got me good with this whole email address thing. you make email account as child for one purpose neopets.com and now all this. bait and switch. not nice.
this is a safe space for those of us who bloom at our own pace. if you've never felt like you're too old to have not hit certain milestones then go away enough of life has been catered to you. come here my 20+ers who are dealing with the tribulations of developing at a pace out of sync with society
heyyy I did the bare minimum are you proud of me đ„ș did I do a good job am I good am I a good girl can you praise me please please please please please please please also pet me and hold me in your lap six hours minimum I've earned it thanks
summary: the weather in jackson takes a turn for the worse. youâre feeling anxious, resorting to your comforts in an effort to feel better. youâre waiting for the perfect remedy to return home from patrol: joel always knows how to make you feel good.
notes: this is the first chapter in a two-part series, authored by han and i (second part to be posted on her blog)! i feel so lucky to be able to collab w one of my biggest inspirations đ€ also forever love to my bestie & beta, @macfrog đ«
warnings: age gap (28/50), jackson!joel, established relationship, canon divergent (joel will die aged 102 in his bed because i said so), anxious!reader, insinuation of SAD & ptsd, touch is their love language, cursing, facial wound, blood, mention of death, fluff, angsty, smutty thoughts & happenings. 18+, minors dni.
The rain is relentless. Youâve havenât seen anything like it since you arrived in Jackson. It slashes sideways, pelting the windows of the Tipsy Bison as you wash glasses up inside, warm and dry in your refuge. The wind howls along the storefronts, echoing miserably in the empty spaces.
Lightening carves up the darkening sky, bursts of light amongst the grey cloud. The thunder feels loud enough to shake the buildings in their foundations, trembling beneath your feet.
Nobody stops in for a drink: they just hurry along the main street, jackets no longer affording the protection they gave twenty years before. The townsfolk try their best; but things still have holes, are worn down over time with nothing to replace or repair it with.
Your shift ends, and you step out into the deluge. Youâre soaked within minutes: freezing water sluicing down your neck as you hurry for home, puddles in your boots, mud splashed on your jeans. The storm rumbles on unapologetically.
You fleetingly think of Joel, out beyond the gates with Tommy on patrol. Anxiety closes a cold hand around your heart as scenarios creep into your periphery: a tree could fall, they could lose sight of one another, a pack of clickers could get the drop on them.
A distraction. Thatâs what you need.
The light of day is dying out as you fish in your pocket for your key, fingers shaking as you slide it into the lock. The house is dark, objects usually so familiar to you shrouded in shadows, intensifying the pit of worry simmering in your belly.
You switch a lamp on, light flooding the home you share with Joel.
Scavenged books on the coffee table: Little Women for you, a woodworking manual for him. Thick socks and his shirts hung out to dry, chipped mismatched mugs needing a rinse. The comb you use on his hair, panties heâd pulled off you the night before stuffed unceremoniously behind a couch pillow.
You feel grateful to see the sun rise each day with Joel by your side, walk hand in hand, eat off one anotherâs plates, curl up on the couch, have him holding you and pushing you down into the sheets you share.
Heâs got twenty-two years on you, is stoic and reserved to most. But, Joelâs your family now: you open him up, and he relents willingly, curling his body around yours and spilling his darkest secrets in the dead of night.
Youâve created a life together in Jackson. A slice of stability you never thought youâd have after years of desperation behind QZ walls, nothing but your rotting hopes and despairing thoughts for company.
You deserve this. Someone to love you so delicately and ferociously in equal measure. You and Joel give and take from one another; a seamless, never-ending transaction, a cycle youâll never tire of.
You miss him with an all-consuming ache even though itâs only been mere hours since he left. It feels this way every day when he heads off at dawn for patrol, but the weather outside intensifies it tenfold this time around.
You want him home. You want him safe.
You head upstairs to the bathroom, stripping your soaked clothes off as you go, kicking them into a sodden pile. Thunder claps right above you, the wind rattling the windowpanes.
One of your patrons this morning had said the storm would blow itself out by tomorrow, and you can only hope itâs true. You busy yourself with your task: running a bath, as warm as you can get it.
The days you remember from your childhood of hot water, steam and bubbles: long gone, a memory you can barely skim with your fingertips. You sink into the water when itâs ready, closing your eyes and letting the day soak off of you.
The gale outside is constant. You long for hazy warmth, the sound of Jacksonâs children giggling under the sun, a simple blue sky. You close your eyes, lose yourself in the memory of the fall just passed.
