His fingers brushed up and down your spine, more of a reflex now than anything else. Like he needed the contact to remind himself this wasn’t a dream.

Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need.

Eventually—eventually—Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound lazy and half-exhausted. He kissed your jaw, your temple, then finally lifted himself just enough to look at you.

“Alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes still half-lidded. “Better than.”

He leaned in and kissed you one more time—soft and lingering—before his hips eased back.

He pulled out slowly. You both gasped at the drag, the loss of warmth. A wet heat followed immediately, thick and unmistakable, sliding down your thighs.

The air shifted. Joel caught sight of the mess soaking the sheets beneath you—your combined slick, his come leaking from where you’d been joined.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed.

Something about his voice—gravel and reverence, wrapped in that low Southern drawl—made you smile.

You rolled onto your stomach without thinking, cheek pressed to the pillow, your back arched in a long, lazy stretch. Limbs limp. Skin damp. Sated.

You exhaled softly, content and open, your bare ass high and warm in the soft light. The wet patch cooled beneath your belly, sticky and raw, but you didn’t care.

Joel let out another quiet groan behind you—half appreciation, half disbelief.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You wriggled your hips playfully, just enough to hear the low curse that followed.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he said.

“Mm,” you hummed, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who did all the damage.”

You felt the bed dip as he knelt beside you, large hands smoothing along the back of your thigh, then your lower back. Gentle, slow touches, not for arousal—just touch.

His fingers paused where your legs were still slick, and you felt him rub his thumb through the mess there, slow and soft.

“You want me to clean you up?” he asked.

Your eyes stayed closed. “Not yet.”

He kissed the small of your back, breath warm. “Okay.”

Then he lay down beside you, pulling you close, wrapping one arm around your waist from behind, his chest to your spine. You stayed there together in the dark, the air warm with sweat and sex and something deeper neither of you dared name just yet.

thank you for reading ❤️

[seventeenpins]

Hear Me Out...

pairing: Older!Joel x F!Reader word count: 2.5k summary: Joel gets hearing aids. He finds out just how much he's been missing out on. content/warnings: SMUT, peepaw joel (late 60s), unspecified age gap, established relationship, pussy eating, piv, he cries when he cums, they are IN LOVE your honor a/n: Hi friends! This was intended as part of a multi-chapter fic that I simply have not had the time or brain to finish. I'm hoping I'll get back to it at some point, but I hope you enjoy this little piece 👉👈 hoping there's nothing that I left in that requires context of the whole?? thank you to @ems-chaos-corner for designing the banner!! 🩷

Joel hadn’t planned to tell you right away when he got his hearing aids.

This thing between you was good. You felt solid. So in sync, most of the time. You’d been through enough together that he knew your foundation wouldn’t–couldn’t– be easily shaken.

But this didn’t feel like a small thing. Sure, you knew his age. You’d met him when you were volunteering at the goddamned senior center.

Hearing aids, though, were a step too far. 

Because that meant he was officially old. People would think he was your dad, even more so than they do already. Or maybe even his caretaker, god forbid.

He looks alright, he supposes, for being a few years shy of seventy. But his bones ache, his hair is more grey than not, and wrinkles line his face. He has to face the fact that he’s an old man. And, while he’s facing the facts, he needs to admit to himself that he really can’t hear for shit these days.

He’s a tired, deaf, selfish old man, and he can’t bear to lose you just yet.

—

You’re out of town for the weekend when he gets the hearing aids. It’s perfect, really, because he can learn how to use them. They’re fairly low profile, and he’s let his hair grow longer these days, making them easier to hide.

Sunday night, you arrive back home. You show up at your door, weekend bag slung over your shoulder. As you pull out your keys, Joel beats you to the lock, swinging the door open wide for you. You’re exhausted, and it must show in the bags under your eyes, but you can’t help but smile the moment you see him.

He reaches to relieve you of your bag and you shrug it off, letting him put it down by the entryway bench.

“You have a good time, baby?” he asks.

“It was fucking wonderful. I really needed that,” you smile, reaching up to kiss Joel, “I’m really glad to be home now though-” 

And then you kiss him again and hum against his lips, a happy little sound.

Joel’s never heard it before.

He wants to hear it again. He has to hear it again–

He kisses you again, a little bit deeper. Presses himself towards you and hears the way you moan against him, breathy and soft and desperate. What he’d felt only as vibration before now has a pitch he didn’t know he’d been missing. 

Need hits him like a freight train, suddenly urgent and dizzying. In a moment, he’s hard and wanting, pulse pounding fast.

"Honey," he sighs, lips still hovering over yours, hot breath tickling against your skin. You look at him, glancing across his face, reading in it whatever he happens to be showing. He wonders if it looks like reverence. "I need you baby, I need you right now--"

You’re surprised at his abrupt enthusiasm, a crease between your furrowed brows, but a smile plays on your lips.  

"I should probably go shower,” you tell him, turning towards the bathroom.

"Nuh uh," he shakes his head and reaches for you, pulling you close. "You don’t gotta. Unless ya really wanna. I just need you right fuckin’ now, baby. Want you any way you’ll have me."

You scrutinize him, looking him up and down. For a moment, he’s certain you’ve clocked him, that you know what he’s hiding. 

Instead of challenging him, though, your expression softens. You shrug, like it’s simple. “I’m yours.”

It's been a while since he's greeted you like this, and you’re certain you must be missing something for him to be so turned on, so out of the blue. Sure, you’d been gone for the weekend, but it was just a weekend, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve been apart, nor the longest.

He’s desperate though, more desperate than he knows how to be. He can’t keep his hands off of you, can’t stop touching you. His hands trace up and down your sides, making you gasp and whine at his attention. You revel in it.

When he gets you to the bedroom, he tries to pace himself. To savor it. He means to slow himself down.

He peels your clothes off, piece by piece. Gentle fingers fumble with the buttons, and he kisses that spot behind your ear that makes your breath hitch. 

When it does, though– when that sweet gasp passes your lips, Joel is changed. Any restrained passion he’d been trying to keep in check dissolves, replaced by desperate frenzy. 

He rids you of the rest of your clothes, strewn garments in your wake as he guides you to bed.

Joel has always been a generous lover, always watching and learning. In the early days with him, he’d ask you to show him what you like. He’d keep his eyes on you, attentive, reading you with care as he’d replicate the ways you know to give yourself pleasure, as though ensuring your gratification were his life’s only goal.

You’re used to his eyes on you, watching how your body reacts to his touch, touching you gently when you need softness, being firm when you need redirection. 

So, it’s always been good. But it’s never been quite like this. 

He pushes you down onto the bed and grabs you by the knees, shoving them apart, making you gasp. He hums and grabs you, lifts you, and scoots you back towards the headboard. Resets your legs so your thighs are spread again for him and he’s slotted between them. You can feel his cock, fat and heavy against his thigh, straining against his jeans– and fuck the fucking denim– he’s still wearing his clothes.

It’s not fair.

“Get naked, Joel,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You can see a blush spread across his cheeks and nose, but he doesn’t look bashful as he used to be. He looks hungry. A smirk twitches on his lips.

You’re bare for him, and so so ready. And, you think distantly, you’re so incredibly comfortable with him. There was a time you would have shrunk away from this kind of touch that allows you to be so seen. For him, though, you love little more than to lean back and spread your legs, so bare and exposed, all for him. To show him every part of yourself, and simply trust that he won’t frighten.

He makes quick work of his clothes. Grabs his t-shirt by the back of the neck and rips it over his head. Unbuttons his jeans and shucks them and his boxers off in one go, his cock bouncing heavy between his legs. You let out a breath, watching.

He slips his arms under your legs and slots back in, rests his body face down on the bed, presses himself in between your thighs.

He examines your cunt; runs a gentle thumb from your navel to just above your clit and presses down with just the lightest pressure. And then a little more, till you’re squirming and whining and his nostrils are flaring, his breaths coming out as pants at your response. He drags wet, broken kisses down your body. His lips trace your tummy, the dips of your hips, down down down til he spits on your shiny seam, making your clit nice and wet.

You tremble, just a little, in anticipation of feeling him on you. But he doesn’t move towards you. He looks up at you, brown eyes looking at you with such love and concern. And then he looks back down, to where you’re spread for him. He hums, affirming.

“Oh– would you look at that– she needs t’ be filled up, don’t she?” he asks, breath hot against your soft cunt, his words making you jerk against him, trying to find some friction. He grins against you as you sigh, pretty little asshole and pussy both visibly clenching in tandem mere inches from his face.

He stills you, hands clutching your hips, holding you down.

“I think she might need a kiss first, though, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm-”, you sigh.

Your breath hitches as he places a gentle kiss against your lips before he slips his tongue between them, gentle, languid- He lets you card your fingers through his hair as he licks into you, humming in affirmation when you grab on tight. He noses at your clit and draws a yelp out of you, groaning, the rumble of it vibrating against your skin.

There’s no rush as he pulls you apart. Just a little bit of time and some very precise pressure. You can feel yourself start to build as he flicks a pointed tongue against your clit. His focus is exact, and in no time at all, your breaths are shallow and desperate, your hips rocking up to meet his strokes, to feel his scruff against your thighs.

He’s eating you out like he needs it to live. Loud slurps punctuate softer licks as he buries his face between your legs. He’s so responsive, growling at every reaction you make. 

He barely brakes for air, but when he does, it’s punctuated with filth. “That’s a good girl, yeah, say my name just like that–” 

All you can do is breathe his name, a soft prayer, Joel, Joel, JOEL–

You chant, till the pull within you builds and breaks, sending you sobbing on his tongue, bliss coursing through every part of you. 

Sounds that he didn’t know he’d been missing surrounding him like the most beautiful symphony, your sighs, gasps, moans– He knows it’s useless speaking with his pussy-stuffed mouth, but he growls into you, letting you ride his face through it, prolonging your orgasm, and not stopping until you can’t handle any more.

When the stimulation becomes too much, you yank his head back by the hair. He grins up at you, sheepish. He's panting, wipes his slick mouth with the back of his hand, and stares at you, so fucking hungry. “Probably a good thing you had me stop where you did,” he tells you, “Nearly came now just from eating you-

"I love you--" you sigh, barely able to think, the intensity of your climax making you fuck-drunk and languid. A smile breaks through the hungry, wild expression on Joel's face, and he draws himself up and pulls you toward him so you're seated. 

"I love you, too," he presses his forehead against yours, damp curls tickling your brow, till he pulls back and swipes his hair away, pressing back against you.

You hum, so comfortable and happy, and Joel sighs.

It takes you a few minutes to fully come back to yourself, Joel holding you close the whole time. When you do, you know you need more. You pull back gently, shifting yourself apart from him until you’re able to straddle him. He’s still hard, painfully so, and neither of you need to say a word. You lift yourself, line him up with your swollen pussy, and sink down slowly, inch by stiff  inch. Your eyelids flutter shut at the sensation. He watches you in awe and adoration.

He reaches around you, grabs your ass with each of his hands, and starts to rock you gently.

“Yes–” you hiss, and tilt your hips to match each thrust.

It’s gentle at first, careful, and considered as he fucks you in his lap. But then, you adjust your position just a little and start to bounce, taking more with each thrust, grinding hard against him as he fucks up into you and hits just the right spot.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fUCK!--” you cry, sensation overwhelming you.

Everything is so much, so deliciously overwhelming, every little breath and moan and gasp that passes your lips finally tipping him over the edge.

“Honey–,” he hums, “I’m– I’m close, not gonna last–”

“Give it to me.”

“Fuck–” He keeps rocking into you, but his movements still just a little as he lets go. You can feel the way his cock pulses and shudders in you, his balls throbbing, your insides coated with cum, all of this sending you over again.

He whines as your clenching pussy chokes him, drawing even more from him. 

It’s pure ecstasy. 

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to reduce the overwhelm. When you come back down, your breathing starting to even out, you open your eyes to discover–

Joel, staring at you, reverential, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

You’ve only seen Joel cry a handful of times, and never once while he was still inside you–

“Oh fuck, babe, what is it?” you ask, suddenly panicked.

He shakes his head, thumbing his tears away, “No, no,” he tries to reassure, “Nothing’s wrong–”

But that doesn’t reassure you. The love of your life is balls-deep in you, crying, and you don’t know why.

“I promise,” he insists, and then he tucks his hair back behind one ear.

It only takes you a moment.

“Joel Miller. Did you get fucking hearing aids and not tell me?”

He laughs; a wet, spluttery thing.

“I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on so much- I–”

You let him collect his words, his thoughts. You love that he tries, even when it’s hard. He makes sure you understand.

“I never heard you like that before, baby-” he tells you, “Those gasps and moans. All those sounds you make for me. I can hear them now. And I could’ve been hearing them this whole damn time if I hadn’t been too proud.”

He shakes his head, frustrated.

“I was worried you’d think I was too old.”

Your eyes widen. Somehow, that wasn’t what you’d expected.

“Baby, you know I know how old you are, right? I met you at the fuckin’ Senior Center,” you frown.

He glares at you. Some of the puffiness around his eyes dulls the intended effect.

You know it’s not exactly that, though. It’s really just the irrational fear that you both have, of losing the other when you’d only just found one another, manifesting in any way it can.

So you press your lips to his, and hold him close. He’s still sheathed inside you, and you can feel him start to twitch hard again. 

“You know,” you tease, rocking your hips again, “I think the hearing aids are kind of sexy.”

Joel scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“No, I mean it–” you insist, “You’ve always been attentive. But– I don’t know. I know it’s something that’s been bothering you–and I also know you weren’t super into the idea, getting hearing aids– I guess I’m proud of you.” 

He snorts, but you can see the smile he’s trying to hide.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he shakes his head, “I just– I shouldn’t have put it off so long.”

“It’s okay, old man,” you tease, pulling forward to kiss him gently. Still seated on him, you roll your hips with just a little more vigor than you’d intended, cutting yourself off with a gasp.

He groans.

“Lets find out what other sounds you’ve been missing out on-”

[followyourfleart]

Petty Grievances

a03 | masterlist

blurb - You know your husband—five years of marriage has seared every one of Joel’s habits into your mind. The good, the bearable, and especially the parts you’ve learned to swallow down. So when he gets petty, you know how to manage it. But how much can Joel really handle when his wife is standing right there—and how much longer can he stand there when you look like that?

warnings - nsfw,  mdni  18+, jealousy, established relationship (marriage), petty!Joel Miller, slightly possessive!Joel Miller, slightly mean!Joel, no outbreak AU, fluff, slight angst, mentions of Sarah, some plot before the porn, DIRTY talk, orgasm control/denial, condescending, panty gags, finger fucking, oral sex (f receiving), marriage kink??, heavier (yet not fully stated) Dom/sub dynamic, light spanking, creampies (don't try this at home!), and aftercare.

