Warning: stealing, vagrancy, food sparcity, and some other elements to come.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Geralt of Rivia, short reader
Summary: you lie to get some food, but get more than you bargain as the Witcher comes to collect his debt.
Note: I hate being this way but couldn’t get this one out of my head.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
The drowner puts off a fishy smell as you walk alongside Roach. Her owner leads her by her reins at her other side as the creature’s corpse hangs over the saddle. You kick along the road as a village comes into sight; a tavern, a temple, and several crooked streets.
You pass a stone marker which tweaks something in your memory. The symbol is familiar; it means ‘bountiful’. Geralt does not remark on it as you pass though you give it a long look.
“So, I’ll be taking my fee and we’ll be on our ways. Separately.” You insist.
“Your fee?”
“I did all the work.”
“And how pray would you’ve transported the body without my steed?” He pats Roach’s neck.
“Cut the head off, I don’t need the whole thing.” You shrug.
“Cut it off with… your stick?” He challenges.
“I’ve a knife,” you pull the blade free of its sheath and show off the dagger.
“It’d take you some time to get through its flesh, let alone the bone,” he scoffs.
“Well, seems you know everything ‘cept how to do your job,” you sneer.
He grumbles but doesn’t respond. Roach huffs through her nostrils and shakes her mane, the stench wafting back at you. It isn’t very fair of him to make her do all this work; she’ll reek of rotten seafood for weeks.
As you enter the village, the residents gawk at your passing. Not just the Witcher’s shock of white hair and his glinting eyes, but at you. You try not to heed the stares. You’re just not used to them. For so long, you’ve done just find living in the nooks and crannies.
He leads you to a white building in the centre of town. A man in a blue and grey robe emerges. He has a skinny boy at his side as he descends the stairs.
“I heard of your arrival.” The townsman greets, his eyes straying to the dripping drown as his lip curls at the odour. “You’ve earned your purse then, witcher.”
You grunt and cross your arms, standing on your toes to glare at Geralt over Roach’s back and the corpse.
Geralt turns to wrench the drowner off the saddle and lets it fall onto the dirt. The townsman snaps his finger and the boy comes forward with a jingling pouch and hands it over, cowering as he retreats. The robed man gestures and several come forward to gather up the stinking body.
“Hang it from the sign. Let all see that the menace is slain.” He proclaims. “This village is safe again.”
You cross your arms and tilt your head. Roach shakes out her hair and her body shudders as she kicks the ground. The smell clings to her.
You step around her snout and face the witcher as he weighs the purse. “You owe me.” You hiss quietly.
“Half?” He barters.
“Half?” You meet his eye as he stirs the coins through the mouth of the sac.
“I transported it.”
“And I killed it. Found it, too.”
“Ahem,” the townsman clears his throat. “My lady,” he softens his tone. “Do you seek haven from this man?”
You pause as your lips part. Geralt’s cheek dimples and his brows furrow. His eyes flash past you.
You turn slowly to face the townsman as he approaches, smoothing his robes. “I’m the mayor of this place. Lord Hemp.” He introduces himself. “I must say it brings me concern that such a delicate lady should be traveling with a beast such as a witcher.”
Geralt snarls, “careful.”
Lord Hemp coughs and peeks at Geralt with a gulp. “I only mean to say, if you do seek a place to settle, the village of Mossing is rather quaint.”
You blink. “Very kind of you to offer but I am unattached to this… witcher. I only came to seek my rightful dues as it is I who slew this…” you peer over at the drowner as the men haul him away. “Monster.”
“You?” The mayor fans himself. “Well, that is… not a lady’s work.”
“I’m not a lady.” You grin. “We’ll just be on our way–”
“So it would seem this witcher is a thief?” Lord Hemp intones. “That he would take the bounty of your labour–”
“Thief?” Geralt sneers.
“It is a matter between us,” you wave off the mayor. “If you’ll kindly excuse us–”
“I cannot abide burglary–”
“You might abide yourself.” Geralt spits. He refocuses on you. “Half.”
“Three quarters. For me.” You put your hands on your hips. He huffs.
You sense a shift but ignore it. Geralt narrows his eyes. “Two thirds.”
“Three quarters.” You repeat.
“Half.” He regresses.
“Fine. Ten percent for you. That’s about what you’ve done. Roach earned more than you–”
His jaw tenses and he reaches over his shoulder. He grips his pommel and you touch your dagger.
“Really?” You challenge.
He grabs your shoulder and moves himself around you. He unsheaths his sword as several men approach in a half-circle. He sets his feet as Roach snorts.
“You want to call off your men.” Geralt warns. “You enlisted me to protect your people but I will not hesitate to put them down.”
“You’ve robbed this lady.” Lord Hemp insists.
“Mind your business. You’ve got your drowner.” Geralt rebuffs as he angles his sword around.
“She says she is not yours. So why do you travel together? Do you keep her hostage, witcher? Perverted as you are?”
“Ah bugs!” You take your stick off your back but Geralt blocks you with his arm as you try to step around him. You whack him lightly and push past. “Listen, it’s nothing. He’s not as bad as he looks, y’know? Strange fella but I take care of myself.”
Geralt looks at you from the corner of his eyes. You send him back a look warning him to take it easy. You face Lord Hemp again.
“Now, we’re just gon’ take the coins and figure this out elsewhere.” You haggle. “That sound good, mayor?
“We are bound to protect fair maidens–”
“I ain’t no maiden,” you guffaw and spin your stick. “Now I’ve had a long day already so please, don’t make it worse.”
The men don’t back down. They set their grips on their swords and you sigh. Geralt brings his second hand around his pommel. You glance over at him and shrug.
“Now’s your chance to earn that half, eh?” You remark.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He sets his sights on the men and raises his blade. You lift your stick and plunge forward at the flash of iron.
Warning: stealing, vagrancy, food sparcity, and some other elements to come.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Geralt of Rivia, short reader
Summary: you lie to get some food, but get more than you bargain as the Witcher comes to collect his debt.
Note: I hate being this way but couldn't get this one out of my head.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
Villages are always a gamble. Sometimes, the people are kind. They don’t mind you sleeping in a doorway for the night. More often, the love to scowl and judge. You never hurt no one, don’t steal… well, don’t mean to. What happened with the Witcher, it wasn’t that. Exactly. A pretty lie. A bad one.
He leads you into town, his hand on the horse’s reins, his hood drawn up over his unique head of hair. You can’t blame him. You’re sure the staring gets annoying. At the same time, it’s an interesting look. He shouldn’t be ashamed.
“There we are,” he growls over his shoulder.
“Here we are,” you agree.
He’s quiet as Roach’s hooves pound the ground. A few glances stray in your direction. He does make a rather ominous direction.
“So… where are you boarding up for the night?” You ask.
“I’ll find a place. Alone.” He sneers.
“Course, course.” You wave off the insinuation. “I’m only asking so I might find me a place.”
He looks over at you, his hood dipping with the movement. “That so?”
“Oh, sure, I could barter something…”
“Or lie.”
“It was one time. I do regret it, y’know?”
He hums. You continue on at his heels. He huffs but doesn’t try to ward you off further.
The inn isn’t so different than the one before. There’s no stable, just a post to tie up the horses. The Witcher puts Roach at the end and stomps on across the dirt. You shuffle after him.
He pushes inside. The place goes silent. You glance around and wipe your face. Is it you?
The Witcher approaches the innkeep at his counter. He strikes a daunting stance. You try to mimic him, listening, as you try to piece together a plan of your own.
“I hear you have a ghoul problem,” the Witcher says.
The innkeep coughs and nods. “Pests.”
“They’re getting closer.” The Witcher intones.
“Too close. We’re losing cattle. Travellers don’ wan’ come to these parts.”
“Mm. Could take care of it. Silver.” He says.
“Silver, not gold?”
“Silver.” The Witcher confirms.
“Hmm. Suppose I could check the coffers.” The innkeep replies. “Wait here.”
“Scuse me. Sir. Before ya go.” You step around the Witcher. The innkeep gives a start. “You know, I’m in the business of casting out the ghastly as well. And I work cheaper than this guy.”
The Witcher scoffs. “Don’t listen to her.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve killed a tree monster and a fog monster in the last two days. All on my own.”
The Witcher snarls. “She… she’s not a hunter.”
“Oh, but I can find your pests and get rid of them. For much less than silver. Bed, bath, bread. Sleep, wash, and eat; that’sall I wan.”
The innkeep grimaces and his eyes skim between you and the Witcher. You smile. He clucks.
“You want stew with your bread?” He asks at last.
“If’n you don’t mind. I’m starvin’. Been slaying no gooders, you see.”
“You’re not serious,” the Witcher growls.
“Eh, not to be rude but people ain’t comfortable ‘round your type. Seein’ as you don’t got no business here,” the innkeep says.
The Witcher’s nostrils flare. He looks at you then at the innkeep. “Mm.” His jaw ticks and tilts his head slightly. His throat tightens. He slowly forces out his next words. “But… she’s my… wife.”
He closes his eyes as if truly pained. You give him a slanted look. Well, it isn’t exactly nice to cast someone out because of the way they look. You feel a bit bad for him really.
“We’re havin’ some troubles,” you snort and nudge the Witcher with your elbow. “Can I get a bowl for him too. Oh, and ale. He’s easier to handle with some in his belly.”
The Witcher rumbles but doesn’t protest further. The innkeep looks at him and squirms. You smile bigger.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line,” you wink.
The innkeep nods and slowly retreats. You whistle and bounce triumphantly on your feet. You wiggle your toes in your stocking. You should’ve probably tried to get some new shoes thrown into the deal.
“Keep me in line?” The Witcher snarls.
“Eh, just playing up to the act.” You shrug. “Dear husband.”
“Stop.” He warns.
“Not me, this time. Don’t you fret though, I don’t hold grudges. You won’t owe me nothing.” You pat his arm and he sighs.
“And what are you going to do about the ghouls?” He asks.
You twirl your stick and hit your knee. You hiss and rub the sore spot. “Oh, you know… give em some of this.”
“You’re going to kill yourself.”
“Then you’ll be rid of me, won’t ya?” You taunt.
“Suppose,” he agrees dully.
🧌
A full belly sure feels nice. And you still have bread left over!
You stand by the door as the servants bring in steaming buckets of water and fill the large round tub behind the screen. The Witcher sits by the window, staring out. Turns out when you claim to be known intimately, they only give you one chamber. Ah well, at least he doesn’t say much.
You shut the door as the basin steams. He watches the night set outside. You scurry behind the screen, the flicker of the lamps glowing on the other side. You undress and step into the tub. You groan.
It’s so nice to be warm; it’ll be even better to be clean again. You could do with some new clothes but once you’ve dealt with the ghouls, you’ll have to include that in your next fee.
You lean your head back against the wooden tub and drape your arms over the brim. The floor creaks with your chambermate’s movement. Your eyes stick sleepily. You best not fall asleep in here or you’ll drown before you can do your part.
You take a rag and scrub your skin until it’s raw. Wow, it sure feels nice to get that off. You drone again as you stretch out your limbs.
A good night’s sleep and you’ll be ready to find those beasts. It shouldn’t be too hard. Ghouls don’t sound half as bad as the others. Who knows, maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding.
You get out and wrap yourself in the bath sheet. You pick up your clothes. They smell terrible.
You could probably wash them in the tub. You look them over and suddenly, they’re snatched from your grasp. The Witcher tosses them into the fireplace. You yipe.
“Woah! What are you doing? Those are my only clothes.”
“They stink.” He snips. “And you’ll only get fleas all over this place.”
“But–” You frown. “You can’t just burn them.”
“You’re welcome to pull them out,” he crosses his arms.
“Rude!” You accuse him and hug the top of the bath sheet.
He shakes his head. He goes to grab his saddle bags. He pulls out a bundle of rolled fabric.
“For my keep tonight. Tunic, trousers, stockings. Might not fit right but better than louse.” He pushes them across the bed.
You pout. “Fine, I guess I can’t stay mad.”
You near and gather up the fresh clothes. You glance at him. He drops onto the bed and bends his arms behind his head. You furrow your nose. There’s only one bed…
“Leave some room for me,” you turn away with the wool and linen. “I should make you sleep on the floor.”
Summary: Joel is your neighbor in the trailer park with a dirty mouth who gives you orgasms.
Pairing: Perv!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader
Content warnings: modern no outbreak AU where Joel is not a dad, one Sons of Anarchy reference, sleazeball!Joel, ribbed condom joke, oral sex (F receiving), a few spanks, protected P-in-V, tit/nipple play, biting, dirty talk, Joel refers to himself as "Daddy" once (it surprised me but my heart told me to write it), aftercare
Word count: 2,577
Read on ao3 here
Author's note: this is my post for celebrating 200 followers on here!!! yay!!! thank you everyone so so so so much!!! I want to kiss everyone!!!! I was lowk pulling for everyone to choose the Acacius story for this celebration post, but as I finished this one up, I started to like it more, so thank you to everyone who voted for perv!trailer park!Joel <3 it was very fun to write this Joel; I was only a little freaked out by purposely mischaracterizing him! anyways, thank you again to everyone who reads my works, everyone who likes, comments, and reblogs!!! I didn't realize how amazing reblogging is until I started posting on this account! (reblog your favorite stories!!!) okay I'm done rambling, so please enjoy pervy!trailer park!Joel <3
You moved into the trailer park about a year ago. You wanted to live below your means to save up for a house. Blue Moon Trailer Park mostly houses divorced guys, you realized. There are a few families, a few other single people.
Then, there’s Joel, your next-door neighbor. He’s single, never been married, doesn’t have kids, and in his late forties. He works in construction, and for fun, he ogles your ass and your cleavage.
The day you moved in, he was sitting on his porch, wearing just his green plaid boxers, a beer bottle in one hand, a joint in the other. As you started unloading your car, he went inside his trailer, put on some jeans and a plaid shirt that he didn’t bother buttoning, then met you at the trunk of your car.
“Need some help, darlin’?” he asked, wearing a toothy grin.
You didn’t respond at first. You tilted your head to the side in slight confusion.
He held his hand out and introduced himself. “Name’s Joel Miller. Noticed ya ain’t got anyone to help ya bring in all o’ your things. Just thought I’d offer.”
In all honesty, you were immediately attracted to him. Maybe you watched too much Sons of Anarchy, but there was something about a nasty, slimy guy that always did it for you.
A guy who carried himself with confidence, unapologetic for his less than (typically) desirable habits. This guy was sitting half-naked on his porch with a drink and a joint in his hand when you rolled up twenty minutes ago. Now, he had put a shirt on, sure, but he hadn’t even bothered to button it, his slight gut sticking out. Joel fits the bill for nasty and slimy perfectly.
You shook his hand and gave him your name. You let him help you bring your things in. When he picked up especially heavy boxes and grunted in exertion, you felt your panties grow slicker.
He must’ve fucking smelled it on you or something, because by the time the two of you finished, he was suggesting he help you christen your new bedroom.
//
After living in the trailer park for a while, you recently got a second job waiting tables on weekend nights just to keep busy.
Apparently, Joel hasn’t been taking it very well.
The text on your phone comes in just as you’ve plopped onto your bed, still in your waitress uniform.
-Horny. R u up?
Is he serious? Did he seriously text you this at 3:00 in the morning, ten hours after you told him you’d be working until 2:00? Seriously?
Are you seriously putting your shoes back on and already crossing the eight feet of grass between your and Joel’s trailers?
…Yes.
You walk right in. Joel never locks his trailer when he’s in it, said he doesn’t see a point, and left it at that.
You’re greeted with the sight of Joel sitting on his couch, clad in his unzipped jeans and an unbuttoned denim shirt, with his cock in his hand.
“Thank the Lord,” he mumbles. “Get your pretty ass over here.”
You roll your eyes as you lock Joel’s front door, kicking your shoes off as you cross the living room.
“3:00 AM? Seriously, Joel?” you grumble. You stand in between his legs, undoing your jeans.
“Not like I forced you to come over here. Just asked if you were still up,” he points out, already slightly breathless as he lazily jerks himself off.
To the right of him, you spot old Playboy magazines.
You open your mouth again, but before you can give a speech about how offensive you find those magazines, Joel nods, saying, “Yes, seriously. Now c’mere. Need that sweet pussy real bad, baby.”
You push Joel into a lying down position, then shuck your jeans off, along with your panties, and kick off your shoes. He grabs the backs of your thighs and pulls you to the couch. You hover over his face, straddling his chest. He doesn’t waste time; he dives right in, pulling deep moans and groans from your mouth with ease.
He licks stripes up and down your slit until your thighs tighten around his head, a silent signal that he needs to get it together and actually eat.
Joel switches from long licks to concentrated swirls around your clit. You and Joel never really cared for drawing it out. The longest you’ve ever spent with Joel was an hour and a half, and that was only because he popped a viagra.
He feels your clit pulsate against his tongue, and that’s when he pushes you off him. You stumble back on his body while he sits up, his hands palming your bare ass.
“You worked a night shift at the diner, then came to my place to fuck,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your face, smelling of cheap whiskey and Marlboro Reds.
“So?” you groan.
“So... Someone likes me,” he teases as he pulls your shirt over your head, revealing the lace of your bra.
“Asshole,” you mutter as you roll your hips against his crotch.
“You’re not denyin’ it,” he hums in your ear, his hands still rubbing your cheeks.
“You got a condom or what?” you snap.
Joel shuts his mouth, purses his lips into a thin line, then nods. He reaches into his back pocket and holds up a single condom.
“Look,” he chuckles, waving the wrapper in your face. “Ribbed for her pleasure.”
You scoff and furrow your brow in annoyance, but pull his jeans down to his knees anyway so he can get the condom on.
“You’re scoffin’, but you know you like it,” Joel remarks as he rolls this condom over his hard length. “You just hate that you’re into me. The residential pervert, was how you put it last month, wasn’t it? Not like anyone’s gonna stone you for lettin’ me fuck you. We’re consentin’ adults, sunshine.”
“You think you could keep your mouth shut for five minutes?” you grumble as you hold him up to your entrance.
Joel clicks his tongue and gives a look of feigned offense. “Aw, baby, you know I always last longer than five minutes.”
You’re about to respond, but now he’s completely filling you, and you’re so full of him, so you have to moan.
“See? You love this,” he whispers.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “Big dick to match your fuckin’ personality.”
Joel’s hand comes down on your ass as you speak. A sharp pop pierces the air, and your moan follows.
“Hey, I’m bein’ nice,” he says, no anger in his voice. If anything, he might be a little hurt. “Didn’t force you to come over here. All I did was ask if you were awake.”
You don’t want to apologize because you know Joel isn’t being fully serious. Instead, you lean forward and kiss him, pulling a low growl from his throat. His hands move from your ass to your head, planting a firm grip.
“Mm,” you whine when he bites your bottom lip. “Jesus, fuck.”
Joel laughs, the sound deep and gravely in his chest. “You love this shit, dontcha, baby?”
“Shut up,” you pant, forehead heavily leaning against his.
His hands move from your head to your breasts, squeezing and kneading your flesh through your bra.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, a little less rough now.
You moan softly and shut your eyes for a moment, focusing on the feeling of his cock pistoning in and out of you, his hands on your breasts, his warm breath fanning against your face.
“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing your breasts, just a little too hard, which has you inhaling sharply through your nose, your eyes opening wide. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Didn’t ask you over here just so you can hide those pretty eyes from me.”
You open your eyes but narrow your gaze and purse your lips, nearly likening yourself to an angry bull, Joel thinks, and it makes him smile.
“Attagirl. Yeah, is that so hard? Hm? I just wanna see ya. All o’ your pretty face, darlin’. Can’t come right if I don’t.”
Oh, he was doing so well. He just had to add that last part, didn’t he?
“Do you have some sort of contractual obligation where you have to ruin every remotely nice thing you say with a perverted afterthought? Huh?” you ask, rolling your hips harder against Joel’s.
He chuckles and thrusts up even harder, pulling a soft, pleasure-filled hiss from your lips.
“No,” he grunts. “Just don’t see a point in filterin’ myself when I know the way I talk makes you wet.”
You roll your eyes at that, and Joel grabs onto your jaw in such a way that has your lips puckering as he holds your gaze.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice low and husky.
You moan and ask, “Say what?” with a muffled voice as Joel keeps a tight grip on your jaw.
“Say you like hearin’ me run my dirty mouth.”
Joel doesn’t comment on the little gush of fluid he feels around his cock when you hear his words. He just keeps holding your gaze and waits for you to say the words.
“I-I like hearing you run your dirty mouth,” you say, your voice just a little higher-pitched than you’d like it to be.
Joel moans in appreciation, then shakes his head. “Mm, I don’t know, darlin’. I think what I actually wanna hear you say is that you love hearin’ me run my dirty mouth. Let’s try that, huh?”
You let out a soft whimper, then mumble, “I love hearing you run your dirty mouth.”
He nods in appreciation and lets go of your jaw.
“That’s my girl. Yeah, you’re such a good girl,” he praises as he plants both his hands on your hips and starts thrusting into you harder now.
You moan and lean forward, your hands planted on the arm of the couch behind him, your forehead against his as you watch his hips thrust up into you.
“Yeah, you like that?” he rasps. “Like watchin’ me fuck you? I can feel ya clenchin’ tighter around me. You’re just as fuckin’ perverted as me, aren’t ya, baby?”
“Shut up,” you moan, leaning your head back, moving your hands to his biceps, his thick, strong fucking biceps.
Joel doesn’t say anything; he just slaps your ass, which pulls a whiney moan from your throat.
“Yeah, you like hearin’ me talk, like watchin’ my cock split ya open, like it when I spank that pretty ass… You’re just too high up on that horse o’ yours to admit it.”
“Joel…” you moan, practically shaking on Joel’s lap now.
“Joel,” he mocks. “Don’t worry; I ain’t gonna make ya say it. Just somethin’ for you to stew on when you go home.”
You moan and lean your forehead against his again, your hands moving to his shoulders.
“I’m gonna come,” you whisper.
You feel him nod against your forehead. “I know, darlin’. You go on ahead. Show me how much you love hearin’ this nasty old man’s dirty mouth run. Go on. Be a good girl for me.”
That’s all it takes to have you turn into a shaking, whining mess. Joel fucks you through it, moves his hands to your breasts, massaging them through your lace bra.
Once you’ve come down, he whispers in your ear, “Okay, sweetheart. It’s Daddy’s turn now.”
You’re not expecting it, but you moan at his words. You’ve never called him that, and he’s never called himself that. It’s new and unexpected, and Joel doesn’t even realize it’s that word specifically that has you moaning. He thinks it’s just leftover from the orgasm he just gave you.
You don’t even realize you’re changing positions until the scratchy fabric of his couch hits your naked back.
Joel’s entire body covers yours, and he’s thrusting again, clearly focused only on his orgasm now.
“This pussy’s fuckin’ magic, darlin’,” he grunts above you.
“You’re fucking pussy whipped,” you whisper, and he snorts in response.
“Not a very nice thing to say, baby,” he laughs before leaning down to kiss your chest and tug at the lace of your bra with his teeth.
“Take this off. Wanna see that gorgeous fuckin’ rack o’ yours before I finish.”
You scoff in indignation at how crude his request was, but comply regardless, reaching behind your back to unclasp the garment, arching your chest in his face in the process, given the position you’re in. You toss your bra to the side once it’s off, and Joel immediately dives in, sucking on your nipple and taking it between his teeth, just edging it, not biting down.
“Nicest fuckin’ tits,” he mumbles around your nipple.
He lets go with a loud pop, a string of spit connecting from your nipple to his lips.
Then, he brings his fingers down to your clit. “Want you to come with me this time. Come on, I’m so close. Know you can do it. Still feel you squeezin’ and drippin’ all over my cock. Come on, pretty girl,” he coos before bringing his lips down to yours.
You bury your hands in his hair and bite down on his bottom lip, pulling a soft grunt of surprise from him, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Feelin’ feisty?” he rasps against your lips before ducking down and biting your jaw, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast, pulling a throaty moan from you each time.
You tug on his hair and present his chest to yourself. You take his nipple between your teeth and actually bite down.
Joel growls, but doesn’t pull away.
You clench around his cock, and he falls forward just a bit, inadvertently giving you access to his shoulder.
He moans, and his thrusts speed up.
“I’m gonna come,” he whispers, pressing down on your clit, pushing you over the edge with him.
You feel the warmth of his cum through the condom, and moan as your cunt flutters around him.
“Jesus, Joel,” you moan.
“I know, darlin’. It’s a lot, huh?”
He leans down and kisses you, gently this time. Then he turns the two of you on your sides, his back to the couch, so he doesn’t crush you. He keeps a tight hold on you so you don’t fall off, then buries his nose in your hair.
“You okay?” he whispers. “Didn’t go too hard?”
He’s asked this since the first time. Even though now the two of you know each other well enough to know the other’s likes and dislikes, he’ll still check in, just so you feel cared for.
“I’m okay. You okay?”
He nods and kisses your forehead. “You can stay over if you want. No pressure, though.”
You smile up at him and nod. “I’d like that, actually.”
Joel pulls you into the shower with him a few minutes later, taking care to be gentle and sweet. He dries you off and gives you a clean t-shirt to sleep in.
When the two of you get in bed, he tucks you in, then gets in on his side, before scooting over to the side you’re on just so he can hold you.
He’s just a big dick with big feelings.
He’s also the reason you’ve extended your stay in the trailer park. You had the money for a down payment two months ago.
You've had all sorts of people come into your beauty parlor but Joel Miller, the old man that treats haircutting in the same wavelength as teeth pulling, just might be your favorite client.
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warnings: no outbreak/modern setting, hairdresser!reader, reader is afab, old man!joel, age gap (joel's early 60s, reader's age is not specified apart from being a lot younger), brief sarah cameo, little bit of erotic massages, requited unrequited love, smut, joel's got it bad, pet names galore, untimely erections, improper use of a backwash unit, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, size kink, praise kink, joel miller's monster cock, fingering (f receiving), pussy/cock pronouns, cowgirl, creampie, fluff and smut, kind of sugar daddy vibes if you squint.
rating: 18+.
word count: 6.7k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! this is based off of this request by the incredible @time-for-my-weekly-spanking ! ive been a hairdresser for almost a decade now but i'm not north american and let me tell you... it was quite the challenge to translate the proper vocabulary into english, i've never noticed how much i could never do my own job in an english-speaking country because i have no idea what anything is called lmao but i had fun writing this and i hope you guys enjoy it as well!!
also available on archiveofourown.
You don't do walk-ins. Your clients know and understand this, most of them booking their appointments weeks in advance but, when Sarah first came into your salon while dragging her sixty year old father by the hand like a stubborn toddler, you couldn't find it in yourself to turn them away.
“He's been cutting his own hair for years.” She tells you as the both of you coax Joel to sit down in your chair, a scowl on his face, his entire back taut.
“And I do a damn fine job.” He grumbles, but Sarah just waves him off.
“His eyesight ain't what it used to be, I'm surprised he hasn't snipped his own ear off just yet.”
Joel gives her an affronted grunt that yanks a laugh out of you. His hair is styled back, as if he'd just pushed it away from his face with a little bit of styling mousse and the way it sticks out of the sides is clear that he does it to hide the choppy cut, the curls at the nape of his neck doing wonders to hide just how uneven it is. His broad back stiffens when you run your hands through his hair, the curls catching on your fingers; it's clear that he's uncomfortable, but you're not certain if it's just because he's in a beauty salon rather than a barber shop or something else entirely.
“I could just clean it up a little.” You say, your hands resting on his shoulders for a moment before you pull away. “We don't need to change the haircut, I can just make sure it's even, give you a fresh canvas for you to muck up at home when you decide to cut it yourself again.”
He doesn't laugh, not really, but his lips twitch under his mustache and his eyes seem lighter somehow, which you take as a good sign; Sarah isn't a helicopter daughter — and thank God for that —, choosing instead to sit in a corner with her nose buried in her phone while you work. Joel is tense at first, sitting straight as a rod in your chair and then barely lowering himself into the backwash unit, his head tilted halfway up in a position that you know water is going to pour down his back the second you turn the faucet on. So, you pull the trick that your old boss, a lady with bleached blond hair that was three stories high and a voice rougher than gravel, had taught you: The scalp massage.
It's not something you do often considering that the bent position you're in while shampooing a client's hair kills your back at the end of the day, but you take your time with Joel. You apply just a little bit of pressure with the pads of your fingers, mindful of your nails, running clock-wise circles from the top of his head to his temples, grinning to yourself at the way he stiffens even more before his entire body melts against the porcelain basin, the hands folded over his lap clutching his reading glasses tightly as you work him over, shampooing and moisturizing his hair, tugging and rubbing until he's all but asleep.
Joel Miller becomes a fixture at your beauty parlor after that. You don't have a lot of male clients, your entire salon mostly avoiding booking appointments for men after one too many creeps but Joel is the exception you can't stop yourself from making: He comes in every twenty days 'just for a trim', even if he wears his hair on the longer side and doesn't really need trimming that often. He also starts buying a stupid amount of haircare products once you mentioned you earn a small commission off of every sale, always leaving the salon with a new beard oil or hair moisturizer or curl defining cream that you know he'll never wear on his own. The girls you work with start teasing you about your not-so-secret admirer and, while you laugh and roll your eyes at them, your stomach still burns with something that is not embarrassment. Truth is, you find Joel to be quite dreamy.
The girls don't agree with you— Too old, too weathered, with a daughter whose age is closer to yours than yours is to his but they don't see him the way you do: The way his impossibly broad shoulders relax when he sees you, the shy smile he gives when you welcome him to your chair, the soft sigh he exhales the moment your fingers touch his scalp. Joel Miller is a man built on contradictions: His hair is soft when his frown is prickly, his body language skittish when his words are warm, his brutish hands gentle whenever he shakes yours in goodbye: You found the handshake odd at first, as if you were sealing a business deal rather than saying goodbye to the man whose hair you've just spent the last forty minutes intimately touching, but you've come to appreciate that small moment. The only time your touch is reciprocated, the couple of seconds where his large hand engulfs yours and his warmth involves you in a way that lingers far beyond the handshake.
Maybe you're the one that is the not-so-secret admirer, in the end. You look forward to his appointments, terribly saddened by the few occasions in which he had to cancel, and it has very little to do with the easy money you make off of him.
He's usually your last customer of the day, and you're pretty sure that it's because he likes it when it's just the two of you. Joel seems more comfortable like that, more prone to talking about himself when your ears are the only ones listening— You learn that he's the single father of two daughters, Sarah and Ellie, and that he tried to retire a couple of years ago but got so antsy he had to go back to work. He owns a contracting company with his brother and, with his old age, he's taken the admin duties while his brother and a couple of guys take on the manual labor. He enjoys cooking and woodcarving and he lives on the other side of town— Sarah's apartment is close to the salon, and while he makes it seem that he only comes in to get a haircut whenever he's visiting, you get the feeling that it's not exactly true. And while you share just as many details of your personal life with him, the relationship has always been strictly professional.
It all changes on a rainy January Tuesday.
Joel comes in as your last customer as usual, but this time he's about fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for the man that is always so punctual. He's more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him, his hair is in disarray, curls undone and sticking everywhere; he's in black sweatpants, a t-shirt and the jacket he doesn’t seem to ever take off, but the ensemble is still something you've never seen before: He's always in jeans and some sort of button down or flannel, his sleeves rolled up and his boots shiny, like he takes good care of it. It's always casual but calculated, like he actually put in some effort before leaving the house.