Riding out with Joel, in front of him in the saddle. Youâd made him laugh that day, the tip of your nose freezing over as heâd pressed a kiss there. The wind was vicious, bitingly cold. It reminded you harshly that you were alive.
You were still here, despite it all.
Youâve ended up taking it for granted before, but itâs hard to when Joelâs behind you. His steady heartbeat against your own, firm body you know all too well. His hands on your waist, keeping you in place.
His goddamn hands.
Huge. Warm. Covered in scars, capable of breaking a nose clean in two. His deft, thick fingers: lifting your chin to him so you look him in the eye, thumbs leaving bruises on your hipbones, sweetly pressuring your tongue when you open your mouth for him.
You know what those hands have done, are capable of doing. They keep you safe. They let you know the depth of his love for you.
You feel yourself warming up eventually, using the handmade soap bar and wash cloth to rinse the rain out. You hear the door downstairs clicking shut: thereâs still always a moment of hesitation in your heart.
You know Jackson is safe. Youâre just.. Still trying to get used to it.
âBaby?â you hear his voice. Joelâs voice, calling to you like a prayer through the timber and plaster. âIn the bath,â you tell him, and hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
The door creaks, and you suck in a breath when see him. âJesus, Joel. What the fuck happened?!â you sit upright, water sloshing and spilling over the side of the tub in your urgency.
Thereâs a long, deep gash on his cheek; blood crusted by his nose. You know heâs wiped it roughly and moved on, that thereâll be a rusted stain on his jacket sleeve. Just like you know that sometimes itâs better not to even ask.
âCouple raiders up at the ski lodge. Nothinâ we couldnât handle,â he smiles at you, and you feel your eyes roll. This man. He bends to kiss you; cupping your cheek, sliding his tongue in your eager mouth.
Joelâs as drenched as you were, hair flat and dark on his head where heâs slicked it away from his face. You canât help it; the switch he flips in you, watching him lustily take you in, naked below him.
âYou need a bath,â you say disapprovingly. You wonder for a moment if the wound on his face will scar. Joel has a collection, and you know the story behind each one, for better or worse.
âToo bad thereâs already someone in there,â he sighs, pulling his worn leather belt from his jean loops to drop it on the floor. You can see his belly above his waistband as he moves, and you grow increasingly impatient.
âDonât be an ass,â you mutter. âGet in.â
Joel smirks as he comes to stand by the tub, eyebrow raised, then wincing as the wound on his cheek stretches. âCâmere,â you tell him, rising to stand in front of him, water sluicing down your body, feet still submerged.
Joel groans, eyes roaming everywhere, hands reaching for your ass greedily as you help to divest him of his clothes. âChrist, baby,â he breathes, squeezing and smacking your behind lightly, and you suppress the squeak in your throat.
Your fingers pull at the buttons of Joelâs shirt, sliding them against the material impatiently. It clings to him, soaked with rainwater, moulded to his strong biceps and broad shoulders.
Youâre greeted with damp chest hair as you continue your descent, growing thicker and darker as it sits flush against his skin. Joelâs so firm: you lave your tongue over his collarbone as you push his shirt to the floor, hearing his sharp intake of breath as you graze your teeth against flesh.
âMissed you,â you whisper into him, and you feel his low chuckle reverberate through his chest. âYou donât say, huh?â he teases, and you slide your lips over his to claim him as you pop the button on his jeans.
Joel wrestles himself out of them, kicking his boxers off to join your clothes in the corner. He takes your hand, and you lower yourselves into the warmth together. His knees creak with the effort, and you settle yourself between his hips, back pressed to his chest.
A few moments pass; you intertwine your hands together, kissing his knuckles as you absorb the feeling of just being with him. Nothing can touch you here, youâre sure of it. No painful past can invade the haven of peace he makes for you.
ââs nice. We donât do this enough,â he kisses your ear after a beat, and you hum contentedly. The bath is hardly big enough for it to become a regular activity; the sheer breadth of Joel is pushing the water close to the side, his arm hanging off awkwardly.
But, you love that he says it anyway.
He tells you the full story of his day: how he and Tommy had taken the raiders out one by one, the storm proving hard work with the horses on the way back home. He presses soft kisses to your shoulders at intervals; you feel the scruff along his jaw graze your skin.
You shiver, and Joel falls silent.
âYâokay?â he murmurs, fingertips stroking along your tummy. âI donât like thinking about you out there,â you admit sourly, and Joel chuckles, palm flat against your skin. âWe know what weâre doinâ, baby girl. I promise,â he assures you, nuzzling into the side of your throat.