One shot requested by: @ anyomous

wc: 14.4 k

You noticed it in the produce section.

At least, that’s where you started paying attention.

Joel was standing in front of the tomatoes. Arms crossed over his chest, brows low, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You watched him stare at a container of cherry tomatoes for a solid minute without blinking.

You approached slowly, pushing the cart with your forearms as you scrolled on your phone. “What’s going on over here?”

No answer.

“...Joel?”

His head tilted, just slightly. But he didn’t look at you. Then he spoke. That flat, deadpan, bone-dry drawl. “Tomatoes look like shit.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“They’re soft.”

“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”

Joel still didn’t look at you.

You stared at the side of his face. “...Are you mad at the produce section?”

Nothing.

Just a grumble under his breath and a slow pivot toward the green beans like that would explain everything. You stared at his back as he walked away—boots heavy, jaw set, posture stiff—like he was storming a trench.

Okay, you thought, weird.

You exhaled, rolling your eyes affectionately, and turned back to the tomatoes, tossing a decent-looking carton into the cart anyway. He was right, they did look a little sad. But they were for Sarah, and if she wanted soft tomatoes, soft tomatoes she would get.

You plucked up a few avocados next, giving each one a careful squeeze, mind half on ripeness and half on tomorrow. Joel had been buzzing around the house all week like a man possessed. Re-caulking sinks that didn’t need caulking. Replacing lightbulbs that hadn’t even burned out yet. He scrubbed the guest bathroom twice.

You hadn’t been much better. The linens were washed, the throw pillows fluffed and rearranged. You dusted the top of the kitchen cabinets, for God’s sake. You’d picked up her favorite shampoo, baked muffins for her first morning back, and cleaned out a corner of the garage in case she wanted to bring any boxes home from her dorm.

She wasn’t yours biologically, but it didn’t matter. She was Sarah. Bright, funny, stubborn as her father. She gave the best hugs and asked about your day even when she was swamped with finals. You’d loved her before you even realized that was what it was. And now that she was coming home?

You were nervous.

Ridiculously so.

So Joel’s poor attitude today was the least of your worries. 

You shrugged it off. Kept pushing the cart. You were halfway to the cereal aisle when he started doing it again.

You held up a box of your favorite granola. “This one okay?”

He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”

"Or do you want something else?”

“Nah.”

"...Raisin Bran? You’re always weird about fiber—"

“I said it’s fine.”

You blinked again. Slowly lowered the box. The tone was clipped. Not sharp, not angry, but weird. Off. Tired and dry and… cold.

That was when it really hit you.

He was being weird. Really weird.

Joel was never chatty, sure. You didn’t expect him to spin cartwheels down the aisles and ask about your day like a sitcom husband. But he did usually toss random things in the cart. Made fun of the music playing. Stood behind you at the fridge section and pressed his hand low against your back like he always needed to touch you somehow, even in the most ordinary moments.

But today? Nothing.

You watched him reach for a gallon of milk. Shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight, no eye contact. He handled it like it might explode if he moved wrong—slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the 2%  as he dragged it off a wire shelf.

You grabbed the cart and rolled up beside him, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder. “Okay. Seriously. Are you mad?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

The voice was outhern and flat, worn paper edges and deadpan delivery. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as blink in your direction. Just dropped the milk into the cart like it might bite him if he held onto it too long.

You sighed. Here we go.

Joel wasn’t dramatic by nature—not loud or combative, not the storming-out, voice-raising type. He didn’t get into shouting matches or start fights for the sake of it. No, when he was pissed, it was like this.

Quiet.

Tense.

Internalized.

Five years married to him and you could spot the signs from a mile off: the long silences, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way he clammed up like someone stapled his jaw shut. He’d sulk for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours depending on the severity of the offense. And, of course, with how hot it was outside, it added about twenty percent to his overall grump factor.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even intentional, really.

It was just Joel. It was his version of cooling off. Letting his mind spin out until he could file his feelings into neat, Joel-shaped boxes. Then he’d let you in. After he’d suffered in silence for a while first.

You’d learned to give him space. Learned to let him take the long road back to you.

So, you just sighed, patted his shoulder as you passed, and said, “Okay. You do your thing, baby.”

Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.

Not close, not far—just hovering within a four-foot radius like some brooding, ghost. You could hear his boots behind you, heavy and slow, the rhythm off-tempo like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk next to you or not.

You didn’t look back.

You were wearing one of your thinner sundresses—pale yellow, soft cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs. It clung in the heat, even in the fridge aisle, the air conditioning barely keeping up with the July temperatures that had been frying the pavement outside. Your thighs felt tacky. Your collarbone was slick. You could still feel the outline of sweat across your lower back, even though it had dried on the walk from the car to the store.

You crouched in front of the dairy case, cold air blasting against your legs, trying to find the right cheese for the pasta you were planning that night. You could feel him watching you—even if he was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t.

You stayed there for an extra second, reaching slowly, letting your fingers graze a few of the blocks. Then, without looking back, you asked:

“Joel, which cheese do you want for your pasta?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, with no help to you what-so-ever: “Cheese.”

You blinked and turned your head slowly.

“You wanna say that again?”

He was leaning on the edge of the freezer case, arms crossed, pretending to study the shredded cheese.

You held up a block of cheddar. “Yes, Joel. Cheese. Incredible answer. Groundbreaking. But what kind of cheese?”

“You pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, hell no. Last time I picked, I used goat cheese and you had one of your little fits.”

“I do not fit,” he growled.

You arched a brow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

Just crossed his arms harder, like he could make himself immune to the conversation by doubling down on the pout.

You looked him up and down. The heavy brow. The tight jaw. That stubborn line his mouth always settled into when he was trying to bury his emotions six feet.

“Sure,” you said. “Sure, you don’t throw fits. You just stop talking, glower at your dinner plate, and mumble about textures like you’re the one who did the cooking.”

That earned you a twitch. Not a full reaction— but a crack in the armor.

You rolled your eyes, sighed dramatically, and grabbed the block of aged white cheddar you knew he liked. “Fine. If this one suddenly offends your delicate palette, that’s on you.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. So you pivoted and veered into the home décor section.

You didn’t need anything.

But Joel wasn’t talking, so you were going to use the opportunity however you wanted.

You could feel him trailing behind you, still not talking, still definitely watching, filled to the brim with opinions he refused to say out loud.

You stopped in front of a little wooden sign that read Home is where the coffee brews and snorted. “We need this.”

Joel scoffed behind you.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept moving, hips swaying a little more than necessary, letting your fingers trail across a row of throw blankets you absolutely didn’t need. The fabric was soft, plush. Your fingertips curled around the edge.

“Hmm,” you murmured. “This one would look good on the couch.”

“We got three already,” Joel said, voice gravel-thick and grumbled.

You gasped and turned. “Oh my god. He speaks.”

Joel gave you a dead stare.

You sighed, amused, and reached up to adjust the strap of your dress. The movement lifted the fabric just enough to expose more skin, your hand brushing your collarbone lightly.

Joel’s eyes—subtle as they tried to be—dropped.

For just a second. Just a flicker of heat. Then gone. Buried again under that mask of annoyed indifference.

You reached for a vase you didn’t need. “Should I get this? Maybe put some fake sunflowers in it?”

Joel didn’t answer.

But when you gently dropped the too-expensive vase into the cart, he reached out with one big, calloused hand and nudged it so it wouldn’t tip over.

You saw that. You always saw it.

The little things. The quiet things. The kinds of gestures that lived in the in-betweens. Between I’m pissed and I love you too much to let you drop something and break it. Between leave me alone and don’t go too far.

You smirked to yourself, just a little.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond.

Still standing there like a statue. Still arms crossed, still jaw clenched, still eyes focused anywhere except you. He looked like he was trying to manifest a portal in the linoleum. Like he’d rather fall through it than talk about his feelings.

So you stepped in close.

You didn’t even think about it, you just moved on instinct. The same instinct that had been honed over five years of knowing his rhythms, his moods, the way he built walls only so you could gently scale them.

You lifted your hand and cupped his face.

Fingers soft, brushing over his scruff. His skin was warm—not just from the heat in the store, but from him. Always was. Like he carried a low burn under the surface, something he never let reach his mouth, but always lived in his eyes.

His body went still the second you touched him.

And then—after a breath—his arms dropped from his chest, as he slightly melted.

You tilted your head, giving him your softest smile. The one that usually melted him like butter left out in the heat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours. They were darker than they’d been earlier. Brow drawn, mouth slightly parted—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite sort out what.

“You’re not mad at me,” you continued gently. “Not really.”

He still didn’t speak.

So, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Just soft lips brushing rough skin. Just one warm second of closeness. You pulled back with another sheepish smile, fingers still cupping his jaw.

“Truce?” you whispered.

Joel blinked, then his eyes darkened. His voice came low. Tight. Gritted like he’d chewed through a whole bag of nails.

“…Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Look at me like that.”

Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.

“I—I was just saying sorry,” you said. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand went to his hip. Like he was physically restraining himself.

“Not really mad at you,” he muttered. “Ain’t even the point.”

You stared. “Then what’s the point?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the concept of gravity. Something he felt every damn day, pulling at his bones, weighing him down—but couldn’t quite put into words.

The silence stretched. You stared at him.

And he stared at your mouth. Then your neck. Then your legs.

The hem of your sundress had hitched higher when you leaned forward earlier. You didn’t even realize.

But Joel did.

You reached for his hand.

That was it. That was the end of him.

He took a step back. Like he needed space. Like he was two seconds from doing something that’d get you banned from this store for life.

“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Go. Get the rest of what you need. I’ll finish up here.”

“Joel—”

“Please.”

The look in his eyes stopped you cold. It was raw. Like he was hanging on by a thread.

Your head tilted, then you nodded slowly, trying not to let your smile falter. “Okay… yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll grab the rest.”

You stepped back, turned away.

You rush, but you didn’t look over your shoulder either. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little wounded by the way he’d shut down.

Like you weren’t standing in the middle of a home decor aisle asking your husband for a truce while he looked at you like touching you was some kind of mistake.

You grabbed the last few things you needed: soap, razors, paper towels. You took your time. Didn’t linger, didn’t sulk, but you didn’t exactly hurry either.

It wasn’t the first time Joel had gotten like this. And it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

You knew his moods. Knew how he simmered. But today felt different—a little sharper around the edges. A little less I just need a minute and a little more don’t touch me unless you want me to snap.

You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.

Register Four was open. You recognized the boy behind it—he was young, probably twenty at most. Soft brown curls under a baseball cap, name tag crooked, fingers fidgeting with the barcode scanner like it might bite him if he didn’t angle it right.

You came here often, usually alone. Joel was extremely busy during the late afternoons to do anything like this with you, but Tommy had given him the day off to go on a ‘real date’ for once. 

“Take your wife out,” he’d said with that crooked grin, “‘fore she starts thinkin’ Maria’s the only one in Austin who knows what wine is.”

Joel had grunted. You’d been excited. But now?

Now you were standing in line feeling vaguely rejected while the AC hummed and a nervous boy with too-kind eyes struggled to scan your bottle of dish soap.

He cleared his throat. “Uh—uh, sorry, ma’am.”

You smiled politely. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Take your time.”

He flushed immediately. His fingers fumbled with the box of pasta. Nearly dropped it. Caught it at the last second and blurted, “C-Can I ask you somethin’?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Sure.”

He looked like he was going to combust. Then, suddenly, in a rush: “Can I have your number?”

You froze.

The world tilted for a second, like the floor dropped two inches beneath your feet.

“Oh,” you said. His face turned crimson. You held up your hand slowly, showing him your ring. “Oh, sweetie—I’m married.”

The words left you gently. Kind. Soft. Not an ounce of mockery in your voice.

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God—no—I didn’t—I didn’t mean anythin’ bad—I just thought—y-you come in here a lot and you always smile and you’re so—uh, I mean—ma’am, I’m so sorry—”

You winced. “Oh no, don’t apologize. I’m not upset. Really.”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”

“You didn’t!” You leaned forward, laughing softly. “Hey. Breathe. I promise you, it’s okay. You’re sweet. You were just being brave, and I think that’s admirable.”

He stared at you like you’d just spoken ancient Greek.

“Some girl’s gonna be real lucky,” you said, giving him an encouraging nod. “It’s not me, but—hey, you’ll get there.”

The poor boy looked like he might cry. Or faint.

You reached into your purse to grab your wallet, hoping the small distraction might settle the tension—and that’s when you heard it.

The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.

You felt him before you saw him—a heat behind your back, a presence too heavy to ignore. All broad shoulders and silence. The cart creaked slightly as Joel gripped the handle tightly. You didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.

The boy  immediately blanched.

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, eyes fixed like a sniper’s scope on the poor kid who had just made the mistake of his life.

You turned slowly. Looked up at your husband. He didn’t glance at you.

He was too busy leveling his deadpan, I’ve killed a man with a wrench stare at a twenty-year-old cashier who probably still lived with his mom.

The kid squeaked.

Literally squeaked.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean anythin’—”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, turning fully to Joel. “Joel.”

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

His presence was doing the job just fine. His glare was practically a physical force. You stepped between them slightly, trying to cut off the eye contact.

“Hey, baby. Relax.”

Still nothing.

The boy was now full-on panicking. “Please—I swear—I wasn’t trying to cross a line—I just—I didn’t know!”

Joel’s brow twitched.

You pressed a hand to your face. “Joel, stop.”

“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.

“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”

The kid swiped your items faster than humanly possible. It was honestly impressive. You barely saw his hands move. Bags were packed, receipt printed, card already back in your purse and you hadn’t even finished sighing.

You took the bags gently.

“Have a good day,” you said softly.

The kid didn’t reply.

He just nodded, eyes still wide, and looked like he might call for security if Joel so much as blinked wrong.

You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.

The Texas heat hit you again like a slap. Joel loaded the bags into the truck while you stood there with your jaw locked and your arms crossed.

Finally, once everything was packed and the cart shoved into the return stall, you turned to him.

“Well,” you said dryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“You traumatized the poor boy.”

“He’ll live,” Joel muttered, rounding the front of the truck.

You followed behind, shaking your head. “He’s like, twenty.”

“He asked for your number.”

“He asked once. The second he saw you he died, Joel. Like he was gonna apologize himself into the floor.”

Joel didn’t answer.

You threw up your hands. “If he pushed after I said I was married, then fine—that’d be a problem. But he didn’t. He backed off. He was nervous as hell. That’s it.”