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart.” He says as a greeting, shoving an iced coffee towards you— The coffee is a newish and welcome addition, even if Joel grumbles about how caffeine so late in the day is bad for you, he always shows up with pink-tinted cheeks and the iced caramel latte he knows you enjoy. “Had to drive the kid to the airport and traffic was crazy, ended up not havin' time to go back home to get dressed. Am I too late?”
“No, you're fine.” You smile, taking a sip of your coffee as he shakes off the remains of the pouring rain from his coat before sitting in your chair. Your late policy means you shouldn't be taking in the appointment: The salon has a maximum of ten minutes of tardiness but even if you tell yourself that you're breaking policy simply because he's the last client you have today, it truly is because he is Joel, and you'd let him run you over with his car if he wanted to.
You go through the motions as you usually do: Placing the towel over his shoulders — the larger ones, always, because the regular size doesn't fit him properly —, and then the bright pink cape — which you always pick for him because you think it's funny of see a man that size wrapped in a bat-like pink cape — before clipping his sideburns and the nape of his neck; the scruff on his cheeks is on the longer side today, but you don't touch them. You like him with a beard, and you often pretend to forget about it unless he specifically asks for a trim of his facial hair too. By the time the two of you make it to the shampooing station, Joel's already halfway through his tale of Sarah's out-of-state girl's trip for a friend's birthday and how it's the first time she's taking a long trip without him. It's cute, the way he talks about her as if she's just a teenager even though you know she's a grown woman, the way he voices his worries to you and then finishes a sentence with ‘didn't say that to her, of course’, as if he's apologizing for his over-protectiveness to her through you.
Joel falls oddly silent after the first wash, his voice cutting itself halfway through a sentence as you rinse away the shampoo, his once closed eyes snapping open. He shifts a little, one of his hands flying downwards as you fill up your hand with shampoo again and your eyes drift to follow the movement, your stomach dropping in the split second in which you think he's touching himself. He's not, not really, his hand closed into a tight fist and carefully placed over his crotch in a poor attempt at concealing a very impressive hard-on that tents through the pink cape. His eyes flit to yours, the two of you making eye contact for just a second before your hand overflows with the mint-scented shampoo.
You work in silence, biting down on your bottom lip to hide the giddy smile that threatens to show.
Normally, if it were any other man on Earth, you would've been disgusted by it— Or annoyed, at the very least, but you're not. You take your time with the scalp massage, rubbing your fingers against him slower, more teasingly this time, doing your best to remain as professional as you can while having fun with it. Joel's entire face is bright red and his eyes are shut tight, but he doesn't seem as uncomfortable as he was before, his breath catching when your fingers dip close to his temple. You're not supposed to use your nails, you know it can be quite uncomfortable for some people but you can't help the way you allow yourself to scratch softly as his scalp, his mouth parting slightly at the sensation.
Joel doesn't look you in the eyes when you walk him back to the chair, which is not uncommon for him, but the air is electrified and you look away as he tries to readjust himself; the cape does nothing to hide his erection, though, and you know the imagine will be ingrained in your mind for a long time.
The two of you are silent throughout the entire haircut, with Joel shuffling in his chair every so often, clearly uncomfortable, and it makes your job at evening out the ends just a tad harder— You're not certain it's completely even by the time you're done, your hands shaky and your mind entirely distracted by him but the curls hide it well; if he never shows up again, you won't ever know if it's because of the uneven cut or because of the ten or so minutes he spent rock hard at your shampooing station. He seems a little more relaxed by the time you're removing the cape from his neck, his face still flushed red but at least his cock is down.
It's almost as if the Universe is conspiring against you, the rain pouring twice as hard by the time Joel finishes up his payment — with an extra 25% tip and a beard shampoo that you're certain he'll never use —, the two of you standing awkwardly by the door for a moment.
“Can I drive you home?” Joel asks all of a sudden, hands shoved inside the pockets of his carhartt jacket. “The rain ain't gon' let up soon.”
You open your mouth, ready to politely decline: Despite your crush, Joel is still someone you don't know that well and you're not certain you want him to know your address or to be inside his car for so long. But he blinks at you with his big brown eyes, shoulders drawn tight as if he's bracing himself for a rejection and suddenly you simply can't think of a single reason as to why you shouldn't take a chance. And, in the end, it was better than getting home late and sopping wet after taking the bus under a thunderstorm.
“Okay.” You nod, your smile broadening when he smiles back. “I would love that, actually.”
Joel's car is old, a large red pick up truck that he clearly uses for work, dirt on its tires and sides. He opens the door for you and helps you climb in, large hands respectfully wrapped around your waist when he hoists you up. You're a little shy when giving him your address, afraid he'll be annoyed by how far it is but Joel simply nods and turns on the radio, an old rock song coming through.
You sip your coffee, which is not as iced anymore by this point, sharing it with Joel every so often. He takes the cup between red lights, and you don't miss the way he twists and turns the cup to make sure his lips touch the exact spot where your lipstick has stained it— It makes desire simmer low but constant in your belly, his own lips staining with a soft shade of red.
By the time his truck pulls up into your driveway, the rain is somehow worse than it'd been before. The two of you sit in silence for a moment as you gather the courage to leave the warmth of the truck's cabin, and Joel hums to the song on the radio as if he didn't mind you stalling at all.
“Do you want to come inside?” You ask, and while the question might seem innocent enough, you can't get the outline of his hard cock from your mind. “I mean— It's just… It's dangerous for you to drive home in the dark while it's raining hard like that— I mean, uh, not hard, I—”
You burst into a fit of giggles, hating yourself from even bringing the word up. Joel closes his eyes, his face going pale before he blushes so hard his face is almost purple.
“I'm sorry for that. I…” He stops, visibly unsure of how to finish the sentence. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.” You say, softly, and Joel's eyes finally snap to yours as if he can't believe what you just said. “Just come inside, Joel.”
“Okay.” His voice is so low it's almost a whisper, gruff in a way that flies straight through your spine. “If you're sure.”
You don't dignify him with an answer, instead simply hopping out of the truck and rushing to your front door, hoping he'll follow.
Your house is small and in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood, a little messy and full of mismatched secondhand furniture and you're a little embarrassed as you shrug off your coat but Joel doesn't seem to mind, his intense gaze focused solely on you. You're suddenly acutely aware of how sweaty you are after a whole day of working on your feet.
“Make yourself at home.” You tell him, hopping around the room to collect the shoes that are scattered near your couch. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Take your time.” Joel drops down on your couch, his hands rubbing his own knees. “How about I order us some food in the meantime? You must be hungry. Any allergies?”
“Sounds good.” You connect your phone to the bluetooth speaker on top of the coffee table, scrolling through your playlists as fast as you can to pick out anything that might be of his taste. “No allergies, no.”
Joel seems entirely at home in your cramped couch, his long legs stretched as he scrolls through the cellphone which he holds comically away from his face, too stubborn to put on the glasses you know he wears— You’ve seen them in his hands or hanging from the collar of his flannel but he never puts them on around you.
You try to be fast with your shower, but you still take the time to exfoliate and shave and moisturize every bit of your body. The clothing is a problem all on its own: You want to look pretty, but you're home after work and you can't simply show up to your living room super dressed up. All of your nice pajamas are a little too skimpy and, since you already invited him in, you don't want to walk out half-naked either— Sure, you are throwing yourself at him, but you still would like to pretend that you are not. In the end, you decide on putting on your prettiest lingerie and then covering it with a pair of comfortable shorts and the only oversized shirt you own that isn't torn or stained, an old Van Halen shirt that you mostly use only in the gym nowadays.
All your worries melt away when you pad back into the living room and Joel drinks you in; he's standing by your fridge, analyzing the thousand polaroids pinned to it. He looks at you like you're the only woman in the world, his darkened gaze going from your thighs to your chest to your face.
“Nice shirt.”
“Thank you.” You tug the hem of the shirt a little, self conscious even though you love the way he looks at you.
Joel clears his throat, his eyes snapping away from you to the square white box on top of the kitchen counter. “I ordered pizza. Reckon it was the safe choice, I dunno what you like to eat.”
“Pizza's great. I'm not fussy.” You rifle through your purse, and Joel frowns when you pull out the bills from the tip he gave you earlier. “How much was it?”
“What're you doin'?”
“Paying my share of the food?” You offer him the crumpled bills, but Joel crosses his arms over his chest.
“You ain't payin', are you crazy?”
“Joel, with the obscene amount you tip me, I could probably pay for the whole meal.”
“Use it to buy somethin' pretty for yourself.” He simply waves you off. “Go sit, we should eat before it gets cold.”
You want to make a sugar daddy joke but you're so flustered by the whole ordeal that you simply smile and do as you're told; you're not used to things like that, men opening doors and offering to pay and being so gentle with you— Most of your past boyfriends were nice enough, but never went above and beyond to make you feel special in the way Joel does.
You eat on the couch, pizza box perched on the coffee table and mismatching plates balancing on your legs but Joel doesn't seem to mind, leaning across the couch to refill your wine glass — and isn't that fancy, having an actual bottle of wine with your food rather than the boxed stuff you usually buy? — whenever it starts to run low, his own glass tucked on the ground near his feet.
The conversation flows easily, easier than it usually does at work when there are too many interested eyes and ears on the two of you. Joel seems more at ease too, his face flushed from the wine and brown eyes gleaming under the warm light of your living room. Your feet end up on his lap somehow, the TV playing a movie you're not exactly paying attention to: Despite how much you try to seem relaxed, you are incredibly aware of Joel's imposing presence by your side, quietly watching the screen with the prescription glasses he finally perched on his nose when you first offered to turn on Netflix. His large, calloused hand rests on top of your feet, not moving at first, just holding onto you.
And then his thumb slides down, pressing softly against the arch of your foot. Your eyelids flutter, the dull pain from an entire day on your feet evaporating as he rubs against your skin, applying just enough pressure to have you melting into the couch. You don't remember the last time you've been so relaxed, especially around someone that is virtually a stranger, but you close your eyes and lean your head back against the cushions and do your best to keep the little moans trying to escape trapped behind your teeth.
The first time you feel it, it's just a soft bristle on the bridge of your foot, so feathery light that you think it must've been a breeze. And then you feel it again, the soft and scratchy tingle of Joel's beard on the inside of your ankle. You don't say anything and neither does he, his lips traveling a little higher, pressing a small kiss to your shin. Joel's nose runs upwards ever-so-slightly, bumping against your knee.
“This okay?”
You nod, a little embarrassed that just a couple of small pecks were enough to get your body thrumming. You feel Joel's lips twist into a smile as he turns his head to kiss the inside of your knee.
“I gotta hear you say the words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Joel.” You breathe out. “More than okay.”
He moves slowly up your body, and you giggle at the small grunt Joel gives as he twists, kneeling on the couch so he can run a line of open mouthed kisses up your leg, his aquiline nose brushing over your clothed mound before he started mouthing at the band of your shorts, pushing your shirt up so he could pepper kisses up your stomach all the way to your sternum; he doesn't touch your breasts, and the only touch to your pussy was the brief brushing of his nose, but you feel your entire body already on fire, legs falling apart so his hips could fit between yours before Joel finally presses his lips to yours.
He tastes of wine and remnants of pizza but the only thing you can focus on is the weight of his body on top of yours, his mouth moving against yours with experienced precision, one arm next to your head holding most of his weight while the other roams your ribs underneath your shirt. You giggle and squirm when his fingers ghost a particularly tickly spot, and Joel pulls back to watch your reaction, a soft smile on his face.
“I've been wanting to do that since the day we met.” He admits, his graying curls falling over his forehead. You reach up, pulling it backwards, unable to keep the smile off of your lips.
“I got a lot more that I've been wanting to do to you, old man.”
“Minx.” Joel gasps, but you can tell he's not offended by it, free hand wrapping at the nape of your neck before he pulls you up until the both of you are seated, your thighs straddling his lap.
Joel holds you close as the two of you kiss, your hips grinding down against him, your chest pressed against his as his hands roam from your back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of it as he dictates the pace but, no matter how slow or fast or rough you go, he doesn't seem to get past half-mast. It is as if he can sense the inquisitive tilt of your hips, head falling back against the couch as his hands knead your ass cheeks.
“ 'M real sorry, darlin'.” He says, redness crawling up his thick neck. “It just— It takes 'im a minute sometimes.”
A shiver runs down your spine when you realize that the him he's talking about is his own cock— You have never had anyone speak like that before, and although you expect to find it weird, you can feel yourself get wetter.
“Maybe we should move this to my bathroom.” You tease with a small smile, trying to ease the tension he clearly feels. “Let me wash your hair again and he'll wake right up.”
He groans, leaning forward to hide his face in the crook of your shoulder. You take pity on him, your nails raking through his hair before you lean back just enough to face him.
“We don't have to do anything tonight, Joel.”
“I want to.” Joel answers immediately, fingers flexing against your skin. “I want you— Fuck, darlin', you have no idea how much I want you.”
You press a kiss to his cheek. “Let me help, then.”
Joel watches you curiously as you climb from his lap, his legs parting automatically as you settle on your knees in front of him. His meaty hands flex, but he keeps them to his sides, mouth opening and then closing as if he's swallowing down whatever it is that he was about to say. You start slowly pressing soft kisses to the tent in his sweats that, while not as big as the one you'd seen earlier, it is still more than you thought it should be; you cup him through his clothes, warm and heavy, before sliding his pants down to his ankles. Joel shifts, toeing the sweatpants off just eager enough to make you chuckle, the fabric bunching as it gets caught on his left shoe.
He's only half-hard still, cock heavy laying against his right thigh, twitching in the night air— You take him in your hand, pumping him slowly, but all you can focus on his how big he is: Thick and long and uncut, bigger than any cock you've ever seen and you don't think there is any way he can grow any bigger once it's fully hard. You’re tempted to just swallow him at once but you don’t, holding him upright as you place soft kisses to Joel’s inner thighs, making your way upwards until the tip of your nose brushes against his balls— Joel jolts, just a little, but his legs spread a little more and you take that as a sign. You start with kitten licks, your hand still pumping his cock as you run tongue your over his balls; the noise that comes out of his mouth is almost painful, somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. You switch directions then, placing small kisses at the base of his cock— Joel looks wrecked just from those simple touches, his hands fisted by his sides, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down on you.
“So fuckin’ pretty like that.” He breathes out, his hands pulling your hair away from your face, holding it in a makeshift ponytail— Joel doesn’t use it to guide your movements though, letting you explore him freely without the hair getting in the way. “Wish you could see yer’self.”
“Maybe next time I’ll let you take a picture.” You say as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue. Joel moans, his grip tightening in your hair and you can feel his cock twitch under your touch, hardening under your ministrations. You lick a fat stripe from the base up to the tip, following along the vein on the underside of his shaft, suckling on the head; you can taste his precum, salty and a little shy, but he’s far more responsive than you expected.
“C’mon darlin’.” Joel goads you. “Take ‘im in. I know it’s big, but you can do it.”
Your lips quiver as you hold back your smile, your mouth slowly sinking onto him; you’re able to take about two thirds of his cock before it hits the back of your throat and you pull back slightly, breathing through your nose as you pump whatever part of him you can’t fit inside your mouth. It’s quite the stretch, drool pooling in your mouth and dribbling down the sides, and your core pulses as you think about how it’ll feel inside of you.
“Fuck, there you go— Such a good girl f’me.” You find a pace that is comfortable for you, the weight of his cock on your tongue, the saltiness and warmth of his velvety skin making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
He somehow grows fatter in your mouth, thicker and heavier than before. You take him as deep as you can, only pulling away when you feel his cockhead hitting your throat, and Joel whines every time. You can see he’s trying to behave, the hand not holding your hair fisting the couch, straining as he tries to stop from thrusting into your mouth, which you are thankful for— While you don’t mind a little bit of throat fucking, you’re quite intimidated by how big he is.
“C’mere.” Joel begs, tugging on your hair for the first time as he pulls you away from his cock. “Take those shorts off and sit on my lap.”
His words send a thrill of desire down your chest, your skin feeling warm and tight all over as you climb on top of him, your shins bracketing his thighs. You’re still in your oversized shirt, the hem coming down to the top of your thighs but you shiver when Joel’s now hard cock bumps against your wet cunt. You tug at his shirt just as Joel pulls you in for a kiss and the both of you chuckle at the clumsiness, his cotton shirt half tangled with his limbs; Joel separates himself from you just enough to yank his shirt off, the clothing falling somewhere behind the couch before he’s dragging his lips back to yours.
You have never been with a man who really likes to kiss before— For most of your partners, kissing was just a means to an end, just a pitstop before getting to the foreplay but Joel takes his time with it, making out like you’re teenagers, his hands exploring every bit of your body underneath your shirt. It leaves you aching, your hips rutting against him, little needy whines escaping your throat.
“Need something, sweetheart?” He has the gall to smile against your skin, his mouth trailing off from your lips down to your jawline.
“Your cock.” You answer, throwing your head back so he could keep kissing the column of your throat.
Finally, finally, Joel’s hand trails down between your legs. The pads of his fingers trace your clit and your labia, stroking softly as if he’s mapping you out, spreading the wetness that has been leaking out of you and dripping down onto his shaft.
“I don’t think yer ready for ‘im.” Joel mumbles against the hollow of your throat, his southern accent heavier than you’ve ever heard it. The tip of his middle finger teases your entrance, circling without pushing in and you buck your hips down, mewling when his finger sinks inside of you. Even his fingers are thick and you chase after the stretch, your torso leaning so far back that you need to grab onto his shoulders not to fall over.
“Give me another one.” You all but beg. Joel leans back on the couch, one hand between your legs, the other holding you by the small of your back and you clench around his finger when you realize he pulled back so he could watch as he plunges his ring finger into you. You already feel so full your mouth waters thinking just how his cock is going to feel, how Joel is going to stretch you enough that you’ll be reminded of him every time you move.
He fingers you slowly with precise, careful movements, his eyes never leaving your cunt and you keen every time he pushes his fingers to the hilt, his palm kneading against your clit. By the time Joel’s third finger slips inside you’re so wet the squelching sounds drown out your moans, your legs burning from how you bounce against him, fucking yourself on his fingers.
“Fuck,” You moan, hips bucking faster as you try to chase your orgasm, your pussy clenching him so tight that Joel moans. “Joel— Please, I’m gonna—”
A whine falls out of your lips when Joel abruptly pulls his hand away, your slick dripping down his wrist. He holds eye contact as he licks his own fingers clean and you clench around nothing, your body thrumming with desire and annoyance at being denied your peak.
“I want you to come on my cock.” He says, but the glint in his eyes tell you that it’s more than that— He wants to tease you, drive you to the edge of madness and be the one in control of your pleasure. Joel takes hold of himself, rubbing the tip of his cock against you and you gasp when it bumps into your sensitive clit. Everything feels heightened after your denied orgasm and you lift a little bit, wanting nothing more than just to sink on top of him. You start slowly, the hand that isn’t holding his own cock steady kneading the fat of your hip as you take him inside. It’s a lot, even just the head of his cock being thick enough to hurt, and you pause when he’s just a couple of inches deep. Joel kisses the soft flesh underneath your chin, his breathing deep and ragged, and you can tell he’s trying to control himself.
“I’m sorry—” You breathe out and try to sink a little more. “I didn’t think you’d be this big— Fuck, that hard on at my shampooing station was just a half chub, wasn’t it?”
Joel chuckles, his grip tightening on you. “Don’t apologize. I know it’s a lot, darlin’. Just take your time, you’re doin’ so good f’me.”
You clench around him at his words and the both of you groan in unison, Joel holding you so tight you know you’ll have bruises in the morning. You take another inch and his cock hits the exact spot inside of you that makes you see stars; you come just like that, your cunt spasming around him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It’s never happened before, you don’t think you have ever come from penetration alone, especially one where neither of you are properly moving but the fresh wave of wetness that comes from it and the way your knees give out makes you sink on top of him all the way down to the hilt.
You think you’d scream if you had any air left in your lungs. Joel makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whine, his teeth digging into the soft spot between your neck and your shoulder.
“Goddamn it, did you just come?” There is a hint of wonder in his voice and you giggle, a little embarrassed. You moan and squeeze him again, unable to form any coherent words.
You hold him close, eyes shut, your nails raking through his hair. You’ve never been this full before, not even with your largest toy, and it burns and hurts and it’s fucking incredible all at the same time. You give your hips a little rock, testing the waters, but Joel stops your movements.
“Fuck, gimme a second, here.” He mumbles into your shoulder. “You’re just— So fuckin’ tight—” Joel kisses your shoulder and your neck, his mustache tickling your overheated skin. “Perfect f’me, takin’ me so well, such a good girl.”
“Can I move?” You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and lost in pleasure and desire. “Please, Joel, I need to feel you.”
His hands move from your hips to knead your ass and that is all the answer you need. You start slow, a little back and forth and some circles, trying to get used to the sheer size of him but you pick up the pace quickly, head thrown back as you fuck yourself on him. Joel is a lot more vocal than you expected him to be, moaning and groaning with every thrust, talking about how you’re a good girl and how you were made for him. It’s easy to get lost in it, his string of praises egging you on, the sound of your body colliding against his reverberating through the room.
His hand finds your clit, not rubbing but simply holding steady, and every time you move up and down his fingers press against your clit just right and suddenly you’re shifting your position, subconsciously trying to rut against his hand. You don’t think you can come twice, but the way his cock keeps pushing against the perfect spot inside of you makes you crack, your second orgasm coursing through you like lightning. Your muscles lock as you moan, pussy clenching hard around Joel’s cock and he comes just as you’re regaining your breath, thick ropes of cum filling you inside— You’re so full from his cock and his come that it pushes against your belly.
Joel rubs your back when you settle against his chest, exhausted. You can feel his cock softening inside of you, his spend and your slick dribbling down over his balls.
“You did so good f’me.” Joel whispers against your ear. “I knew you’d be perfect the first time I saw you.”
“Is that why you kept coming back to the salon?” You ask, head slumped on his shoulder, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice.
“Yes and no.” He answers, rubbing his cheek against your temple. “Knew I wanted to take ya on a date, but I would never have the courage to ask— You’re too young and sweet for a bitter old man like me. So I settled for the haircut, yeah, but I wouldn’t come back if I didn’t think you’re good at what you do.”
You hum at his words, your stomach fluttering at the idea of going on a date with Joel. You didn’t expect him to be actually interested in anything other than sex, and you smile against his neck.
“I would’ve said yes.” You whisper, your fingers flexing against his chest. “If you had asked me out.”
Joel’s muscles stiffen underneath you and you panic, thinking that maybe you’ve just said the wrong thing and that he’s not interested now that he got what he wanted, but he speaks before you can figure out a way of taking your words back.
“And now? Would you still say yes to that date?”
“Especially now.” You giggle, the words coming out a little too fast. “With a dick like that, I’d be crazy to say no.”
His chest rumbles with laughter, and from your position you can’t see his face but you watch in real time as his chest and neck turn red with embarrassment.
“How about tomorrow, then?” His voice is a little shy, rough and low. “Can I take you out for breakfast?”
“Only if you spend the night.”
Joel turns his head then, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”
He keeps coming back for his trims, always your last appointment of the day, always with some sort of sweet treat or coffee or flowers. He tips generously and rolls his eyes when you say that he has boyfriend privileges now and doesn’t need to pay. But he never leaves the salon alone.
And neither do you.
general taglist: @itsafullmoon @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hopecomesbacktolife @rosharanfiction @shadowqueen2024 @ess-evo @trulyourslola @keylimebeag (i also tagged some peeps who seemed to be interested in this but no pressure!!)
Joel Miller is back home running his family’s ranch, the work coming back to him easily even as the house fills with the memories of what happened thirty years ago.
He hires a young farm hand, expecting nothing more than help around the barn. Instead, he finds someone just as lost as he is.
|| MDNI 18+ angst, smut, intimacy, rancher!joel, cowboy!joel, retiredpornstar!joel, horsegirl!reader, western vibes, ranch life, grief, romance, lil bit of flirting, tommy miller cameo, BIG FEELINGS, confessions, drinking, no animal death, nurturing joel miller, estranged family, kissing! yay!, guilt and longing, reader is having a hard time and is a bit of a crybaby, this is an intense chapter please proceed with caution, happy ending!, using humor to deflect, like not great humor and bad jokes so dont come at me its not meant to be funny, pinv, he talks you thru it, insecure!reader, f!receiving oral, lil bit of dirty talk , missionary, riding, lotus for like a sec, lots of pet names this chapter ||
wc: 17k
Inspirations & References: Good Will Hunting (1997), Flicka (2006)
trigger warnings beneath the cut
***TW: pregnancy complications, graphic medical scene, detailed medical procedures, blood, birth, traumatic birth, bodily fluids, if you are squeamish this might not be the best for you, y'all are learnin more about horses than ya probs wanted to know, did you know I went to school for equine science? now ya know and you sure can tell in this chapter. mentions of miscarriage, abortion, traumatic birth and pregnancy!!!!!! if any of these are a sensitive topic for you please do not read***
What a fucking asshole.
Your face burned hot as you climbed the stairs two at a time, shoving the apartment door open harder than necessary and letting it slam behind you. Your hands were shaking, whether from adrenaline or humiliation you didn’t care to sort out— you went straight for the drawers, yanking it open and pulling out crap in uneven handfuls. You didn’t even fold anything. You everything into your backpack along with your anger.
What a dick.
Cornering you in the shed, knowing you'd be there. Was he watching you all this time? And then to breathe down your throat about taking care of you, about how you wouldn't talk to him.
You dragged your boots off and tossed them onto the floor, dirt flying over the hardwood and carpet. You took your laptop again, snapping it shut from where it had the half written email to your advisor— and shoved that in your bag too.
You didn't need this. This place. You'd only been here a week! A week! You could leave tonight and nothing would fall apart. He had Jesse and Tess to help out. The thought of her had your stomach piling into your throat, images of him and her together and moaning and sweaty. He could take care of this place himself.
Your hand paused at the zipper of your bag.
You were not responsible for this—for him.
If he wanted someone who didn’t tremble, who didn’t overthink, who didn’t get flustered by the weight of his history, he could go find it somewhere else. He had before. There were tapes to prove it. Women who knew what they were doing, who knew exactly what to say. Who didn't cower at his closeness.
Whatever.
You could get a ride with Jesse into town. He’d understand. Joel wouldn't ask questions with Jesse there. And you’d find something else, maybe a room over some cafe or bar downtown. Or maybe shared place with strangers. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than standing there feeling like some foolish little girl who didn’t know how to handle a man with a past.
But you knew one thing for sure—you wouldn't be leaving without giving him your piece of mind. He wanted you to talk? You'd talk. Fuck him. Fuck his dismissive tone and his cornering and his soft words.
He didn’t get to decide how this ended. He didn’t get to shut you down and send you away like you were a problem to be managed.
You left your backpack down at the last step outside as you marched outside, dirty converse smacking and sliding against the steps. The sky was deepening into purple as the last light bled out over the pasture, but you weren't looking at the open fields behind the barn. You weren't looking at the extra truck in the driveway. You were bee-lined for that stupid house.
You crossed the gravel in hard, uneven strides, stones kicking out beneath your soles, breath still hot in your chest, and you were halfway up the porch steps before a sound rented the air, cutting through your ire.
You froze, one hand hovering near the porch railing, the anger that had been propelling you forward snagging on something else entirely as voices inside rose loud enough to spill into the night around you, through the wooden walls of the house.
Joel's voice, definitely. But a second one you didn't recognize. Definitely not Jesse's. But another man, a similar twang to his cutting remarks you could half hear.
You looked back at the truck in the driveway, the one that didn't belong: a heavy black Ford 150, gleaming in the twilight, facing the house.
Joel had a visitor.
Joel
He'd been in a piss poor mood since the shed.
Truth was, it had probably started before that. Back in the truck with you. You had been so open with him, so honest in a way he wasn’t used to, looking at him like you saw straight through the parts he kept buttoned up. You’d spoken about him like he was just a man who did what he had to for his daughter. A man who had lost something and was still standing. He hadn’t known what to do with that. He didn’t deserve your soft voice or the way your eyes had filled up over something that had nothing to do with you. He didn’t deserve your empathy. You were just a girl—a woman working on his farm. Still, younger. Brighter and untouched by the kind of years he’d stacked up.
He never meant for it to become this.
But then you’d kissed him.
It had been quick and hesitant and yet real enough to knock the air from his lungs, and he hadn’t been able to think straight since. He’d replayed it over and over in his head, confused by it. It had been wet with the salt of tears, a soft press of lips, your hand on his chest just to steady yourself. His replays of the incident weren't always PG either, and he had to take many cold showers to keep himself from any temptations involving his hand. That kiss had lit something up in him that he’d worked hard to keep dim. Want. Heat. The kind of need that didn’t fit cleanly into boss and employee, into right and wrong.
He’d spent too much of the next few days inside the house, which had been a mistake. The place still carried his father's voice— in the leather recliner, in the creak of the stairs, in the silence of the closed door that led to master bedroom he refused to sleep in. He stayed in his childhood room instead, posters down, trophies boxed, like he could keep the past contained.
It didn’t matter what you thought of him. That’s what he told himself. You’d only been here a week. You were temporary. Another worker passing through on your way to something better. And yet he found himself listening for your footsteps above the barn at night when he sat in Paloma's stall, just watching her. He liked keeping track of where you were during the day and wanted to ask questions about your life he had no business asking. Instead, he gave you the space you clearly wanted so badly.
And then he'd noticed you, just the other day after giving dewormer to the pasture horses, too much on his mind but he'd stopped short to watch you. You had come from the shed, moving too quick to be anything but guilty, looking over your shoulder but somehow not noticing him coming.
He watched you disappear up the barn steps quickly only to come down shortly after. Riley stored all kinds of things in the shed. Joel kept it organized too. But he knew…he knew that you knew what was in there. You'd had a full blown conversation about it, and you'd seemed so freaked out to even speak of it he hadn't expected…but if you were watching more of them…Well, that could only mean…
By the third time he caught you going in and out of the little yellow shed, he had to make a plan.
The idea of you still taking the time to watch his old films upstairs in the dark had his gut coiling tight, but not with anxiety anymore. Well, there was some of that. The wriggling bewilderment of wondering what you thought, if you'd judged the way the scripts were written to make him talk to women like that.
So, he made a plan to confront you. This was a matter of respect and boundaries, after all. You were watching him at his most vulnerable—naked and sweating, even if most of the scenes seemed more exciting than they really were.
He knew it was childish, waiting out for you that night. But there was no other way. So he'd confronted you, a whole script of what he wanted to say— a breach of privacy, that it was unbecoming of you, but…
He'd felt his temper wane the moment he'd seen you step inside the orange light of the shed. All thoughts of reprimands gone. He wanted to be controlled and firm, but the way you were trembling and nervous, like a rabbit caught in a wolf's den, he couldn't do it.
And then, even more foolishly, he'd nearly kissed you then and there. He'd seen every sign that you'd want it—dilated pupils, quickening breath. Your pulse beat so loud against the tips of his fingers as he traced your soft skin.
But you wouldn't say the word. So he stopped.
And now, on top of the awful days and piss poor mood, he had something else to make it even worse.
Tommy fucking Miller.
Dinner was nothing but forks and knives scraping plates, chewing, the low clink of glass. Conversation never rose above the surface.