âWhat if one day, though, you donât? What if you and Tommy get separated? Say, someone sets a trap for you? What if-â you babble, anxiety spilling unbidden across your tongue. The weight thatâs been sat on your chest all day reveals its fangs and starts to bite, showing no mercy.
Horrifyingly, you feel tears prick at your eyes; vision blurring at the thought of Joelâs lifeless body, dumped or worse. You, alone in Jackson, perhaps never knowing what had happened to him, mourning an empty grave and a broken heart.
âHey,â his voice breaks through the curtain of your anguish. âBaby, come on. I need you with me,â Joel urges quietly, wrapping himself around you. You see his veins spread out like a glorious map beneath his skin, so vital and present.
He kisses all the skin he can reach from his position behind you, and you feel the warmth of his lips bringing you back into the light; from the dark cloud of the creature sucking the soul right out of you, leaving you drained and vulnerable.
âRemember what we said? Only worry about the things you can control,â Joel says softly. âI gotta do these shifts, baby, but just know every time Iâm out there, Iâm thinkinâ of you. Thinkinâ about how fast I can get back to you, to havinâ you in my arms, just like this,â he soothes.
You nod, his words like a bandaid over your heart. Rain drums the roof above you loudly, a calming sound, and Joel relaxes his grip on you when he feels your breathing slow down. ââm sorry,â you whisper, feeling foolish for letting yourself get in your head again.
Itâs not the first occasion, and you know it wonât be the last. Each time, though, as Joel gently coaxes you out of it, you know itâll get easier. Time heals all wounds. Thatâs what heâd told you.
âDonât wanna hear it, pretty girl,â he tells you, thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts. âYânever have to say sorry to me.â You feel him, insistent and thick against your back.
You smile, rubbing your nose in the scruff along his jaw fondly, arching a little under his touch. âIf you leave your wet clothes in that pile again, though, weâre gonna have a problem,â Joel teases, and you flick water back at him.
âYou threw yours there too, jackass,â you laugh, and you feel Joel shrug behind you. âI come up here, and youâre all alone in the tub lookinâ like this?â he scoffs, rough skin of his hands making you gasp as he reaches for you again to tug you closer.
âHell else was I supposed to do,â he growls, low in your ear. Joelâs touch is different now: less delicate, more desperate. âWe gotta clean you up,â you remind him, as blood trickles slowly from his wound. You shudder as his hands disappear below the water, all over you.
âLater, baby, later,â Joel groans, and you feel desire fluttering in your core. You turn to kiss him feverishly, like heâll disappear any moment. âWill you let me make you feel good? Help ya to forget?â he asks.
You stare at him for a moment. Youâve memorised the shade of his irises, the way his black lashes fringe his eyes. You love the way he smiles crookedly, skin creasing like lines on a map only you know of, blending his sharper edges into something softer.
The other day, me and a few others were talking to a teenage cousin of ours who had just entered the work force full-time. Incidentally, he had also just come back from his week of vacation. He was incredibly upset and near tears, saying that it is terrible how he has to spend every day working and his only "life" gets to happen in his designated 1-2 weeks off per year, and, in his words, "then you die."
A lot of the people listening in started laughing at him and saying that he needs to "grow up and get used to it." How brainwashed do you have to be to say these things, especially to a kid in distress? And especially when the kid is right? He is absolutely, 100% right.
We have so much evidence that this set up is not healthy physically or psychologically. We could absolutely find better ways to ensure things get done without making people feel like overused machines. Everything we do as humans should be about making our lives happier and easier so that we can enjoy this precious little time we have. Everything we do now is instead about making the select few happier while everyone else suffers.
Don't "grow up and get used to it." Keep that youthful feeling of injustice when you realize how unfair it all is. This is not natural. People made society this way and we can unmake it.
I know I don't shut up about this but frankly not enough people are angry about the 5-day/40 hour workweek (and I am AWARE a lot of people work even more than that). I feel like a lot more people should be absolutely furious that we only really have two days a week and some occasional hours in the evening to socialise, run errands, do chores, or relax.
It's no wonder so many people are profoundly lonely and disconnected from their communities when maintaining a social life in what little free time we have is incredibly difficult. If you have kids, a second job, a very long commute, or other responsibilities, it's nearly impossible.
We literally aren't meant to live like this and I'll never stop being shocked how many people just take it as the natural state of things and don't want to throw a brick through a billionaire's window every time they think of it.
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