Still nothing.

He opened the driver’s side door, one big hand gripping the top of the frame as he climbed in. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that might’ve been kid shoulda known better.

You stared at him for a beat.

And then you dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and exhaled sharply. “Just drive, Joel.”

The truck rumbled to life.

The drive was quiet.

Unbearably quiet.

No music. No conversation. Just the buzz of the engine and the whoosh of cars passing by. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in thick summer air and the occasional wail of cicadas from the tree line. You sat with your arms crossed, looking out the window, sighing loudly every five minutes like it might crack the silence open.

It didn’t.

Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.

Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.

He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out without a word.

You didn’t follow right away.

You just sat there, hands limp in your lap, watching as Joel carried every single grocery bag inside on his own—arms full, face still unreadable, steps heavy against the driveway like he was stomping out a fire.

You finally got out once the door swung closed behind him.

Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.

Just slipped quietly into the bathroom, peeled off your sticky clotes, and stepped under the hot water.

And then you let yourself think.

Okay.

What the hell could you have done?

You rewound the day like a cassette tape.

Grocery list. The belt joke. Teasing him in the dairy aisle. Cupping his face. The kiss. Okay, maybe the kiss.

But he didn’t even look mad about that.

More like… tense.

You dragged your hands through your hair, water cascading down your back, and sighed. Again.

This wasn’t like a normal Joel mood. He was always slow to process—needed time, needed space, needed quiet. But this felt different. Sharper. Heavier.

More... personal.

By the time you shut off the water, you were still no closer to an answer.

You toweled off, still thinking, still analyzing, and threw on one of Joel’s old contracting t-shirts—the faded gray one with Miller Bros. Construction across the chest in chipped blue lettering. It hung soft and oversized over your hips, swallowing your frame in familiar cotton.

You slipped on a pair of sleep shorts. Didn’t bother with a bra. Your skin was still warm from the shower, hair damp, sticking slightly to the back of your neck.

You padded out barefoot.

Joel was in the living room.

Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown across the back cushion, the TV flickering against his cheekbone. Some football game was on—low volume, closed captions flickering across the bottom of the screen.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.

You stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. Your arms folded gently across your chest, the hem of your shorts brushing your thighs.

The silence crackled.

You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”

He grunted.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just gonna do the Cold War thing ‘til I forget why I like you?”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

You narrowed your eyes and slowly walked around behind the couch. Your steps were soft. Bare feet against wood. You leaned over the back of the couch, arms draping over Joel’s shoulders like a shawl. He was so warm. Stubbornly still.

You pressed your mouth to his neck. Right beneath his ear. Soft. Sweet.

Nothing.

You did it again.

Still nothing—except for the slight shift in his shoulders. Barely there. But you felt it.

He swallowed.

You smirked to yourself. Didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Baby,” you whispered against his skin, “if you don’t tell me what I did, I’m gonna start apologizing for everything I’ve ever done.”

No response.

“I’m sorry for throwing away that old shirt you said you didn’t care about, but definitely cared about.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep during Scarface. Twice.”

Still nothing.

“I’m sorry for making you late to that dentist appointment ‘cause I wanted to see how long I could make you moan in the shower—”

His head tilted slightly. Barely.

But you saw it.

And you grinned.

Bingo.

“I’m sorry for using your flannel to clean up that wine spill,” you continued sweetly. “I’m sorry for not telling you I bought more candles when you said we had enough. I’m sorry for giving the mailman banana bread and not saving you the corner piece you like.”

Still nothing

You leaned over the back of the couch, lips brushing his temple, hands sliding around to gently cup his jaw and turn his face to you.

“Joel,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear, “Please.”

He finally looked at you.

Expression flat. Deadpan.

Eyes dark, unreadable.

But there was something under it. A spark you could feel in your chest like a struck match. His hands didn’t move. His shoulders stayed tense.

You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.

Then you flopped onto him—full weight, no hesitation. Limbs splayed, pressing him into the cushions like a weighted blanket of pure intent.

He let out a soft oof like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

Good.

You wiggled, settling in. Your leg slid between his. One arm wrapped around his middle. Your cheek found the curve of his shoulder, pressed against soft cotton and sun-warmed skin.

“You’re not that fragile,” you murmured into his shirt.

“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.

You smiled.

Joel always gave you something when you got dramatic enough. It was like chipping away at a glacier with a spoon, but eventually, you knew he would crack.

You sighed. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just said what was bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”

He didn’t respond again.

So you started stretching—slowly, like a lazy cat. Arms up, spine arching, your full weight still sprawled across his lap and chest. You felt his hand twitch slightly against your waist, like he wanted to grab you. Anchor you. Maybe throw you.

You smirked.

“God, you’re such a man,” you muttered teasingly. “All silence and brooding and long-suffering looks. It’s like being with a cowboy who doesn’t know how to write his own country song.”

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressed a soft kiss there. Then another.

Joel stayed still.

Stone quiet.

But you could feel the tension in his chest now. Could feel the way he wasn’t breathing evenly. The heat of his skin.

Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.

You pulled back slightly, leaned over him, peering into his eyes. “Is this about the cheese?”

Joel blinked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”

He sighed. “It ain’t about the cheese.”

“Oh, thank God,” you whispered, deadpan. You threw your head back for dramatic effect. “Because if I have to listen to your slideshow on all your picky foods, I’m calling Sarah to mediate.”

That got him. A tiny—tiny—upward quirk of his mouth.

You leaned down and kissed it.

Soft and sweet.

You pulled back just an inch.

Then climbed farther into his lap.

Joel’s hands hovered near your thighs now. Not touching. Just there. Like he didn’t know what to do with them. Or he did, and was trying not to.

You kissed his cheek.

His jaw.

The soft curve of his neck again.

And all the while, you kept talking. Soft little murmurs between kisses.

“Remember when we first moved in and you said, ‘I don’t need throw pillows’ and now you’re the one who fluffs them before bed?”

No response.

“Remember when you said you didn’t want a dog, and now every time you see one on the street, you stop and talk to it?”

Still nothing.

“Remember when you said you don’t do pouting?”

You kissed the edge of his mouth.

Then pulled back and pouted.

Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But not nothing either.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

You gasped, loud and dramatic. “You do still speak!”

Nothing in his expression changed.

But his eyes flicked over your face. Down your body. Then quickly back up, like he hadn’t done it.

You didn’t comment.

You just smiled—soft and amused—and stretched again, your hips shifting in his lap as you moved to loop your arms around his neck.

“God, you’re warm,” you murmured, half to yourself. “You always get warm when you’re annoyed. Or when you’re turned on.” You snorted. “Which, now that I think about it, probably means I’m annoying and hot.”

Joel blinked once. Slowly.

You ran your hands along the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape as you kept going. “Also, this shirt is very soft. I get why you wore it for ten years. Smells like you too. Not fair.”

Joel exhaled—tight. Controlled. His hands hadn’t moved, but the one at your waist was gripping just a little harder now. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to let you feel it.

Joel dropped his gaze.

You didn’t stop.

“Y’know,” you added thoughtfully, fingers trailing down the edge of his collar, “when I was in the shower, I kept thinking about all the stuff I could’ve done to make you mad. I even washed all the way behind my knees just in case you were mad about that.”

That got him.

A strangled sound—half cough, half growl—escaped his throat.

“What?” you asked, blinking innocently. “You’re always saying I never rinse right.”

Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.

And then his head dropped.

Right onto your shoulder.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just slumped a little heavier, his breath hot against your skin.

You froze, heart thudding in your chest.

Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”

He didn’t lift his head.

Just sighed. Deep and long. A full-body exhale like he'd been holding something in for hours.

Then, low, gravelly, and rough:

“You really don’t know?”

You blinked. “...Know what?”

He turned his face slightly, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips near your collarbone.

You waited.

Silence stretched.

Then finally, slowly, he said:

“You were wearin’ that dress.”

You paused. “…What?”

He sighed again. Frustrated. “At the store. That yellow one. The one that clings. That makes your thighs—” He cut himself off, groaning. “Fuck.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re  being pissy at me ‘cause of my dress?”

He finally sat up. Met your eyes. And oh—his face.

That quiet, deadpan fury.

That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.

“I ain’t mad at the dress,” he ground out. “I’m mad ‘cause you wore it without even thinkin’. You just—put it on. Walked around the store, leanin’ over, lookin’ like—like that. Like you didn’t know. And that little boy looked at you like he’d just seen God.”

You blinked.

Then you bit your lip.

But Joel wasn’t done.

“I’ve been hard since the dairy aisle.”

You choked.

He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.

“And then you came home. In my shirt. No bra. Crawled all over me. Kissed me like it was sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were doin’. Whisperin’ all soft, makin’ those fuckin’ pouty faces. I’m sittin’ here tryin’ not to throw you over the back of the couch, and you’re talkin’ about ‘behind your knees.’”

Your lips parted.

He growled.

“And I can’t be mad at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “Not really. ‘Cause you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just bein’ you.”

You opened your mouth to respond.

But nothing came out.

You just stared.

Joel stared back.

His chest was rising hard now. His hands had slid to your hips. Gripping. Holding you still in his lap like he wasn’t sure what he’d do if you moved again.

“I hate how much I love you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Hate it when you’re cute. Hate it when you wear my shirts. Hate it when you kiss me when I’m tryin’ to be mad.”

You whispered, breathless, “So don’t be mad.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to be mad,” he snapped, fingers tightening. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ lose it.”

You blinked.

And then—quietly:

“…You want me to get off you?”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

“Fuck no,” he said, and the word hit like a warning. “You move now, I swear to God—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:

“…So I’m off the hook about the cheese?”

Joel scoffed.

But it came out rough.

More breath than sound.

Then, without another word—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Like he’d been waiting all day to do it. His mouth found yours with heat, with hunger, with the kind of urgency that made you squeak softly against his lips before melting—completely—into him.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other sliding over your hip to keep you grounded, pressed tight into his lap where you belonged.

You gasped into his mouth when he angled you just right, when he kissed you like he wasn’t your husband of five years but a man trying to earn you.

“Joel—” you breathed, between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, “baby, I—need to start the pasta—”

“Screw the pasta,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing along your collarbone like he was mapping it for memory. “Fuck all of it.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up in your chest, bright and breathless.

Joel kissed the sound right out of you.

“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.

You blinked, a little dazed. “Missed me?”

He nodded, nose brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. I know you’ve been here, but baby… you’ve been everywhere but with me.”

Your brows drew together, guilt tugging already, but Joel just kept going, voice low and full of heat and heartache.

“You’ve been movin’ nonstop all week. Preppin’ the guest room, scrubbin’ the floors like it was a damn hotel inspection comin’. Stressin’ over the timin’ of the plane, re-foldin’ towels that didn’t need foldin’, runnin’ errands twice ‘cause you forgot the list the first time. Cookin’ like we’ve got ten people to feed instead of just one girl comin’ home for the week.”

His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.

“Runnin’ out the door before I can even tell you I love you.”

He was still kissing you, slower now. Softer. Like every word cost him something.

“I ain’t mad about the cheese,” he whispered. “Ain’t mad about that poor boy at the register lookin’ at you like his world was endin’. I’m just…”

He sighed.

And then held you closer.

“…selfish,” he admitted. “I want my wife.”

You melted against him, curling your fingers through the back of his hair. “Joel…”

“I want her mouth,” he murmured, kissing the corner of yours. “Want her laugh. Her hands. Her smart mouth and her soft skin and her stupid apologies about flannel.”

You giggled again, and he kissed that too.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said roughly. “And I still missed you.”

Your heart cracked open. And that was it.

That was the moment you moved.

You slid forward, slow and deliberate, swinging one leg fully across his lap until you were straddling him—knees planted firm on either side, thighs bracketing his hips.

Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

He just watched you.

His hands landed on your waist automatically. Like muscle memory. Like they’d been there a thousand times and still weren’t done learning the shape of you.

You lowered yourself slowly into his lap, letting the weight of your body sink against the growing heat beneath his jeans. The second your hips touched down, you felt it—thick, hard, there.

Joel’s jaw clenched.

But he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a move.

So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him. Open-mouthed and deep.

Not sweet this time.

Not soft.

You kissed him like you missed him too, like you hadn’t seen him every day. Like you meant it. Like every minute of silence between you had been a mistake you were now determined to fix with your mouth.

He let you lead, just for a moment.

And God, the sound he made when you pulled back just slightly, only to roll your hips forward, pressing down against him with a teasing grind—

A low, broken grunt spilled from his throat, half-pain, half-prayer.

“Jesus, baby…”

You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.

And did it again.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist like he was barely holding back. Like he was grounding himself. You felt the flex of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt.

He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.

You shifted again, dragging your cunt over the firm line of his jeans, and Joel exhaled like it physically pained him.

He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered again, trying to keep his classic deadpan delivery, but his chest was rising hard now, breath shallow.

You tilted your head, smiling innocently, biting the corner of your lip like you weren’t absolutely soaked and unraveling already.

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “What am I doing?”

He gave you that look—half narrowed eyes, half disbelief—like he could see straight through you.

You didn’t give him time to answer.

Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.

Soft, at first.

Just a brush.

Then firmer, deeper—trailing kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat, until you reached the warm patch of skin behind his ear that always made him twitch. You kissed it slowly, let your breath spill over it.

“You said you wanted my mouth,” you whispered. “Just trying to give it to you.”

Joel groaned. Just one low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like it cost him something.

You felt his grip slide lower, from the swell of your hips to the backs of your thighs, and then he rocked you forward for you.

One, slow drag.

Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.

Your breath hitched. “Oh—”

“Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough and fraying. “Then give it to me, baby. Just like that. Keep grindin’. Nice and slow.”

You whimpered. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t help it.

So you did what he asked. What he always made sound like a command, even when he spoke soft.

You rolled your hips against him again. And again.

Each pass sent sparks shooting down your spine. Each brush of friction left you clinging a little tighter, breathing a little harder.

The TV flickered in the background, some commentator still droning about pass coverage or something equally irrelevant.

But Joel didn’t look away from you. Not once.

He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.

His mouth opened against yours, tongue curling deep, hand still anchored around your thigh, keeping you pressed tight. Like if he let go, the earth might shift.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses. “Crawlin’ all over me in that damn shirt… knowin’ I was tryin’ to stay mad?”

You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips still moving, pace steady and deliberate.

“I was trying to apologize.”

“Tryin’ my ass,” he growled, biting the edge of your jaw. “You were makin’ it worse. Bein’ all soft and sweet… kissin’ on me like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”

You leaned in close again, breath mingling.