How's Sarah?
Good. How's work?
Good.
That was about it, past the muttered compliment from his little brother about the steak. But Joel knew something was coming before Tommy even leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs, one hand settling on his knee as if bracing himself.
“Can’t believe you’re back here after all this time,” Tommy said once the beer bottles were empty and the dishes sat finished clean.
"Yeah," Joel grunted, sipping the last dregs of his bottle. "Me neither."
Tommy huffed out a laugh that didn’t carry any humor. “Always figured you’d die before you stepped foot back in this house.”
Joel’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t have much choice.”
“There's always a choice.”
Joel looked slowly up at him, his brow heavy over his gaze.
“I’m just sayin’,” Tommy shrugged, but his shoulders were tight. “You left soon as you could. Didn't seem like you were eager to get back here.”
“You seem to remember that night differently than I do, little brother.” Joel’s voice stayed even, but something underneath it sharpened. “Oughta' get yer head checked.”
Tommy shifted in his seat. “All I remember is I had a one way ticket outta here with a scholarship to Texas A&M that I had to let go of to be here with Pops.”
"I tried, Tommy." Joel squeezed his eyes shut, "You know I did."
Tommy choked out a laugh, "Yeah, county fair every year really counts as tryin' in your book, huh—?"
"Jesus, boy— why are you even here?" Joel cut off.
He and his brother glared at one another across the room, the question heavy between them on the hard wood lacquered table. Joel wish he'd get to the point, why he'd even come all this way. It couldn't have been this, to berate him, to make him feel more guilty than he already did. Could it?
"You remind me of him, ya know," Tommy finally said.
Joel stood up, his chair screeching the hardwood beneath his boots. "I know you didn't just say that shit to me."
Tommy didn't back down, both of their tempers rising to each other's bait. "Look at you— startin' to raise your voice about things that don't matter, tryna keep this place afloat when you know it's gonna run you into the ground just like it did to him. To me. Abandonin' yer family up north."
Joel rounded the table fast enough that the sound of his boots bounced off the walls, his fist coming down beside the plates hard enough to rattle them. His finger jabbed in the air towards Tommy's face before he could stop himself. He knew it wasn't right, it wasn't fair. They were both carrying versions of the same man in different ways, answering to a voice that wasn't alive anymore. That kind of thing should've pulled them closer, should've made it easier to understand each other. And yet—
"I came back here because I wanted to make somethin' right of it. And you—you got your wish, Tommy. Nice little wife and kid up in cozy Austin. All you had to do was be here two more years. And then you got to get away and have a god damn life. But I came back cause it was the right thing to do. Don't act like it's so easy. Like it's fuckin' rainbows and sunshine here."
"All our life all you wanted was to take over the farm, his legacy." Tommy growled back, looking into his brother's eyes. "You suddenly have a change of heart?"
"Yeah. Thirty fuckin' years ago, I did." Joel scoffed with a snarl. "You sure gotta' funny way of showin' up here outta the blue just to rile me up. But you know what I think, Tommy?"
"Oh, this oughta be good," Tommy rolled his eyes, shifting his feet in annoyance.
"I think—"
But then both of them stopped.
The second porch stair gave its familiar creak. It was never a loud sound, even after the first and second time it broke, but it was like a warning bell of their childhood. They would have about five seconds before the door would open and the presence of their father would change the entire mood of the house.
Both of their heads snapped at break neck speed toward the front door. The fight still hummed between them, but something had replaced it. Something older and wired into their very bones.
Joel let out a rough breath and straightened. “Probably Jesse needin’ to get home.”
Opening it, he was surprised to find you standing there.
"Hi." you said softly, wringing your hands together.
Joel glanced back at Tommy and then stepped aside without a word, giving you room to enter. You moved in carefully, eyes flicking around the room before landing on the other Miller at the table.
“This is my new barn help,” Joel said, voice even but tight. “This here’s Tommy.”
He didn’t look at either of you. He had to get his temper in line first, squash the fight of adrenaline in his bloodstream before he could be hospitable. His hand came up to scratch through his beard roughly and a bit distracted. He caught the way your eyes followed the movement before glancing back at his guest.
You plastered on a polite smile and reached out when Tommy stood, and he took your hand with easy warmth.
"Howdy, darlin', pleasure to meet ya." Tommy said, "you must be the one givin' my brother all this hard time."
You blanched, and Joel had to clamp his jaw to keep from snapping at him. Tommy had always had that way about him, that easy grin and teasing lilt that made women lean in without thinking. He could turn it on without effort. But it had been too tense between you and him these past few days, and you took his brother's poking as interrogation.
“I’m only teasin’ ya, sweetheart,” Tommy chuckled, giving your hand an extra shake before letting go. “He must be really messin’ with ya to make your face turn that shade.”
“Sorry,” you said with a small, nervous laugh, your shoulders lowering a fraction. “I'm so used to talking to the horses now, hardly get a word in with this one," you joked, shoving your thumb over your shoulder before glancing back with a smile on your face, "What are you guys up to?”
Joel nearly smiled back. It almost felt normal between you two with just that one teasing remark. Like it did in the beginning—could it have been only last week when you were teasing him like that at the fenceline?
"Bout to have some dessert, I believe." Tommy smiled like a cheshire at his brother.
Joel grunted and headed for the kitchen. He could hear the low murmur of your voices behind him, the soft giggle that slipped out of you at something Tommy said, and it made him feel like he was a teenager again. Left out while his brother flirted with any of the girls that came to ride their new prospects.
Joel took the cheesecake from the fridge that he was saving for you—for whenever you decided it was safe again to have dinner here—and began cutting a few slices. He set one down in front of you without comment, slid another across to Tommy, who caught the plate mid-slide across the wood table, licking frosting from his thumb like he hadn’t just been ready to swing a fist ten minutes ago.
“Wine, darlin’?” Tommy asked.
"Oh, um, sure. Yeah."
Joel moved around the table, grabbing the opened bottle that waited corked at the mahogany hutch in the corner. and poured you a glass without asking how much.
He told himself to let it go. Told himself this was better, this was normal. You walking into the middle of it had kept either of them from doing something stupid. But as he watched you lean toward Tommy, answering him easily, smiling in a way you hadn’t smiled at Joel in days, the temper he’d tried so hard to bury didn’t fade.
Over the next hour or so, Tommy settled into his rickety wooden chair like he'd never left it. All the years between Austin and this dining room were nothing more than a long weekend away. He talked easily to you, one story about that damn dog that threw him into the second step easily slipped into another about Joel falling off his colt the first time he tried to ride him. His brother had one elbow hooked over the back of the chair, boot kicked out under the table, his hand around another bottle of beer as he spoke.
"He swore up and down he could do it," Tommy said, grinning at you, "Wouldn't listen to nobody— not even a second in, Fender was throwin' 'em in the mud."
Joel rolled his eyes and took a slow drink of wine. “You forget to mention I was twelve.”
"Old enough to know a colt ain't gonna take kindly to someone on its back right away," Tommy shot back, a smug grin pulling a dimple in his chin as he sipped his beer.
You laughed, and it wasn’t forced this time. It rang sweet and warm through the kitchen, and Joel felt it in his chest before he could stop himself. But you weren’t just watching Tommy. Every time he exaggerated a detail, every time he puffed his voice up to make Joel sound smaller or meaner or dumber than he’d ever been, your eyes flicked back to him like you were checking the record, studying him. Measuring what was true.
Tommy didn’t seem to notice. He kept talking, filling the house with himself the way he always had, taking up space without asking for it. Even sitting down he felt taller, louder, the center of gravity in any room he walked into. He asked you questions about the farm, about how you were liking it here, about whether his brother was workin’ you too hard.
“You can tell me,” Tommy said lightly, tipping his glass toward you. “I’ll knock some sense into him.”
Joel felt his jaw tighten again, waiting for the answer.
You smiled into your wine before looking up. “I'd say he's been more than fair.”
Tommy hummed, skeptical. “That so?”
You nodded, then glanced at Joel again, something quieter passing between you that Tommy wasn’t privy to. “He's good at taking care of everyone.”
Joel looked down at the wooden grain of the table, suddenly aware of the way his shoulders had eased without him meaning to. He hadn’t realized he’d been braced.
Tommy leaned forward on his forearms. “So you plannin’ on stickin’ around, or you just passin’ through?”
It was casual, but Joel heard the weight of it. He didn’t look at you this time. He kept his eyes on the table, fingers curling loosely around his glass.
“I don’t know yet,” you said after a pause. “Still figurin’ it out.”
Tommy studied you for a second, then smirked. “Well, if you stay, you’ll have to get used to him broodin’ around like he’s got the weight of Texas on his back. He’s been like that since he was eight.”
Joel scoffed. “You ain’t exactly sunshine, Tommy.”
“Yeah, but at least I'm charmin' about it.”
You laughed again, and this time when Joel looked up, you were already looking at him. Not at Tommy. At him. Your mouth curved just slightly like you were in on something private, like you understood more than the story being told.
By the time the wine bottle was finished off and Tommy had picked at some more snacks to sober himself up for the ride home, his brother was rising from the table with a heavy sigh.
“I should get goin’. Wanna make it back before Maria heads into work in the mornin’.”
You rose too, brushing your hands down your jeans before offering one to him. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“You too, sweetheart.” Tommy took your hand easily, giving it a warm squeeze. Joel watched the exchange closely, reminding himself it was only manners. Only friendliness. “And if he ever tells you about the time somebody tried to drink Mary’s milk while she was foalin’,” Tommy added, pointing a finger at Joel, “That was him.”
You barked a laugh, head tipping back, and Tommy looked up at his brother, the live wire that hummed hours ago simmered down to an old rusted current.
Joel stepped forward and took Tommy’s hand, gripping it hard before pulling him in just enough to clap a hand against his shoulder. “Drive safe. Tell Benji I said hi.”
"You know I will—kid asks about you all the time. And… about what I said earlier—"
"S'okay, Tommy," Joel shook his head.
Tommy paused, searching his face, then nodded with one more clap to his brother's shoulder, and grabbed his keys off the counter. The screen door slapped shut behind him as he crossed the porch, boots thudding down the steps. He stopped beside his truck and leaned over the open driver’s door, looking back toward the house.
“Don’t let him scare you off,” he called to you with a crooked smile, then glanced at Joel, something serious settling in his expression. “And don’t be a stranger. Spent too long like that. I’d appreciate havin’ my brother back.”
Joel lifted a hand in half a wave, nodding. “Get home safe.”
Tommy hauled himself into the cab, turning over the engine loudly in the dark, headlights sweeping across the yard before the truck rolled down the drive and disappeared past the fence line.
Joel stood there a moment longer than necessary before turning back toward you. You’d come up behind him in the doorway, hands tucked into your back pockets, a quiet breath leaving you.
“So that’s Tommy Miller,” you said.
Joel gave a short nod.
“He’s kind of a cocky son of a bitch, huh?”
Joel unfolded his arms from his chest, a breathless bark of laughter surprising him from his own throat. "That he is." he said, smiling crookedly down at you.
For the first time in days, things felt a little lighter between the two of you. He hoped he could keep it that way.
You were smiling up at him, then glancing out toward the pasture, the driveway, the house, and back to him again. He watched the way your thoughts moved across your face. He wished, so badly, that you would just say whatever was sitting there.
"Joel… " you began, "I think we need to talk—"
"Joel!"
A voice, sharp and insistent and terrified, came from the barn door that was sliding open, wood against wood and metal track. Both of your head snapped toward it.
Jesse was running across the driveway, but Joel didn’t wait for him to reach the porch. He was moving down the steps, pulse climbing, you right behind him.
"What is it?"
"It's Paloma. She's gone into labor."
Joel was already striding toward the barn before Jesse finished the sentence, long steps eating up the gravel between the house and the wide barn doors. He heard the scrape of you and Jesse's boots behind him, nearly jogging to keep pace as he moved past the first row of stalls without so much as glancing inside them, heading straight for her.
He slowed only once he reached Paloma’s door. He stood there a second, watching. She was pawing at the matting, her bedding shoved into uneven piles where she'd kicked it around. Her tail lifted and dropped, a low bullish breath forced from her nose as her body tightened.
“Hey, girl,” he murmured as he stepped carefully inside.
His hands moved over her neck automatically, down the length of her shoulder, along her side. He pressed his palm into the curve of her belly and felt the tightening there, the way her muscles drew hard beneath the skin and then softened again. He walked behind her, checked beneath her tail, watched her for a long moment. Only when he was satisfied did he straighten and move with purpose. His fingers reached for her pale blonde tail, braiding it quickly, his hands working through the strands before taping it tight so it wouldn’t interfere later.
When he stepped back into the aisle, his brain was counting down the hours.
“She’s got some time yet,” he said. “This is only the first stage. Jesse, let me take you home." and then he turned to you, "Call Tess. Stay here, watch her.”
"Me?" you gaped.
He didn’t feel like he had the luxury of indulging that uncertainty, not with the clock already ticking in his head. “Yes, you,” he answered, not unkind but he knew there was a firmness to his tone. “Call me if anything changes. Get her hay out of the stall. Water bucket too.”
You shook your head, and he saw the fear rising under your skin.
"But—but I have no clue—what if something goes wrong? You're gonna be almost an hour away!" you exclaimed.
He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight, and stepped closer so he didn’t have to raise his voice.
“If she starts rollin’, you keep her from casting herself. If you see red instead of clear when her water breaks, you call Tess right away.”
The word red seemed to have stricken you.
“And if she starts pushing?”
“Then you stay out of her way. Let her lie down. Don’t crowd her.” He leaned his head down to catch your eyes before they started spiraling. “You’ve been watching her all week. You know her.”
“I don’t want to be alone if something—”
You cut yourself off, swallowing around something in your throat as you looked away from him into her stall again.
Joel heard it anyway.
“You won’t be,” he said, steady, his hands falling to your shoulders. His hands nearly swallowed the caps of them, his touch felt too rough, too big for something like this. "Listen, look at me, hun." you finally did, "Call Tess and get her here. I’ll be back. Everythin's gonna be fine. She's just nervous because its her first go of it. You gotta stay calm for her, keep your voice steady. I will be back.”
Paloma groaned again, tail lifting, muscles trembling along her flank.
Your eyes searched his face, big and scared and unsure. But he watched as your brows knitted, a look of determination washing it all away.
“Okay.”
He held your gaze another second, searching your face for something—what, he wasn't sure. What the hell were you going to talk to him about tonight? He needed to push that thought away for now, tuck it somewhere behind in his mind. His eyes flickered around between yours, then lower. He had to drop his hands from your shoulders, to refocus his head right now.
“Jesse. C’mon.”
At the barn door with his farm hand behind him, he paused and looked back down the aisle.
You were already turned toward Paloma again.
“Call me,” he said once more.
You nodded.
You
Outside the stall, you sat watching the pale yellow horse with your back pressed uncomfortably against the wood. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, your phone held to your ear as the dull ring echoed again and again.
Paloma shifted, heavy and restless, hooves scuffing where she had shoved most of her bedding aside and was now pawing at the rubber mat beneath. Her tail lifted and dropped every few seconds. You watched for something different, something that would tell you it had truly begun. She lowered herself slowly, rolled onto her side, then almost immediately struggled back to her feet, skin shivering over muscle beginning to dapple with sweat.
Your throat worked as you swallowed down the tightness there. You kept watching. Watching. Watching.
This was all normal. You thought it was, at least. Joel said she'd be restless, up and down, sweating. You'd even googled it quickly to make sure. But still, you were on edge.
You thought of your backpack still sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the apartment. The way you had almost left and demanded a ride home. You had been ready to confront him, to finally say what had been building up. But then you’d overheard him arguing with his brother, the way they circled each other, saying almost what they meant but never fully. It had made you pause. It made you see how lonely Joel Miller really was. But none of that mattered right now.
Paloma let out a low, strained groan.
The ringing stopped.
"You've reached Tess Servopolous. Leave me a message and—"
You hung up.
Dialed again.
"Hey. Everything okay?"
You sagged with relief at the sound of a real voice on the line. “Yeah, I think so—I—I tried calling Tess but she’s not answering.”
"You called her personal?" Joel said on the other line.
You nodded before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”
He sighed, the engine in the background loud and impatient as it ate up the road.
“You drop off Jesse yet?” you asked.
“Yeah, I’m on my way back and—oh, hang on—Tess is callin’ me. I’ll call ya back, hun.”
“Okay,” you said, maybe a little too quietly.
The pet name hit you wrong and right at the same time. Your chin trembled, throat thickening before you could contain the tremble in your voice. You hung up and forced a deep breath into your lungs, gripping your phone between both hands as you watched Paloma.
She stood again, legs spread wider now, tail lifted and held.
And then you saw—
A bulge.
Your eyes widened as you looked closer—it looked as though maybe her water was finally breaking. You couldn't make out the color, what it looked like. You pushed yourself up onto your knees, squinting through the light of the stall.
But no, it wasn't clear. Not the pale, translucent sac you saw from googling photos of what to expect, it wasn't thin enough to see a hoof through.
It was dark.
A deep, violent red, glossy and thick, pressing outward with the next contraction.
Your stomach dropped so hard you felt dizzy.
“No,” you breathed.
Paloma strained, a guttural sound tearing out of her as the red membrane pushed farther out, stretched tight and misshapen.
Fuck.
You scrambled for your phone just as it buzzed in your grip.
“Hey,” Joel said, casually. “Tess is on with me. Her damn car broke down so I gotta get her—" he paused, "What’s goin on?”
You didn’t look away from Paloma. “It’s not clear.”
“What?”
“The placenta!” you said, your voice shaking now. “It’s not clear, Joel. It’s red. It’s—it’s dark red.”
“That a red bag?” Tess’s voice cut in, suddenly close, suddenly focused.
“I think so,” you said. “I don’t see feet. I don’t see anything, oh god.”
Joel cursed.
“Okay,” Tess said immediately. There was no softness to her voice. “Listen to me carefully.”
Paloma groaned again and dropped hard onto the stall floor. The red membrane protruded farther, thick and wrong against the pale of her coat.
“You don’t got time,” Tess continued. “That placenta’s already separated. The foal ain’t gonna get any oxygen soon if we wait any longer.”
Your vision tunneled.
“What do I do?”
“You need to open it. Right now.”
You stared at it, horrified. “Open it?”
“Get gloves on. You should be able to open it with just your hands. You’re gonna listen to everything I say, you hear me?” Then, sharper: “Joel, what’s your ETA?”
Joel's voice was strained, blending with the growl of his engine as you heard him slam the gas, "Ten minutes."
"Make it five," she demanded, "Kid, you still with me? Got your gloves?"
“Yes!” you squeaked, already running. You tore into the tack room, yanked a pair of rubber gloves from the box, shoved them on with shaking hands, nearly tripping as you rushed back.
You dropped the phone into the bedding and hit speaker.
“I’m here, girl,” you murmured to the horse, even though your pulse was roaring in your ears. You tried to even your breathing, to slow your heart. Your fingers brushed along her hindquarters first, slow, steady, letting her know you were there. “I’m here.”
You lowered yourself behind her.
The membrane pulsed with the next contraction, swollen and obscene and so very wrong.
You reached for it.
It was warm beneath your gloved fingers, thicker than you expected, resistant in a way that made your stomach twist. Paloma’s body clenched again and you froze, heart hammering so hard you thought you might black out.
“Do it between her contractions. You'll feel her tighten up.” Tess urged through the phone. “When she relaxes, tear it.”
Paloma exhaled, her body loosening slightly.
"Okay, I'm doing it now." you said. You dug your fingers into the wet sac, and pulled hard. It split open, wet and bloody, dark fluid spilling over your hands, your jeans, and into the bedding of the stall. It was hot and shocking, and you gasped, but didn't pull back.
"Okay, you're gonna need to reach in and tell me what you feel. You might have to really get in there, girl. Hope you're not squeamish."
You slid your hand in, past the knuckle, past the wrist, feeling nothing. Your forearm went in deeper, feeling resistance as her muscles trembled around you.
"I feel—"
Nothing, you felt nothing. Just scorching heat and her muscles contracting around you.
But then, there it was.
"I feel one! I feel a leg, I think!"
"How many?"
You lightly gripped your fingers around what felt like a long slender leg , "One—I feel one hoof."
There was silence except for the loud engine of Joel's truck.
"Tess—!?" Joel growled.
“Shit. Alright.” Tess said, quickly. “You’re gonna have to push the foal slightly back in and find the other. The baby might be stuck with its head bent the wrong way. You need to get in and move 'em around right so you have a head and two legs facing you. You listenin'?”
Paloma let out another strained cry and your free hand pressed hard against her leg, trying to soothe her.
“I hear you,” you said, even though your whole body was shaking.
You reached deeper. Your elbow disappeared into the mare, shoulder pressing into her hindquarters as you reached blindly around the small body inside, feeling for another leg, a head, anything.
Paloma convulsed around you again, pinching down around you, her muscles clenching so hard your arm was going numb.
You gasped, cheek against her flank as you tried to keep your footing in the blood-slick bedding beneath you.
"I can't—shit—" you gasped, "she's clamping down, Tess, I can't—"
"It's okay, she's probably goin' into shock. You gotta stay calm girl. Breathe."
Stay calm.
Meanwhile your jeans were soaked, your hands were slick and numb, the floor beneath you was turning dark and red, sticking to everything. There was more blood than you were ever expecting.
Paloma let out a sound you'd never heard from her before. It shocked your spine straight, your brain to whiten. It was as close to a scream you'd ever heard a horse make.
"Joel?" you said, you didn't even mean to.
"I'm here, baby." he answered instantly, but his voice sounded so far away, so distant.
"I think—I don't know—she's—she's stopped pushing, she's stopped—nothing—oh my god, Paloma? PALOMA?" you tried to shake her where your hand rested on her leg, pinching and pushing her to shake her out of her stupor.
“Kid, you need to get up and check her gums,” Tess said, "get your hand out and go check her now."
You pulled your arm free, scrambling forward around her, slipping, almost falling as you grabbed Paloma’s jaw and lifted her lip.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “They’re nearly white.”
“Alright,” Tess said, and she was trying to stay even, but you could hear it now. The edge. “She’s in shock. You don’t have time to wait for a contraction. You need to pull when I tell you.”
“I’m not— I don't think I can, I'm not strong enough,” you sobbed. It was humiliating and honest and you didn’t care. This could be a hundred pound foal you'd be yanking from the poor mare.
"You have to be." Tess snapped. "Pull yourself together and get back to her flank."
You could still hear Paloma's breathing, rapid and shallow, her sides fluttering instead of expanding. She was alive. You had to act fast.
But blood and fluid was pooling beneath her tail.
You shoved your arm back inside her, this time without hesitation, without delicacy, without thinking about what you were touching or how it felt.
You found the second leg.
"I'm in." you told Tess.
Your hand slipped.
You gripped harder.
“Okay,” Tess said, voice tight. “When I say pull, you pull with everything you’ve got. Down and back. That baby needs you, girl."
That baby needs you.
Your vision blurred.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, to Paloma, to the unseen foal, to Joel, to yourself. “I’m so sorry.”
"Pull!"
Joel
He hadn't turned the truck off when he saw Tess's car. He didn’t fully stop either, just jammed his foot into the brake long enough for her to wrench the passenger door open and climb in with her phone still pressed tight to her ear, already speaking to you in that firm tone that she used when there wasn’t room for panic even if it was clawing at her throat. The second her door slammed shut he was back on the gas, the engine never dipping, the truck lunging forward hard enough that dirt and gravel snapped against the undercarriage.
She barely looked at him as she kept the phone to her ear.
“I’m gonna hang up now., baby." he said over the groan of the engine, "Tess is with me. I’m here. I’m still here.”
The word kept slipping out without thought, pulled from somewhere deeper than pride or caution. Baby. He didn’t care until the line went dead and the cab filled only with the loud protests of the engine and Tess’s voice speaking into her own phone.
He had one hand on the wheel and the other braced hard against the top of it, leaning forward like it would get him there faster. The road unspooled ahead of him in thin ribbons of yellow light. He barely registered the turns he took, the dips, the fences. His body felt in tune with the sounds of your crying through Tess's speaker.
He should've been there, should've stayed. The hell was wrong with him? Leaving you there to fend for yourself with Paloma? Of course something was bound to go wrong. He thought he had time. There was always time, wasn't there? To fix things, to come back.
He was so good at leaving. Tommy was right. He was so practiced on stepping out just when it mattered most and telling himself it was for the better. He had made a life out of convincing himself he wasn't abandoning his only brother, his father, regardless of how everything went down.
He hadn't been able to hold onto a relationship to save his life, his heart. His job made it weird, made everything difficult. He'd never gotten used to having anything intimate with women and attaching anything to it. So he always left.
But he prided himself on sticking with his daughter for her entire life, for doing unthinkable things to pay his bills and keep food on her table, for soccer practice and summer camps and vacations. But now—now that she had her own life and her own two feet on the ground making her own way—he'd abandoned her too. To come back here to this haunted place.
And now, his final crime, abandoning you and Paloma at the farm.
Tess was talking to you, walking you through birthing the foal from Paloma's spent body. That too was a mark on him. First year back to the farm and a mare who was bound to die on his watch. An orphaned foal. He wasn't sure he'd be able to carry on if that was the case. All he could do was pray to a God he wasn't even sure existed anymore.
He could hear your wrecked sobbing still, words garbled into Tess's ear as she spoke straight to the point with you—no coddling, only business. He wished he was with you, to keep you away from this part. The gore of bringing life into the world, the way horses don't always have the same will to live that we wanted them to.
The arch of Miller Stables finally appeared through the trees, one hanging light bright in the dark. The long winding driveway stretched ahead like punishment as he pressed his foot all the way down and the truck roared, gravel spraying as he took the curve too fast and corrected it without slowing. Tess gripped the dash, knuckles white, speaking into her phone, her voice suddenly urgent.
He barely felt the stop when he hit the brakes outside the barn. He didn’t remember killing the engine. He only knew he was out of the truck, air tearing at his lungs as he ran.
Paloma's stall door was wide open, and inside was a sight only hell should know. The wet smell of metal and the heat of sweat filled his nose as he took in the scene.
And your face.
Oh, god.
Eyes swollen, cheeks wet, your mouth pulled wide as you tried to drag in air. Blood coated your hands, your jeans, your forearms. It soaked the straw beneath you. The foal’s small legs protruded from Paloma, the head resting limp in your lap, the body only halfway into the world.
For a moment he couldn’t move. The image lodged in him, permanent. He'd see it for years after, burned in his retina when he thought back on this night.
Tess pushed past him, dropping beside you, hands covering yours, voice low and steady as she spoke to you. She checked the foal with quick, efficient motions, lifting a lip, pulling back an eyelid, murmuring that you had done exactly what she told you to do.
You did great, kid. it's okay. I've got it from here.
Joel knelt on the threshold.
"Come here," he croaked. His voice wasn't his own, full of grit and rough with desperation.
Your breath hitched when you heard him.
“Come here,” he tried again, kneeling in the doorway, one hand held out to you, open and steady despite the tremor in it. “Tess has it. It’s alright. Come here, baby. Please. Let’s get you inside.”
You didn’t move at first. You were locked in a sort of trance, hands still wrapped around those tiny legs like letting go would undo everything you had fought for.
Tess glanced up at him then, something tight in her expression but he couldn't help but catch the glimmer of determination in her gaze.
“Get her out of here, Tex,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, swallowing against the dryness in his throat, but he still didn’t move further into the stall. His hand stayed out, hovering between you, not wanting to startle you, not wanting to pull too hard.
“Sweetheart,” he tried again, even quieter now, forcing softness to cover his fear. “Look at me.”
Your eyes flickered toward him.
“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d found you in a storm. “You did so good, hun. It's alright. Tess has her now. Come here. Let me take care of you.”
Your eyes seemed to register the world around you finally, a hiccuping cry as you stared at him, and all he could do was nod. He was trying to not let the thickening of his throat show. How he could barely stand to see you like this. He wanted to look away so badly, to not see what he'd done to you. But he couldn't.
"Please." was his last word.
You finally moved. Fingers loosening, your body testing whether it was safe to let go. Tess's hands slid in to replace yours without a second of hesitation. You looked down at your hands like you didn't recognize them.
Then you pushed yourself back on your heels. Your knees wobbled, your weight shifting unsteadily as you tried to stand, your hand slipping into the bedding and catching yourself on the way up. Joel stood too, a mirror of you, both hands out.
Your hand braced on the side of the wall as you took a few small steps towards him, blood and fluid staining where your fingers dragged. He was crossing the distance in seconds. You didn't resist when he reached you.
Your hands came up blindly, searching, and when they found the front of his shirt, you clutched at it like a buoy sent out at sea. He wrapped both arms around you instantly, pulling you into his chest, not caring about the blood soaking into his shirt, not caring about anything except the way your body felt fragile and shaking against his.
“I’ve got you,” he said into your hair, voice low and thick, his lips pressing against the top of your head. “I've got you, baby girl."
He felt you sag into him, finally, all the strength you had used to keep yourself from falling apart the last hour, suddenly heavy in his arms. He held you in the stall door for a long moment, watching Tess move, pulling the foal out and assessing it.
He turned and took you away.
Over the kitchen sink, there was only warm amber light and the sound of running water.
It filled the silence between you. The steady rush, the change in pitch when it struck porcelain, the dull splash as it ran over your hands and down the drain. Clear at first. Then pink. Then briefly red again before fading back to clear.
Joel stood close enough to feel the heat of you but not close enough to crowd you. The rag in his hand had gone heavy and warm, saturated, and he kept wringing it out beneath the tap before bringing it back to your skin. His fingers worked carefully over your knuckles, over the fine bones of your wrist, up the length of your forearm. He pressed harder where the blood had dried into the creases, softer where your skin looked raw from scrubbing.
You were so quiet he didn’t trust himself to break it.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the dark window above the sink, not really seeing the glass, not really seeing the yard beyond it. Just staring out into the night like you expected something to emerge from it. Like any minute Paloma might step into view, foal at her side, everything resolved and whole.
He kept his eyes on your hands.
He had failed you.
The thought settled in him without argument.
He had left. He had measured the time, the distance, and told himself it was safe. He had assumed first stage would stretch on long enough for him to get back, assumed the ranch would behave for him just because it had in the past. He had come back to this place telling himself he could carry it, that he knew what he was doing, that he wasn’t his father and he wasn’t a boy anymore.
And yet the first real test of it, the first birth under his care, and you had been the one kneeling in blood while he was miles away.
The rag moved over your elbow, catching on a stubborn patch. He shifted closer to the light, pushing your sleeve up carefully, exposing more of your arm so he could see what he was doing.
The house around you was dark, the new moon leaving everything beyond the kitchen swallowed in shadow. The only warmth came from the lamp over the sink and the heat of the water running over his skin.
He wished he could promise you things. That it would never happen again, he would never leave you again. That you never had to speak to him again if you did not wish to. He wished he could promise that Paloma would be fine, that her baby would live after minutes without oxygen.
But promises, he knew, were easy to make, and harder to keep.
The water running filled his ears. He wrung the rag out again. It was clearer now.
“I…was pregnant once.”
Joel froze.
For a moment he thought he had misheard you. Thought the rush of water had distorted something else. His hand hovered midair, rag dripping onto the basin.
He hadn’t said anything, had he? He hadn’t pressed or asked anything of you. He had been trying so hard not to push or crowd you, not to demand more from you tonight than you had already given. He had thought silence might feel safer. That quiet hands and steady water might be enough.
He swallowed, carefully, and forced his hand to move again. He brought the rag back to your skin slowly, easing it over the dried blood at your elbow, pushing your sleeve up with quiet fingers.
You took a deep, steadying breath, and he felt as if it filled his own lungs with air too.
"But I…I lost the baby." you said, chin wobbling.
He felt his grip tighten despite himself, cloth pressed into your arm, but he forced himself to soften, his thumb smoothing over the place he pressed.
Your eyes were still fixed out the dark window. "I'm supposed to be on a backpacking trip right now with my best friend and I can't even talk to her. I can't do anything. I'm supposed to be in school and I failed the entire semester."
He hadn't even realized you were in school. He barely asked questions about why you'd been needing a job, why you'd been displaced. He only knew what you told him, and even then it had only been a few words. He should've asked more questions, should've gotten to know you more instead of all this hiding.
"S'that…why…?" he didn't know how to ask such questions, didn't know if you wanted him to. Maybe you just needed someplace to finally let all this go, let it circle the drain and ring clear like the water.
You let out a shaky sigh, your eyes coming back down to where your hands met, watching his closely.
“My parents wanted me to keep it,” you continued. “Even though I was still in school. I don't think I understood … I grew up thinking there wasn’t another way, and even though by then I knew more about the world, the options… it didn't cross my mind that they were for me.”
He nodded. It sounded too familiar. A mirror, somehow. Not quite identical, but how a reflection shows the opposite a person. A different story, but still somehow the same.
“But then,” you said, and your voice faltered for the first time, “something went wrong during the second trimester. I had finally… I don't know, wrapped my head around it. I had plans for cribs and names and what she’d look like.”
She.
He looked up at you then.
You didn’t meet his eyes.
“I woke up to blood in my bed,” you said, gaze still memorizing his hands over your skin. “And that…was…it.”
He could tell it took everything from you to say the words aloud. Every breath seemed to cost you, every formed syllable and truth of what had happened.
“She?” Joel asked softly.
You nodded once.
“Yeah," There was a softness in your mouth, a sad grin starting to pull into your cheek, your gaze softening. "I always thought it would be a girl. Had a name picked out already.”
He smiled a little too, a mirror, reflection, the same sadness in either of you, but different somehow.
"What was her name?" he then asked.
For a second he thought he’d misstepped. You drew in a quiet breath and shut your eyes, and he felt it in his own chest like he’d pressed somewhere tender without meaning to. His thumb gentled against your skin even though there was nothing left to wipe off, the rag now forgotten in a heap at the bottom the sink.
When your eyes opened again, they were glassy, but your smile widened anyway, fragile and wet with holding back the tears.
"Ellie."
Joel sighed out a long breath, and held your skin there for a moment, letting her name take up the space, to be real, to let you hold onto the vision of your bouncing baby girl in your arms, even all these years later.
"That's a real pretty name, darlin'." he said finally, letting his hands fall from you when he realized how long he'd been standing so close.
He could've sworn you leaned in further, chasing that touch, but your hands only landed on the counter for support.
Your hair was a mess, still damp at the edges from where his fingers had pinched out the violence of blood. Your skin was warm and sticky where your tears had dried. But your breathing had evened out, though there was still something tight beneath it. You looked exhausted and wrecked and yet impossibly beautiful all at once.
It reminded him of the first day you’d shown up with that plastic bin and your backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes uncertain and lost like you were waiting for the ground to give out beneath you. He’d watched that look soften over the days, watched confidence settle into your posture, watched you find your footing here.
And then tonight had dragged something older back to the surface.
You straightened slowly, collecting yourself, and when you looked up at him there was something different there now. Lighter, yet guarded.
"Your turn."
He huffed, a little surprised, it could barely be called a laugh. But you were smiling a little crookedly at him now, teasing.
"My turn?"
"Tell me your secret."
He swallowed hard, his smile vanishing. The shift in you was abrupt enough to make him feel off balance. One second you were standing in a memory that bled, the next you were tossing the weight back to him like it was a game.
“Or don’t,” you added quickly, shrugging.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the heat there. “Why don’t we get you changed and showered,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Then I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”
“Oh, right,” you said lightly, “men only respond to naked wet women in their house.”
He knew the joke was just lightness you were forcing, just your walls getting built back up. He knew that play like the back of his hand. For a moment, he only stared at you, trying his best not to be thrown by it. The way you could pivot so quickly from something fragile and grief ridden to playfulness.
The switch of your humor was giving him whiplash. He felt dizzied by it, confused.
“Come on,” he said finally, pointing toward the stairs, dragging his other palm over his brow to hide the color rising into his cheeks. “Upstairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
You
The shower in Joel’s house did more than wash the blood from your skin and rinse away the thick, metallic feeling that clung to you. When you stepped under the spray and let it beat against your shoulders, the heat slowly untangled the memory from your body. And when you reached for the soap, you realized you would step out of it smelling like him. Something in your heart constricted at the thought.
He was a simple man. That much was clear. His private world, reduced to a narrow plastic shelf in the shower, held a bar of Irish Spring and a bottle that claimed to be shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer, and eight other things in one.
But it gave you something to focus on, as ordinary and uncomplicated as it was. You traced the tiny print on the back of the bottle, reading every word twice just to keep your mind from drifting. You kept your eyes open, had to keep reading, because if you let your thoughts wander, you were back in your bed last year.
Sticky, wet, smelling of iron and rust. And tonight had pulled it up from wherever it had been buried. The helplessness of watching something slip away from you no matter how hard you tried, Paloma giving up…it was all too much. How could you and a horse have so much in common? Both of you had bodies that did not cooperate when it mattered most, that turned against the very thing they were meant to carry.
And then there was Joel, who had gone through it, raised a little girl and loved her with everything. Enough to bend his whole life around her. He had made choices, used his body in order to keep food on the table and keep her life as normal as possible.
You felt as if you'd been punishing him for it all along.
When you finally ran out of words to read on the back of the bottle, you put it down and turned off the scalding water, stepping out to grab a towel. You looked down at your clothes, a heap of bloody ruined fabric. You hadn't thought to grab your own. But you didn't think you could go back out there now. You didn't want to know, didn't want to see Tess's face when she told you neither of them had made it.
So you stepped out into the hallway, towel clutched to your chest as you padded around the dark landing, wood creaking under your footsteps.
"Joel?" you called softly.
No answer. Hm…
You padded down the hall, hands hesitating to reach out at every door. No light bled from beneath any of them. Maybe he'd gone back out to the barn, to check on the horses for bed as if nothing had changed from their usual routine.
You reached the largest bedroom at the end of the landing and pushed the door open slowly.
You paused.
It felt like stepping into a memory you weren't supposed to see. It was ghostly still and untouched, clear sheets covered everything, tucked around what must've been a dresser, a bedside table, a desk and a large king bed in the center. Dust lingered in the air in the shafts of light from the ceiling fan above.
You looked around, trying to make sense of it. It felt as if you'd stepped into a different, forgotten decade. Old, wooden furniture, antique yet simple. The bed still had a quilt underneath the plastic wrap, you could just make out the red and white patches. Above it hung a landscape painting of the land. The pasture and the mountains beyond it. You recognized them immediately, the exact line of ridge that framed the horizon when you stood out back by the fence.
And you knew, with a sudden, abrupt certainty, that you should not be in here.
As you turned to leave, you nearly collided into a wall.
Joel was there, filling the doorway, one hand rested on the knob. He had changed his shirt, his jeans. But he hadn't stepped inside, remaining in the hallway.
"Joel, I'm so sorry." you gasped, "I thought this was your roo—"
"C'mon."
He didn't raise his voice, but there was a tightness to him. A stone cold look on his face as his eyes flitted around the space.
You slipped past him, your knuckles that clutched the towel into place brushing against his chest as you did. He didn't make room or step back, and you felt the heat of him flooding your skin as you made your way down the hall.
He followed behind you until you heard the sound of another door opening.
“Here.”
The difference was immediate. There was life here, though the furniture felt smaller, nearly boyish. A chest sat at the end of the queen bed, covered in stickers of band logos, faded lucky horseshoes and bumper stickers from different rodeos. A lamp leaned slightly to one side on the nightstand.
"Is this…?"
"My room," the words left him in a sort of long exhale, "yeah."
You turned toward him, questions rising, but he was already holding out a folded stack of clothes. His eyes stayed somewhere above your shoulder, not quite meeting yours.
“Thanks,” you said, taking them carefully. The fabric was soft, worn in the way only something handled often becomes. “These are… yours?”
He nodded once. “Apartment’s locked.”
Your gaze dropped when he gestured. Your backpack rested against the dresser, set there neatly.
“Found your bag,” he said, and something about the stiffness in his voice told you he had an idea of why it was there in the first place.
"Thanks." you said again, though the word felt like it lost its weight.
Silence stretched, neither of you looking each other in the eye. You could feel him choosing what not to say. Your damp hair clung to your shoulders, droplets sliding cold down your spine as the room cooled around you.
"I'll…just…" he started, then shifted his weight towards the door, "yeah."
He left the sentence unfinished and stepped out, giving you privacy without looking back.
You changed quickly, pulling his clothes over your still-warm skin, the cotton soft and worn in ways that felt almost intimate. They swallowed you, long sleeves falling past your wrists, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging loose at your hips. You threw the towel over the chair without thinking and opened the door again.
He was still there in the hallway, chin braced in his hand, brows drawn tight in thought. When the bedroom light spilled across him, he straightened, like he’d been caught in something.
“Joel,” you started, stepping back into the room to give him space to follow, “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About… going into that…room, I guess. I'm sorry. I don’t even know.”
He came inside slowly and shut the door behind him. He was so quiet all of the sudden. It had you on edge.
"Sit." he said, pointing at the bed.
You did as he bid.
He paced once in front of you, hand dragging through his beard, then down the back of his neck. You could see the war happening in him. The instinct to shut down. The same instinct to deflect you had in the kitchen.
Eventually he sat beside you, not touching, elbows braced on his knees.
“You wanted my secret.”
Oh.
“Only if you want to tell me,” you said quietly.
He nodded once, then shook his head like he regretted it, then nodded again as if forcing himself forward.
"When I found out my…when Jess was pregnant…" he began. It seemed very difficult for him— to say this. To bring back the past as you did.
"I knew what my pops would think." he went on, he wasn't looking at you. His bedside lamp threw him in soft gold, reflecting in his heavy eyes.
"I was seventeen and panicked and…" his jaw flexed, bracing himself, "I asked her to get an abortion."
Your chest tightened, though there was no judgment only understanding. Seventeen. High school, living with the smell of fear and possibility and futures that hadn’t even formed yet.
Suddenly his words were spilling out very fast as he went on, as if trying to make up for the bomb he'd dropped, "I had no clue what I was doin. I had a whole life ahead of me, of bull ridin' and rodeos, horses to train. It wasn't in my plan. We were in school when she... I couldn't…I wasn't…ready."
His voice was tightening, whether from disuse of never saying the words before or having to bare himself fully to you now.
“She refused. And I’m glad she did. God, believe me, I'm am glad she did.” he shook his head, and then put his face in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. You'd never seen him like this. You'd seen him naked, sweaty, in the most vulnerable state you thought on film. But…you'd never realized how much more exposed this felt. You'd never seen…this.
“But my dad didn’t understand. I knew he wouldn’t. But he had to know.” His jaw tightened as if he were chewing on something bitter. “I expected the belt. Hell, I expected a black eye. I expected him to call me every name in the book. I just… I didn’t expect him to throw me out.”
Your hand found his back without you thinking about it, fingers smoothing over the broad curve of his shoulders. He was warm beneath your palm, solid, but you could feel the tension sitting there, humming beneath his skin.
“I was eighteen when Sarah was born,” he continued, and his voice softened when he said her name. “And Jess… she decided she didn’t want any of it anymore. Didn’t want me or the kid. We’d gotten married. I thought that meant…” He swallowed. “But then it was just me and the baby.”
You watched his hands instead of his face because they told the truth faster. His fingers were locked together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
He lifted his eyes to you then, and there was something naked in them that made your chest ache.
“I know you must think…” his voice faltered, “That I’m… that I chose that job because I wanted it. I didn’t. I didn’t have any options. I was livin’ on ramen and beans. Sarah couldn’t keep growin’ up on food stamps and whatever I could scrape together.” His throat worked. “Tess gave me a way out. It wasn’t some ego boost. But it paid.”
He shook his head once, frustrated with himself.
“I’d already failed my dad. Failed Tommy. I wasn’t gonna fail her too.”
“None of that is your fault, Joel,” you said.
“Listen,” he cut in gently but firmly, shaking his head. “I ain’t askin’ you to…hell, I don't know. I’m sayin’ I’m sorry you had to find out like that, that I scared you. And tonight…” He stopped there, the hesitation heavier than any raised voice. “You were gonna leave, weren’t you?”
You could only stare into his hazel eyes until he was tearing them away from you again, staring at the wood grain of the floor.
“I saw the bag,” he continued quietly. “I knew… well, because I’ve done it enough times myself.”
You felt heat crawl up your neck. Shame and grief and something else you couldn’t quite figure out.
“I ain’t good at this part,” he admitted, “The talkin’. The feelin’s. I say the wrong thing and make everythin' worse.”
“Joel,” you whispered, stopping the motion of your hand on his back so he’d feel the pause. “Look at me.”
It took him a second, but he did.
You had to pull together your courage, because you knew you'd only get one chance to say this.
“It’s not your fault your father was too proud to stand by you,” you said carefully.
"I know—" he frowned.
"No, you don't." you said sternly, "It’s not your fault he didn’t know how to love you the way you needed. It’s not your fault Jess left. And it’s not your fault you were forced into a decision to take a job that kept your daughter fed and healthy."
He looked like you'd smacked him across the face with your words. Your hand came up gently, finally feeling what that beard was like in the palm of your hand. Scratchy, thick.
“You are a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered. “And I’m sorry that everyone, including myself, made you feel like you weren’t.”
He closed his eyes, and to your surprise, leaned into your hand.
"I was scared." you said even lower, "scared that….that I had feelings and I'd never…"
Be brave, be brave be brave.
“I was scared,” you confessed again, quieter now. "That I’d never measure up to the women you’ve been with. When you were in that world… it just seemed so easy. For them, for you.”
His eyes opened again, studying you carefully.
"What were you so afraid of?"
You mouth frowned. Hadn't you said it? Hadn't you just admitted to him? You didn't know what else to say.
“You have to see what you do to me,” he went on, slowly. “When I was workin’… it was separate. It was physical. It didn’t…it never…” His hand came up, covering yours where it stayed cupping his jaw, “I never felt anythin’ for them.”
You felt your pulse start to climb.
“But with you…” He exhaled through his nose, almost frustrated by the admission, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Since the day you walked up to my truck with that bin and that backpack, I haven’t been able to separate work and…and what I want.”
He brought your hand down into his lap, tracing the life line of your palm.
"I don't know what it is. What you do to me. S'different than anythin'…anythin' I've ever…"
"I think I know." you murmured, "because I feel it too."
A faint smile pulled at his mouth, but it didn’t last.
“But I can’t…I won't…ask that of you. I can't keep you here,” he said quietly. “This place… it’s empty. It’s still my dad’s in ways.” His jaw tightened. “I haven’t stepped foot in the arena since I got back. I grab a lunge rope and my hands start shakin’. I walk past that room and my chest locks up. I don’t know how to live here yet.”
You shook your head, "We can make it right. Make it beautiful again. Make it yours, not his."
"But--school?" he asked. "Your life? I can't take that--"
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you admitted. “It was a degree I picked because it sounded right, even though I couldn't stand it. But this place, Joel…it feels right. I feel stronger here than I have in ages.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. “I want to stay. But only if you stay.”
The memory of the shed was coming back to you, he was so close again, the memory of it flooding your senses. The smell of Irish Spring, the scent of his sweat and how the yellow light of the bedside table cast his hazel eyes to turn to honey.
Your eyes are tellin' me one thing, but you won't say it.
"I want you, Joel."
And suddenly he was leaning in, his hand dropping your palm and coming up to your face.
And this time, when you kissed, it wasn't a light brushing of lips. It wasn't hesitant or wet with tears. It was warm, full and eager. You breathed each other in for a long moment as his lips melded to yours, the soft prickle of his mustache against your nose.
You couldn't help the way your hand traveled up his arm, his thick, veined arm, squeezing the corded muscle there beneath his sleeve. His hand not cupping your face came up to settle against your waist, squeezing you back, a nonverbal confirmation of everything that had led to this. Avoidance, fear, cowardice. Only to finally be where you'd wanted all along.
"Say it again," he whispered against your lips as he sucked in a breath.
"I want you," you breathed, "of course I want—"
He was kissing you again, harder now, pushing you back onto the bed, and both your hands came up to lock around his neck. You kept him close as he maneuvered your bodies until he was laying over you, one hand firm at your waist and the other still soothing along your cheek.
"Again."
You smiled, you couldn't help it. Was it really so strange to him? To be wanted like this?
"I want you," you breathed into his open mouth as your legs parted, welcoming him closer, letting his hips settle between them and oh—
Fuck, he was hard already. And bigger than anything you'd ever...
A low sound rolled up out of him then, half hum, half growl, vibrating deep in his chest where it pressed against yours.
"You're so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, his mouth drifting down from your lips to your jaw, then to the warm shell of your ear before trailing slowly along your neck. "Prettiest thing a man like me has seen in a long time."
"Man like you, huh?"
He smiled into the next kiss he planted on your neck, and hummed in amusement.
"Tell me," you said, your eyes drifting up to the ceiling as his beard rasped along the column of your throat, the scratch of it making your stomach flutter.
Hm? he hummed again, distracted, mouth still wandering.
"Tell me you want me too."
His teeth caught your skin, a quick nip that pulled a startled gasp from you.
"Silly girl," he murmured softly, voice thick with something like indulgence. "Course I wantcha. Can't you feel how badly I've been wantin' ya?"
He rolled his hips forward then, pressing harder into your waiting lap, and the slow drag of him against you made a helpless little sound slip from your throat.
"Yeah," he muttered against your neck, voice rough and baritone. "Been wantin' you since I laid my damn eyes on you."
You sucked in a breath.
Because for some reason, for some godforsaken reason, that was when your traitorous brain decided to remind you of everything that had happened since you met him.
The videos you'd watched.
Those tiny little pornstars climbing over him like they belonged there, bodies moving easy and practiced as they worked him just right, knowing exactly how to pull those sweet, grunting sounds from him that you had buried your fingers inside yourself imagining. The way he looked with them, big and sure and confident, the way he seemed to know exactly what to do with every inch of them. And here you were. A nobody, with a body less than perfect. In sweatpants and his sweatshirt, no sexy lingerie or makeup done, laying in his bed and—
"Hey."
You saw his eyes before you realized he'd spoken, still hazel, still clear, not swallowed yet by the dark haze of arousal.
You blinked, pulled back into the room, and lifted a hand to your forehead, covering your eyes.
"Sorry."
"Where'd you go just now?" he asked quietly.
His hand reached up and gently pulled yours away from your face, brushing your damp hair back as his gaze moved slowly across your features, searching.
"Nothing," you murmured quickly. "I'm fine."
Before he could answer, you cupped his face in both hands and pulled him down again, pressing your mouth to his. Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck, urging him closer, trying to drag the moment back where it had been just a second ago.
He kissed you back, but you had your eyes stayed open, watching him. And after a moment, you realized his eyes were open too, his brows tightening over his gaze.
Your stomach twisted. Shit, you were ruining this. Of course you were.
His hand came up then, large and warm against your jaw, and he gently pushed your face back just enough to look at you. His gaze moved over your lips, your eyes, then back again, thoughtful, before he leaned down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to them before saying:
"Tell me what's goin' on in that pretty head."
You sighed, the sound heavier than you meant it to be, and let your head fall back against his pillow. Your eyes drifted everywhere but him, tracing the ceiling, the corner of the room, the soft spill of light across the wall.
"It's just…" you started, then stopped.
Your fingers dropped and twisted into the sheet beside you.
"You're a…" you gestured vaguely toward him, heat creeping up your neck. "And I'm not. I'm just…"
The words stalled out in your throat.
Joel didn't move away from you. If anything, he settled more solidly where he was, one forearm braced beside your head as he watched you wrestle with it.
"A what?" he asked.
You huffed out a quiet breath.
"You know," you muttered. "You do this for a living."
For a moment, he didn't say anything, but a light sigh was released from his nose as his thumb traced your jaw as he watched you, deep in thought.
"I used to. And makin' a livin' like that…it was never anythin' real. You gotta know that." he said, shaking his head, "None of them made me feel as crazy as you do. I've been losin' my mind tryna get you to talk to me this past week."
You worried your bottom lip, but finally looked up at him, trying to read his expression.
"It was only a job, baby." he whispered. His thumb came up and gently tugged your lip free from where it was caught between your teeth.
"If you want, we can take a break. Sit here and talk about it some more." His voice softened even more. "But I promise you, nothin' I ever did for that job came close to how badly I wanna do this right now."
Your eyes flickered between his, his pretty eyes, his crow's feet and thick brows, the line that deepened between his brows of worry.
"It's you in my bed right now," he continued, shifting his hips slightly against you like he couldn't quite stop himself. "You who's got me feelin' like a damn teenager again."
His mouth curved faintly. "And you're gonna sit here and tell me you ain't the one who belongs here?"
He shook his head slowly, soft disbelief written all over his face.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek.
"You got no idea. Let me show you. Let me take care of you."
Let me take care of you.
Your hands came back up to his hair, tracing the hairline there, down to the protruding cheekbone, how could he feel such things with so much certainty? All this want, a desperation for this. But you knew, because you'd been feeling it too. For him. It was the part of how you fit into it all which made you uncertain.
But now…hearing him talk like that…
"Okay."
His eyes softened a bit at that, "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah," you nodded, hands threading further into his hair.
"Okay," he mimicked, quieter this time.
One of his hands slid from your face down your back, broad palm warm as it moved over you, settling at your waist before slipping under the hem of your sweatshirt. His skin was rough against yours, calloused and steady, and the touch made your stomach flip. "Gonna take this off, alright?"
You nodded.
"Got no idea," he murmured under his breath, shaking his head faintly.
He leaned down to steal a quick kiss from your mouth as he did it, the movement easy, almost absentminded, like he couldn't quite stop touching you. Then he was lifting the sweatshirt up and over you, the fabric dragging warm across your ribs before it disappeared somewhere behind him.
A low rumble rolled out of him when he pulled back enough to look at you. Your chest, bare to the cool evening air now, heaved in heavy breaths, and then you felt his lips on your hip a second later, warm and sudden against your skin, the rough brush of his beard making you jolt. When you looked down, he was watching your breasts as they rose and fell with the motion of your lungs.
"And these?" he whispered, kissing past the hem of his borrowed pants.
"Okay," you said again, gnawing your lip, your hands always touching him without meaning to. In his hair, scratching through his beard, drifting across the broad plane of his shoulder.
He looked up at you as he placed another light kiss to your pelvis.
"Love seein' you in my clothes," he whispered. "But my god if it ain't better seein' em off of ya."
"Cornball," you chastised with a smile. He returned it, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked up at you. Then he sat back and tugged the borrowed pants down your legs one at a time, peeling them away until you were bare to the room, to his gaze. You noticed, suddenly, you could no longer see the hazel in them anymore.
"Not fair," you kicked at him as the pants came off, "take these off—" you nudged the hem of his shirt, then toed at belt holding up his jeans, trying to push them off too.
He grabbed your ankle, and pulled you down the mattress, hard so the back of your thigh was up against the denim of his lap. If you would've looked down, you could've seen your slick darkening against the zipper that hid his bulge.
"Bossy girls don't get what they want," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face.
And for a second you got a glimpse of The Texxxas Wrangler there. Cocky, knowing, confident.
You tried to kick at him again, but his grip on your ankle tightened, and he leaned down and bit the sole of your foot.
You yelped, and he held your leg open, "you're not lettin' me enjoy this, naughty girl."
Then his gaze dropped again, attention settling between your legs in a way that made heat rush straight to your face.
"Fuck," he breathed under his breath, shifting down and guiding your legs up over his shoulders. "Should'a known a pretty girl would have a pretty pussy like this."
He moaned a little just looking at it.
You could feel how wet you were, how it made your folds shine as he blew gently across your sensitive skin, pursing his lips and making you whine dramatically. Your legs hooked over his back, pulling him in.
"Be good," he scolded lightly, kissing just to the left of your slick, trembling center.
You huffed, but kept quiet.
He kissed again, then to the other side, and closer and closer, and your hips began to move, desperate for more. His thick beard scraped against you, prickling and thick against your sensitive skin.
His lips, soft and warm and wet, finally, finally pursed and kissed your throbbing nub.
"Ohhh…" you sighed in relief, letting your body become putty in his hands, which were sliding around your hips to keep you steady as his tongue dipped out, a bowl collecting nectar as he licked up and down, like he'd finally gotten a taste of ambrosia after years in a desert.
He moaned and groaned as he ate at you. There was no other word for it. He was a man starved far too long. And now you understood why none of those girls' moans had sounded so annoyingly pornographic. Because now you were here, in his arms, making mewling noises you couldn't control as his tongue pushed into you, his teeth scraping just barely over your clit when he pulled it into his mouth, tongue flattening against it.
Your hand was buried deep in his hair, legs locked around him, hips moving to thier own accord.
"Tha's it," he panted, tongue out, letting you push and pull up against him, "tha's it, baby, c'mon now, use my mouth and come on my face, yeah,"
Oh, fuck.
His hands dug into the flesh of your hips, holding you there, guiding the slow roll of your body as you pressed down against him. The rough scrape of his beard, the wet heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to know exactly how to keep you right on that edge—it all built and built until the tension snapped. With one last nudge of that wet muscle of his tongue, you broke apart above him, hips trembling as pleasure spilled through you while he kept you steady, coming against his face.
Your head was thrown back, mouth open as you dragged in deep mouthfuls of air, your body rocking against him until the motion softened, slowing to a gentle sway before you finally settled, loose and liquid in his bed. He smiled up at you, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling over you.
He slid his shirt off easily, tossing it somewhere onto the floor. Your legs stayed wrapped around him, though now they locked around his hips now as he shifted between them.
"That was —" he huffed a little bemused chuckle, "god damn perfect,"
You couldn't help grinning back at him, a little drunk on the rush still flooding your body. A soft, simpering sigh slipped out of you as you watched him unbuckle his belt and push out of his pants.
But then the world came rushing back when you looked down and saw him free his throbbing cock. It didn't jut up and out like ones you'd seen before, but hung heavily between you, veined and thick and angry red.
"Oh—"
"S'okay," he cooed, letting it rest against your belly as he leaned forward to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips, honey and musk and the sweet tang of arousal. "Gonna take it nice and slow."
You nodded into the kiss, letting him deepen it, your mouth opening for him as his tongue pushed in, nice and slow and indulgent. You let him take his time there, the kiss turning messy and hungry, little sounds slipping from both of you between breaths, his deep, rough curses and your low hums of pleasure.
You felt his hands moving below, adjusting the angle of your bodies until he could press himself just against your folds. Your brows pinched slightly, and maybe he felt the tension in you, because all he did was rock his hips so the underside of his cock slid along your soaked folds.
"How's that, honey? Huh?" he cooed.
"So good," you breathed against his mouth, humming softly as the veins along his shaft dragged against your clit, the friction making your hips start to move on their own, ankles tightening around his lower back. "M-more, please."
He smiled into the next kiss, "Okay, baby, gonna give you a little more, anythin' you want."
He nudged the head of himself against your weeping entrance, and all you could feel was heat, like your body had caught fire and his had with it.
"Deep breath for me, angel," he whispered, one hand sliding into your hair, settling at the nape of your neck with a steady grip that kept you anchored with him. Your hands curled around his shoulders as he kissed you again, catching your bottom lip lightly between his teeth so you'd focus.
You drew in a breath, and he licked just inside your teeth, tasting you again as he slowly began to push in.
Both of you gasped.
Breaking from the kiss only by a fraction, you didn't pull away so much as hovered there, mouths open, breathing hard. Every shaky inhale you took pulled straight from his mouth, and every breath he exhaled warmed your lips in return. Your noses brushed, foreheads nearly touching, the two of you gasping there together at the feeling of it, the stretch of him, the heat of you, sharing the same thin pocket of air.
And then his head fell in the crook of your neck as he pushed in another inch, making you keen.
"Joel, oh—oh god."
"I know," he whispered, the words breaking through a groan like a crack in his throat. "I know, baby, slow, slow, slow—"
You weren't sure if he was talking to you or to himself then, the way he kept repeating it, easing in another inch and moaning even louder.
"God—" he breathed, his forehead dipped harder against your neck. "Your pussy feels so fuckin'—holy—"
You brought your legs higher around his waist, opening for him, lifting to take more of that stretch.
"More, Joel, more," you urged.
It was like being split down the center. Physically, yes, your body barely able to take the obsene stretch of him. But also… it felt like your life had been split in half. Because there was suddenly a before this moment, and an after. Where the road split, where your heart line split off and became new and whole.
Because there would never be anything like this.
"Joel, please, I need—"
He pushed in further, cursing on every inch he settled into you.
Your hand slid deeper into his hair, fingers tightening there, and you heard him hiss in a breath as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight, locking your bodies together in a vice like grip.
And then—suddenly—he was flipping you.
Your eyes swam with the motion as he shifted, flipping your position and bringing you upright into his lap, your legs still wrapped around him.
Your head fell back, mouth open as you settled fully around the heft of his cock. The thicket of hair at his base brushed your clit, rough and welcome.
"Lemme see you," he whispered, kissing the underside of your chin. "Wanna see your face when I fuck you."
You whined, rocking your hips.
"Look at me, little lady,"
You did as you were bid.
He shook his head, "You're fuckin' perfect, you know that?"
You moaned, a little breathless now, noticing the sheen of sweat starting to gather along his hairline.
"You're—" he rocked his hips again, pushing a little deeper, his voice catching mid-sentence. "Jesus… you feel so good, baby, pussy was made for me."
"Yours," you breathed. "M-made for you, Joel."
A rough groan tore out of him at that.
"Yeah?" he breathed, eyes locked on your face as he moved beneath you again, rocking his hips into you. "My cock's just for you too, baby. Only for my best girl."
Your hands tightened in his hair.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice dropping lower, rougher. "Takin' it so good… c'mon now… I can feel how bad she loves it."
You rocked your hips with his, desperate for more of him, the motion drawing another low groan from his chest.
"Want more, Joel," you whispered, voice breathless but stubborn. "You won't break me, I promise, please, show me—I want it all."
He groaned desperately at that, "Careful what you wish for, baby, fuck—"
His arms, already wrapped around you, tightened so you were slick body against slick body, his wirey chest hair scraping your sensitive nipples where they laid up between his chest and chin, your stomach flipping at the feeling of being so close. There was nothing but breath between you then.
He felt deeper than before now as he held you down against him, thick-banded arms made for hauling hay and handling horses now keeping you tight against his chest. His breath had gone short and rough, every sound leaving his throat lower, more unhinged than anything you'd ever heard from him before.
You’d watched him on those tapes, heard the grunts and soft curses, but nothing like this. This was different. Animal, almost, in the way he dragged in breath and cursed against your skin.