“Didn’t I say I was yours?”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

And it hit you—like a wave crashing in all at once.

That stare.

That devotion.

That deep, simmering heat that lived behind his eyes, like he was fighting it every second just to keep it contained.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You did.”

His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging slow and reverent across your stomach, then higher, like he was relearning every inch of you.

“Still tryin’ to stay mad,” he muttered, tone dry but unraveling. “Not doin’ a very good job of it.”

You grinned. Pressed your hips to his again. Harder this time.

Joel hissed through his teeth, hands tightening on your waist for just a second. Like he had to remind himself not to flip you over right then and there.

Because the truth was—he was just as mad. At himself. At the way he always snapped at you first before ever admitting how he felt. At how you knew how to twist him up without even trying. At how good you looked in his damn shirt.

At how fucking much he wanted you.

“Up,” he grunted.

“What?”

He didn’t explain. Just grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it up over your head, arms slightly rough but careful, like muscle memory had him treating you like something expensive.

You didn’t even get a second to tease him for it. Because the second your shirt hit the floor, he was on you.

Mouth hot. Open.

His mouth locked around your nipple like he’d missed it. Like it was a lifeline.

“Jesus—Joel—”

His only response was a low groan. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed to him, the other still gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you not to float away.

The couch creaked beneath both of you. That ugly old brown one you always said he should’ve gotten rid of when you first moved in. But right now? The way he had you anchored in his lap, thighs spread, chest bare under his mouth—you would’ve worshipped that goddamn couch if it meant you got to stay right here.

He switched sides, mouth greedy now, and your head dropped back as your nails dug into his shoulders. He sucked, slow and deep, then grazed his teeth along the sensitive skin, a groan vibrating low in his throat when your hips rolled again—instinct, need, love, all tangled together.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.

You barely had time to register the look before he moved—swift and deliberate. One arm looped around your waist, the other shifting beneath your thigh, and suddenly you were airborne for half a second—

Then thud.

You yelped, a high, startled sound, as your back hit the couch cushions, Joel’s weight braced above you, one hand cupping the back of your thigh as he hiked your leg up and perched it over the armrest like it was his position and his idea.

Your hands flew to his chest, more out of instinct than resistance, heart thudding as he looked at you with that flat, unreadable Miller stare. The one that meant he was thinking something loud but saying absolutely nothing.

“Joel,” you warned, already breathless. “I just showered.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Yeah.”

His fingers were already sliding under the waistband of your shorts.

“And the game’s still on,” you added quickly, trying to hold onto a sliver of reality as your shorts started disappearing, Joel tugging them down like they were offending him.

Joel didn’t answer.

Just stared at you, flat and unreadable, that slow blink that always made you feel like he was assessing something. Whether he was going to tease you or be straight forward. Go gentle or go mean.

Then—his brow lifted. Just a slight arch, subtle, but smug in that way that made your stomach twist.

Your hips jolted as he tugged your shorts the rest of the way down—slow, unhurried—and left your panties on. Thin lace, soaked clean through. Like it was part of your punishment.

You shifted, instinctively trying to lift for him, to help.

He didn’t let you.

“Stay,” he muttered, pressing one broad palm flat on your hip. His other hand slid between your thighs, spreading them open with firm, heavy pressure, until you were open for him.

Then his mouth.

Hot breath dragging over fabric that felt thinner by the second. His tongue didn’t touch skin. It ran slow and warm across the center of you, pressing the soaked material against your aching clit.

You whimpered. The sound came out high and needy, and he smiled.

“Joel—” you gasped.

“You said the game’s still on,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. “So we’re watchin’. Both of us.”

And then—finally—his tongue. Right through the center of you. A slow, deliberate drag that made your eyes roll back in your head. Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, hips bucking before you could stop them.

He paused. Pulled back. Looked at you with that lazy, lethal stare. “Don’t move,” he said, quiet. Dangerous. “Or I stop.”

You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”

Joel didn’t reply. He never did when he was in this mood—this controlled, razor-sharp space he sank into like second nature. He just bent again, licked over you with slow, measured cruelty. Tongue steady, pressure maddening. Over. And over.

You were soaked. The lace clung to you, sticky and wet. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. He was teasing you through it, sucking at it like it was skin, like he had all day.

“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.

“Watch the game,” he murmured, lips brushing right against your clit, his voice muffled by your body. “You’re fallin’ behind.”

You blinked at the screen, trying to focus, but everything was heat and static and him.

“What’s the down?” he asked.

You froze. “What?”

Another flick of his tongue—sharper this time. Precise. You choked on a moan.

“I said,” he said again, tone cooling, “what’s the down, baby?”

Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”

His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”

You hesitated. “Maybe?”

Joel sat back on his heels. Fingers hooked in the side of your panties, tugging them aside with infuriating gentleness. He leaned in again. One long, hot lick—bare skin now. Bare clit. Bare torture.

Then he pulled away. Sat there. Breathing you in. Looking at you like you were a meal he’d decided to starve just because he could.

You shook, panting. “Joel—”

“You don’t guess,” he said flatly. “You either know, or you don’t get to come.”

You whimpered. Full-body shiver. Nails curled into the couch cushion. Every muscle screamed for friction, for movement.

“Focus,” he said softly. Not kindly. “Get it right, or I’ll make you beg for more than just permission.”

You turned to the screen, vision blurred with tears and need. Some play was happening. You weren’t even sure what anymore.

Joel’s tongue met you again. Gentle, coaxing, relentless. And then—

“Possession?”

“Colts,” you gasped.

He hummed. A reward. His tongue flattened against your clit, slow circle, firm pressure. Just enough to make your breath hitch. You moaned, moved just barely, and he immediately pulled back.

“Nope.”

“What? Joel—!”

“You moved.”

“I twitched.”

“You moved,” he repeated. Cold. Decided. “Better learn the difference.”

You covered your face with your hands. “You’re evil.”

“I’m patient.” He brushed a single finger over your thigh. “That’s worse.”

You whimpered, again. And he didn’t stop.

The next stretch was agony.

He mouthed at you—sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always calculated. Just when your hips rose, just when your chest stuttered with that telltale gasp, he’d pause.

Then came the questions.

Flag on the play—what for?

Which quarter?

What yard line?

If you answered right—he’d reward you. Tongue firm and dragging. The kind of lick that made you sob.

If you answered wrong—he went silent. Kissed all around your thighs, letting his stubble drag out whimpers and pleads.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t give in. Joel Miller had you mapped. He knew every twitch. Every inhale. Every desperate, clenching muscle. 

He kept you on the edge for what felt like hours—until your eyes were glassy and your thighs were trembling. Until your nails had torn at the cushion. Until your chest was heaving and your panties were ruined, and you weren’t even watching the game anymore, just listening—but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. From his mouth. From his tongue tormenting you.

“Joel,” you begged, voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Please—please, I’m—”

“Score?”

Your mind scrambled, hands fisting the cushions. “Uh—24–21?”

Joel looked up at you from between your thighs. Smug. Ravenous. His mouth slick and glistening, chin wet with your arousal. His eyes held that gleam—that sharp, satisfied gleam that made your stomach flip.

“Good girl.”

And then he devoured you.

No teasing. No slow build. No more cruel, lingering licks meant to test your patience. He shoved your panties properly aside, and dropped his mouth to your cunt like a man starved—like he’d waited all damn day to rip into you and was finally cashing the check.

Your breath caught, then tore loose in a sob. You cried out, voice shattering in your throat as heat rolled over your body in waves. Hands flew to his hair—those thick strands you loved to grip—fingers curling in deep. Your thighs twitched around his head, instinctively trying to pull him closer, to anchor yourself to something as he wrecked you.

And fuck, did he wreck you.

His tongue slid through your folds with obscene pressure—long, deliberate strokes that left you soaked and quaking. Like every lick was a reminder: this was his. You were his.

His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, the rough drag a perfect contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Joel groaned into you like the taste of you was everything. His hands gripped your thighs tight—bruising tight—thumbs digging in, keeping you open, helpless, exactly where he wanted you.

“Sound real sorry now,” he growled against your cunt, voice shredded and low. His tongue never stopped moving. “Should I keep goin’? Or you wanna get smart again?”

You sobbed. You sobbed, the sound barely human. Your legs clamped around him and your hips bucked wildly against his face.

“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”

Joel laughed. A dark, amused sound, muffled by your cunt. He sounded pleased. Too pleased.

Then he flattened his tongue over your clit and dragged it slow. Long. Torturous. Like he knew how close you were. Like he could feel it in your thighs, in the twitch of your hips, in the broken way you moaned.

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a huge wave. There was no slow climb. It hit hard—violent in its release—like your body had finally quit holding back and gave itself over to him completely.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound ripped free—raw and wrecked. You came with your whole body—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the couch. Fingers yanked hard in his hair, like that was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.

And Joel didn’t stop.

Didn’t budge.

He kept his mouth on you like it was his right, his job, his revenge. Licking you through it, dragging it out until your thighs trembled and your hips jolted with every aftershock.

When he finally pulled back, your thighs were shiny. And you were boneless, panting like you’d just run a marathon barefoot.

Joel sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lick the rest off his lips, and gave you that look. The one that was from a smug husband who just made you weak from one orgasm.

“You cryin’?” he asked, brow arched. “Or just finally quiet?”

You blinked up at him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your voice was wrecked. “Need more—”

He tilted his head. “More?”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—please, Joel, I—fuck—I need it—”

He looked at you for a long, quiet second. Then glanced at your ruined panties, still moved off to the side, completely soaked through. Then back at your face.

He  slid them off slowly with a firm grip on your ankle. They made a quiet, wet sound as they peeled off your cunt.

“Should make you wear these around the house after I’m done,” he muttered. “Let you feel how soaked you get beggin’ for it. Make you sit in your own mess while I watch somethin’ nice.”

You whimpered.

Joel smirked again. “What, that too much?”

You shook your head. “No—no, I want it.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up your bare thigh, settling heavy on your pelvis, thumb brushing between your folds where you were still sensitive and trembling.

You gasped. Twitched. Your hips bucked helplessly into his touch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured. “Look at you. Blissed out and still greedy.”

You whined.

And Joel—dear and evil—laughed low in his throat.

“C’mon, baby. Spread these legs wider. I ain’t done teachin’ you your lesson yet.”

You did as told. Because how could you not?

Your hips tilted, thighs falling open, and the pads of his fingers got better access as he barely brushed where you were soaked, and your hips jumped.

You let out a shuddery breath, squirming beneath his touch. “Please—”

“Please what?”

You swallowed, tried to speak, but your voice cracked in the middle of it. “I—I want your cock.”

That earned a low hum.

Joel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was especially unimpressed.

“Yeah? Wantin’ don’t mean gettin’,” he muttered. “Don’t remember sayin’ you could ask for anythin’.”

Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”

He cut you off with a sharp glance, fingers sliding between your folds in one slick.

“I said,” he growled softly, “you take what I give you. And you stay damn quiet.”

You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.

And that was it. That was enough.

He reached behind him without warning, took your panties in his free hand, and before you could even react, he stuffed them into your mouth.

You gasped, muffled immediately, lips stretched around the fabric. You could taste yourself—warm, musky, sharp from where he'd worked you over earlier—and the moan that escaped your throat was pathetic.

Joel grinned. Not wide. Not gleeful. Just slow and knowing.

His hand cupped your jaw for a moment, thumb dragging across your cheek, eyes sharp as they bore into yours.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “Gettin’ worked up over your own mess. Filthy girl.”

You nodded because it was all you could do. Your thighs tried to rub together restlessly. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure where to go, what to do with yourself.

Joel got up. Shifted his weight to sit back onto the couch next to you.

Then, without warning, he reached for you and dragged you into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you easily until your spine was pressed against his chest, your legs straddling his denim-covered thighs, your ruined panties still in your mouth.

The couch groaned under both your bodies, the old leather protesting with every shift—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. Your brain was mush, your limbs boneless, your mouth still slack and wet around the wad of fabric he’d stuffed there minutes ago.

And then—Joel’s hand again.

Sliding down between your thighs like it belonged there. Like it had never left.

Two fingers pushed into you without warning. Thick. Slick. Deep. The stretch punched the air from your lungs and sent your hips jerking reflexively.

Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, right at your ear, slow and steady like he wasn’t the one wrecking you open on his lap. “You stay still.”

But you couldn’t.

Your hips moved anyway, rocking helplessly against his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the space between you.

His fingers curled inside you, just the right pressure against that devastating spot that made your back arch and your knees quake.

You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked his fingers into you harder. “Can feel you clenchin’ already. Barely inside and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”

You pressed your head back against his shoulder, trembling all over, thighs spread wide over his lap. The rough fabric scraped your skin. Your hands clawed at the front of his jeans, grabbing at anything, his belt buckle, waistband, seams, anything to keep you sane.

His pace quickened. His fingers drove up into you, every stroke sharp, confident, filthy. His palm was soaked, smacking wetly with each thrust, the heat of your arousal smeared over your thighs, your folds, your inner legs.

His thumb started to brush your clit. Fast. Tight little circles.

Your whole body jolted.

“Fuckin’ greedy thing,” he murmured, lips dragging against your neck. “Thought you were done cryin’. Thought I’d worn you out.”

You whimpered around the gag, back arching. Every muscle tight, electric.

Joel grunted softly, like the sound of you unraveling turned him on more than anything. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Course you got more in you.”

You were ruined. The couch cushions beneath you were damp, and the mess between your legs was shameful, slick, and constant. Your thighs were shaking. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your body burned—hot and tight and strung out.

His arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you still, keeping you open. His fingers fucked into you relentlessly, slick and punishing, while his thumb dragged over your clit with merciless precision.

And then—

You came.

So fast, it blindsided you.

That coil inside you snapped, sharp and raw, and your whole body convulsed in his arms. Your thighs slammed shut around his hand, your spine bowed, and the scream that tore from your throat was strangled by cotton and spit.

You shattered—mouth wide, tears spilling, muscles spasming.

“Mm. There she is,” he said, low and warm like you hadn’t just come like you were dying. “Knew you had another one in you.”

You whimpered, boneless now. Arms limp. Head heavy against his shoulder.

His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.

You let out a broken sob through your gag, and Joel just grinned, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

He shifted behind you—gentle now. No more teasing pressure. No more mean streak. Just a warm, solid wall of comfort at your back.

His big hand rested low on your belly, spread wide, thumb tracing little slow, aimless circles over sweat of your skin.

Protective.

Sweet.

Possessive.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Bare skin, damp with sweat. His nose nudged you after, slow and unhurried.

One kiss. Then another.