His lips came up against your ear as he thrusted up into you.
"Can ya hear how greedy your little pussy is for me, baby?"
Your nails dug deeper into his shoulders.
"She's been cryin' for me all this time, hasn't she? Just wanted a little taste. That right?"
You nodded quickly, breath breaking apart in your throat. "Yes, fuck, yes, Joel, please don't stop—"
"Ain't stoppin' til she comes all over my cock—"
"Fuck, fuck" you hiccuped, whining, "—I've never—I don't know if I can—"
"S'alright, darlin'. I got you. C'mon, lemme show ya."
He leaned away, letting himself lay back then, your skin suddenly cold to the air and his hands loosening but holding roughly to your hips.
"Play with yourself, lemme see, I'll show ya—"
You did it without thinking. You'd do anything he asked. He felt so deep, so right, buried inside you that your brain had momentarily shut off, all wires only directed to him and what he told you.
Your fingers found your clit and you began circling the swollen bud, but you winced, the pressure too sharp, too much all at once. A small whine slipped out of you as your hips rolled restlessly against him.
He pushed your hand away and replaced it with his thumb, wet with spit, and your head fell back again, a soft, helpless sound leaving you.
"Yeahhh," he breathed, teeth showing in a rough grin as he watched you. "Just like that. Ride me, baby. Tha's it… right there, huh? Just needed me to show ya how it's done."
"Oh fuck—fuck, fuck, I—I think I'm—"
"Yes," he rasped, grip tightening on your hips. "Come for me, baby."
Your body seized around him, your spine arching as the feeling tore through you, bright and overwhelming. You reached for him instinctively and he pulled you down tight against him again, thrusting up hard as you rode out the trembling rush of it, white sparks bursting behind your eyes.
He was cursing under his breath now, jaw tight, the sound of it rough and broken as the tension finally snapped in him too, his arms locking around you while he groaned your name against your neck, spilling everything into you.
Your body was still trembling around him even as your breath settled, small aftershocks shivering through your thighs and stomach, your chest pressed tight against his as he held you there. His own breath came hot and uneven against the side of your neck, every inhale dragging through his chest like it had to claw its way out of him.
Soon, he was releasing his tight hold on your body and letting you slide beside him, his wet spent cock laying obscenely against his stomach as it softened, your core sore with the memory of it.
Your body felt loose, almost boneless, heat fading from your skin as the cool air of the room crept back in. The sweat between your shoulders cooled slowly. He leaned down and brought the light blanket over the both of you, groaning in exhaustion. You stayed close, your thigh still draped over his.
And underneath that fading warmth, something else was stirring.
You felt as if your entire self lay bare, as if your heart, only recently stitched back together so tightly, was being pulled open again, stitch by stitch, given room to breathe.
You nestled deeper beside him, burying your nose into the wiry hair of his chest and inhaling.
“Tell me this will never end,” you murmured.
His arm came around your shoulders, wide hand settling over the cup of your shoulder, and his lips found the top of your head, inhaling your similar scent. Irish Spring, arousal, sweat. You were so heavily intertwined you weren't sure where he ended and you began yet.
“It don’t have to,” he said softly.
You pressed closer, hiding deeper against him. He was warm, smelled clean and familiar, something safe your body wanted to believe in. Every hormone in you was humming, coaxing you toward confession, loosening your tongue in that reckless way that came after being held like this.
“Sometimes I…” you faltered, breath shaking, your face turning further into his chest. “I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted just gets taken away somehow. Either because of me or…something.”
Joel paused, you heard the way his breath paused, the way his mouth stopped its lazy kisses in your hair. His hand slipped between your cheek and his chest, fingers easing under your chin.
He tipped your face up.
“What makes you say that, hun?”
His eyes were soft, heavy with sleep and something deeper, his brows drawn together in that familiar line between them. Up close like this he looked warm and solid and achingly kind. Hazel again.
You leaned in and brushed your lips against his, and he welcomed it, pinching your chin a little harder before pulling away again.
“Tell me why you think that about yourself,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
"Because I went to school and failed. Once I felt like I was ready for my baby, I failed her too. I came here and..." Your throat thickened, voice wobbling. "I failed Paloma and her baby."
He was shaking his head all along.
Joel was shaking his head before you’d even finished.
“No you didn’t, baby. Hey—c’mere.”
Because you were crying again. Tears slipping down your temples into your hair, your breath shuddering in your chest.
“S’gonna be okay,” he murmured, gathering you closer. “School’ll always be there if you wanna go back. And one day I bet you’ll be an amazin’ mama if that’s what you want, alright?”
You noticed the thing he didn’t say.
Because neither of you knew if Paloma was alive, if her foal had lived. Your heart constricted at the thought.
“I should’ve been here tonight. That ain’t on you, okay?” he said, rocking you gently. You pressed your face harder into his neck as his hand smoothed through your hair.
“Everything I’ve ever wanted just gets taken away,” you whispered hoarsely. “Every time something starts to feel good I’m just… waiting for it to get pulled out from under me.”
“I know, trust me I know,” he said finally, voice low.
“I thought I was gonna be here my whole life," he went on. "The ranch, workin’ with my pops. Thought that was how it was meant to go.” His thumb traced slow circles along your arm. “Then life had other ideas.”
You shifted a little, listening.
“If I hadn’t had Sarah, though…” he continued softly. “My whole life would’ve looked different. Who knows what could'a happened, might've left and never come back. Might never’ve met you. I don't wanna know what that version of my life would be like. Sarah's the best thing that ever happened to me. I only know that now, after the fact.”
His lips brushed your hair again.
“Things change, hun. But that don’t mean they’re taken from you. Sometimes they’re just movin’ you somewhere else, right where you're supposed to be. And right now this is where you're supposed to be, in an old man's bed.”
You clung to him as you let out a wet chuckle, and your crying began to subside, his warmth rocking you slowly until the weight of sleep started creeping over you.
Somewhere in that haze you heard him speak again.
“I think I’m gonna go see her.”
Your brain lagged behind the words.
“Sarah?” you murmured.
He nodded, thick beard scraping your hairline.
“I think she would love that.”
After
It was so warm. Your eyes, sleepy and heavy, opened to the soft light stretching pale across the bedroom wall, filtering in through the thin curtains and laying itself gently over your bare skin. You were sprawled across the sheets, limbs loose and heavy in the aftermath of sleep and everything the night had given, the air still carrying the faint scent of Joel and something deeper, something that felt settled now instead of uncertain.
You realized then that you'd woken to the sound of the door opening. You hadn't even realized he'd gotten up, that he'd left the bed at all.
But there he was now, black t shirt stretching across his chest with the smell of coffee drifting in ahead of him. The smell was rich, grounding, tickling your nose to wake. The mattress dipped where your hips curved, and he sat there carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb anything that had been built overnight.
When your eyes opened fully, he was already watching you.
“Hey,” he said softly.
He set the mug down on the side table and reached for you without hesitation, his fingers brushing the hair back from your temple. The pad of his thumb traced slow along your hairline, smoothing it away from your face.
"Mornin'," you said groggily.
“How're you doin’?”
The memories of the night, of before you and him… it came back all at once.
The barn. The blood. Paloma’s body beneath your hands. The terrible stillness of the foal.
Your throat tightened.
You turned your face slightly into the pillow, staring at nothing in particular, and he kept brushing your hair back, slow and steady, like he was trying to soothe something he couldn’t see.
He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He stayed there beside you, so warm and solid as his fingers combed gently through your hair, thumb resting at the base of your skull.
He was still smiling down at you. A soft grin, something gentle and kind in his expression as he watched you, until finally, he said:
“I wanna show you somethin'.”
Your brow furrowed.
“Get dressed,” he said, and there was something in his voice now. Something he was trying not to give away.
You searched his face for a second longer, then pushed yourself up, the sheet slipping from your shoulder. You dressed quickly into the borrowed sweatshirt and sweatpants, your heart beginning to beat harder for reasons you didn’t yet understand.
He took your hand and led you down the stairs, out into the kitchen, and you slid on your sneakers to walk out the front porch steps and toward the barn. The morning air was crisp and clean, the world washed new in the light. Gravel crunched beneath the soles of your shoes as you crossed the yard, your chest tight with a fragile kind of dread.
You stepped inside the barn, expecting the pit in your stomach to dip.
Except, it didn't.
Because there was a smell to the barn now, no longer metallic or wet, but…warm and fresh and alive. The smell of fresh bedding and milky breath.
You looked up at Joel then, searching his face for anything that might explain it. He was already watching you, smiling in a way that was softer than you’d seen in a long time, guiding you forward with a quiet tilt of his chin.
You moved quickly, rounding the corner into the far foaling stall.
And there she was.
Paloma stood on her feet, head bent into a fresh pile of hay, chewing lazily like nothing in the world had nearly taken her from you. Morning light streamed in through the back window and caught along her flank, still a little damp, still marked by the night before.
But alive. Alive and steady and breathing and real.
Beside her, a small, gangly shape wobbled uncertainly on too-long legs.
The sound that left you wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob. Your hands flew to your mouth to contain it, but it spilled through anyway, the feeling of it all breaking open in your chest at once.
You stepped into the stall slowly this time, like you were afraid the scene might vanish if you moved too fast. The little foal was blonder than its mother, a bright white blaze cutting down its delicate face, striking and soft all at once. Its knobby knees buckled as it nudged at Paloma’s side, impatient and indignant, already demanding the world give it what was wanted.
Your tears ran freely now, unchecked. You lowered your hands and reached out, and the foal turned toward you with wide curiosity, stepping close enough to mouth at the strings of your hoodie. Paloma lifted her head and gave a low nicker, as if to say she remembered you too, before returning calmly to her hay.
“Thought you might wanna meet ’er,” Joel said from the doorway. He leaned there with his arms folded, watching you instead of the horses.
“This is Ellie,” he added.
Everything in you stilled. You turned slowly to look at him, breath caught in your throat, heart stopping. The only thing keeping your two feet on the ground was the little filly stomping around for your attention.
"What?"
He nodded once.
“She’s strong,” he said simply. “Tess said she fought for her damn life. Her and mama both.”
The world felt too bright all at once.
You laughed through your tears and turned back to the horses, the baby's eyes wide and doe like as they looked up at you.
“Hi, Ellie,” you whispered.
"She'll be yours to take care of," he then added, stern, but there was some amusement in it, and when you looked back at him, he was almost uncertain again, "if you choose to stay."
You let the filly drift back to her mother, and you you were suddenly crossing the stall in two big steps and throwing your arms around his neck. He barely had time to unfold his arms from his chest before you were kissing him, smiling so wide it felt like your face might split.
And this time, there wasn't anything holding you back. No more cowardice or uncertainty. Because you finally understood.
Everything, no matter how great or small or terrifying or joyous, had been leading you here all along.
epilogue coming soon! thank you so much for reading!!!
I’m LEGITIMATELY SCREAMING CRYING YHROWING UP FROM THIS. Oh my GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH YOUVE DESTROYED ME. WHAT A SPECTACULAR FUCKING FIC YOU MAGNIFICENT BEAST
Joel Miller is back home running his family’s ranch, the work coming back to him easily even as the house fills with the memories of what happened thirty years ago.
He hires a young farm hand, expecting nothing more than help around the barn. Instead, he finds someone just as lost as he is.
|| MDNI 18+, joel miller x reader, angst, eventual smut, rancher!joel, cowboy!joel, retiredpornstar!joel, horsegirl!reader (kinda), western vibes, ranch life, estranged family, grief, chosen family, romance, flirting, swearing, lots of talk about horses plz bear w me, nurturing joel miller, sarah lives and is canonically aged up, tension, yearning, older man x younger woman, reader was in uni but (legal) age gap is not specified, themes of pregnancy & pregnancy complications, trauma surrounding birth & pregnancy, some drinking, eating, avoidant tendencies, emotional reader, everyone bottles up their feelings yipeeeee, no animal death, some mentions of skipped meals, emotional smut, intimacy, kissing ||
total word count: 40k
a/n: thank you to this anon for sparking my inspiration for this story! it started as an idea to do some fun adult film star joel fanfic and then as I wrote it, it became way more angsty than I was expecting :') hope you enjoy my loves!!
teaser 1
volume I
volume II
volume III
epilogue: coming soon!
stay up to date with all my posts by following @millermouthupdates & turning on notifications!
Joel Miller is back home running his family’s ranch, the work coming back to him easily even as the house fills with the memories of what happened thirty years ago.
He hires a young farm hand, expecting nothing more than help around the barn. Instead, he finds someone just as lost as he is.
|| MDNI 18+ angst, smut, intimacy, rancher!joel, cowboy!joel, retiredpornstar!joel, horsegirl!reader, western vibes, ranch life, grief, romance, lil bit of flirting, tommy miller cameo, BIG FEELINGS, confessions, drinking, no animal death, nurturing joel miller, estranged family, kissing! yay!, guilt and longing, reader is having a hard time and is a bit of a crybaby, this is an intense chapter please proceed with caution, happy ending!, using humor to deflect, like not great humor and bad jokes so dont come at me its not meant to be funny, pinv, he talks you thru it, insecure!reader, f!receiving oral, lil bit of dirty talk , missionary, riding, lotus for like a sec, lots of pet names this chapter ||
wc: 17k
Inspirations & References: Good Will Hunting (1997), Flicka (2006)
trigger warnings beneath the cut
***TW: pregnancy complications, graphic medical scene, detailed medical procedures, blood, birth, traumatic birth, bodily fluids, if you are squeamish this might not be the best for you, y'all are learnin more about horses than ya probs wanted to know, did you know I went to school for equine science? now ya know and you sure can tell in this chapter. mentions of miscarriage, abortion, traumatic birth and pregnancy!!!!!! if any of these are a sensitive topic for you please do not read***
What a fucking asshole.
Your face burned hot as you climbed the stairs two at a time, shoving the apartment door open harder than necessary and letting it slam behind you. Your hands were shaking, whether from adrenaline or humiliation you didn’t care to sort out— you went straight for the drawers, yanking it open and pulling out crap in uneven handfuls. You didn’t even fold anything. You everything into your backpack along with your anger.
What a dick.
Cornering you in the shed, knowing you'd be there. Was he watching you all this time? And then to breathe down your throat about taking care of you, about how you wouldn't talk to him.
You dragged your boots off and tossed them onto the floor, dirt flying over the hardwood and carpet. You took your laptop again, snapping it shut from where it had the half written email to your advisor— and shoved that in your bag too.
You didn't need this. This place. You'd only been here a week! A week! You could leave tonight and nothing would fall apart. He had Jesse and Tess to help out. The thought of her had your stomach piling into your throat, images of him and her together and moaning and sweaty. He could take care of this place himself.
Your hand paused at the zipper of your bag.
You were not responsible for this—for him.
If he wanted someone who didn’t tremble, who didn’t overthink, who didn’t get flustered by the weight of his history, he could go find it somewhere else. He had before. There were tapes to prove it. Women who knew what they were doing, who knew exactly what to say. Who didn't cower at his closeness.
Whatever.
You could get a ride with Jesse into town. He’d understand. Joel wouldn't ask questions with Jesse there. And you’d find something else, maybe a room over some cafe or bar downtown. Or maybe shared place with strangers. It didn’t matter. Anything was better than standing there feeling like some foolish little girl who didn’t know how to handle a man with a past.
But you knew one thing for sure—you wouldn't be leaving without giving him your piece of mind. He wanted you to talk? You'd talk. Fuck him. Fuck his dismissive tone and his cornering and his soft words.
He didn’t get to decide how this ended. He didn’t get to shut you down and send you away like you were a problem to be managed.
You left your backpack down at the last step outside as you marched outside, dirty converse smacking and sliding against the steps. The sky was deepening into purple as the last light bled out over the pasture, but you weren't looking at the open fields behind the barn. You weren't looking at the extra truck in the driveway. You were bee-lined for that stupid house.
You crossed the gravel in hard, uneven strides, stones kicking out beneath your soles, breath still hot in your chest, and you were halfway up the porch steps before a sound rented the air, cutting through your ire.
You froze, one hand hovering near the porch railing, the anger that had been propelling you forward snagging on something else entirely as voices inside rose loud enough to spill into the night around you, through the wooden walls of the house.
Joel's voice, definitely. But a second one you didn't recognize. Definitely not Jesse's. But another man, a similar twang to his cutting remarks you could half hear.
You looked back at the truck in the driveway, the one that didn't belong: a heavy black Ford 150, gleaming in the twilight, facing the house.
Joel had a visitor.
Joel
He'd been in a piss poor mood since the shed.
Truth was, it had probably started before that. Back in the truck with you. You had been so open with him, so honest in a way he wasn’t used to, looking at him like you saw straight through the parts he kept buttoned up. You’d spoken about him like he was just a man who did what he had to for his daughter. A man who had lost something and was still standing. He hadn’t known what to do with that. He didn’t deserve your soft voice or the way your eyes had filled up over something that had nothing to do with you. He didn’t deserve your empathy. You were just a girl—a woman working on his farm. Still, younger. Brighter and untouched by the kind of years he’d stacked up.
He never meant for it to become this.
But then you’d kissed him.
It had been quick and hesitant and yet real enough to knock the air from his lungs, and he hadn’t been able to think straight since. He’d replayed it over and over in his head, confused by it. It had been wet with the salt of tears, a soft press of lips, your hand on his chest just to steady yourself. His replays of the incident weren't always PG either, and he had to take many cold showers to keep himself from any temptations involving his hand. That kiss had lit something up in him that he’d worked hard to keep dim. Want. Heat. The kind of need that didn’t fit cleanly into boss and employee, into right and wrong.
He’d spent too much of the next few days inside the house, which had been a mistake. The place still carried his father's voice— in the leather recliner, in the creak of the stairs, in the silence of the closed door that led to master bedroom he refused to sleep in. He stayed in his childhood room instead, posters down, trophies boxed, like he could keep the past contained.
It didn’t matter what you thought of him. That’s what he told himself. You’d only been here a week. You were temporary. Another worker passing through on your way to something better. And yet he found himself listening for your footsteps above the barn at night when he sat in Paloma's stall, just watching her. He liked keeping track of where you were during the day and wanted to ask questions about your life he had no business asking. Instead, he gave you the space you clearly wanted so badly.
And then he'd noticed you, just the other day after giving dewormer to the pasture horses, too much on his mind but he'd stopped short to watch you. You had come from the shed, moving too quick to be anything but guilty, looking over your shoulder but somehow not noticing him coming.
He watched you disappear up the barn steps quickly only to come down shortly after. Riley stored all kinds of things in the shed. Joel kept it organized too. But he knew…he knew that you knew what was in there. You'd had a full blown conversation about it, and you'd seemed so freaked out to even speak of it he hadn't expected…but if you were watching more of them…Well, that could only mean…
By the third time he caught you going in and out of the little yellow shed, he had to make a plan.
The idea of you still taking the time to watch his old films upstairs in the dark had his gut coiling tight, but not with anxiety anymore. Well, there was some of that. The wriggling bewilderment of wondering what you thought, if you'd judged the way the scripts were written to make him talk to women like that.
So, he made a plan to confront you. This was a matter of respect and boundaries, after all. You were watching him at his most vulnerable—naked and sweating, even if most of the scenes seemed more exciting than they really were.
He knew it was childish, waiting out for you that night. But there was no other way. So he'd confronted you, a whole script of what he wanted to say— a breach of privacy, that it was unbecoming of you, but…
He'd felt his temper wane the moment he'd seen you step inside the orange light of the shed. All thoughts of reprimands gone. He wanted to be controlled and firm, but the way you were trembling and nervous, like a rabbit caught in a wolf's den, he couldn't do it.
And then, even more foolishly, he'd nearly kissed you then and there. He'd seen every sign that you'd want it—dilated pupils, quickening breath. Your pulse beat so loud against the tips of his fingers as he traced your soft skin.
But you wouldn't say the word. So he stopped.
And now, on top of the awful days and piss poor mood, he had something else to make it even worse.
Tommy fucking Miller.
Dinner was nothing but forks and knives scraping plates, chewing, the low clink of glass. Conversation never rose above the surface.
How's Sarah?
Good. How's work?
Good.
That was about it, past the muttered compliment from his little brother about the steak. But Joel knew something was coming before Tommy even leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs, one hand settling on his knee as if bracing himself.
“Can’t believe you’re back here after all this time,” Tommy said once the beer bottles were empty and the dishes sat finished clean.
"Yeah," Joel grunted, sipping the last dregs of his bottle. "Me neither."
Tommy huffed out a laugh that didn’t carry any humor. “Always figured you’d die before you stepped foot back in this house.”
Joel’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t have much choice.”
“There's always a choice.”
Joel looked slowly up at him, his brow heavy over his gaze.
“I’m just sayin’,” Tommy shrugged, but his shoulders were tight. “You left soon as you could. Didn't seem like you were eager to get back here.”
“You seem to remember that night differently than I do, little brother.” Joel’s voice stayed even, but something underneath it sharpened. “Oughta' get yer head checked.”
Tommy shifted in his seat. “All I remember is I had a one way ticket outta here with a scholarship to Texas A&M that I had to let go of to be here with Pops.”
"I tried, Tommy." Joel squeezed his eyes shut, "You know I did."
Tommy choked out a laugh, "Yeah, county fair every year really counts as tryin' in your book, huh—?"
"Jesus, boy— why are you even here?" Joel cut off.
He and his brother glared at one another across the room, the question heavy between them on the hard wood lacquered table. Joel wish he'd get to the point, why he'd even come all this way. It couldn't have been this, to berate him, to make him feel more guilty than he already did. Could it?
"You remind me of him, ya know," Tommy finally said.
Joel stood up, his chair screeching the hardwood beneath his boots. "I know you didn't just say that shit to me."
Tommy didn't back down, both of their tempers rising to each other's bait. "Look at you— startin' to raise your voice about things that don't matter, tryna keep this place afloat when you know it's gonna run you into the ground just like it did to him. To me. Abandonin' yer family up north."
Joel rounded the table fast enough that the sound of his boots bounced off the walls, his fist coming down beside the plates hard enough to rattle them. His finger jabbed in the air towards Tommy's face before he could stop himself. He knew it wasn't right, it wasn't fair. They were both carrying versions of the same man in different ways, answering to a voice that wasn't alive anymore. That kind of thing should've pulled them closer, should've made it easier to understand each other. And yet—
"I came back here because I wanted to make somethin' right of it. And you—you got your wish, Tommy. Nice little wife and kid up in cozy Austin. All you had to do was be here two more years. And then you got to get away and have a god damn life. But I came back cause it was the right thing to do. Don't act like it's so easy. Like it's fuckin' rainbows and sunshine here."
"All our life all you wanted was to take over the farm, his legacy." Tommy growled back, looking into his brother's eyes. "You suddenly have a change of heart?"
"Yeah. Thirty fuckin' years ago, I did." Joel scoffed with a snarl. "You sure gotta' funny way of showin' up here outta the blue just to rile me up. But you know what I think, Tommy?"
"Oh, this oughta be good," Tommy rolled his eyes, shifting his feet in annoyance.
"I think—"
But then both of them stopped.
The second porch stair gave its familiar creak. It was never a loud sound, even after the first and second time it broke, but it was like a warning bell of their childhood. They would have about five seconds before the door would open and the presence of their father would change the entire mood of the house.
Both of their heads snapped at break neck speed toward the front door. The fight still hummed between them, but something had replaced it. Something older and wired into their very bones.
Joel let out a rough breath and straightened. “Probably Jesse needin’ to get home.”
Opening it, he was surprised to find you standing there.
"Hi." you said softly, wringing your hands together.
Joel glanced back at Tommy and then stepped aside without a word, giving you room to enter. You moved in carefully, eyes flicking around the room before landing on the other Miller at the table.
“This is my new barn help,” Joel said, voice even but tight. “This here’s Tommy.”
He didn’t look at either of you. He had to get his temper in line first, squash the fight of adrenaline in his bloodstream before he could be hospitable. His hand came up to scratch through his beard roughly and a bit distracted. He caught the way your eyes followed the movement before glancing back at his guest.
You plastered on a polite smile and reached out when Tommy stood, and he took your hand with easy warmth.
"Howdy, darlin', pleasure to meet ya." Tommy said, "you must be the one givin' my brother all this hard time."
You blanched, and Joel had to clamp his jaw to keep from snapping at him. Tommy had always had that way about him, that easy grin and teasing lilt that made women lean in without thinking. He could turn it on without effort. But it had been too tense between you and him these past few days, and you took his brother's poking as interrogation.
“I’m only teasin’ ya, sweetheart,” Tommy chuckled, giving your hand an extra shake before letting go. “He must be really messin’ with ya to make your face turn that shade.”
“Sorry,” you said with a small, nervous laugh, your shoulders lowering a fraction. “I'm so used to talking to the horses now, hardly get a word in with this one," you joked, shoving your thumb over your shoulder before glancing back with a smile on your face, "What are you guys up to?”
Joel nearly smiled back. It almost felt normal between you two with just that one teasing remark. Like it did in the beginning—could it have been only last week when you were teasing him like that at the fenceline?
"Bout to have some dessert, I believe." Tommy smiled like a cheshire at his brother.
Joel grunted and headed for the kitchen. He could hear the low murmur of your voices behind him, the soft giggle that slipped out of you at something Tommy said, and it made him feel like he was a teenager again. Left out while his brother flirted with any of the girls that came to ride their new prospects.
Joel took the cheesecake from the fridge that he was saving for you—for whenever you decided it was safe again to have dinner here—and began cutting a few slices. He set one down in front of you without comment, slid another across to Tommy, who caught the plate mid-slide across the wood table, licking frosting from his thumb like he hadn’t just been ready to swing a fist ten minutes ago.
“Wine, darlin’?” Tommy asked.
"Oh, um, sure. Yeah."
Joel moved around the table, grabbing the opened bottle that waited corked at the mahogany hutch in the corner. and poured you a glass without asking how much.
He told himself to let it go. Told himself this was better, this was normal. You walking into the middle of it had kept either of them from doing something stupid. But as he watched you lean toward Tommy, answering him easily, smiling in a way you hadn’t smiled at Joel in days, the temper he’d tried so hard to bury didn’t fade.
Over the next hour or so, Tommy settled into his rickety wooden chair like he'd never left it. All the years between Austin and this dining room were nothing more than a long weekend away. He talked easily to you, one story about that damn dog that threw him into the second step easily slipped into another about Joel falling off his colt the first time he tried to ride him. His brother had one elbow hooked over the back of the chair, boot kicked out under the table, his hand around another bottle of beer as he spoke.
"He swore up and down he could do it," Tommy said, grinning at you, "Wouldn't listen to nobody— not even a second in, Fender was throwin' 'em in the mud."
Joel rolled his eyes and took a slow drink of wine. “You forget to mention I was twelve.”
"Old enough to know a colt ain't gonna take kindly to someone on its back right away," Tommy shot back, a smug grin pulling a dimple in his chin as he sipped his beer.
You laughed, and it wasn’t forced this time. It rang sweet and warm through the kitchen, and Joel felt it in his chest before he could stop himself. But you weren’t just watching Tommy. Every time he exaggerated a detail, every time he puffed his voice up to make Joel sound smaller or meaner or dumber than he’d ever been, your eyes flicked back to him like you were checking the record, studying him. Measuring what was true.
Tommy didn’t seem to notice. He kept talking, filling the house with himself the way he always had, taking up space without asking for it. Even sitting down he felt taller, louder, the center of gravity in any room he walked into. He asked you questions about the farm, about how you were liking it here, about whether his brother was workin’ you too hard.
“You can tell me,” Tommy said lightly, tipping his glass toward you. “I’ll knock some sense into him.”
Joel felt his jaw tighten again, waiting for the answer.
You smiled into your wine before looking up. “I'd say he's been more than fair.”
Tommy hummed, skeptical. “That so?”
You nodded, then glanced at Joel again, something quieter passing between you that Tommy wasn’t privy to. “He's good at taking care of everyone.”
Joel looked down at the wooden grain of the table, suddenly aware of the way his shoulders had eased without him meaning to. He hadn’t realized he’d been braced.
Tommy leaned forward on his forearms. “So you plannin’ on stickin’ around, or you just passin’ through?”
It was casual, but Joel heard the weight of it. He didn’t look at you this time. He kept his eyes on the table, fingers curling loosely around his glass.
“I don’t know yet,” you said after a pause. “Still figurin’ it out.”
Tommy studied you for a second, then smirked. “Well, if you stay, you’ll have to get used to him broodin’ around like he’s got the weight of Texas on his back. He’s been like that since he was eight.”
Joel scoffed. “You ain’t exactly sunshine, Tommy.”
“Yeah, but at least I'm charmin' about it.”
You laughed again, and this time when Joel looked up, you were already looking at him. Not at Tommy. At him. Your mouth curved just slightly like you were in on something private, like you understood more than the story being told.
By the time the wine bottle was finished off and Tommy had picked at some more snacks to sober himself up for the ride home, his brother was rising from the table with a heavy sigh.
“I should get goin’. Wanna make it back before Maria heads into work in the mornin’.”
You rose too, brushing your hands down your jeans before offering one to him. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“You too, sweetheart.” Tommy took your hand easily, giving it a warm squeeze. Joel watched the exchange closely, reminding himself it was only manners. Only friendliness. “And if he ever tells you about the time somebody tried to drink Mary’s milk while she was foalin’,” Tommy added, pointing a finger at Joel, “That was him.”
You barked a laugh, head tipping back, and Tommy looked up at his brother, the live wire that hummed hours ago simmered down to an old rusted current.
Joel stepped forward and took Tommy’s hand, gripping it hard before pulling him in just enough to clap a hand against his shoulder. “Drive safe. Tell Benji I said hi.”
"You know I will—kid asks about you all the time. And… about what I said earlier—"
"S'okay, Tommy," Joel shook his head.
Tommy paused, searching his face, then nodded with one more clap to his brother's shoulder, and grabbed his keys off the counter. The screen door slapped shut behind him as he crossed the porch, boots thudding down the steps. He stopped beside his truck and leaned over the open driver’s door, looking back toward the house.
“Don’t let him scare you off,” he called to you with a crooked smile, then glanced at Joel, something serious settling in his expression. “And don’t be a stranger. Spent too long like that. I’d appreciate havin’ my brother back.”
Joel lifted a hand in half a wave, nodding. “Get home safe.”
Tommy hauled himself into the cab, turning over the engine loudly in the dark, headlights sweeping across the yard before the truck rolled down the drive and disappeared past the fence line.
Joel stood there a moment longer than necessary before turning back toward you. You’d come up behind him in the doorway, hands tucked into your back pockets, a quiet breath leaving you.
“So that’s Tommy Miller,” you said.
Joel gave a short nod.
“He’s kind of a cocky son of a bitch, huh?”
Joel unfolded his arms from his chest, a breathless bark of laughter surprising him from his own throat. "That he is." he said, smiling crookedly down at you.
For the first time in days, things felt a little lighter between the two of you. He hoped he could keep it that way.
You were smiling up at him, then glancing out toward the pasture, the driveway, the house, and back to him again. He watched the way your thoughts moved across your face. He wished, so badly, that you would just say whatever was sitting there.
"Joel… " you began, "I think we need to talk—"
"Joel!"
A voice, sharp and insistent and terrified, came from the barn door that was sliding open, wood against wood and metal track. Both of your head snapped toward it.