Then one right behind your ear, soft enough to make your heart hiccup. You made a small sound, muffled by the panties still stuffed in your mouth.

Joel heard it.

“‘S’alright,” he murmured. “I got you. Just breathe a sec.”

You did. Or tried to. Inhale in. Exhale out. His scent wrapped around you—soap and salt and the heat of his skin. The TV was still on, some post-play analysis murmuring in the background, but it felt far away. Fuzzy. Like it didn’t matter anymore.

Joel reached up. Fingers brushed along your jaw. Then gently, he pulled your ruined panties from your mouth.

They came free with a soft, wet sound, and he set them aside without a word. You breathed in deeper, lips tingling, tongue dragging over them instinctively.

“You with me now?” he asked, pressing another kiss to the shell of your ear. “Hm?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.

You felt his smile more than saw it—small, private. His chin dipped down, and he kissed your cheek. The side of your neck. Then your shoulder again.

“Did good for me,” he murmured.

Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”

That earned a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a hum. You could hear the apology in it, even if he didn’t say it aloud.

“Was I?” he asked. “Don’t remember hearin’ any complaints.”

“You gagged me with my own panties.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“You whined so damn loud, baby. Was the only way to shut you up.”

You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.

“I was desperate.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

That quieted you. Completely. Because even with your hair stuck to your forehead, your thighs slick and trembling—you believed him. You felt it in the way he rocked you just slightly in his lap, grounding you. Felt how he loved you completely with no conditions.

Joel didn’t say shit he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste words. So when he whispered things like that—it hit hard.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired. Soft. His forehead rested against yours.

But even through all the love, you could feel it.

Pressed tight behind you, the warmth of his body steady, grounding—but his cock, straining hard against the thick denim of his jeans, throbbed like a barely-contained secret. And it wasn’t subtle, either. Not with the way you’d come apart for him, more than once, all over his tongue and fingers and the damn couch.

He was giving you a break.

Just like he always did.

Even if it cost him his own pleasure. Even if it meant sitting there while you trembled, thighs sticky and breath still catching in your throat.

Because Joel never asked for more than you could give. He knew your edges, every single one.

Where to push. Where to let you fall.

And right now, he was holding.

Letting you rest.

Even though his body was screaming to take.

That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.

So you shifted—slow at first, experimental—grinding your hips back into him. Rubbing your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, where you knew he was aching, pulsing.

Joel groaned. Low and guttural, barely contained. His hand tightened on your hip like a warning.

“Baby,” he gritted out, voice hoarse, “I’m bein’ nice.”

You rocked again. Firmer this time. Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch beneath you. Big. Hard.

“Tryin’ to give you that break,” he went on, jaw clenched. “C’mon. Take it.”

Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“I had my break.”

He huffed. Short. Sharp. No patience left. “You sure?”

You turned your head a little. Just enough to whisper, “Yeah.”

Joel paused, studying your face to confirm you were sure.

“Alright.”

The next second, his hands were under you, lifting you like nothing, and you squealed, breathless as he turned your body with ease and planted you down again. Hips against the armrest this time, bare skin against leather, ass in the air, legs spread.

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

Ready.

You barely had time to breathe before he was behind you again—hovering close, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, thumbs digging in like he wanted to mark you there.

You felt the heat of him through his jeans. Still in control. Always in control.

He palmed your ass, slow and reverent at first. Then slapped it, sharp and deliberate.

You jumped. Moaned softly. Chest pressed to the armrest.

He did it again. Slower this time.

“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a pretty ass for my pretty wife.”

You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Pretty enough to make you lose your damn mind in a store.”

Joel made a sound. Something between a groan and a laugh. His palm skimmed over your ass again, this time lingering. Loving.

“Mm,” he drawled. “You think I forgot about that dress?”

“I think you stared long enough to memorize every inch of it.”

“Wasn’t the dress I was memorizin’,” he muttered, hand slipping lower. “You walked in front of me on purpose.”

You smiled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. “Sure did.”

Another slap. Harder this time.

“Goddamn tease.”

You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.

Behind you, you heard the soft clink of metal. His belt—coming loose. Then the snap of his jeans as he unbuttoned himself one-handed, still keeping you pressed down with the other.

You craned your head, trying to look back at him. “You’re still dressed.”

“Yeah.” His voice was low. Dangerous. Warm. “And you’re not.”

The implication of that was everything. The unfairness of it. The intentionality.

You clenched around nothing, already needy again. You heard him sigh—a deep, throaty exhale like he was trying to keep his composure.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured.

You smiled again, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “I think I do.”

Another pause.

Then the sound of his zipper lowering. Slow, easured and drawn out like a threat. Like a promise.

Your whole body tensed—not from fear, but from the kind of aching anticipation that made your skin burn.

“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.

“Shhh.” His mouth was close. Too close. The rough scratch of his beard brushed your cheek as he leaned in, voice pitched low and raspy—like it came from the center of his chest. “Lemme look at you…”

His palm braced against the small of your back, steady and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

His other hand?

Stroking.

You felt it—hot and thick behind you, heavy in his grip. The barest brush skimmed your ass, then slid down the curve with a slow, deliberate drag.

Then over the swell of your hip. Along the inside of your thigh. Everywhere but where you needed him.

Your breath caught. Fingers clenched the couch cushion like it was the only thing holding you to earth. Your knuckles ached. Your thighs twitched.

He let the weight of him trail over your bare skin. Lazily. Like he was painting you with it. Marking every inch of you with his cock before he even gave you the chance to take it.

You panting. Absolutely wrecked, your body overstimulated, used up, still trembling from two orgasms, but it didn’t matter. Not when Joel was like this. Not when his patience was more devastating than any touch.

“Joel—” you gasped, trying to tilt your hips back, desperate to catch the head of his cock, to line him up, to feel something. You missed.

He chuckled. Low. Pleased. Like you were performing exactly the way he liked. “Aw. Sweet thing,” he murmured. “You’re tryin’, huh?”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just—just put it in—”

“Mm.” That small sound of false consideration. Barely interested. “You think beggin’s all it takes?”

You let your forehead drop to the cushion, gasping now, thighs spreading wider out of instinct. “It’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re teasing—”

“That’s ’cause I can,” he said simply. Another drag of his cock, this time notched so close to where you needed him—almost there—and still he didn’t push forward. “And you like it.”

You shook your head. Tried to protest. Then he leaned down again, chest brushing your back, the rough cotton of his flannel rasping against your flushed, sweat-slicked back . His breath ghosted over your neck.

“You been good?” he asked, casual as anything. Like he was asking about the weather. Like you weren’t spread open and dripping for him.

You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”

He hummed, unconvinced. A kiss landed at the base of your nape. Warm. Unfairly tender.

“Don’t believe you.”

“Joel—”

“You wore that little yellow dress,” he murmured. His mouth dragged down your shoulder, slow and unhurried. “Knew exactly what it’d do to me.”

Your breath hitched. “You liked it, though…”

“I liked it too much.”

He shifted, and his cock slid down the inside of your thigh again, hot and impossibly slick from how ready you were. The head caught—just briefly—at the edge of your folds.

It was enough to make your spine jolt.

Joel grunted softly. Like the feel of you against him had snapped something loose in his control. “You wanna be filled up, baby?”

“Yes.” Your voice broke, wrecked and raw. “Yes—please—God, please—”

The hand at your back flattened. A warning. A reminder.

He just hovered. Let the head of his cock rest there, heavy and perfect, teasing your entrance, just existing. Threatening.

“You look real pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging a hand down the curve of your spine. “Bent over. Waitin’. Drippin’.”

You were panting now. Shaking. Your hips trembled with need.

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

He laughed—low. Dark. A little cruel, a little sweet. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or worship you.

“I know you are,” he said.

You felt it. The tip of him, thick and flushed, pressing just barely where you needed it most. The promise of relief, right there—

And then he paused.

“Say thank you,” he commanded.

You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

His voice dropped, a growl at your ear. “For what?”

Your legs shook.

“For—fuck—baby—”

“Say it.”

You shut your eyes, mouth trembling, chest heaving. “Thank you… for making me feel good.”

The words left you hoarse and broken. Quiet and sincere. Your voice barely made it past the pounding of your pulse.

But Joel heard it. He always did.

A beat of silence. A low grunt.

He pushed in.

All at once.

Your breath left you in a broken gasp, your spine arching hard as he filled you deep, impossibly deep, the stretch so intense your hands scrabbled against the couch for anything to anchor you.

“Jesus,” Joel hissed behind you, voice ragged, gravel thick in his throat as he started to rock back and forth. “Always so fuckin’ tight after you come.”

You whined. Couldn’t help it. Could barely hold yourself upright with the way your body shook, stretched full and pulsing around him. It felt like he’d taken everything—what was left of your breath, your bones, your reason—and replaced it with him.

He was so warm. So there. One braced at your waist, holding you in place like he was scared you’d float away.

You reached for it.

Blindly. Desperately. Your left hand stretching back, trembling midair, searching behind you for something that made this real. Something solid.

You didn’t even have to ask.

Joel’s hand found yours. Rough, warm fingers threaded between yours, locking down. Anchoring. His palm enveloped the back of your hand like a promise.

And that’s when he broke.

You felt it in the tremble of his exhale, the way his hips faltered for just a beat before crashing into you again, harder, deeper. A growl built low in his throat—raw and breathless, cracked at the edges.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’ll never get over this.”

You whimpered. “Joel—”

“Our rings,” he gritted out between his teeth, his thrusts jolting your whole body. “Your fingers on mine like that—fuck.”

He didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow down.

But the rhythm had changed. Something deliberate in it now. Like every thrust was a vow.

He shifted forward, chest brushing your back, his weight covering you now, thick denim scratching against your thighs. His breath was hot at your ear.

“That ring, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Means you’re mine when we’re like this. Means you chose me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’ll always choose you,” you whispered.

He pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder, soft and fleeting, like he couldn’t let himself be gentle for long without unraveling.

You cried out when he bottomed out again, your body clenching down instinctively. The sound tore from your throat was high, open, and honest.

He held your hand tighter. Like it was the only thing tethering him now.

You could feel his wedding band press into your skin as he gripped your hand. Could feel your own—twisting slightly on your finger as his thrusts jolted you forward and pulled you right back again.

You were trembling. Overstimulated. Barely here—but that grip in your hand kept you grounded.

“You love this,” he whispered, nose brushing behind your ear, breath hot. “Love when I take my time. Love when I make you earn it.”

You nodded—shaky, frantic. “I do. I do, Joel—”

He kept driving into you like he wasn’t done yet. Like he needed to finish what he started and brand the memory of this into your bones.

“I give you everythin’, baby,” he muttered, fingers flexing in yours. “All day long. Every day. You know that, right?”

You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”

“So when I ask you to wait,” he said, still going, “when I tease… make you beg…”

He pulled your hand further, dragged it down the curve of your stomach, placed it flat over your own belly, his on top.

“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“You. This sweet body. Mine.” He grunted the word, thrusts getting sloppier, chest heaving behind you. “You wearin’ my ring, cryin’ for my cock—”

“Joel,” you gasped, throat burning, hips jolting with every punishing thrust. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snapped. “You will.”

And God help you, you did.

The orgasm hit like a truck.

Your whole body seized. You went rigid, then loose, your limbs jerking helplessly as pleasure tore through you—raw, electric, and far past the point of sanity. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.

Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He just adjusted his grip, dragged you up against his chest, and kept going, growling low in your ear.

“You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he breathed, his arm banded tight around your waist. “After that? After the way you fuckin’ beg for it?”

He pushed in deep and held, breath shuddering. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers toying with the mess he’d made of you.

“Look at this,” he muttered. “Look how good you take it. How fuckin’ ruined you are.”

You whined—pathetic, needy. Your whole body was trembling, oversimulation taking over, heart jackhammering against your ribs. And Joel…

“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, pace stuttering. “Gonna come so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days.”

Then you heard him groan. It hit all at once—warm and hot and so thick inside you, it made your stomach twist.

Joel kept pushing. Grinding. Emptying everything into you with his jaw clenched and breath stuttering.

You cried out—overwhelmed, stunned, mind white-hot and blank. It was all too much. Too much heat, breath, heartbeat, and sweat. The air around you thick and quiet, like the house itself had stilled to make space for what just happened.

Your cheek was pressed to the couch, your chest heaving. Your knees trembled where they’d gone weak. Your fingers were still laced with his, though neither of you had moved.

And he was still inside you.

Or maybe it just felt like he was. The weight of him, of what he’d just given you, settled so deep, so complete, it didn’t feel like something that would leave anytime soon.

Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.

A kiss.

Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.

Another, lower. Then one to the side of your neck, his lips pressing into the flushed skin like they had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak yet. Could barely think. But God, you leaned up into him.

Shivering a little, your muscles twitching, nerves frayed, but still chasing every brush of his mouth. You could feel him softening in you, feel the shift in his breathing, calmer now.

His nose brushed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin between words. “You always just—fuck. You bring it outta me.”

You closed your eyes. Your hand found his again, right where he’d dropped it at your hip. You tangled your fingers, holding him.

“You okay?” he asked again, a little lower this time.

“Mmhm.”

He chuckled, just under his breath. “That all you got in you?”

“Don’t make me talk, Miller.” You hummed, too wrecked to laugh. 

Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.

“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “You need water? Blanket?”

“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.

He laughed for real then. Low and breathy. God, you loved that laugh.

“Smartass,” he murmured.

Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.

You winced. A soft inhale through your teeth. Your whole body trembled once, a shiver slipping down your spine like your nerves hadn’t figured out that you were done.

And then you felt it.

Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.

Joel stilled behind you. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.

Closely. Intently. Probably with that smug, twitchy-lipped expression he wore when he was trying not to look smug.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice hoarse as you buried your face into the couch cushion. “Don’t say a word.”

Silence.

Then: a short huff. Half a chuckle. A shake of his head. “I didn’t say anythin’,” he muttered.

You lifted your head just enough to side-eye him. He was standing now. Somehow still put-together while you were bare and wrecked in the living room sunlight. His belt hung loosely open, jeans low on his hips, cock still out.

He looked down at you like you were the prettiest mess he’d ever seen.

You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”

“I’ll get somethin’,” he said simply. Voice flat. Not unkind—just Joel.

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall. You took a breath. Stood up slowly. Very slowly.

“Oh—shit,” you whispered, biting your lip as you shifted your weight to maneuver around the couch to sit. The movement sent a dull ache radiating through your thighs and lower back. Everything between your legs was sore. Sticky. Tender.

Your arms wrapped instinctively across your chest—not out of shame, but because your skin felt loud. Touched in every sense of the word.