Jesse was running across the driveway, but Joel didn’t wait for him to reach the porch. He was moving down the steps, pulse climbing, you right behind him.
"What is it?"
"It's Paloma. She's gone into labor."
Joel was already striding toward the barn before Jesse finished the sentence, long steps eating up the gravel between the house and the wide barn doors. He heard the scrape of you and Jesse's boots behind him, nearly jogging to keep pace as he moved past the first row of stalls without so much as glancing inside them, heading straight for her.
He slowed only once he reached Paloma’s door. He stood there a second, watching. She was pawing at the matting, her bedding shoved into uneven piles where she'd kicked it around. Her tail lifted and dropped, a low bullish breath forced from her nose as her body tightened.
“Hey, girl,” he murmured as he stepped carefully inside.
His hands moved over her neck automatically, down the length of her shoulder, along her side. He pressed his palm into the curve of her belly and felt the tightening there, the way her muscles drew hard beneath the skin and then softened again. He walked behind her, checked beneath her tail, watched her for a long moment. Only when he was satisfied did he straighten and move with purpose. His fingers reached for her pale blonde tail, braiding it quickly, his hands working through the strands before taping it tight so it wouldn’t interfere later.
When he stepped back into the aisle, his brain was counting down the hours.
“She’s got some time yet,” he said. “This is only the first stage. Jesse, let me take you home." and then he turned to you, "Call Tess. Stay here, watch her.”
"Me?" you gaped.
He didn’t feel like he had the luxury of indulging that uncertainty, not with the clock already ticking in his head. “Yes, you,” he answered, not unkind but he knew there was a firmness to his tone. “Call me if anything changes. Get her hay out of the stall. Water bucket too.”
You shook your head, and he saw the fear rising under your skin.
"But—but I have no clue—what if something goes wrong? You're gonna be almost an hour away!" you exclaimed.
He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight, and stepped closer so he didn’t have to raise his voice.
“If she starts rollin’, you keep her from casting herself. If you see red instead of clear when her water breaks, you call Tess right away.”
The word red seemed to have stricken you.
“And if she starts pushing?”
“Then you stay out of her way. Let her lie down. Don’t crowd her.” He leaned his head down to catch your eyes before they started spiraling. “You’ve been watching her all week. You know her.”
“I don’t want to be alone if something—”
You cut yourself off, swallowing around something in your throat as you looked away from him into her stall again.
Joel heard it anyway.
“You won’t be,” he said, steady, his hands falling to your shoulders. His hands nearly swallowed the caps of them, his touch felt too rough, too big for something like this. "Listen, look at me, hun." you finally did, "Call Tess and get her here. I’ll be back. Everythin's gonna be fine. She's just nervous because its her first go of it. You gotta stay calm for her, keep your voice steady. I will be back.”
Paloma groaned again, tail lifting, muscles trembling along her flank.
Your eyes searched his face, big and scared and unsure. But he watched as your brows knitted, a look of determination washing it all away.
“Okay.”
He held your gaze another second, searching your face for something—what, he wasn't sure. What the hell were you going to talk to him about tonight? He needed to push that thought away for now, tuck it somewhere behind in his mind. His eyes flickered around between yours, then lower. He had to drop his hands from your shoulders, to refocus his head right now.
“Jesse. C’mon.”
At the barn door with his farm hand behind him, he paused and looked back down the aisle.
You were already turned toward Paloma again.
“Call me,” he said once more.
You nodded.
You
Outside the stall, you sat watching the pale yellow horse with your back pressed uncomfortably against the wood. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, your phone held to your ear as the dull ring echoed again and again.
Paloma shifted, heavy and restless, hooves scuffing where she had shoved most of her bedding aside and was now pawing at the rubber mat beneath. Her tail lifted and dropped every few seconds. You watched for something different, something that would tell you it had truly begun. She lowered herself slowly, rolled onto her side, then almost immediately struggled back to her feet, skin shivering over muscle beginning to dapple with sweat.
Your throat worked as you swallowed down the tightness there. You kept watching. Watching. Watching.
This was all normal. You thought it was, at least. Joel said she'd be restless, up and down, sweating. You'd even googled it quickly to make sure. But still, you were on edge.
You thought of your backpack still sitting at the bottom of the stairs to the apartment. The way you had almost left and demanded a ride home. You had been ready to confront him, to finally say what had been building up. But then you’d overheard him arguing with his brother, the way they circled each other, saying almost what they meant but never fully. It had made you pause. It made you see how lonely Joel Miller really was. But none of that mattered right now.
Paloma let out a low, strained groan.
The ringing stopped.
"You've reached Tess Servopolous. Leave me a message and—"
You hung up.
Dialed again.
"Hey. Everything okay?"
You sagged with relief at the sound of a real voice on the line. “Yeah, I think so—I—I tried calling Tess but she’s not answering.”
"You called her personal?" Joel said on the other line.
You nodded before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”
He sighed, the engine in the background loud and impatient as it ate up the road.
“You drop off Jesse yet?” you asked.
“Yeah, I’m on my way back and—oh, hang on—Tess is callin’ me. I’ll call ya back, hun.”
“Okay,” you said, maybe a little too quietly.
The pet name hit you wrong and right at the same time. Your chin trembled, throat thickening before you could contain the tremble in your voice. You hung up and forced a deep breath into your lungs, gripping your phone between both hands as you watched Paloma.
She stood again, legs spread wider now, tail lifted and held.
And then you saw—
A bulge.
Your eyes widened as you looked closer—it looked as though maybe her water was finally breaking. You couldn't make out the color, what it looked like. You pushed yourself up onto your knees, squinting through the light of the stall.
But no, it wasn't clear. Not the pale, translucent sac you saw from googling photos of what to expect, it wasn't thin enough to see a hoof through.
It was dark.
A deep, violent red, glossy and thick, pressing outward with the next contraction.
Your stomach dropped so hard you felt dizzy.
“No,” you breathed.
Paloma strained, a guttural sound tearing out of her as the red membrane pushed farther out, stretched tight and misshapen.
Fuck.
You scrambled for your phone just as it buzzed in your grip.
“Hey,” Joel said, casually. “Tess is on with me. Her damn car broke down so I gotta get her—" he paused, "What’s goin on?”
You didn’t look away from Paloma. “It’s not clear.”
“What?”
“The placenta!” you said, your voice shaking now. “It’s not clear, Joel. It’s red. It’s—it’s dark red.”
“That a red bag?” Tess’s voice cut in, suddenly close, suddenly focused.
“I think so,” you said. “I don’t see feet. I don’t see anything, oh god.”
Joel cursed.
“Okay,” Tess said immediately. There was no softness to her voice. “Listen to me carefully.”
Paloma groaned again and dropped hard onto the stall floor. The red membrane protruded farther, thick and wrong against the pale of her coat.
“You don’t got time,” Tess continued. “That placenta’s already separated. The foal ain’t gonna get any oxygen soon if we wait any longer.”
Your vision tunneled.
“What do I do?”
“You need to open it. Right now.”
You stared at it, horrified. “Open it?”
“Get gloves on. You should be able to open it with just your hands. You’re gonna listen to everything I say, you hear me?” Then, sharper: “Joel, what’s your ETA?”
Joel's voice was strained, blending with the growl of his engine as you heard him slam the gas, "Ten minutes."
"Make it five," she demanded, "Kid, you still with me? Got your gloves?"
“Yes!” you squeaked, already running. You tore into the tack room, yanked a pair of rubber gloves from the box, shoved them on with shaking hands, nearly tripping as you rushed back.
You dropped the phone into the bedding and hit speaker.
“I’m here, girl,” you murmured to the horse, even though your pulse was roaring in your ears. You tried to even your breathing, to slow your heart. Your fingers brushed along her hindquarters first, slow, steady, letting her know you were there. “I’m here.”
You lowered yourself behind her.
The membrane pulsed with the next contraction, swollen and obscene and so very wrong.
You reached for it.
It was warm beneath your gloved fingers, thicker than you expected, resistant in a way that made your stomach twist. Paloma’s body clenched again and you froze, heart hammering so hard you thought you might black out.
“Do it between her contractions. You'll feel her tighten up.” Tess urged through the phone. “When she relaxes, tear it.”
Paloma exhaled, her body loosening slightly.
"Okay, I'm doing it now." you said. You dug your fingers into the wet sac, and pulled hard. It split open, wet and bloody, dark fluid spilling over your hands, your jeans, and into the bedding of the stall. It was hot and shocking, and you gasped, but didn't pull back.
"Okay, you're gonna need to reach in and tell me what you feel. You might have to really get in there, girl. Hope you're not squeamish."
You slid your hand in, past the knuckle, past the wrist, feeling nothing. Your forearm went in deeper, feeling resistance as her muscles trembled around you.
"I feel—"
Nothing, you felt nothing. Just scorching heat and her muscles contracting around you.
But then, there it was.
"I feel one! I feel a leg, I think!"
"How many?"
You lightly gripped your fingers around what felt like a long slender leg , "One—I feel one hoof."
There was silence except for the loud engine of Joel's truck.
"Tess—!?" Joel growled.
“Shit. Alright.” Tess said, quickly. “You’re gonna have to push the foal slightly back in and find the other. The baby might be stuck with its head bent the wrong way. You need to get in and move 'em around right so you have a head and two legs facing you. You listenin'?”
Paloma let out another strained cry and your free hand pressed hard against her leg, trying to soothe her.
“I hear you,” you said, even though your whole body was shaking.
You reached deeper. Your elbow disappeared into the mare, shoulder pressing into her hindquarters as you reached blindly around the small body inside, feeling for another leg, a head, anything.
Paloma convulsed around you again, pinching down around you, her muscles clenching so hard your arm was going numb.
You gasped, cheek against her flank as you tried to keep your footing in the blood-slick bedding beneath you.
"I can't—shit—" you gasped, "she's clamping down, Tess, I can't—"
"It's okay, she's probably goin' into shock. You gotta stay calm girl. Breathe."
Stay calm.
Meanwhile your jeans were soaked, your hands were slick and numb, the floor beneath you was turning dark and red, sticking to everything. There was more blood than you were ever expecting.
Paloma let out a sound you'd never heard from her before. It shocked your spine straight, your brain to whiten. It was as close to a scream you'd ever heard a horse make.
"Joel?" you said, you didn't even mean to.
"I'm here, baby." he answered instantly, but his voice sounded so far away, so distant.
"I think—I don't know—she's—she's stopped pushing, she's stopped—nothing—oh my god, Paloma? PALOMA?" you tried to shake her where your hand rested on her leg, pinching and pushing her to shake her out of her stupor.
“Kid, you need to get up and check her gums,” Tess said, "get your hand out and go check her now."
You pulled your arm free, scrambling forward around her, slipping, almost falling as you grabbed Paloma’s jaw and lifted her lip.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “They’re nearly white.”
“Alright,” Tess said, and she was trying to stay even, but you could hear it now. The edge. “She’s in shock. You don’t have time to wait for a contraction. You need to pull when I tell you.”
“I’m not— I don't think I can, I'm not strong enough,” you sobbed. It was humiliating and honest and you didn’t care. This could be a hundred pound foal you'd be yanking from the poor mare.
"You have to be." Tess snapped. "Pull yourself together and get back to her flank."
You could still hear Paloma's breathing, rapid and shallow, her sides fluttering instead of expanding. She was alive. You had to act fast.
But blood and fluid was pooling beneath her tail.
You shoved your arm back inside her, this time without hesitation, without delicacy, without thinking about what you were touching or how it felt.
You found the second leg.
"I'm in." you told Tess.
Your hand slipped.
You gripped harder.
“Okay,” Tess said, voice tight. “When I say pull, you pull with everything you’ve got. Down and back. That baby needs you, girl."
That baby needs you.
Your vision blurred.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, to Paloma, to the unseen foal, to Joel, to yourself. “I’m so sorry.”
"Pull!"
Joel
He hadn't turned the truck off when he saw Tess's car. He didn’t fully stop either, just jammed his foot into the brake long enough for her to wrench the passenger door open and climb in with her phone still pressed tight to her ear, already speaking to you in that firm tone that she used when there wasn’t room for panic even if it was clawing at her throat. The second her door slammed shut he was back on the gas, the engine never dipping, the truck lunging forward hard enough that dirt and gravel snapped against the undercarriage.
She barely looked at him as she kept the phone to her ear.
“I’m gonna hang up now., baby." he said over the groan of the engine, "Tess is with me. I’m here. I’m still here.”
The word kept slipping out without thought, pulled from somewhere deeper than pride or caution. Baby. He didn’t care until the line went dead and the cab filled only with the loud protests of the engine and Tess’s voice speaking into her own phone.
He had one hand on the wheel and the other braced hard against the top of it, leaning forward like it would get him there faster. The road unspooled ahead of him in thin ribbons of yellow light. He barely registered the turns he took, the dips, the fences. His body felt in tune with the sounds of your crying through Tess's speaker.
He should've been there, should've stayed. The hell was wrong with him? Leaving you there to fend for yourself with Paloma? Of course something was bound to go wrong. He thought he had time. There was always time, wasn't there? To fix things, to come back.
He was so good at leaving. Tommy was right. He was so practiced on stepping out just when it mattered most and telling himself it was for the better. He had made a life out of convincing himself he wasn't abandoning his only brother, his father, regardless of how everything went down.
He hadn't been able to hold onto a relationship to save his life, his heart. His job made it weird, made everything difficult. He'd never gotten used to having anything intimate with women and attaching anything to it. So he always left.
But he prided himself on sticking with his daughter for her entire life, for doing unthinkable things to pay his bills and keep food on her table, for soccer practice and summer camps and vacations. But now—now that she had her own life and her own two feet on the ground making her own way—he'd abandoned her too. To come back here to this haunted place.
And now, his final crime, abandoning you and Paloma at the farm.
Tess was talking to you, walking you through birthing the foal from Paloma's spent body. That too was a mark on him. First year back to the farm and a mare who was bound to die on his watch. An orphaned foal. He wasn't sure he'd be able to carry on if that was the case. All he could do was pray to a God he wasn't even sure existed anymore.
He could hear your wrecked sobbing still, words garbled into Tess's ear as she spoke straight to the point with you—no coddling, only business. He wished he was with you, to keep you away from this part. The gore of bringing life into the world, the way horses don't always have the same will to live that we wanted them to.
The arch of Miller Stables finally appeared through the trees, one hanging light bright in the dark. The long winding driveway stretched ahead like punishment as he pressed his foot all the way down and the truck roared, gravel spraying as he took the curve too fast and corrected it without slowing. Tess gripped the dash, knuckles white, speaking into her phone, her voice suddenly urgent.
He barely felt the stop when he hit the brakes outside the barn. He didn’t remember killing the engine. He only knew he was out of the truck, air tearing at his lungs as he ran.
Paloma's stall door was wide open, and inside was a sight only hell should know. The wet smell of metal and the heat of sweat filled his nose as he took in the scene.
And your face.
Oh, god.
Eyes swollen, cheeks wet, your mouth pulled wide as you tried to drag in air. Blood coated your hands, your jeans, your forearms. It soaked the straw beneath you. The foal’s small legs protruded from Paloma, the head resting limp in your lap, the body only halfway into the world.
For a moment he couldn’t move. The image lodged in him, permanent. He'd see it for years after, burned in his retina when he thought back on this night.
Tess pushed past him, dropping beside you, hands covering yours, voice low and steady as she spoke to you. She checked the foal with quick, efficient motions, lifting a lip, pulling back an eyelid, murmuring that you had done exactly what she told you to do.
You did great, kid. it's okay. I've got it from here.
Joel knelt on the threshold.
"Come here," he croaked. His voice wasn't his own, full of grit and rough with desperation.
Your breath hitched when you heard him.
“Come here,” he tried again, kneeling in the doorway, one hand held out to you, open and steady despite the tremor in it. “Tess has it. It’s alright. Come here, baby. Please. Let’s get you inside.”
You didn’t move at first. You were locked in a sort of trance, hands still wrapped around those tiny legs like letting go would undo everything you had fought for.
Tess glanced up at him then, something tight in her expression but he couldn't help but catch the glimmer of determination in her gaze.
“Get her out of here, Tex,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, swallowing against the dryness in his throat, but he still didn’t move further into the stall. His hand stayed out, hovering between you, not wanting to startle you, not wanting to pull too hard.
“Sweetheart,” he tried again, even quieter now, forcing softness to cover his fear. “Look at me.”
Your eyes flickered toward him.
“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d found you in a storm. “You did so good, hun. It's alright. Tess has her now. Come here. Let me take care of you.”
Your eyes seemed to register the world around you finally, a hiccuping cry as you stared at him, and all he could do was nod. He was trying to not let the thickening of his throat show. How he could barely stand to see you like this. He wanted to look away so badly, to not see what he'd done to you. But he couldn't.
"Please." was his last word.
You finally moved. Fingers loosening, your body testing whether it was safe to let go. Tess's hands slid in to replace yours without a second of hesitation. You looked down at your hands like you didn't recognize them.
Then you pushed yourself back on your heels. Your knees wobbled, your weight shifting unsteadily as you tried to stand, your hand slipping into the bedding and catching yourself on the way up. Joel stood too, a mirror of you, both hands out.
Your hand braced on the side of the wall as you took a few small steps towards him, blood and fluid staining where your fingers dragged. He was crossing the distance in seconds. You didn't resist when he reached you.
Your hands came up blindly, searching, and when they found the front of his shirt, you clutched at it like a buoy sent out at sea. He wrapped both arms around you instantly, pulling you into his chest, not caring about the blood soaking into his shirt, not caring about anything except the way your body felt fragile and shaking against his.
“I’ve got you,” he said into your hair, voice low and thick, his lips pressing against the top of your head. “I've got you, baby girl."
He felt you sag into him, finally, all the strength you had used to keep yourself from falling apart the last hour, suddenly heavy in his arms. He held you in the stall door for a long moment, watching Tess move, pulling the foal out and assessing it.
He turned and took you away.
Over the kitchen sink, there was only warm amber light and the sound of running water.
It filled the silence between you. The steady rush, the change in pitch when it struck porcelain, the dull splash as it ran over your hands and down the drain. Clear at first. Then pink. Then briefly red again before fading back to clear.
Joel stood close enough to feel the heat of you but not close enough to crowd you. The rag in his hand had gone heavy and warm, saturated, and he kept wringing it out beneath the tap before bringing it back to your skin. His fingers worked carefully over your knuckles, over the fine bones of your wrist, up the length of your forearm. He pressed harder where the blood had dried into the creases, softer where your skin looked raw from scrubbing.
You were so quiet he didn’t trust himself to break it.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the dark window above the sink, not really seeing the glass, not really seeing the yard beyond it. Just staring out into the night like you expected something to emerge from it. Like any minute Paloma might step into view, foal at her side, everything resolved and whole.
He kept his eyes on your hands.
He had failed you.
The thought settled in him without argument.
He had left. He had measured the time, the distance, and told himself it was safe. He had assumed first stage would stretch on long enough for him to get back, assumed the ranch would behave for him just because it had in the past. He had come back to this place telling himself he could carry it, that he knew what he was doing, that he wasn’t his father and he wasn’t a boy anymore.
And yet the first real test of it, the first birth under his care, and you had been the one kneeling in blood while he was miles away.
The rag moved over your elbow, catching on a stubborn patch. He shifted closer to the light, pushing your sleeve up carefully, exposing more of your arm so he could see what he was doing.
The house around you was dark, the new moon leaving everything beyond the kitchen swallowed in shadow. The only warmth came from the lamp over the sink and the heat of the water running over his skin.
He wished he could promise you things. That it would never happen again, he would never leave you again. That you never had to speak to him again if you did not wish to. He wished he could promise that Paloma would be fine, that her baby would live after minutes without oxygen.
But promises, he knew, were easy to make, and harder to keep.
The water running filled his ears. He wrung the rag out again. It was clearer now.
“I…was pregnant once.”
Joel froze.
For a moment he thought he had misheard you. Thought the rush of water had distorted something else. His hand hovered midair, rag dripping onto the basin.
He hadn’t said anything, had he? He hadn’t pressed or asked anything of you. He had been trying so hard not to push or crowd you, not to demand more from you tonight than you had already given. He had thought silence might feel safer. That quiet hands and steady water might be enough.
He swallowed, carefully, and forced his hand to move again. He brought the rag back to your skin slowly, easing it over the dried blood at your elbow, pushing your sleeve up with quiet fingers.
You took a deep, steadying breath, and he felt as if it filled his own lungs with air too.
"But I…I lost the baby." you said, chin wobbling.
He felt his grip tighten despite himself, cloth pressed into your arm, but he forced himself to soften, his thumb smoothing over the place he pressed.
Your eyes were still fixed out the dark window. "I'm supposed to be on a backpacking trip right now with my best friend and I can't even talk to her. I can't do anything. I'm supposed to be in school and I failed the entire semester."
He hadn't even realized you were in school. He barely asked questions about why you'd been needing a job, why you'd been displaced. He only knew what you told him, and even then it had only been a few words. He should've asked more questions, should've gotten to know you more instead of all this hiding.
"S'that…why…?" he didn't know how to ask such questions, didn't know if you wanted him to. Maybe you just needed someplace to finally let all this go, let it circle the drain and ring clear like the water.
You let out a shaky sigh, your eyes coming back down to where your hands met, watching his closely.
“My parents wanted me to keep it,” you continued. “Even though I was still in school. I don't think I understood … I grew up thinking there wasn’t another way, and even though by then I knew more about the world, the options… it didn't cross my mind that they were for me.”
He nodded. It sounded too familiar. A mirror, somehow. Not quite identical, but how a reflection shows the opposite a person. A different story, but still somehow the same.
“But then,” you said, and your voice faltered for the first time, “something went wrong during the second trimester. I had finally… I don't know, wrapped my head around it. I had plans for cribs and names and what she’d look like.”
She.
He looked up at you then.
You didn’t meet his eyes.
“I woke up to blood in my bed,” you said, gaze still memorizing his hands over your skin. “And that…was…it.”
He could tell it took everything from you to say the words aloud. Every breath seemed to cost you, every formed syllable and truth of what had happened.
“She?” Joel asked softly.
You nodded once.
“Yeah," There was a softness in your mouth, a sad grin starting to pull into your cheek, your gaze softening. "I always thought it would be a girl. Had a name picked out already.”
He smiled a little too, a mirror, reflection, the same sadness in either of you, but different somehow.
"What was her name?" he then asked.
For a second he thought he’d misstepped. You drew in a quiet breath and shut your eyes, and he felt it in his own chest like he’d pressed somewhere tender without meaning to. His thumb gentled against your skin even though there was nothing left to wipe off, the rag now forgotten in a heap at the bottom the sink.
When your eyes opened again, they were glassy, but your smile widened anyway, fragile and wet with holding back the tears.
"Ellie."
Joel sighed out a long breath, and held your skin there for a moment, letting her name take up the space, to be real, to let you hold onto the vision of your bouncing baby girl in your arms, even all these years later.
"That's a real pretty name, darlin'." he said finally, letting his hands fall from you when he realized how long he'd been standing so close.
He could've sworn you leaned in further, chasing that touch, but your hands only landed on the counter for support.
Your hair was a mess, still damp at the edges from where his fingers had pinched out the violence of blood. Your skin was warm and sticky where your tears had dried. But your breathing had evened out, though there was still something tight beneath it. You looked exhausted and wrecked and yet impossibly beautiful all at once.
It reminded him of the first day you’d shown up with that plastic bin and your backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes uncertain and lost like you were waiting for the ground to give out beneath you. He’d watched that look soften over the days, watched confidence settle into your posture, watched you find your footing here.
And then tonight had dragged something older back to the surface.
You straightened slowly, collecting yourself, and when you looked up at him there was something different there now. Lighter, yet guarded.
"Your turn."
He huffed, a little surprised, it could barely be called a laugh. But you were smiling a little crookedly at him now, teasing.
"My turn?"
"Tell me your secret."
He swallowed hard, his smile vanishing. The shift in you was abrupt enough to make him feel off balance. One second you were standing in a memory that bled, the next you were tossing the weight back to him like it was a game.
“Or don’t,” you added quickly, shrugging.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the heat there. “Why don’t we get you changed and showered,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Then I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”
“Oh, right,” you said lightly, “men only respond to naked wet women in their house.”
He knew the joke was just lightness you were forcing, just your walls getting built back up. He knew that play like the back of his hand. For a moment, he only stared at you, trying his best not to be thrown by it. The way you could pivot so quickly from something fragile and grief ridden to playfulness.
The switch of your humor was giving him whiplash. He felt dizzied by it, confused.
“Come on,” he said finally, pointing toward the stairs, dragging his other palm over his brow to hide the color rising into his cheeks. “Upstairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
You
The shower in Joel’s house did more than wash the blood from your skin and rinse away the thick, metallic feeling that clung to you. When you stepped under the spray and let it beat against your shoulders, the heat slowly untangled the memory from your body. And when you reached for the soap, you realized you would step out of it smelling like him. Something in your heart constricted at the thought.
He was a simple man. That much was clear. His private world, reduced to a narrow plastic shelf in the shower, held a bar of Irish Spring and a bottle that claimed to be shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer, and eight other things in one.
But it gave you something to focus on, as ordinary and uncomplicated as it was. You traced the tiny print on the back of the bottle, reading every word twice just to keep your mind from drifting. You kept your eyes open, had to keep reading, because if you let your thoughts wander, you were back in your bed last year.
Sticky, wet, smelling of iron and rust. And tonight had pulled it up from wherever it had been buried. The helplessness of watching something slip away from you no matter how hard you tried, Paloma giving up…it was all too much. How could you and a horse have so much in common? Both of you had bodies that did not cooperate when it mattered most, that turned against the very thing they were meant to carry.
And then there was Joel, who had gone through it, raised a little girl and loved her with everything. Enough to bend his whole life around her. He had made choices, used his body in order to keep food on the table and keep her life as normal as possible.
You felt as if you'd been punishing him for it all along.
When you finally ran out of words to read on the back of the bottle, you put it down and turned off the scalding water, stepping out to grab a towel. You looked down at your clothes, a heap of bloody ruined fabric. You hadn't thought to grab your own. But you didn't think you could go back out there now. You didn't want to know, didn't want to see Tess's face when she told you neither of them had made it.
So you stepped out into the hallway, towel clutched to your chest as you padded around the dark landing, wood creaking under your footsteps.
"Joel?" you called softly.
No answer. Hm…
You padded down the hall, hands hesitating to reach out at every door. No light bled from beneath any of them. Maybe he'd gone back out to the barn, to check on the horses for bed as if nothing had changed from their usual routine.
You reached the largest bedroom at the end of the landing and pushed the door open slowly.
You paused.
It felt like stepping into a memory you weren't supposed to see. It was ghostly still and untouched, clear sheets covered everything, tucked around what must've been a dresser, a bedside table, a desk and a large king bed in the center. Dust lingered in the air in the shafts of light from the ceiling fan above.
You looked around, trying to make sense of it. It felt as if you'd stepped into a different, forgotten decade. Old, wooden furniture, antique yet simple. The bed still had a quilt underneath the plastic wrap, you could just make out the red and white patches. Above it hung a landscape painting of the land. The pasture and the mountains beyond it. You recognized them immediately, the exact line of ridge that framed the horizon when you stood out back by the fence.
And you knew, with a sudden, abrupt certainty, that you should not be in here.
As you turned to leave, you nearly collided into a wall.
Joel was there, filling the doorway, one hand rested on the knob. He had changed his shirt, his jeans. But he hadn't stepped inside, remaining in the hallway.
"Joel, I'm so sorry." you gasped, "I thought this was your roo—"
"C'mon."
He didn't raise his voice, but there was a tightness to him. A stone cold look on his face as his eyes flitted around the space.
You slipped past him, your knuckles that clutched the towel into place brushing against his chest as you did. He didn't make room or step back, and you felt the heat of him flooding your skin as you made your way down the hall.
He followed behind you until you heard the sound of another door opening.
“Here.”
The difference was immediate. There was life here, though the furniture felt smaller, nearly boyish. A chest sat at the end of the queen bed, covered in stickers of band logos, faded lucky horseshoes and bumper stickers from different rodeos. A lamp leaned slightly to one side on the nightstand.
"Is this…?"
"My room," the words left him in a sort of long exhale, "yeah."
You turned toward him, questions rising, but he was already holding out a folded stack of clothes. His eyes stayed somewhere above your shoulder, not quite meeting yours.
“Thanks,” you said, taking them carefully. The fabric was soft, worn in the way only something handled often becomes. “These are… yours?”
He nodded once. “Apartment’s locked.”
Your gaze dropped when he gestured. Your backpack rested against the dresser, set there neatly.
“Found your bag,” he said, and something about the stiffness in his voice told you he had an idea of why it was there in the first place.
"Thanks." you said again, though the word felt like it lost its weight.
Silence stretched, neither of you looking each other in the eye. You could feel him choosing what not to say. Your damp hair clung to your shoulders, droplets sliding cold down your spine as the room cooled around you.
"I'll…just…" he started, then shifted his weight towards the door, "yeah."
He left the sentence unfinished and stepped out, giving you privacy without looking back.
You changed quickly, pulling his clothes over your still-warm skin, the cotton soft and worn in ways that felt almost intimate. They swallowed you, long sleeves falling past your wrists, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging loose at your hips. You threw the towel over the chair without thinking and opened the door again.
He was still there in the hallway, chin braced in his hand, brows drawn tight in thought. When the bedroom light spilled across him, he straightened, like he’d been caught in something.
“Joel,” you started, stepping back into the room to give him space to follow, “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About… going into that…room, I guess. I'm sorry. I don’t even know.”
He came inside slowly and shut the door behind him. He was so quiet all of the sudden. It had you on edge.
"Sit." he said, pointing at the bed.
You did as he bid.
He paced once in front of you, hand dragging through his beard, then down the back of his neck. You could see the war happening in him. The instinct to shut down. The same instinct to deflect you had in the kitchen.
Eventually he sat beside you, not touching, elbows braced on his knees.
“You wanted my secret.”
Oh.
“Only if you want to tell me,” you said quietly.
He nodded once, then shook his head like he regretted it, then nodded again as if forcing himself forward.
"When I found out my…when Jess was pregnant…" he began. It seemed very difficult for him— to say this. To bring back the past as you did.
"I knew what my pops would think." he went on, he wasn't looking at you. His bedside lamp threw him in soft gold, reflecting in his heavy eyes.
"I was seventeen and panicked and…" his jaw flexed, bracing himself, "I asked her to get an abortion."
Your chest tightened, though there was no judgment only understanding. Seventeen. High school, living with the smell of fear and possibility and futures that hadn’t even formed yet.
Suddenly his words were spilling out very fast as he went on, as if trying to make up for the bomb he'd dropped, "I had no clue what I was doin. I had a whole life ahead of me, of bull ridin' and rodeos, horses to train. It wasn't in my plan. We were in school when she... I couldn't…I wasn't…ready."
His voice was tightening, whether from disuse of never saying the words before or having to bare himself fully to you now.
“She refused. And I’m glad she did. God, believe me, I'm am glad she did.” he shook his head, and then put his face in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. You'd never seen him like this. You'd seen him naked, sweaty, in the most vulnerable state you thought on film. But…you'd never realized how much more exposed this felt. You'd never seen…this.
“But my dad didn’t understand. I knew he wouldn’t. But he had to know.” His jaw tightened as if he were chewing on something bitter. “I expected the belt. Hell, I expected a black eye. I expected him to call me every name in the book. I just… I didn’t expect him to throw me out.”