You looked around your living room. The way the sun hit the hardwood. The TV was still playing, now with an ad that was sponsoring some new water bottle.

And there you were. Naked. Blown apart. Sitting on a couch you complained constantly about.

Great.

Joel returned with a warm towel in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, zipped up and looking a tad bit flushed. He handed you the towel first wordlessly, and you took it with a whispered, “Thanks.”

He didn’t move far. Just leaned a hip against the armrest and waited. You cleaned yourself slowly.

Carefully.

The towel was soft and warm from the dryer. You pressed it between your legs and flinched, hips jolting at the sting. Not pain, not exactly. Just the  rawness..

And God, the mess. You breathed through it. Wiped slowly, trying not to tense up, trying not to think about how full you still felt.

And Joel watched.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed. Like he was giving you the space to care for yourself, but couldn’t stop making sure you were okay.

When you were done, you dropped the towel back into his out stretched hand. He handed you the water next. You drank.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”

“Figured.” He stepped away and returned a second later with a folded t-shirt and another pair of cotton sleep shorts. He didn’t hand them to you, just set them gently beside you on the couch. “These’re clean. I’ll throw the rest in the wash.”

Joel dutifully went around the living room, picking up each of your discarded clothes. His fingers brushed over your panties on the opposite end of the couch, and you swore a smile crossed his face. He then disappeared back into the hallway.

The shirt he gave you was soft and worn—another one of his. Still smelled faintly of him and laundry detergent. You tugged it over your head slow, your limbs still limp, body aching in all the right ways. The cotton shorts were better. And, importantly, clean.

You sank down onto the couch with a quiet exhale, limbs folding in like you’d melted. The TV was still droning on in the background—some post-game commentary, pixelated stats dancing on the screen. 

You grabbed the remote with the tips of your fingers and clicked around until you landed on something quieter. Comforting. Just background hum. A house-hunting show, with soft music and couples debating backsplash options.

You should’ve stood up. You should’ve gone to the kitchen. Started the water. Chopped the garlic. That was the plan, wasn’t it?

But your body wasn’t listening. It was sunk deep into Joel’s shirt—your shirt now—and your limbs were humming, still, faint echoes of everything he’d done to you not even five minutes ago.

And then you heard the washer click on down the hall. Then the creak of the floorboards. The sigh of the hallway. Joel’s footsteps, low and even, approaching from around the corner.

He rounded the corner, changed into a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from where he’d splashed his face. 

You glanced up, already reaching for the armrest to start pushing yourself up.

“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t even like making pasta.”

“I like you not passin’ out in the kitchen ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sit down.”

You huffed, flopping harder against the cushions. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen. “And you’re gonna be walkin’ funny, so maybe hush.”

You covered your face with your hands and groaned.

God, he was impossible.

But you didn’t move. You stayed curled on the couch while he rummaged through into the bags, found the pasta box, clattered the pot onto the stove. You heard him muttering about the olive oil again. He never remembered where you kept it, even though it hadn’t moved in five years.

The water started to boil. You caught the smell of garlic—strong and sharp, mixing with the citrus of the countertop cleaner he must’ve wiped up with after.

He was humming now. Quiet. Just a line or two of something—sounded like it was from the radio. You couldn’t quite place it, but the low timbre of it settled in your ribs like a lullaby.

You peeked over the back of the couch.

Joel stood barefoot at the stove, spoon in one hand, your favorite chipped mug full of water in the other, waiting for the timer to go off. The sunlight caught on the edge of his watch. Alongside that, his wedding band glinted.

Your chest squeezed.

It hit you like it always did after days like this—when your body was sore, and your heart felt wrung out, and the house was quiet. That ache of love. That sense of this is real. This man. This home. This life. Five years of inside jokes and laundry folded wrong and everything in between.

You leaned your cheek against the back cushion and watched him for a moment longer, smiling softly to yourself.

You then tell yourself it was fine to just let Joel do it—to lay back, enjoy the pleasure of being cared for, every ounce of soreness earned and every bite of pasta lovingly stirred by the same hands that’d destroyed you.

But the moment he muttered something about not being able to find the damn colander—again—you were already on your feet.

You padded into the kitchen slow, your knees sore but steadied. The ache between your legs was sharp, but not enough to stop you. You leaned against the fridge for a beat, watching Joel try to juggle both the spoon and the strainer.

He clocked you instantly. Didn’t even turn, just said, “No.”

You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”

“I told you to sit down.”

You reached up and grabbed the block of cheese from the grocery bags. “Just grating cheese. I’m not building a deck.”

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Gratin’ cheese turns into settin’ the table, then stirrin’ the sauce, then fillin’ glasses—”

“I’m just grating,” you repeated, fighting back a smile as you pulled the grater down from the cabinet and got to work.

He groaned under his breath. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”

He went back to stirring, jaw working like he was biting back whatever scolding he wanted to give you. You didn’t look at him—just grated slowly, deliberately, watching curls of cheese pile onto the plate.

There was a silence as you both worked. Only the sound of water bubbling and voices of a couple decided between city or suburban life echoed between you both. Then, quietly, you placed down the cheese and grater, and stepped around him

You didn’t say anything at first—just looped your arms around his neck from behind and pressed a kiss to the nape of it, right where his skin was still a little warm.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Joel sighed. “You’re ‘pose to be gratin’ cheese. Why are you kissin’ me?”

You smiled, let your lips trail to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses there through his shirt. Then another. And another.

One to his jaw. Another to the spot just behind his ear.

Finally, he turned—just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all that for?”

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.

“I love you,” you murmured. “And all your little grievances.”

He stilled.

“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.

“Mhm.”

His brow twitched. “The hell does that mean?”

You grinned against his cheek. “Just sayin’ I love all the Joel-isms. The stuff you complain about every day.”

“Complain?”

“Yep.”

He turned now, fully, the spoon still in his hand, water boiling quietly behind him. “Like what.”

You counted on your fingers. “The thermostat. The towels being folded ‘wrong.’ Your mystery colander you keep misplacing. People who park too close to your truck. People who walk too slow at the store. Mushrooms—”

“I hate mushrooms.”

“Exactly,” you laughed. “And you complain about them like they’ve been made to spite you.”

“They are,” he grumbled, but his mouth twitched.

You kissed him again. This time slower. Right on the lips. Your fingers hooked behind his neck now, your body slotting up against his.

“And I love all of it,” you whispered.

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Even when I get pissy ‘cause you wear that dress to the grocery store?”

You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”

Joel huffed, but he was smiling now, really smiling, that quiet, softened version of it that only ever showed up at home, when no one else was around to see.

You rested your cheek against him again. Let him hold you.

The water boiled behind you. Garlic and tomatoes scented the air. Mushrooms in a pack laid unopened.

But neither of you moved.

Because some grievances could wait.

It’s official, Tumblr hates me 😭. A girl can’t write fan fic in peace without having to gut her work to fit the 1000 block limit.

Can you guys tell I'm obsessed with domestic Joel?? I love all the requests that ask me to do Joel when he's your husband/boyfriend. Hehe...

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Just letting you guys know my requests are still open!!

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Healed Masterlist

"You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

Joel Miller x Doctor Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: After Joel's suffering at the hands of Abby, he survives. You, a new resident of Jackson, are tasked with healing him, bringing him back to life in more ways than one. Warnings: alternating pov, injury, eventual smut, mutual pining, fluff, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel survives, medical jargon, blood, sponge baths Chapters will have individual warnings.

Masterlist

Chapter 1 - Convalescence Chapter 2 - Awake Chapter 3- Steps Chapter 4- Listen Chapter 5- Adjust Chapter 6- Ground Chapter 7- Care Chapter 8- Dance Chapter 9- Commitment Chapter 10- Hope Chapter 11- Home Chapter 12- Walls

Healed, The Video Edit Healed Playlist

—- Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on updates to be alerted when a new chapter drops!

[ilikeevilblondes]

GIRL I just read the ex husband! Joel and it's amazing... Can you do a continuation one where Y/N's IUD failed, please... ;)

A continuation to Beck and Call you say? I guess we’re getting more divorced!joel idk i still don’t make the rules

Everybody say thank you to this anon!!

This baby’ll be out in a week and a bit maybe 😼😼😼

EDIT: GUYS just wanted to say, like B&C, this one won’t just be smut, there WILL be plot and sappy shit, i swear to ya!

[ilikeevilblondes]

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

Part One | Part Two

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction. 

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him. “You’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents at the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. Absently, you fiddled with your left ring finger, suddenly aware of its bareness.

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “Y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

🏷️: @whaddupbaby, @pedritodowney08, @martuxduckling, @aadhinagony, @lanabobana, @pedr0swh0r3, @romancherry, @strawberriesandhotmen, @streamermattsgf, @bonneyzsk, @worhols, @serendippindots, @paprikainfurs, @lanternnightgarden, @12vamppp, @savvyisss, @umadirectioner, @tinawantstobeadoll, @not-the-teen-witch, @wundagre, @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere, @guelyury, @joelspickle, @callofdiva, @hotnmad, @brightestxxwitch, @pearl-diver-m, @kungfucapslock, @hellokittyyloverrrr, @meganfoxismywife, @natalieispunk, @billionairecowgirl, @my-tearsricochet

[dilf-docs]

series masterlist. +18 (minors dni). reposting and/or translating is not allowed.

Reckless choices. Emotional baggage for a lifetime inside suitcases for a week. A ticket to Iceland. Strangers connected by bad luck, heartache and... a little room mishap. Forced to share space and secrets during a one-week stay in the middle of nowhere.

Or,

Two New Yorkers who've never crossed paths in their bustling Manhattan lives find themselves caught in between the ice and that in their blue borrowed hearts.

Chapter Index:

I. Day One: Arrival (16/06/2025)

II. Day Two: Shared

III. Day Three: Nightlife

IV. Day Four: Waterfall

V. Day Five: Volcanoes

VI. Day Six: Whales and Parks

VII. Day Seven: Departure

©dilf-docs all right reserved. last updated: june 14th, 2025.

[grugems]

who up feeling sweet for pete

[whitepeopletwitter]

[aerismoon]

I bought the DVDs and Blu-rays of Merlin to listen to the commentaries!

[xxhypersomnia]

Javier Peña Lockscreens - Retro Set 1

Please use, please reblog.

as always, very faint watermarks. :) much love.

[xxhypersomnia]

Javier Peña Lockscreens - Retro Set 2

Please use, please reblog.

as always, very faint watermarks. :) much love.

@nerdieforpedro more 70s Peña for you and your buddies

[pimosworld]

Back in your day

Joel Miller x reader

Summary-Just a little Drabble about teasing Joel about his age. Who can’t resist teasing that old man, especially when he’s been around so long.

CW- Unspecified age gap, Joel is grumpy and sweet( sour patch Joel), reader is a menace, fluff, teasing.

WC-444

[Joel Miller Masterlist]

You just love to push Joel’s buttons.

The way he narrows his eyes at you when he knows you’ve got something smart to say about his age. It used to bother him at first, the stark contrast of things you could relate to. Now that he's grown used to it you won’t waste an opportunity to poke the bear.

“What’s on your mind darlin’?” He’s sitting at your kitchen table reading the newspaper. Perhaps the only person you know who still religiously buys one.

“Oh nothing.” It’s said innocently enough as you wait for him to look up at you. His eyes peek over as he lets out a huff of breath to say get on with it. “I was just wondering what it was like to vote for Roosevelt.”

He flips the paper over in his hand as he looks suspiciously at you. “Roosevelt?” He opens and closes it again as you try to keep your face as neutral as possible. “Roosevelt!? I never…I wasn’t even-“

You can’t help your laughter as you steady yourself on the kitchen chair next to him.

“Oh, you just think you’re a regular fuckin’ comedian don’t ya?” He sets the paper down again and the brown in his eyes have practically disappeared with the way he’s looking at you.

Knowing when to quit was never really your strong suit….and Joel didn’t like quitters anyway.

You slide up behind him and smooth your hands down his shoulders. For such a stubborn brooding man, he really was easy to lure in. He immediately relaxes into your touch as you kiss the side of his face, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo and aftershave.

“I’m not trying to make fun honey.” He hums as your fingers graze his forearms and revel in the goosebumps left on your wake. “It’s just that you can show me things I never got to experience. Like black and white movies.”

You’re down the hall before he can will his knees and his back to move out the chair. A litany of curses flowing from him as his heavy footsteps echo down the hall to your shared bedroom.

Joel knows it’s all an act.

If it really bothered him when you were being a “pain in his ass.” You’d stop and he’d never hear another word of it. He loves it, you keep him young and you laugh at his jokes. You make him smile until his cheeks hurt and he doesn't think he could love anyone more than he loves you (bratty behavior and all).

And at the end of the day he can teach you a lesson.

[theetherealbloom]

I LOVE YOU, I'M SORRY

Summary: Your soulmate’s birthday is written on your arm, and it just happened to be the day the world ended.

Paring: Jackson!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Soulmate AU, Apocalypse, ANGST, Fluff, Infected, Violence, Scratching, Age-Gap (the reader is in her 20s) Romance, Unrequited, Longing, Yearning, Secrets, Injury, Blood, Jealousy, Secret Glances, Metaphors, Character Death/s, Raiders, Ambush, Hospital, Stress, Hurt-To-Comfort, 

Word Count: 7k

A/N: I 1000% came up with this one night while scrolling through prompts and AUs I could do for Joel. I saw the Soulmate AU and I was like “oh, yeah,” *evil laugh* and then I heard the snippet for I love you, I’m Sorry and I was like, “yep, perfect, time to go through pain :D” 

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: i love you, i’m sorry by gracie abrams

| Main Masterlist |

September 26, 1967.

The date emblazoned on your wrist felt like a cruel joke, a bitter reminder of a world that had crumbled around you. The small pulse of the glow on your wrist thrummed, a haunting echo of the past. September 26 was outbreak day. The day the end of the world had come crashing down, leaving chaos and devastation in its wake. The inked numbers throbbed on your skin, a constant reminder that your soulmate was out there, somewhere in this apocalyptic wasteland.

You traced the numbers on your wrist, the ink seeming darker today, wondering if you’d ever meet the person who was meant for you. What kind of person could they be? Were they strong, gentle, kind, or hardened by the harsh world?

Hiding the mark from Joel for almost a decade took more than just care; it took an absolute miracle. You met Joel, Tess, and Tommy on your way to the Boston QZ. When you saw Joel’s wrist and the date there, you almost stopped breathing. Your birthdate on his skin was an unexpected blow. The ink on your wrist seemed to burn, yearning to connect with Joel. But his mark didn’t seem to react the same way.