Your hand found his back without you thinking about it, fingers smoothing over the broad curve of his shoulders. He was warm beneath your palm, solid, but you could feel the tension sitting there, humming beneath his skin.
“I was eighteen when Sarah was born,” he continued, and his voice softened when he said her name. “And Jess… she decided she didn’t want any of it anymore. Didn’t want me or the kid. We’d gotten married. I thought that meant…” He swallowed. “But then it was just me and the baby.”
You watched his hands instead of his face because they told the truth faster. His fingers were locked together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
He lifted his eyes to you then, and there was something naked in them that made your chest ache.
“I know you must think…” his voice faltered, “That I’m… that I chose that job because I wanted it. I didn’t. I didn’t have any options. I was livin’ on ramen and beans. Sarah couldn’t keep growin’ up on food stamps and whatever I could scrape together.” His throat worked. “Tess gave me a way out. It wasn’t some ego boost. But it paid.”
He shook his head once, frustrated with himself.
“I’d already failed my dad. Failed Tommy. I wasn’t gonna fail her too.”
“None of that is your fault, Joel,” you said.
“Listen,” he cut in gently but firmly, shaking his head. “I ain’t askin’ you to…hell, I don't know. I’m sayin’ I’m sorry you had to find out like that, that I scared you. And tonight…” He stopped there, the hesitation heavier than any raised voice. “You were gonna leave, weren’t you?”
You could only stare into his hazel eyes until he was tearing them away from you again, staring at the wood grain of the floor.
“I saw the bag,” he continued quietly. “I knew… well, because I’ve done it enough times myself.”
You felt heat crawl up your neck. Shame and grief and something else you couldn’t quite figure out.
“I ain’t good at this part,” he admitted, “The talkin’. The feelin’s. I say the wrong thing and make everythin' worse.”
“Joel,” you whispered, stopping the motion of your hand on his back so he’d feel the pause. “Look at me.”
It took him a second, but he did.
You had to pull together your courage, because you knew you'd only get one chance to say this.
“It’s not your fault your father was too proud to stand by you,” you said carefully.
"I know—" he frowned.
"No, you don't." you said sternly, "It’s not your fault he didn’t know how to love you the way you needed. It’s not your fault Jess left. And it’s not your fault you were forced into a decision to take a job that kept your daughter fed and healthy."
He looked like you'd smacked him across the face with your words. Your hand came up gently, finally feeling what that beard was like in the palm of your hand. Scratchy, thick.
“You are a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered. “And I’m sorry that everyone, including myself, made you feel like you weren’t.”
He closed his eyes, and to your surprise, leaned into your hand.
"I was scared." you said even lower, "scared that….that I had feelings and I'd never…"
Be brave, be brave be brave.
“I was scared,” you confessed again, quieter now. "That I’d never measure up to the women you’ve been with. When you were in that world… it just seemed so easy. For them, for you.”
His eyes opened again, studying you carefully.
"What were you so afraid of?"
You mouth frowned. Hadn't you said it? Hadn't you just admitted to him? You didn't know what else to say.
“You have to see what you do to me,” he went on, slowly. “When I was workin’… it was separate. It was physical. It didn’t…it never…” His hand came up, covering yours where it stayed cupping his jaw, “I never felt anythin’ for them.”
You felt your pulse start to climb.
“But with you…” He exhaled through his nose, almost frustrated by the admission, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Since the day you walked up to my truck with that bin and that backpack, I haven’t been able to separate work and…and what I want.”
He brought your hand down into his lap, tracing the life line of your palm.
"I don't know what it is. What you do to me. S'different than anythin'…anythin' I've ever…"
"I think I know." you murmured, "because I feel it too."
A faint smile pulled at his mouth, but it didn’t last.
“But I can’t…I won't…ask that of you. I can't keep you here,” he said quietly. “This place… it’s empty. It’s still my dad’s in ways.” His jaw tightened. “I haven’t stepped foot in the arena since I got back. I grab a lunge rope and my hands start shakin’. I walk past that room and my chest locks up. I don’t know how to live here yet.”
You shook your head, "We can make it right. Make it beautiful again. Make it yours, not his."
"But--school?" he asked. "Your life? I can't take that--"
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you admitted. “It was a degree I picked because it sounded right, even though I couldn't stand it. But this place, Joel…it feels right. I feel stronger here than I have in ages.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. “I want to stay. But only if you stay.”
The memory of the shed was coming back to you, he was so close again, the memory of it flooding your senses. The smell of Irish Spring, the scent of his sweat and how the yellow light of the bedside table cast his hazel eyes to turn to honey.
Your eyes are tellin' me one thing, but you won't say it.
"I want you, Joel."
And suddenly he was leaning in, his hand dropping your palm and coming up to your face.
And this time, when you kissed, it wasn't a light brushing of lips. It wasn't hesitant or wet with tears. It was warm, full and eager. You breathed each other in for a long moment as his lips melded to yours, the soft prickle of his mustache against your nose.
You couldn't help the way your hand traveled up his arm, his thick, veined arm, squeezing the corded muscle there beneath his sleeve. His hand not cupping your face came up to settle against your waist, squeezing you back, a nonverbal confirmation of everything that had led to this. Avoidance, fear, cowardice. Only to finally be where you'd wanted all along.
"Say it again," he whispered against your lips as he sucked in a breath.
"I want you," you breathed, "of course I want—"
He was kissing you again, harder now, pushing you back onto the bed, and both your hands came up to lock around his neck. You kept him close as he maneuvered your bodies until he was laying over you, one hand firm at your waist and the other still soothing along your cheek.
"Again."
You smiled, you couldn't help it. Was it really so strange to him? To be wanted like this?
"I want you," you breathed into his open mouth as your legs parted, welcoming him closer, letting his hips settle between them and oh—
Fuck, he was hard already. And bigger than anything you'd ever...
A low sound rolled up out of him then, half hum, half growl, vibrating deep in his chest where it pressed against yours.
"You're so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, his mouth drifting down from your lips to your jaw, then to the warm shell of your ear before trailing slowly along your neck. "Prettiest thing a man like me has seen in a long time."
"Man like you, huh?"
He smiled into the next kiss he planted on your neck, and hummed in amusement.
"Tell me," you said, your eyes drifting up to the ceiling as his beard rasped along the column of your throat, the scratch of it making your stomach flutter.
Hm? he hummed again, distracted, mouth still wandering.
"Tell me you want me too."
His teeth caught your skin, a quick nip that pulled a startled gasp from you.
"Silly girl," he murmured softly, voice thick with something like indulgence. "Course I wantcha. Can't you feel how badly I've been wantin' ya?"
He rolled his hips forward then, pressing harder into your waiting lap, and the slow drag of him against you made a helpless little sound slip from your throat.
"Yeah," he muttered against your neck, voice rough and baritone. "Been wantin' you since I laid my damn eyes on you."
You sucked in a breath.
Because for some reason, for some godforsaken reason, that was when your traitorous brain decided to remind you of everything that had happened since you met him.
The videos you'd watched.
Those tiny little pornstars climbing over him like they belonged there, bodies moving easy and practiced as they worked him just right, knowing exactly how to pull those sweet, grunting sounds from him that you had buried your fingers inside yourself imagining. The way he looked with them, big and sure and confident, the way he seemed to know exactly what to do with every inch of them. And here you were. A nobody, with a body less than perfect. In sweatpants and his sweatshirt, no sexy lingerie or makeup done, laying in his bed and—
"Hey."
You saw his eyes before you realized he'd spoken, still hazel, still clear, not swallowed yet by the dark haze of arousal.
You blinked, pulled back into the room, and lifted a hand to your forehead, covering your eyes.
"Sorry."
"Where'd you go just now?" he asked quietly.
His hand reached up and gently pulled yours away from your face, brushing your damp hair back as his gaze moved slowly across your features, searching.
"Nothing," you murmured quickly. "I'm fine."
Before he could answer, you cupped his face in both hands and pulled him down again, pressing your mouth to his. Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck, urging him closer, trying to drag the moment back where it had been just a second ago.
He kissed you back, but you had your eyes stayed open, watching him. And after a moment, you realized his eyes were open too, his brows tightening over his gaze.
Your stomach twisted. Shit, you were ruining this. Of course you were.
His hand came up then, large and warm against your jaw, and he gently pushed your face back just enough to look at you. His gaze moved over your lips, your eyes, then back again, thoughtful, before he leaned down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to them before saying:
"Tell me what's goin' on in that pretty head."
You sighed, the sound heavier than you meant it to be, and let your head fall back against his pillow. Your eyes drifted everywhere but him, tracing the ceiling, the corner of the room, the soft spill of light across the wall.
"It's just…" you started, then stopped.
Your fingers dropped and twisted into the sheet beside you.
"You're a…" you gestured vaguely toward him, heat creeping up your neck. "And I'm not. I'm just…"
The words stalled out in your throat.
Joel didn't move away from you. If anything, he settled more solidly where he was, one forearm braced beside your head as he watched you wrestle with it.
"A what?" he asked.
You huffed out a quiet breath.
"You know," you muttered. "You do this for a living."
For a moment, he didn't say anything, but a light sigh was released from his nose as his thumb traced your jaw as he watched you, deep in thought.
"I used to. And makin' a livin' like that…it was never anythin' real. You gotta know that." he said, shaking his head, "None of them made me feel as crazy as you do. I've been losin' my mind tryna get you to talk to me this past week."
You worried your bottom lip, but finally looked up at him, trying to read his expression.
"It was only a job, baby." he whispered. His thumb came up and gently tugged your lip free from where it was caught between your teeth.
"If you want, we can take a break. Sit here and talk about it some more." His voice softened even more. "But I promise you, nothin' I ever did for that job came close to how badly I wanna do this right now."
Your eyes flickered between his, his pretty eyes, his crow's feet and thick brows, the line that deepened between his brows of worry.
"It's you in my bed right now," he continued, shifting his hips slightly against you like he couldn't quite stop himself. "You who's got me feelin' like a damn teenager again."
His mouth curved faintly. "And you're gonna sit here and tell me you ain't the one who belongs here?"
He shook his head slowly, soft disbelief written all over his face.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek.
"You got no idea. Let me show you. Let me take care of you."
Let me take care of you.
Your hands came back up to his hair, tracing the hairline there, down to the protruding cheekbone, how could he feel such things with so much certainty? All this want, a desperation for this. But you knew, because you'd been feeling it too. For him. It was the part of how you fit into it all which made you uncertain.
But now…hearing him talk like that…
"Okay."
His eyes softened a bit at that, "Yeah?" he breathed.
"Yeah," you nodded, hands threading further into his hair.
"Okay," he mimicked, quieter this time.
One of his hands slid from your face down your back, broad palm warm as it moved over you, settling at your waist before slipping under the hem of your sweatshirt. His skin was rough against yours, calloused and steady, and the touch made your stomach flip. "Gonna take this off, alright?"
You nodded.
"Got no idea," he murmured under his breath, shaking his head faintly.
He leaned down to steal a quick kiss from your mouth as he did it, the movement easy, almost absentminded, like he couldn't quite stop touching you. Then he was lifting the sweatshirt up and over you, the fabric dragging warm across your ribs before it disappeared somewhere behind him.
A low rumble rolled out of him when he pulled back enough to look at you. Your chest, bare to the cool evening air now, heaved in heavy breaths, and then you felt his lips on your hip a second later, warm and sudden against your skin, the rough brush of his beard making you jolt. When you looked down, he was watching your breasts as they rose and fell with the motion of your lungs.
"And these?" he whispered, kissing past the hem of his borrowed pants.
"Okay," you said again, gnawing your lip, your hands always touching him without meaning to. In his hair, scratching through his beard, drifting across the broad plane of his shoulder.
He looked up at you as he placed another light kiss to your pelvis.
"Love seein' you in my clothes," he whispered. "But my god if it ain't better seein' em off of ya."
"Cornball," you chastised with a smile. He returned it, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked up at you. Then he sat back and tugged the borrowed pants down your legs one at a time, peeling them away until you were bare to the room, to his gaze. You noticed, suddenly, you could no longer see the hazel in them anymore.
"Not fair," you kicked at him as the pants came off, "take these off—" you nudged the hem of his shirt, then toed at belt holding up his jeans, trying to push them off too.
He grabbed your ankle, and pulled you down the mattress, hard so the back of your thigh was up against the denim of his lap. If you would've looked down, you could've seen your slick darkening against the zipper that hid his bulge.
"Bossy girls don't get what they want," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face.
And for a second you got a glimpse of The Texxxas Wrangler there. Cocky, knowing, confident.
You tried to kick at him again, but his grip on your ankle tightened, and he leaned down and bit the sole of your foot.
You yelped, and he held your leg open, "you're not lettin' me enjoy this, naughty girl."
Then his gaze dropped again, attention settling between your legs in a way that made heat rush straight to your face.
"Fuck," he breathed under his breath, shifting down and guiding your legs up over his shoulders. "Should'a known a pretty girl would have a pretty pussy like this."
He moaned a little just looking at it.
You could feel how wet you were, how it made your folds shine as he blew gently across your sensitive skin, pursing his lips and making you whine dramatically. Your legs hooked over his back, pulling him in.
"Be good," he scolded lightly, kissing just to the left of your slick, trembling center.
You huffed, but kept quiet.
He kissed again, then to the other side, and closer and closer, and your hips began to move, desperate for more. His thick beard scraped against you, prickling and thick against your sensitive skin.
His lips, soft and warm and wet, finally, finally pursed and kissed your throbbing nub.
"Ohhh…" you sighed in relief, letting your body become putty in his hands, which were sliding around your hips to keep you steady as his tongue dipped out, a bowl collecting nectar as he licked up and down, like he'd finally gotten a taste of ambrosia after years in a desert.
He moaned and groaned as he ate at you. There was no other word for it. He was a man starved far too long. And now you understood why none of those girls' moans had sounded so annoyingly pornographic. Because now you were here, in his arms, making mewling noises you couldn't control as his tongue pushed into you, his teeth scraping just barely over your clit when he pulled it into his mouth, tongue flattening against it.
Your hand was buried deep in his hair, legs locked around him, hips moving to thier own accord.
"Tha's it," he panted, tongue out, letting you push and pull up against him, "tha's it, baby, c'mon now, use my mouth and come on my face, yeah,"
Oh, fuck.
His hands dug into the flesh of your hips, holding you there, guiding the slow roll of your body as you pressed down against him. The rough scrape of his beard, the wet heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to know exactly how to keep you right on that edge—it all built and built until the tension snapped. With one last nudge of that wet muscle of his tongue, you broke apart above him, hips trembling as pleasure spilled through you while he kept you steady, coming against his face.
Your head was thrown back, mouth open as you dragged in deep mouthfuls of air, your body rocking against him until the motion softened, slowing to a gentle sway before you finally settled, loose and liquid in his bed. He smiled up at you, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling over you.
He slid his shirt off easily, tossing it somewhere onto the floor. Your legs stayed wrapped around him, though now they locked around his hips now as he shifted between them.
"That was —" he huffed a little bemused chuckle, "god damn perfect,"
You couldn't help grinning back at him, a little drunk on the rush still flooding your body. A soft, simpering sigh slipped out of you as you watched him unbuckle his belt and push out of his pants.
But then the world came rushing back when you looked down and saw him free his throbbing cock. It didn't jut up and out like ones you'd seen before, but hung heavily between you, veined and thick and angry red.
"Oh—"
"S'okay," he cooed, letting it rest against your belly as he leaned forward to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips, honey and musk and the sweet tang of arousal. "Gonna take it nice and slow."
You nodded into the kiss, letting him deepen it, your mouth opening for him as his tongue pushed in, nice and slow and indulgent. You let him take his time there, the kiss turning messy and hungry, little sounds slipping from both of you between breaths, his deep, rough curses and your low hums of pleasure.
You felt his hands moving below, adjusting the angle of your bodies until he could press himself just against your folds. Your brows pinched slightly, and maybe he felt the tension in you, because all he did was rock his hips so the underside of his cock slid along your soaked folds.
"How's that, honey? Huh?" he cooed.
"So good," you breathed against his mouth, humming softly as the veins along his shaft dragged against your clit, the friction making your hips start to move on their own, ankles tightening around his lower back. "M-more, please."
He smiled into the next kiss, "Okay, baby, gonna give you a little more, anythin' you want."
He nudged the head of himself against your weeping entrance, and all you could feel was heat, like your body had caught fire and his had with it.
"Deep breath for me, angel," he whispered, one hand sliding into your hair, settling at the nape of your neck with a steady grip that kept you anchored with him. Your hands curled around his shoulders as he kissed you again, catching your bottom lip lightly between his teeth so you'd focus.
You drew in a breath, and he licked just inside your teeth, tasting you again as he slowly began to push in.
Both of you gasped.
Breaking from the kiss only by a fraction, you didn't pull away so much as hovered there, mouths open, breathing hard. Every shaky inhale you took pulled straight from his mouth, and every breath he exhaled warmed your lips in return. Your noses brushed, foreheads nearly touching, the two of you gasping there together at the feeling of it, the stretch of him, the heat of you, sharing the same thin pocket of air.
And then his head fell in the crook of your neck as he pushed in another inch, making you keen.
"Joel, oh—oh god."
"I know," he whispered, the words breaking through a groan like a crack in his throat. "I know, baby, slow, slow, slow—"
You weren't sure if he was talking to you or to himself then, the way he kept repeating it, easing in another inch and moaning even louder.
"God—" he breathed, his forehead dipped harder against your neck. "Your pussy feels so fuckin'—holy—"
You brought your legs higher around his waist, opening for him, lifting to take more of that stretch.
"More, Joel, more," you urged.
It was like being split down the center. Physically, yes, your body barely able to take the obsene stretch of him. But also… it felt like your life had been split in half. Because there was suddenly a before this moment, and an after. Where the road split, where your heart line split off and became new and whole.
Because there would never be anything like this.
"Joel, please, I need—"
He pushed in further, cursing on every inch he settled into you.
Your hand slid deeper into his hair, fingers tightening there, and you heard him hiss in a breath as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight, locking your bodies together in a vice like grip.
And then—suddenly—he was flipping you.
Your eyes swam with the motion as he shifted, flipping your position and bringing you upright into his lap, your legs still wrapped around him.
Your head fell back, mouth open as you settled fully around the heft of his cock. The thicket of hair at his base brushed your clit, rough and welcome.
"Lemme see you," he whispered, kissing the underside of your chin. "Wanna see your face when I fuck you."
You whined, rocking your hips.
"Look at me, little lady,"
You did as you were bid.
He shook his head, "You're fuckin' perfect, you know that?"
You moaned, a little breathless now, noticing the sheen of sweat starting to gather along his hairline.
"You're—" he rocked his hips again, pushing a little deeper, his voice catching mid-sentence. "Jesus… you feel so good, baby, pussy was made for me."
"Yours," you breathed. "M-made for you, Joel."
A rough groan tore out of him at that.
"Yeah?" he breathed, eyes locked on your face as he moved beneath you again, rocking his hips into you. "My cock's just for you too, baby. Only for my best girl."
Your hands tightened in his hair.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice dropping lower, rougher. "Takin' it so good… c'mon now… I can feel how bad she loves it."
You rocked your hips with his, desperate for more of him, the motion drawing another low groan from his chest.
"Want more, Joel," you whispered, voice breathless but stubborn. "You won't break me, I promise, please, show me—I want it all."
He groaned desperately at that, "Careful what you wish for, baby, fuck—"
His arms, already wrapped around you, tightened so you were slick body against slick body, his wirey chest hair scraping your sensitive nipples where they laid up between his chest and chin, your stomach flipping at the feeling of being so close. There was nothing but breath between you then.
He felt deeper than before now as he held you down against him, thick-banded arms made for hauling hay and handling horses now keeping you tight against his chest. His breath had gone short and rough, every sound leaving his throat lower, more unhinged than anything you'd ever heard from him before.
You’d watched him on those tapes, heard the grunts and soft curses, but nothing like this. This was different. Animal, almost, in the way he dragged in breath and cursed against your skin.
His lips came up against your ear as he thrusted up into you.
"Can ya hear how greedy your little pussy is for me, baby?"
Your nails dug deeper into his shoulders.
"She's been cryin' for me all this time, hasn't she? Just wanted a little taste. That right?"
You nodded quickly, breath breaking apart in your throat. "Yes, fuck, yes, Joel, please don't stop—"
"Ain't stoppin' til she comes all over my cock—"
"Fuck, fuck" you hiccuped, whining, "—I've never—I don't know if I can—"
"S'alright, darlin'. I got you. C'mon, lemme show ya."
He leaned away, letting himself lay back then, your skin suddenly cold to the air and his hands loosening but holding roughly to your hips.
"Play with yourself, lemme see, I'll show ya—"
You did it without thinking. You'd do anything he asked. He felt so deep, so right, buried inside you that your brain had momentarily shut off, all wires only directed to him and what he told you.
Your fingers found your clit and you began circling the swollen bud, but you winced, the pressure too sharp, too much all at once. A small whine slipped out of you as your hips rolled restlessly against him.
He pushed your hand away and replaced it with his thumb, wet with spit, and your head fell back again, a soft, helpless sound leaving you.
"Yeahhh," he breathed, teeth showing in a rough grin as he watched you. "Just like that. Ride me, baby. Tha's it… right there, huh? Just needed me to show ya how it's done."
"Oh fuck—fuck, fuck, I—I think I'm—"
"Yes," he rasped, grip tightening on your hips. "Come for me, baby."
Your body seized around him, your spine arching as the feeling tore through you, bright and overwhelming. You reached for him instinctively and he pulled you down tight against him again, thrusting up hard as you rode out the trembling rush of it, white sparks bursting behind your eyes.
He was cursing under his breath now, jaw tight, the sound of it rough and broken as the tension finally snapped in him too, his arms locking around you while he groaned your name against your neck, spilling everything into you.
Your body was still trembling around him even as your breath settled, small aftershocks shivering through your thighs and stomach, your chest pressed tight against his as he held you there. His own breath came hot and uneven against the side of your neck, every inhale dragging through his chest like it had to claw its way out of him.
Soon, he was releasing his tight hold on your body and letting you slide beside him, his wet spent cock laying obscenely against his stomach as it softened, your core sore with the memory of it.
Your body felt loose, almost boneless, heat fading from your skin as the cool air of the room crept back in. The sweat between your shoulders cooled slowly. He leaned down and brought the light blanket over the both of you, groaning in exhaustion. You stayed close, your thigh still draped over his.
And underneath that fading warmth, something else was stirring.
You felt as if your entire self lay bare, as if your heart, only recently stitched back together so tightly, was being pulled open again, stitch by stitch, given room to breathe.
You nestled deeper beside him, burying your nose into the wiry hair of his chest and inhaling.
“Tell me this will never end,” you murmured.
His arm came around your shoulders, wide hand settling over the cup of your shoulder, and his lips found the top of your head, inhaling your similar scent. Irish Spring, arousal, sweat. You were so heavily intertwined you weren't sure where he ended and you began yet.
“It don’t have to,” he said softly.
You pressed closer, hiding deeper against him. He was warm, smelled clean and familiar, something safe your body wanted to believe in. Every hormone in you was humming, coaxing you toward confession, loosening your tongue in that reckless way that came after being held like this.
“Sometimes I…” you faltered, breath shaking, your face turning further into his chest. “I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted just gets taken away somehow. Either because of me or…something.”
Joel paused, you heard the way his breath paused, the way his mouth stopped its lazy kisses in your hair. His hand slipped between your cheek and his chest, fingers easing under your chin.
He tipped your face up.
“What makes you say that, hun?”
His eyes were soft, heavy with sleep and something deeper, his brows drawn together in that familiar line between them. Up close like this he looked warm and solid and achingly kind. Hazel again.
You leaned in and brushed your lips against his, and he welcomed it, pinching your chin a little harder before pulling away again.
“Tell me why you think that about yourself,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
"Because I went to school and failed. Once I felt like I was ready for my baby, I failed her too. I came here and..." Your throat thickened, voice wobbling. "I failed Paloma and her baby."
He was shaking his head all along.
Joel was shaking his head before you’d even finished.
“No you didn’t, baby. Hey—c’mere.”
Because you were crying again. Tears slipping down your temples into your hair, your breath shuddering in your chest.
“S’gonna be okay,” he murmured, gathering you closer. “School’ll always be there if you wanna go back. And one day I bet you’ll be an amazin’ mama if that’s what you want, alright?”
You noticed the thing he didn’t say.
Because neither of you knew if Paloma was alive, if her foal had lived. Your heart constricted at the thought.
“I should’ve been here tonight. That ain’t on you, okay?” he said, rocking you gently. You pressed your face harder into his neck as his hand smoothed through your hair.
“Everything I’ve ever wanted just gets taken away,” you whispered hoarsely. “Every time something starts to feel good I’m just… waiting for it to get pulled out from under me.”
“I know, trust me I know,” he said finally, voice low.
“I thought I was gonna be here my whole life," he went on. "The ranch, workin’ with my pops. Thought that was how it was meant to go.” His thumb traced slow circles along your arm. “Then life had other ideas.”
You shifted a little, listening.
“If I hadn’t had Sarah, though…” he continued softly. “My whole life would’ve looked different. Who knows what could'a happened, might've left and never come back. Might never’ve met you. I don't wanna know what that version of my life would be like. Sarah's the best thing that ever happened to me. I only know that now, after the fact.”
His lips brushed your hair again.
“Things change, hun. But that don’t mean they’re taken from you. Sometimes they’re just movin’ you somewhere else, right where you're supposed to be. And right now this is where you're supposed to be, in an old man's bed.”
You clung to him as you let out a wet chuckle, and your crying began to subside, his warmth rocking you slowly until the weight of sleep started creeping over you.
Somewhere in that haze you heard him speak again.
“I think I’m gonna go see her.”
Your brain lagged behind the words.
“Sarah?” you murmured.
He nodded, thick beard scraping your hairline.
“I think she would love that.”
After
It was so warm. Your eyes, sleepy and heavy, opened to the soft light stretching pale across the bedroom wall, filtering in through the thin curtains and laying itself gently over your bare skin. You were sprawled across the sheets, limbs loose and heavy in the aftermath of sleep and everything the night had given, the air still carrying the faint scent of Joel and something deeper, something that felt settled now instead of uncertain.
You realized then that you'd woken to the sound of the door opening. You hadn't even realized he'd gotten up, that he'd left the bed at all.
But there he was now, black t shirt stretching across his chest with the smell of coffee drifting in ahead of him. The smell was rich, grounding, tickling your nose to wake. The mattress dipped where your hips curved, and he sat there carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb anything that had been built overnight.
When your eyes opened fully, he was already watching you.
“Hey,” he said softly.
He set the mug down on the side table and reached for you without hesitation, his fingers brushing the hair back from your temple. The pad of his thumb traced slow along your hairline, smoothing it away from your face.
"Mornin'," you said groggily.
“How're you doin’?”
The memories of the night, of before you and him… it came back all at once.
The barn. The blood. Paloma’s body beneath your hands. The terrible stillness of the foal.
Your throat tightened.
You turned your face slightly into the pillow, staring at nothing in particular, and he kept brushing your hair back, slow and steady, like he was trying to soothe something he couldn’t see.
He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He stayed there beside you, so warm and solid as his fingers combed gently through your hair, thumb resting at the base of your skull.
He was still smiling down at you. A soft grin, something gentle and kind in his expression as he watched you, until finally, he said:
“I wanna show you somethin'.”
Your brow furrowed.
“Get dressed,” he said, and there was something in his voice now. Something he was trying not to give away.
You searched his face for a second longer, then pushed yourself up, the sheet slipping from your shoulder. You dressed quickly into the borrowed sweatshirt and sweatpants, your heart beginning to beat harder for reasons you didn’t yet understand.
He took your hand and led you down the stairs, out into the kitchen, and you slid on your sneakers to walk out the front porch steps and toward the barn. The morning air was crisp and clean, the world washed new in the light. Gravel crunched beneath the soles of your shoes as you crossed the yard, your chest tight with a fragile kind of dread.
You stepped inside the barn, expecting the pit in your stomach to dip.
Except, it didn't.
Because there was a smell to the barn now, no longer metallic or wet, but…warm and fresh and alive. The smell of fresh bedding and milky breath.
You looked up at Joel then, searching his face for anything that might explain it. He was already watching you, smiling in a way that was softer than you’d seen in a long time, guiding you forward with a quiet tilt of his chin.
You moved quickly, rounding the corner into the far foaling stall.
And there she was.
Paloma stood on her feet, head bent into a fresh pile of hay, chewing lazily like nothing in the world had nearly taken her from you. Morning light streamed in through the back window and caught along her flank, still a little damp, still marked by the night before.
But alive. Alive and steady and breathing and real.
Beside her, a small, gangly shape wobbled uncertainly on too-long legs.
The sound that left you wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob. Your hands flew to your mouth to contain it, but it spilled through anyway, the feeling of it all breaking open in your chest at once.
You stepped into the stall slowly this time, like you were afraid the scene might vanish if you moved too fast. The little foal was blonder than its mother, a bright white blaze cutting down its delicate face, striking and soft all at once. Its knobby knees buckled as it nudged at Paloma’s side, impatient and indignant, already demanding the world give it what was wanted.
Your tears ran freely now, unchecked. You lowered your hands and reached out, and the foal turned toward you with wide curiosity, stepping close enough to mouth at the strings of your hoodie. Paloma lifted her head and gave a low nicker, as if to say she remembered you too, before returning calmly to her hay.
“Thought you might wanna meet ’er,” Joel said from the doorway. He leaned there with his arms folded, watching you instead of the horses.
“This is Ellie,” he added.
Everything in you stilled. You turned slowly to look at him, breath caught in your throat, heart stopping. The only thing keeping your two feet on the ground was the little filly stomping around for your attention.
"What?"
He nodded once.
“She’s strong,” he said simply. “Tess said she fought for her damn life. Her and mama both.”
The world felt too bright all at once.
You laughed through your tears and turned back to the horses, the baby's eyes wide and doe like as they looked up at you.
“Hi, Ellie,” you whispered.
"She'll be yours to take care of," he then added, stern, but there was some amusement in it, and when you looked back at him, he was almost uncertain again, "if you choose to stay."
You let the filly drift back to her mother, and you you were suddenly crossing the stall in two big steps and throwing your arms around his neck. He barely had time to unfold his arms from his chest before you were kissing him, smiling so wide it felt like your face might split.
And this time, there wasn't anything holding you back. No more cowardice or uncertainty. Because you finally understood.
Everything, no matter how great or small or terrifying or joyous, had been leading you here all along.
epilogue coming soon! thank you so much for reading!!!
You get stuck in a cabin during a snowstorm for longer than you anticipated.
an: this is my first a/b/o fic so it is probably weird and awkward, but i'm trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and write different styles of relationships!
tw: a/b/o/ dynamics, afab reader, fem reader, alpha joel, omega reader, marijuana use, joel is mean, angst, comfort, SMUT, this is an a/b/o fic so everything associated with that is included (knotting, mating cycles, heat, claiming bites, scenting), p in v sex, vaginal fingering, creampies, unprotected sex, masturbation, dubcon
word count: 12.5k
masterlist
MDNI!