When Joel and Tess started sleeping together, the walls between your apartments were paper-thin which seemed to amplify every intimate sound. You often found yourself wandering the hallways late at night, evading FEDRA officers, sitting on the rooftop, looking up at the empty night sky, stars twinkling, the moon bright. You wished for something good in a world gone bad.

You always wore long sleeves, even in unbearable heat. If you wore a short-sleeved shirt, you never took off your jacket, always coming up with some insane excuse about how cozy it was. It had become second nature, a routine you hardly thought about anymore.

As you kept your head down and worked, the grime and sweat accumulates on your skin. In exchange for your labor, you were given ration cards to obtain basic necessities.

"If it's so hot, why don't you just take off the damn jacket?" Joel gruffly asks, his irritation evident in his tone.

You stay silent and shrug, avoiding eye contact as you try to walk away to the next station, hoping to distance yourself from him. But he grabs your wrist, causing you to yank it away in surprise. "Joel, what the hell?"

Joel's tone is sharp and accusatory, causing you to instinctively flinch. "You're being awfully quiet," he scoffs.

You meet his eyes, trying to hide the turmoil inside. "What?"

"Something's off with you. What aren't you telling me?" Joel steps closer, invading your personal space, and you instinctively take a step back.

Panic sets in as you desperately search for a way out. You can't tell him the truth, so you grit your teeth and force out a lie. "I'm just tired."

"You're lying." Joel's words cut through you like a knife, making your heart race and palms sweat. The intensity of his gaze makes it clear that he won't let this go easily.

You try to remain composed, forcing a small smile. "I'm just tired from working all day."

Joel narrows his eyes, clearly not buying your excuse. "Bullshit," he says bluntly.

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of the lie in the pit of your stomach. "I promise, it's nothing."

Joel takes a step closer, making you back up against the wall. Your heart races as you feel trapped under his intense stare. "I know when something's bothering you," he says softly, his tone filled with concern.

You look down at your feet, unable to meet his gaze any longer. You've been hiding this secret for so long that the thought of telling anyone, especially Joel, terrifies you.

"Please," Joel pleads, his hand reaching out to gently touch your arm. "Just talk to me."

"I have to go," you urgently declare, heart pounding as you turn and bolt away, ignoring Joel's desperate calls for you to stop.

Your heart races as you run through the dark, narrow alleys, trying to put as much distance between you and Joel as possible. The fear and adrenaline pumping through your veins drive you forward, but at the same time, your mind is racing with thoughts of guilt for leaving Joel behind.

"Why did I have to lie?" you think to yourself. "Why couldn't I just tell him the truth?"

But deep down, you know why. You know that if you were to tell anyone about the secret burdening you, it could cost both of your lives. And as much as it pains you to not tell Joel, there is no other choice.

The memories hit you like a tidal wave, pulling you back to that moment in time. But this time, it feels like you're watching from a distance, like a bystander in your own body.

"You can convince them. You always do." The words echo through your mind as Tess begs you and Joel for help. Tears stream down her face as she pleads, "You have to get her there. Keep her safe. Make things right." Joel shakes his head stubbornly, but Tess doesn't give up. "Please, Joel. Please say yes."

Everything feels surreal as you remember the infected pounding at the door, their screams like a constant reminder of what's at stake. And then Tess is gone, sacrificing herself with the rest of the infected to save the others.

Tess, your friend died that day.

But then everything shifts and you're in a different place, a house belonging to Bill and Frank. Ellie is reading a letter aloud, and you and Joel are there listening. "I used to hate the world," Ellie says, "but I was wrong. When I met my soulmate, there was one person worth saving. That’s why men like you and me are here. We have a job to do and God help any motherfuckers who stand in our way. I leave you all of my weapons and equipment. Use them to keep…”

You remember Joel storming out of the house with the letter, his grief and pain palpable in every movement he makes. It's a bitter taste in both of your mouths, but it's also a reminder of why you keep fighting – because there are people worth protecting and worth saving.

Joel may not even realize it, but you've been waiting for him your entire life. And the same goes for Joel.

The scene changes once more; the deafening sound of gunshots pierces your ears and suddenly you're back in the hospital. You're behind Joel, gripping a rifle tightly as you navigate through the chaos and bodies scattered throughout the halls. 

Suddenly, you startle awake. Your heart races in your chest, and sweat trickles down your skin as you struggle to catch your breath.

You’re not out there. You’re in Jackson. You’re safe.

You briefly close your eyes, trying to shake off the lingering feelings of fear and loss from the dream. It had been two years since that fateful day in the hospital, and you were now living in Jackson with Joel and Ellie.

You gasped for breath and clutched your chest, trying to steady yourself with one hand on the softness of the sheets. You clambered out of bed and made your way to the bathroom, washing your hands and then your face. The cool water felt refreshing against your skin as you wiped it with a towel, trying to calm your nerves.

Taking a good look at yourself in the mirror, you saw the exhaustion written all over your face. The restlessness was evident in the dark circles under your eyes, and your hair was in a state of disarray.

"I look like I've been through hell," you muttered to yourself, sighing heavily.

You decided to take a shower, hoping it would help numb the pain. As the water cascaded over you, you let yourself sink into your thoughts, not really focusing on anything except the sound of water hitting your skin. Your bleary vision noticed the small cracks in the tiles on the wall.

Once you dried off and got dressed for the day, you headed downstairs to your small kitchen. The space had seen better days—cabinet doors hung slightly askew, and the pantry door refused to close all the way no matter how hard you tried.

You sighed, pushing the pantry door shut one more time before giving up and grabbing a mug from the chipped shelf. You poured yourself a cup of coffee, the bitter aroma filling the air as you took a tentative sip, savoring the warmth.

Later that morning, you stepped out of your little house in Jackson, pausing to take in the crisp air. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft golden light over the town. You noticed the creaky and loose steps of your porch under your feet, each step emitting a groan of protest. The railings wobbled as you gripped them for balance, making a mental note to add them to your growing list of things that needed fixing.

It was just about daybreak, the sun slowly peeking over the horizon, casting a golden glow. You stuffed your hands into the pockets of your jeans, the cozy sweater you wore providing some comfort as you made your way to the stables.

You were part of the barn support staff on rotation and consistently helped out in the greenhouse. Sometimes, you were out on patrol, but today was a barn day.

As you cleaned the barn and took care of the horses, you unconsciously rolled up your sleeves, figuring no one else would be up this early. You were alone in the stables, or so you thought.

Lifting a hand to wipe the sweat from your brow, you sighed. Suddenly, you heard the sound of something dropping and a familiar voice exclaiming, "Holy shit!"

You whipped your head around to the source of the sound and saw Ellie standing there, her eyes wide as she stared directly at your wrist.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, hastily pulling your sleeve down.

Ellie took a step closer, her curiosity piqued. "Is that... a soulmate mark?"

You avoided her gaze, feeling exposed. "It's nothing, Ellie. Just... don't worry about it."

"Nothing?!" She looked incredulous. "You’ve been hiding it all this time. Why didn't you tell me?"

You sighed, the weight of your secret feeling heavier than ever. "It's complicated, Ellie. Joel... Joel doesn't know."

Ellie’s eyes widened even more. "Joel? As in... Joel?"

You nodded, unable to find the right words. The truth was out now, and there was no going back.

Ellie moved into your space, her curiosity getting the better of her. Without warning, she grabbed your wrist, yanking it towards her. Her eyes zeroed in on the birthdate etched into your skin, her face a mix of shock and realization.

"September 26, 1967," she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze snapped up to meet yours, eyes wide. "That's Joel's birthday."

You tried to pull your wrist back, but Ellie held on tight, her grip firm and unyielding. "Ellie, please," you started, your voice shaky.

"Dude," she cut you off, her tone urgent and insistent. "You need to fucking tell him."

You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "Ellie, it's not that simple," you began, but she shook her head, not letting you finish.

"Not that simple?" she repeated, incredulous. "You've got his birthday on your wrist. You're soulmates! How much more complicated can it be?"

Your shoulders slumped as you finally managed to free your wrist from her grip. You rubbed the tender skin, feeling exposed and vulnerable. "You don't understand," you said softly. "Joel... he's been through so much. And so have I. Telling him now, after all these years... it might just make things worse."

Ellie's expression softened, but she didn't back down. "You think keeping it a secret is any better? He deserves to know. You both do."

You turned away, unable to meet her eyes. "Joel... he's moved on, he doesn’t want anything to do with relationships, and I don’t want to disrupt that."

Ellie snorted, crossing her arms. "Moved on? Joel’s not exactly the moving on type. He carries everything with him, all the time. You think he doesn't feel something for you?"

You glanced back at her, tears welling up in your eyes. "And what if he doesn't? What if he sees this and... and it means nothing to him?"

Ellie sighed, stepping closer and placing a hand on your shoulder. "You'll never know if you don't try. And trust me, he’s stronger than you think. You both are."

Her words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, you just stood there, lost in thought. Finally, you nodded, a small, tentative movement. "I'll think about it," you whispered.

Ellie squeezed your shoulder gently before letting go. "Good. Because secrets have a way of coming out, one way or another. And it's better if it comes from you."

As she turned to leave, you stared down at the date on your wrist, the ink seeming to pulse with a life of its own. 

Maybe Ellie was right. Maybe it was time to stop hiding.

You sat alone on the bench in the food hall, picking at your meal and lost in your thoughts when a familiar drawl pulled you back to reality.

"Hey, darlin’."

The sound of Joel’s voice made your heart skip a beat, and a sudden warmth spread through your body. You nearly choked on your food, glancing up to see him settling next to you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Hi, Joel,” you sputtered, trying to regain your composure.

Joel chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Mind if I join you?”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No, not at all.”

He leaned back, his shoulder brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you. “How’s your day been?”

You shrugged, trying to appear casual. “Busy, as always. Barn duties and all that.”

Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on your face. “Yeah, I hear you’ve been workin’ hard. Always see you runnin’ around, takin’ care of things.”

A soft blush crept up your cheeks under his scrutiny. “Just trying to keep busy, you know? What about you?”

“Same old,” he replied, his voice low and soothing. “Patrols, repairs, keepin’ an eye on Ellie. She’s a handful.”

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension. “She definitely keeps us on our toes.”

Joel’s eyes softened as he watched you, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. The bustling noise of the food hall became a distant hum, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble.

“You look tired,” he said gently, concern evident in his voice. “Everything alright?”

You hesitated, the weight of your secret pressing down on you. “Just… a lot on my mind lately.”

Joel reached out, his hand resting lightly on your arm. The touch was brief but sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes searched yours, concern evident. “You sure you’re alright?”

Your breath hitched at the back of your throat, but you forced a smile. “Mmm... yeah. Just going through a to-do list in my mind right now.”

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze never leaving your face. “Anythin’ that needs fixin’, darlin’?”

You shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just a few kitchen cabinets... the hinges squeak, and the pantry door doesn’t close all the way. Also a couple of loose steps and a wobbly railing too.

He nodded, his lips curling into a small smile. “Well, why don’t I take a look? Might be an easy fix.”

Your heart fluttered at the offer, a mix of gratitude and the thrill of being near him. “You don’t have to, Joel. I know you’re busy.”

Joel chuckled softly, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment longer before he let go. “I’ve always got time for you. Besides, can’t have you fightin’ with those cabinets every day.”

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Alright, if you insist.”

Joel’s eyes twinkled with a warm light. “I’ll swing by tomorrow mornin’, if that’s alright with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of spending more time with him. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’d appreciate the help.”

He gave a slow, easy smile that made your stomach flutter. “Great. I’ll bring my tools and we’ll get this place sorted.”

The way he said “we” filled you with a sense of comfort and belonging. “Thanks, Joel. It really means a lot.”

Joel stepped closer, his hand brushing against your arm in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Anytime, darlin’. You know I’m here for you.”

You nodded, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I know.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, the air thick with unspoken words and the electric tension between you. Finally, he took a step back, breaking the spell.

“I should get goin’,” he said, his voice a bit huskier than usual. “Gotta talk to Tommy ‘bout somethin’.”

“Right, of course,” you replied, feeling a pang of disappointment but also a thrill of anticipation for tomorrow.

Joel lingered by the table, a hand on your shoulder. “Take care, okay?”

“You too, Joel,” you said softly.

He nodded and turned to leave, but not before giving you one last, lingering look. You watched him walk away, your heart pounding and your mind racing with thoughts of what tomorrow might bring.

The next morning, you were up at dawn, nerves and excitement thrumming through you as you tidied up the kitchen. Each movement was deliberate, an attempt to keep your mind occupied. But no matter how much you tried to focus, you couldn’t help but glance at the clock every few minutes, your heart racing each time the hands inched closer to Joel’s promised arrival.

As you finished your second cup of coffee, the knock on the door startled you, sending a jolt through your already frazzled nerves. You took a deep breath to steady yourself and opened the door to find Joel standing there, a toolbox in one hand and a warm, familiar smile on his face.

“Good mornin’,” he greeted, stepping inside, his presence filling the room.

“Morning, Joel,” you replied, the rush of warmth at seeing him making your voice tremble slightly.

He set the toolbox down and looked around the kitchen with a critical eye. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealin’ with here.”

As Joel began inspecting the cabinets and pantry door, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. Every subtle flex of his muscles under his shirt drew your attention, and you found it hard to look away.

“Found the problem,” he said, pulling you from your thoughts. “Just needs a little tightening and some oil.”

You nodded, trying to focus on his words rather than the magnetic pull of his proximity. “I’m glad it’s an easy fix.”

Joel smiled, his eyes locking with yours, sending a spark of electricity through you. “Told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”

As he worked, you found yourself drawn to him, moving closer under the pretense of handing him tools or holding a flashlight. Each accidental brush of your hands sent a jolt through you, the air between you charged with unspoken desire. You felt your pulse quicken every time his fingers grazed yours.

“There,” Joel said finally, standing up and testing the now-silent hinges. “Good as new.”

You smiled, genuinely grateful and a little breathless from being so close to him. “Thank you, Joel. You’re a lifesaver.”

He chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag. “Just doin’ what I can.”

You both stood there for a moment, the kitchen suddenly feeling too small and too big all at once. The silence between you was heavy with everything you weren’t saying, a tension that seemed to thicken the air.

“Joel,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “I really appreciate this. More than you know.”

He looked at you, his expression softening in a way that made your heart ache. “I’m glad I could help. And I meant what I said yesterday—you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you took a tentative step closer, the distance between you feeling like an unbearable chasm. “It’s hard to ask for help sometimes. But knowing you’re here... it makes a difference.”

Joel reached out, his fingers lightly grazing your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’ll always be here for you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

The intensity in his eyes made your breath catch. You felt drawn to him, the unspoken connection between you growing stronger with each passing moment. Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance between you, your heart pounding in your chest. 

His breath hitched as you moved closer, the air between you charged with a heady mix of anticipation and yearning. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between holding back and giving in. The warmth of his body so close to yours was intoxicating, and you felt your resolve weakening with each passing second.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with all the longing you’d kept hidden for so long.

He swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. “I—”

Just as the air between you thickened with unspoken words, a sudden, sharp knock on the door interrupted the moment. You both turned to see a young woman standing there, her eyes lighting up when she saw Joel.

“Hey, Joel!” she called out, her tone annoyingly bright. “I heard you were here and thought I’d bring over some coffee. Figured you could use a break.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. “Uh, thanks, Vanessa,” he replied, his voice strained. “But we’re kinda in the middle of something.”

Vanessa’s eyes flicked to you, her gaze turning cold. “Oh, I see. Well, maybe I could help?”

Before you could step away, Joel’s arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close. The unexpected gesture sent a shiver through you, and you looked up at him, your heart pounding.

“We’re busy, Vanessa,” Joel said firmly, his hand resting possessively on your hip. “Thanks for the offer, but we’ve got it covered.”

Vanessa’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in obvious jealousy. “Right. Well, if you change your mind...” She trailed off, her eyes lingering on you with a mixture of disdain and envy before she finally turned and walked away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Joel’s grip on your waist loosened, but he didn’t let go. His eyes met yours, the intensity in them making your pulse race.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, his voice low. “Didn’t mean to make things awkward.”

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “It’s okay. I appreciate the backup.”

Joel chuckled softly, his thumb brushing against your side in a way that sent tingles down your spine. “Guess we should get back to work, huh?”

You nodded, reluctantly stepping back, though his touch lingered in your mind. “Yeah, the step and railing on the porch still need fixing.”

Together, you moved outside, the tension from earlier still simmering between you. As Joel inspected the loose step, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. The way his hands moved with such confidence and skill, the way his brow furrowed in concentration—it all captivated you.

“Can you hold this steady for me?” he asked, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

You nodded, stepping closer to help. Your hands brushed against his as you held the wood in place, and the contact sent a jolt through you. The proximity, the shared task, the quiet intimacy of the moment—it all felt like a dance, each movement charged with unspoken feelings.

“Almost got it,” Joel murmured, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him, and it took all your willpower not to lean into him.

Finally, he tightened the last screw and tested the step, making sure it was secure. “There. That should do it.”

You smiled, genuinely grateful and more than a little breathless. “Thank you, Joel. You’re a lifesaver.”

He looked at you, his eyes softening. “Just doin’ what I can.”

As you both stood there on the porch, the morning sun casting a golden glow around you, the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you. Everything you wanted to say but didn't wash over you in the awkward stillness, and the feelings you shared were nearly visible.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the landscape as you and your patrol partner, Mark, scouted the perimeter. He was easy-going, always ready with a joke or a reassuring word. You found his presence comforting, a steady rock amidst the chaos.

“Think we’ll find anything today?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

Mark grinned, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Nah, it’s been quiet for a while now. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Just as the words left his mouth, a shot rang out. The next few moments were a blur of chaos and violence. Raiders, hidden in the underbrush, launched their attack. Mark managed to shoot one off you, his quick reflexes saving your life. But then, he was hit, and you watched in horror as he crumpled to the ground.

“Mark!” you screamed, dropping to your knees beside him. Blood poured from a wound in his chest, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. You pressed your hands against the wound, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. “Stay with me, Mark. Please, stay with me.”

But his eyes glazed over, the light fading. You choked back a sob, fury and grief surging through you as the raiders closed in. You fought with every ounce of strength you had, slashing and stabbing, your vision blurred by tears and the pouring rain that had begun to fall. Blood and dirt smeared your face, and pain lanced through your body from multiple wounds.

The storm roared with fury, whipping the trees and lashing the ground with torrents of rain. You stumbled through the churning chaos, your clothes drenched and clinging to your skin, your muscles burning from the effort of pushing forward. Your vision blurred by the onslaught, you fought to keep moving, each step a battle against the ferocious elements. In that moment, all that mattered was survival - staying alive until the tempest passed.

It had been hours since Joel last saw them. His graying hair was in danger of being pulled out in frustration. You and Mark were supposed to be back by now. The patrol route you both took was supposed to be a shorter one.

Joel paced back and forth in the settlement, struggling to contain his anger. “Why the hell can’t I go out there, Tommy? She’s my partner, my—” He cut himself off, frustration and fear etched into his features.

Tommy placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice firm. “You’re too close to this, Joel. You need to stay here. I’ll find her.”

Hours dragged by, each minute an eternity. Joel’s rage simmered, his helplessness gnawing at him. He punched the wall, his knuckles splitting, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear of losing you.

Tommy had taken a small team out to search for you and Mark, but there was still no word. The storm raged on, making it even harder to find any trace of you.

Joel’s mind raced with possibilities – had you and Mark been ambushed? Taken by the raiders? Injured and unable to make it back? His heart clenched at the thought of you hurt or worse.

He cursed himself for not going out with you both, for letting his emotions cloud his judgement. He knew better than anyone that in this world, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down. But he had let himself become complacent, too focused on protecting you rather than seeing things clearly.

Bile rises in Joel's throat, the taste of fear and worry leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He swallows hard, trying to push the feeling down as he anxiously waits for any news.

The bitter taste of regret and fear lingered on Joel’s tongue, each thought of what could happen to you making his stomach turn.

The metallic taste of blood was thick on Joel's tongue as he bit down on his lip, trying to hold back his emotions. The rancid taste of fear and worry lingered in his mouth, coating his throat and making it hard to swallow.

Meanwhile, Tommy pushed through the storm, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness. The wind howled around him, carrying with it the distant echoes of thunder. He called out your name, his voice barely audible above the roar of the tempest. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination, each step sinking into the mud as he trudged forward.

The rain came down in sheets, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Lightning flashed, illuminating the twisted branches and slick ground for brief moments. He stumbled over fallen logs and through thick underbrush, the storm making every movement a struggle.

Tommy's eyes darted around, searching desperately. He felt a gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach, a fear that he was too late. Then, in the distance, he saw a figure lying still. His breath caught in his throat as he hurried over, praying that it wasn't you.

As he got closer, he recognized the bodies of the raiders, their lifeless forms sprawled across the muddy ground. The sight was gruesome, the aftermath of a brutal fight. His heart sank when he saw Mark, his friend and comrade, lying motionless with a fatal wound. He forced himself to look away, his focus now solely on finding you.

Finally, his eyes landed on you, crumpled and barely breathing. His heart pounded in his chest as he knelt beside you. Blood soaked your clothes, mingling with the dirt and rain, creating a grim tapestry that told the story of your fierce struggle.

“Hey, hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Tommy murmured, his voice trembling with urgency and concern. He gently lifted your head, cradling you in his arms. You stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering open to reveal dazed, pain-filled eyes.

“Joel?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm. The confusion and pain in your gaze made Tommy’s heart clench.

Tommy’s eyes widened as he saw the mark on your wrist, illuminated by a flash of lightning. It was the same date he had seen on Joel’s wrist—the same mark. Realization hit him like a freight train, the pieces falling into place with a sudden clarity. “It’s Tommy,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

But you had already slipped back into unconsciousness, your body limp in his arms. Tommy’s heart raced as he gently but urgently lifted you, securing you on his horse. He mounted behind you, holding you close to keep you steady, and spurred the horse into a gallop.

The ride back was a blur of rain and darkness, each second stretching into an eternity. The storm seemed to rage even harder, the wind whipping through the trees and the rain stinging like needles. Tommy’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, fear for your life mingling with the shocking revelation of your connection to Joel.

By the time Tommy reached the settlement, his clothes were soaked through, clinging to his skin like a second, frigid layer. Every muscle in his body ached from the grueling ride and the weight of your unconscious form. The rain had not let up, and his vision was blurred by the relentless downpour. But he didn't stop, carrying you swiftly yet carefully towards the infirmary, each step a struggle against exhaustion and worry.

Joel was just by the large gate of Jackson, pacing anxiously. The moment he saw Tommy approaching with your limp body, his heart seemed to stop. His face, already drawn with worry, twisted into an expression of sheer desperation.

“Is she okay?” Joel asked frantically, his voice cracking. His eyes were wide, darting between Tommy and your pale face for any sign of hope.

“She’s alive,” Tommy said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. He handed you over to the medics who were rushing to meet them. Joel instinctively moved to follow, but Tommy grabbed his arm, his grip firm and unyielding.

“Joel, wait. Look at her wrist,” Tommy urged, his voice low but insistent.

Joel’s eyes followed Tommy's gaze, landing on the mark on your wrist. Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut, the date etched into your skin unmistakable. It was the same as his. Realization dawned with a mixture of awe and dread. “Fuck,” he breathed, the weight of it crashing over him. The one person he couldn’t afford to lose was you, and now he knew why.

The medics were quick, their movements efficient as they assessed your injuries and began to prepare you for treatment. They lifted you onto a stretcher, intent on rushing you inside where they could better tend to your wounds. Joel moved to follow, his protective instincts kicking in, but the medics tried to hold him back.

“Sir, you need to let us do our job,” one of them said, a young woman with a firm but gentle voice.

“No,” Joel growled, his eyes blazing with determination and fear. “I ain’t leavin’ her side.”

Tommy stepped in, trying to reason with him. “Joel, you gotta let the doctors work.”

Joel’s fists clenched at his sides, his whole body trembling with the effort to contain his emotions. “I can’t… I can’t lose her, Tommy,” he choked out, his voice raw with pain and anger.

“I know, but you stayin’ in there won’t help her. You’ll only be in the way,” Tommy said, his tone gentle but firm. He placed a reassuring hand on Joel’s shoulder, trying to ground him. “You’ve gotta trust them to do their job. Let them help her.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on the door to the infirmary where they had taken you. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to be by your side, to make sure you were safe. But he knew Tommy was right. With a heavy, reluctant nod, he allowed himself to be led away, his heart aching with every step.

The minutes stretched into an eternity as they waited. Joel paced back and forth, his mind racing with worry. He could still see the image of you, broken and bloodied, every time he closed his eyes. The mark on your wrist haunted him, a constant reminder of the bond that tied you together. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he couldn't bear to lose you.

Tommy stood by, watching his brother with a mixture of sympathy and concern. He knew how much you meant to Joel, and the revelation of the soulmate mark only intensified that bond. He wished there was something more he could do, some way to ease Joel’s pain.

Finally, a medic emerged from the infirmary, her expression tired but relieved. “She’s stable,” she announced, and Joel felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “She’s got a long road to recovery, but she’s a fighter.”

Joel nodded, his eyes filled with gratitude and determination. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He would stay by your side, no matter what. The bond you shared was too precious to ever let go.

Days blurred into a haze of sterile white walls and the rhythmic beeping of machines. You drifted in and out of consciousness, each time greeted by the comforting sounds of Joel and Ellie. Joel's low, soothing voice often filled the room, whether he was talking to you or humming a soft tune. Ellie would sit by your bed, recounting stories with her usual animated flair, her voice a bright spot in the darkness.

One evening, as the storm outside mirrored the chaos within, you stirred slightly. The weight of Joel's hand on your wrist was a grounding force, his presence unwavering. He looked exhausted, his eyes heavy with worry, but he never left your side.

In one of your more lucid moments, you caught snippets of Joel's soft singing, the melody wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His voice was a balm, a tether to the world you were trying so hard to rejoin. He would often lean down to press gentle kisses to your forehead, his touch both a promise and a plea for you to come back to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you awoke fully. Your throat was dry, and every muscle ached, but you were aware. The weight on your wrist brought your gaze to Joel. He was slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head resting on the edge, fast asleep. He looked worn out, dark circles under his eyes and a shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his eyes fluttering open as if sensing your gaze.

“I...” Your voice came out as a croak, and you winced.

“Here, drink up,” Joel said, quickly pouring a glass of water and holding it to your lips. You drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat.

After a few sips of water, you managed to find your voice again. “How long have I been out?” you asked, your throat feeling slightly raw from disuse.

“Almost a week,” Joel replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“A week?” you repeated in shock. It felt like only a few hours had passed.

Joel nodded, his hand gently caressing your cheek. “You were pretty out of it for a while there.”

You felt a pang of guilt for causing so much worry and trouble for everyone. “I’m sorry,” you said softly.

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel said firmly, his eyes filled with intensity. “Just focus on getting better.”

“I will,” you promised, grateful for his unwavering support.

The relief on Joel’s face was palpable, but as he set the glass aside, a flicker of anger flashed in his eyes. “Were you ever going to tell me?” His voice was quiet, but the intensity of his gaze was almost too much to bear.

You looked away, shame burning your cheeks. “Trust me, I know. It's always about me.”

Joel's jaw clenched. “I just… I didn’t think you could ever want me.” Your voice broke, the years of hiding and pretending catching up to you.

Joel’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek. “You’ve always been more than I deserve,” he murmured. “I just wish you’d told me.”

Tears filled your eyes, and you struggled to breathe. “I love you…” you choked out, the words finally escaping your lips after years of being held back. “I’m sorry.”

Joel pulled you into his arms, holding you close as you sobbed. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

In the midst of life's storms, a quiet calm settled around you both, like discovering an oasis in the desert. Amidst chaos and pain, you found your soulmate, and love emerged as the unwavering light guiding you through the darkest nights.

[dammjamboy]

stanley pines deserved to be a dad, it's not even fair 😭

based off this dialogue in the 3ds game

[kayiiin]

Some extra content of the birthday post

[yujateaandpi]

y’all just— thinking about how excited Stanley must have been to host the twins— Alex says he smokes cigars but he doesn’t smoke once in the show— has a beer gut but he only drinks sodas in front of the kids— doesn’t swear when they’re around which must have taken INCREDIBLE effort— Stanley Pines, known crook, buying pancake mix at the supermarket and many bottles of syrup— learning to cook basic healthy meals and burning so many of them before he gets it right— buying new sheets, new mattresses— avoiding bunk beds because it reminds him of Ford— looking at the attic room he made wondering “is this enough will they like me”— trying to act aloof at the bus stop so he doesn’t betray the fact that he was there hours early— watching them goof around and thinking of New Jersey beaches— then the first night they’re there, he watches them debate running away and only stay because Mabel shook a magic 8 ball. That must have kept him awake all night.