--
The night outside the cabin was quiet, the snow drifting down in the dim light of the backlit clouds. It was too late to be sitting outside like this, letting the cool air wash over you in an attempt to rid yourself of your bad dreams. Dark circles were stamped under your eyes as you self medicated, the deep skunky scent of weed wafting from your lips and into the evening.
Nightmares were a fairly common side effect of the apocalypse, so you didn’t bother with waking up Joel as you snuck past the couch he slept on. You’d be waking Joel up every night if you did that.
“What are you doing?” The groggy voice behind you made you jump. Apparently tonight you had.
Joel’s voice startled you, nearly making you drop the joint as you turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your face already felt warm from your embarrassment at getting caught, the incriminating joint still between your fingers. The smoke curled around the two of you, drifting into the open door of the cabin.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you mumbled, looking up at the alpha as he stood in the doorway. You had the collar of his thick, canvas hunting jacket turned up high to cover your scent glands, his smell strong enough to cover yours. It wouldn’t be smart to broadcast to anyone nearby that you were an unbonded omega.
Joel’s eyes darkened at the sight of you, illuminated by the crisp night. You knew the jacket swamped over you, the sleeves pushed up to expose your hands and the excess tucked beneath you as you sat. He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, studying your exhausted expression with a touch of concern.
“Mhm, I can see that,” he drawled, his eyes flicking down to the joint in your hand. “You smokin' again?”
Your gaze subconsciously darted down to where his biceps bulged under his flannel. You swallowed thickly, looking back up at his shadowed eyes. “Just so I can fall asleep,” you mumbled, feeling like a teenager who’d just been caught by their dad. You took another greedy puff off the joint before he could say anything else, putting it out against the porch railing before tucking it into a rusty Altoids tin from which it came and into your pocket.
You exhaled a thick cloud of smoke as you stood, crossing the porch in just your socks and ducking past Joel inside the house. “Made sure your jacket covered my scent and everything, didn’t want any passers by to smell me,” you murmured as you squeezed by him. You smelled like weed and like Joel, the sweet scent that lingered on your skin only detectable if you got close.
The sound of Joel inhaling as you walked past him was audible, as if he was testing your method and making sure he couldn’t pick up your scent. You glanced up at him to see his nostrils flare before he schooled his face into a neutral expression.
He followed you inside, closing and locking the door behind you. "You know that stuff ain't good for you," he said gruffly, his eyes following your every movement.
You were shrugging his jacket off, hanging it back up on the hook next to yours. Your sweater was threadbare, on its last leg before you’d have to look for a new one in an abandoned house or store. “I know, Joel,” you murmured softly, brushing a hand over your face. You crossed your arms over your chest, tucking your freezing hands into your armpits.
Your eyes were bloodshot and glassy, the buzz of being stoned making your movements more languid. “Only do it sometimes, just when I can’t sleep,” you said, trying to assure the alpha across from you.
Joel's expression softened at your words, but still, a hint of concern etched his features. The set of his jaw told you he knew what these sleepless nights did to you; the bags under your eyes and the fatigue in your movements didn't escape his notice.
"Sometimes is too much," he rumbled, closing the distance between you. He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing an errant snowflake off your face, his touch tender despite the roughness of his hands. You closed your eyes at the contact, his skin rough against yours before he pulled away.
"If you can't sleep, you should come to me. You know that, right?"
“Joel, s’okay, it doesn’t happen very often,” you murmured, stubborn as always.
You knew Joel could help you sleep in an instant, all it would take is you crawling on the couch with him and pressing your nose against his scent gland. It was one of the easiest parts of being an omega with an alpha around. But, you were stubborn to a fault.
The corners of his mouth tightened, and he let out a low growl. "I don't care if it's once in a blue moon or every goddamn night," he snapped. "You need to start relying on me more. I don’t know why you gotta deny your nature and act like you’re so goddamn tough. Stop being so damn independent all the damn time."
You huffed, not letting Joel sway you. His frustration was obvious, you could smell it mixing with the musk of his scent. “You wouldn’t say that to me if I was an alpha or a beta,” you bite back, brow furrowing. It was rare that Joel got mad at you like this–especially over something as stupid as being hard-headed. You’d been that way the whole time he knew you: an omega fighting her designation.
The day you presented as an omega you cried yourself sick. It was like your life had ended, every opportunity seemingly disappearing in an already difficult world after the outbreak. You were hellbent on proving yourself to be worth more.
Joel's jaw tightened as his eyes flashed darkly at your words. He stepped closer, closing the distance between you until he was towering over you. "You don't get it, do you?" he asked softly, the sneer apparent in his voice. "It's different for you. You're an omega."
Your throat tightened, frustration cutting through the relaxed haze of your high. “If you don’t trust me to take care of myself, Joel, why did you take me on as your patrol partner?” you hissed, staring up into his gaze defiantly. You were starting to get emotional, tears stinging at the backs of your eyes as you tried to suppress them. Joel stood over a head taller than you, glaring down his aquiline nose at you as you argued.
His scent was strong in the small hallway, his chest puffing up as he cornered you near the wall. His arm shot out, palm pressing to the dilapidated wood paneling near your head.
"I brought you because I trust you to shoot straight," he retorted, his voice rough. "Not because I think you can handle yourself on your own!"
His words made you flinch, the hurt clear on your face. Your mind was reeling, struggling to process what he said as you balked at him. It dawned on you how stupid it was to think an alpha would trust you. To them, you’d never be more than just an omega even if you pushed yourself to the brink.
You didn’t give him an answer, slipping under his arm and heading to the small bedroom you occupied at the back of the house. Everything in you was screaming to hide, to make yourself small. Distress scent was already pouring off of you in waves, leaving the air bitter as you tried to hold the tears threatening to spill until you got behind the bedroom door.
“Goodnight, Joel,” you hissed, slamming the door shut behind you and locking it.
—
You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up, just that there was light streaming in through the aged blinds covering the window. The fire in your room must have gone out when you slept, the air was frigid as you sat up in bed. Peeking out the frosted glass revealed there was more snow on the ground than when you fell asleep—meaning another day of holing up in the cabin until it passed.
You had half the mind to hide in your room all day, not wanting to face Joel after last night. You cried yourself to sleep, betrayal weighing heavy on your heart. You still felt the sting of it, part of you wondering if he even respected you as a teammate or just thought you were a pathetic, bumbling omega he got stuck with.
If it wasn’t for your stomach growling, you probably would have stayed in hiding.
The door to the room creaked when you opened it, deciding to venture out to get water and something to settle your upset stomach. The light was dim out in the rest of the cabin, the dying embers of the fire casting an orange glow across everything. Joel was a lump on the couch, but you couldn’t tell if he was awake.
Joel hardly slept, guilt and worry gnawing at his gut. He had tossed and turned on the couch all night, listening to the sound of your sobs through the door until you finally fell asleep. If he could go back and take it all back, he would in a heartbeat.
It wasn't the creaking of the floorboards that woke Joel, but the faint scent of a distressed omega. He stirred, his eyes fluttering open to see you quietly entering the kitchen. He watched you in silence, guilt-stricken features as he studied your careful movements. As he slowly rose from the couch, moving towards the kitchen in a silent prowl, his eyes never left you.
“You're not gonna eat just jerky all day, are you?" he asked gruffly, leaning against the kitchen door frame. You were gnawing on a piece of it, staring out the bay window over the sink in the long-abandoned kitchen.
In your haze, Joel managed to surprise you. You yelped at the sound of his deep voice, spinning around and falling back against the kitchen counter. “Jesus Christ, Joel,” you said, finding your footing again. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you turned to look out the front window at the snowy landscape surrounding the cabin. “Just about gave me a heart attack.”
A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Joel's lips as he watched you jump, a low, raspy chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Sorry 'bout that," he drawled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His eyes followed your gaze out to the window, the snow falling silently outside.
You didn’t know what to say to him, your chapped lips pursed as the two of you stared at one another. He looked worse for wear, his dark hair was sticking up in every direction, his under eyes so dark they almost looked bruised.
He cleared his throat, the silence between you two deafening. "Can we talk?" he asked. He cringed at his own question, knowing that of course he wanted to talk, he knew he had to talk. He just didn't know how to start. He reached out towards you, but stopped himself halfway, his hand dropping limply to his side
You sniffled, running a hand over your face as you took a deep breath. “What if I said no?” you whispered, crossing your arms over your chest. The smell of your distress was all too clear, the acrid scent of it covering your normal honeyed-earth smell.
"Please."
The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. The pleading tone in his voice surprised him, and he knew it surprised you too. He was an alpha, a strong and powerful one at that, he didn't beg.
But as he looked at you, at your exhausted frame and red-rimmed eyes, he didn't care. He'd beg for your forgiveness a thousand times if he had to. Crawl to you on his knees. It pained him to see you like this. Especially when it was his fault.
The sound of Joel’s deep, twangy, Texas-accented voice begging made one of your eyebrows arch. He never begged, he never had to before. Not alphas like him. You sighed, hazel eyes darting to look out the window over the kitchen sink at the snow. “I’m listening,” you mumbled.
Joel let out a breath through his nose, his heart rate returning to normal. At least you were giving him the chance to explain.
The only sound in the room while Joel put his words together was the floor creaking beneath you as you turned to face him again, watching his coffee-colored eyes nervously flit up to yours. It was times like this that made it hard to believe Joel was the alpha and you were the omega, when he’d snap and then come running back to you with his tail between his legs like a kicked puppy.
You used your arms to boost yourself onto the counter, feet dangling off as you settled on the cool tile. You were nearly Joel’s height this way, leveling the playing field a bit by making him look straight at you. You pulled a knee up to your chest, the other leg still hanging down as you mashed your cheek against your kneecap.
He took a step closer, standing in front of your bent leg now as he looked at you. His rugged features softened as he spoke, his voice gruff. "Look...what I said last night," he began, "It was really shitty, and I didn’t mean it, and I'm sorry."
He reached out, calloused fingers gently wrapping around your ankle, giving it a squeeze. "I just... I worry about you, that's all." His thumb pressed the wonky stick and poke tattoo of the omega symbol on the inside of your ankle. You’d given it to yourself when you were seventeen, some rebellious act of reclaiming your identity. Now it was just a faded memory of growing up in a quarantine zone.
Joel always had a hard time with words, expressing himself more through actions than any alpha you’d ever seen. You rarely shied away from his touches, coming to expect them over the past year the two of you had been assigned together as patrol partners.
You sighed, blowing air out through your nose as your head tilted. Joel stood close to you, your hanging calf pressed along his thigh as you met his gaze. “I know you worry, Joel,” you said softly, looking up at him through your lashes. “But you gotta treat me like a teammate, not like you’re my babysitter.”
He looked embarrassed, his eyes darting to the ground and then back up to you. "I never meant to make you feel like you were just some object, or incompetent. I just…” he sighs, struggling to find the right words. “You make me so damn frustrated sometimes."
You huffed, shaking your head. “You don’t get to try to justify it, Joel,” you said, an exasperated tone in your voice. Of course he’d qualify it, find it wasn’t entirely his fault. “You reduced me to an incompetent partner, useless. Just an object for breeding,” you whispered, your glare hard. “Felt like you had no respect for me unless I was bending over for you and letting you fuck me.”
Joel bristled at the words, the sting of them hurting almost as much as the pain on your face. He clenched his hands into fists, his whole body tensing with the effort to keep the need to comfort you under control.
He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on you. "I do respect you, dammit," he growled. "You don't think I don't admire how strong and independent you are? If I didn't respect you and trust you to have my back, I would have found a new partner a long time ago."
“You said all I was good for was shooting straight, Joel,” you said, your voice cracking as you spoke. You worried your lower lip with your teeth, fingers tapping nervously against your bent leg. It felt like you were going against your DNA, standing up to Joel like this.
Joel ran a hand over his face, the weight of his actions sinking in. He knew you were right. He knew he had crossed a line.
"You're right, it was unfair," he said, his eyes darting to the floor. "I was just frustrated, I was worried about you. This job, it's dangerous, and you've got such a damn stubborn, independent streak. You never ask for help, and I always worry I'm gonna wake up one day and find you not there, and it’ll be my fault for not being fast enough."
You huff, your expression softening slightly at Joel’s confession. You knew he was dealing with his own demons, his own reasons to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. He was still standing between your legs, fingers looped around your ankle. “Joel,” you murmured, “I’m not running away or anything, I just was smoking a joint to help myself sleep.”
Joel looked up at you when you spoke, his gaze lifting from the faded tattoo. He hated how defeated he felt, and he hated how hurt you looked.
"Damnit, you don't need to do that. Why can't you just come to me when you can't sleep, and I can help you sleep the right way?" he sighed, moving in closer.
His frustration made you even more angry. “Fuck, Joel. Does the sleeping thing really bother you that much?” you huffed, moving further back from him on the counter and turning to look out the window. You felt queasy, chewing over the idea of telling him a bit of the truth. You decided to go for it. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve never scented an alpha before.”
The wind against the side of the cabin was the only thing filling the silence. Most omegas got scenting partners out of the way when they were teenagers, exploring their desires and learning what they liked in a mate. But you were in your late twenties and never tried any of it because you were too busy fighting your designation. You didn’t want any part of being an omega, even if that meant not experiencing things.
You didn’t even know what you were doing—didn’t even know where to start.
Joel's eyes widened when you confessed that you had never scented an alpha before. The revelation took him aback, making his breath hitch in his chest. His mind went through a whirlwind of thought, the realization that he would be your first alpha to scent you hitting him like a truck. He can hardly consider the fact that it was contingent on if you let him.
His omega had never scented an alpha before. The possessive instincts within him roared to life, clawing at the edges of his mind. No, you’re not his. He needed to stop thinking that.
"You never-" he began, his voice rough and strained. "You never scented anyone?"
Your cheeks erupted with warmth, embarrassment rocking through you. You ended up covering your face with your palms, not wanting Joel to look at you. “I’ve scented other omegas… betas.” It felt too submissive, too docile. You didn’t want to be like other omegas you saw in the quarantine zone and Jackson—stuck bending to their alphas’ every whim, you wanted to be free.
“So don’t get so offended that I haven’t scented you, it’s not personal.”
Joel's jaw dropped at your confession, his mind spinning. He had known you were stubborn and independent, but this? He had never heard of an omega not scenting anyone by the time they were out of their teenage years.
The way you covered your face, the smell of your embarrassment and shyness filling the air, made something primal stir in his chest. The thought of no other alpha ever having the opportunity to even scent you was both thrilling and infuriating.
“I just wanted someone to treat me like their equal,” you whispered, crossing your arms over your chest. It was hard for you to let the silence exist between you, always filling it. You had to move from the weight of Joel’s surprised gaze, making you turn to the window and stare out of it. The snow was so heavy outside the cabin that you could hardly see the trees. “I would do it, I just don’t want to become someone’s property. Which I know scenting is really different and far from mating and being claimed but it feels like the first step.”
Joel's heart ached as you spoke. He knew you wanted equality and respect, something he always thought you deserved. But to know that you had never allowed yourself to feel comforts like being scented because of fear of being treated like property was something he hadn't realized.
He leaned towards you, trying to see your eyes. "You know I wouldn't treat you like that, right? I would never make you feel less than an equal just because you're an omega," he said, his voice low and gentle.
“You tried to last night,” you mumbled, still facing away from Joel. You leaned your forehead against the window, the glass cool against your skin. That was what made it so difficult, you couldn’t forget the tone Joel spoke to you with—it was the same tone that alphas used to force omegas to submit. It rattled you.
Joel clenched his jaw at your words, guilt bubbling up in his chest again. He knew you were right, that he had tried to reduce you to just your designation, that he had spoken to you in the way that made most omegas crumble.
He moved closer, close enough that he could smell the sour scent of your distress again. Everything at him was screaming to make it better, to fix it.
"You’re right,” he admitted. “I was a dick, and I hurt you. I won’t do it again. I swear on Ellie’s life."
You felt warmth radiating off him and onto your back. “You really scared me, Joel,” you whispered, your voice wavering as you spoke. That was the truth of it, he scared you last night. “I know you can overpower me in a second if you wanted to—I really have to trust you not to. My life is in your hands.”
As you spoke, Joel’s heart ached. He knew you were right. You were strong and fierce, but he was an alpha, and he could overpower you in a heartbeat if he wanted to. He gently squeezed your ankle, tugging on it. He could feel the heat radiating off you, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to press himself against you.
“I know, I know I did. I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured, the nickname coming out before he could stop himself.
You sniffled, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know what to do, anxiety binding your chest in knots. Joel stood close to you, nearly touching your back as his hand flattened against the porcelain countertop. “Alphas don’t have to think about that kind of stuff, ya know? You don’t have to constantly worry about it. You could be alone for your whole life and it wouldn’t be a problem, it’s not the same for omegas.”
Your forehead was still pressed against the window pane, your body curling up to make you small. “Don’t gotta worry about an alpha forcing a claim on you, or killing you if you refuse. I’ve got to think about it all the time, even in Jackson. And then you wonder why I hate being an omega.”
Pain and sadness wrenched in Joel's chest as you spoke, his heart breaking at the vulnerability in your voice. He knew you were right—alphas didn't have the same worries and fears that you did.
He closed the distance between you, his chest pressing against your back as he leaned over the counter. He could feel the tremors in your body, and he desperately wanted to fix it, to make it better, to take your pain away.
"I know, baby," he murmured again, hooking his chin on your shoulder. The wiry strands of his beard curled against the collar of your sweater. "I know."
There was something in his solemn tone that made you break, a pathetic whimper rocking out of you before you could stifle it. He sounded so small, you never heard him sound like that before. It cracked a hole in your defenses just enough for the whole structure to come crumbling down.
You let out a sob, turning against Joel until you could bury your face in his chest. You cried into his flannel, fingers twisting in the well-worn material. He was still your person, your best friend in the whole world. You always turned to him.
Joel's heart ached as you buried your face into his chest. He could feel your tears soaking into his shirt, and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you as close as physically possible.
He held you tightly, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. He gently guided your head to rest against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head.
"Shhh, baby, it's okay," he whispered, his voice rough and thick with emotion. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Wanted to take it all back the second I said it, I was such an asshole."
You didn’t know how long you cried for, clinging to Joel like a life preserver in a storm. He held you close, his calloused fingers tangling in your hair and his chin resting on the crown of your head. You inhaled his scent from him, the deep, musky smell of an alpha, mixed with a spicy scent that was entirely Joel’s.
Joel held you through your tears, his fingers running through your hair in a soothing motion. He inhaled deeply, his nose buried in your hair, the scent of your distress beginning to fade and be replaced by a more familiar honeyed earth scent.
It took you a while to calm down, making you hiccup as your tears eventually ran dry. His shirt was soaked with them, but he didn't care. He just wanted you to feel better, he wanted to fix whatever he had broken.
"You all cried out, darlin'?” he murmured, his voice soft and gentle.
You nodded against Joel, sniffling still. “I know you’re sorry, Joel,” you mumbled, your voice soft and thick from crying. You still held onto him, face pressed into his sternum.
Joel's heart clenched at your mumbled words, his hold on you tightening slightly. "I'll say it as many times as you want to hear it, baby," he said, his own voice rough with emotion. He rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back. Your body was pressed against him, warm and soft.
Joel’s voice sounded thick, his Texan drawl heavier. You just held on, trying to catch your breath. The wind sounded louder outside, buffeting against the roof and filling the silence between you two.
Your distress scent faded, only leaving your cloyingly sweet smell behind. Joel took another breath, inhaling. It was intoxicating, the way you smelled. Almost honeyed earth after a heavy rain, it was addictive. He always had a hard time focusing when he was close to you like this.
He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing on you and you only. He continued to hold you, his fingers still running through your hair. "Feeling better, darlin'?"
You nodded, pulling away slightly. You wiped your face off, your skin damp from your crying. “Yeah, I’m better,” you whispered. You looked up at Joel for a moment, your eyes bloodshot and watery.
Joel's eyes roamed over your face, taking in your puffy eyes and running nose and swollen lips. You looked beautiful even when you had been crying, and it took all of his self-restraint not to pull you back against him again.
He nodded, his thumb coming up to lightly trace your wet cheeks, wiping away a few remaining tears. "I’m glad, darlin'," he murmured, his eyes not leaving yours.
Your lips were pursed thoughtfully, considering. “So you’ll start trusting me to handle myself?” you asked, trying to negotiate. “And I’ll rely on my instincts more,” you offered, still whispering. “Alright?”
Joel's heart was pounding in his chest as he held your ankle, his thumb rubbing over the faded tattoo there. He knew you were right, that he often let his protectiveness get the best of him when it came to you. He wanted to keep you safe at all costs, but sometimes in his efforts, he ended up stifling you.
He exhaled deeply, feeling the guilt and the weight of his actions settle heavily on his shoulders. He knew he would agree to anything you asked. "I will, but you have no idea how hard it is," he murmured, his gaze never leaving your face.
You nodded, tears still burning in your eyes. You needed him to agree, or this wouldn’t work. “Joel, should we change patrol partners?” you asked, tilting your head. You didn’t want to, but it also wasn’t safe for him to constantly put himself in harm’s way for you. “Someone easier for you to be around might be better. And I need someone who trusts me.”
Joel's stomach lurched at your question, the thought of being paired with someone other than you making his blood run cold. "No," he growled, his hand tightening around your ankle reflexively. "No. We're not changing partners."
He stepped even closer to you, his eyes filled with determination. "I don't want anyone else. I don't want you paired with anyone else. It's you and me," he insisted, his voice firm.
Joel crowded in close, pulling you toward the edge of the counter. Your knee pressed against his waist, his belt warm through the hole in the knee of your sweatpants. You clicked your tongue softly, your small hand smoothing along the back of his larger one. “S’okay, I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, making sure he looked you in the eye. “You and me. Just gotta start trusting me.”
Joel's shoulders sagged with relief, the tension draining from his body as he heard your reassurance. The feel of your hand against his, the way your knee rested against his hip, it grounded him, reminded him of what was important.
“I trust ya.” He leaned in even closer, resting his forehead against yours. "You and me," he repeated, his voice a low rumble. "Always."
He took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, honeyed scent of you. It filled his senses, calming his nerves.
You basked in the closeness for a moment, letting your eyes slip shut as you inhaled his deep, heady musk of him. It felt resolved for now. “Alright big guy, let’s make some food,” you said, lightly patting Joel’s stomach with a hand before you twisted around him off the counter in the kitchen.
Being outside of Jackson made you miss electricity. Thankfully you knew there was a chance that there would be a storm during the scouting run, packing the truck with extra food and firewood that had now come in handy.
But, neither of you realized the storm would last for so long. It was three days that you two were stuck in the cabin, watching as the snow piled higher and higher. You weren’t waiting for it to melt, just to stop coming down so Joel could see your way out without crashing into a tree or a boulder.
You cracked two cans of Chef Boyardee that Joel found in one of the houses you picked through, setting them in the fireplace to warm as you sat cross-legged on the rug in front of it.
Joel was moving around behind you, the springs of the couch squealing as he sat on them. His gaze made the hair on the back of your neck prickle. But, he stayed silent—typical behavior for him.
You looked at the grandfather clock on the wall, surprised to see that it was already nearing three in the afternoon. You must have slept in later than you expected, most of the day already having gone by. Honestly, it was better that way, you and Joel were starting to get a bit of cabin fever.
Silence permeated the room, brightly patterned oven mitts you found in a drawer covering your hands as you scarfed down the food. “So you used to buy this stuff at like, the store?” you asked, finally breaking the quiet as you turned to look at Joel.
You were little when the outbreak started, you didn’t remember much of what life was like before. It was normal for you to ask him things. Joel felt like a bridge to a different time.
It always caught him off guard when you asked about life before the outbreak—he couldn’t help but forget how young you were compared to him. He nodded as he chewed, glancing up to see you backlit by the fire. It made you look like you had a gold light surrounding you.
“Yeah, we used to buy everything at grocery stores,” he said, clearing his throat a bit as he talked. “There was more food than you could imagine, really, there was too much. A lot of it got thrown away.”
You listened with rapt attention, chewing the ravioli thoroughly. You really couldn’t imagine such abundance—even in Jackson everything was grown and made to satisfy the needs of a few seasons. Nothing ever went to waste, though.
“That sounds like a dream,” you said softly, finishing your food. You stretched out on your back on the rug, the fire warming your side as you got comfortable.
“These days it seems like one,” he mumbled, the sound of his spoon scraping the can filling the room. He couldn’t look at you directly, it felt like he was staring at the sun. It was hard not to go to you. His palms itched with the need to feel your fire-warmed skin beneath them.
Joel got up sharply, running his fingers through his hair as he looked out the window. “M’gonna go hunting before it gets too dark out,” he said, scratching the back of his head as he walked away from you.
You hummed your acknowledgment, watching Joel pull on his gloves and his jacket and sling his rifle over his shoulder. He smelled the collar of the coat, your scent probably lingered from when you’d borrowed it last night.
“Be careful,” you murmured, watching Joel from where you lay. You wanted to get up, go adjust his jacket and the twisted strap of his rifle. But you stayed where you were.
“Always am,” he said, giving you a once-over before heading out the front door and into the snow.
You busied yourself with melting snow to fill the big plastic bin Joel had dragged inside from the truck, cleaning the guns and mending some clothes with a needle and thread. Normally you’d go hunting with Joel, but you could tell he needed space for a bit.
The cold woke him up, made him feel like he finally got his head out of water. Being stuck in that cabin with you—with your smell—was driving him crazy. The two of you spent a lot of time together, but it normally was outside. This was the first time you’d been smashed together in close quarters for more than a day.
It was making him lose his mind.
He’d rather be shot than admit it, but he spent the first ten minutes of his hunting trip holding the collar of his jacket to his nose and fisting his cock. As soon as he realized he could smell you on the canvas, he’d been hard as a rock.
Joel never met an omega whose scent got to him as much as yours.
He held the aging fabric in a fist to his face as he stroked up and down his shaft. His eyes were screwed shut, jaw clenched so hard it ached. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine that his spit-slicked hand was yours, the image of you stretched out on the rug stuck in his mind. The fire illuminated the contours of your body, highlighting the swell of your breasts and the indent of your waist.
It wasn’t the first time he fantasized about you. It started with a dream of you crawling into his sleeping bag while you were out on a scouting mission, pressing up close and nuzzling into him like you were his, whispering everything you wanted him to do to you in his ear.
He woke up from that painfully hard, thankful that he was in the safety of his bedroom in Jackson rather than with you. But it spiraled viciously from there—even if he didn’t start off thinking of you, he would certainly get there eventually. Knotting you, biting you, fucking you. It all lived in his head.
Joel groaned, biting down on his lower lip as his cum spilled onto the snow. The tree he was leaning against was rough on the back of his head as he slumped a bit, taking deep breaths. It took him a few moments for the ringing in his ears to stop, head finally clearing as he tucked himself back into his pants.
With the edge taken off he readied himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead before grabbing his rifle off his shoulder. There was always some level of shame he felt after he jerked off to the thought of you, knowing he’d have to face you again and pretend nothing was amiss.
The wind howled as he walked deeper into the forest, pushing his thoughts aside as he started to look for any semblance of tracks in the snow.
—
The rabbit Joel killed was a decent enough dinner with the dried soup you brought from Jackson, the meal rich enough to lull you both into silence as you thumbed through old paperback books you found in a closet.
It was long dark when you told Joel you’d be going to bed, wishing him goodnight as you made your way to the bedroom. You were tired enough to fall asleep with little fuss, curling into the thick quilt and going unconscious almost as soon as your head hit the pillow.
But, of course, you didn’t stay that way.
Screams filled the space around you. You were unseeing, choking on thick smoke. Opening your mouth to speak only resulted in a scream, the sound ragged and desperate. You could hear gunfire in the distance, but you didn’t know which way to look.
You were alone in this place, that much you could tell. The air was thick and warm—smelled like the omega shelter back in Vegas, you spent two years there. You reached out ahead of you into the darkness, hoping to find a wall or furniture or something. But it was empty, each step further into the black maw that seemed to have no ending.
The sound of clicking made your hair stand on end. You were all-too familiar with that sound, the labored breathing of an infected following it. You didn’t know which way to move, the clicking was directionless. There were no weapons, no way to run.
Clicking filled your ears, directly on top of you. Teeth tore into your flesh, ripping into your arm as—
You woke with a jolt, eyes wide in the darkness as you let out a choked gasp. Screaming still haunted the back of your mind as you sat up, trembling hands running over your face as you tried to enter the world of the living.
Your nightmares were relentless, memories of the fall of the Las Vegas QZ still fresh in your mind despite it happening a decade ago. The explosions that brought the walls down, the influx of raiders and infected alike. The smell of smoke and burning flesh and hair made you choke, forcing you out of bed as you fumbled for your Altoid’s tin on the nightstand.
Joel was asleep when you crept through the living room, good ear pressed into the cushion of the couch as you tiptoed past. The night was cold, Joel’s jacket back on your shoulders as you looked off the porch and pinched the joint between shivering fingers.
It stopped snowing, at least. The sky was cloudy, the moon peaking through sections of the clouds and making the snowy landscape glitter like diamonds. You and Joel would be able to leave in the morning.
A gust of wind made you shudder, the joint slipping from your fingers. It was a scramble to catch it, sending you to your knees. The wooden boards creaked as you tried to grab the remainder of your joint as it rolled. Your fingers just barely missed it, clutching the empty air as you watched it fall through a crack in the floorboards and disappear.
“Fuck!” you groaned, sitting back on your heels. You’d be awake the rest of the night, still feeling edgy and paranoid from your nightmare. You dragged your hands over your face, exasperated.
You headed inside, defeated. Joel’s jacket was returned to its hook as you looked at the way the fire lit up the room orange. The shadows flickered along the walls, sending shivers down your spine as you remembered waking up to the same glow in Las Vegas.
Then your gaze landed on Joel, still comfortably sleeping on the couch. One leg hung off, planted against the floor as his other foot was far over the edge—he was far too tall to be sleeping on the sofa.
You paused, chewing your lip as you stared at him. If you swallowed your pride, you’d be able to sleep tonight.
It was a hard thing, letting go of your fears. You realized if there was ever an alpha you’d bend to, it would be Joel. Something about him made you trust him, even when he was harsh and rude and distant, you still knew him inside out.
Part of you knew he was yours, even if you wouldn’t admit it. It was the talk of Jackson, Joel panting at the heels of some young omega like a lost puppy—you heard the whispers.
You decided to give him a chance.
He didn’t stir as you approached, wondering if you should wake him up or just clamber onto him. The couch was already cramped enough with just him on it.
You tentatively reached out to shake his arm, Joel’s dark eyes opening almost as soon as you touched him. He sat up fast, looking ready to fight as his gaze took in every inch of the cabin. You yelped softly, moving back from him in surprise.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked, voice thick and raspy from sleep as he started to get up.
“I can’t sleep,” you admitted sheepishly, wringing your hands together in front of you. You felt silly asking him after everything that had happened between you two, but you promised him you’d follow your instincts more. His muscles tensed, you didn’t mean to cause such a commotion, your heart in your throat. “It’s stupid… I-I can figure it out.”
Joel relaxed, the tension in his shoulders leaving as he processed what you said. Your concern made him smile softly, a hand reaching out to curl around your shoulder. “Want me to help you sleep?” he asked, voice low. He treated you carefully, not wanting to scare you off.
He was honored you were even willing to ask.
You huffed softly, brows furrowing as you nodded. His grin stretched, heart thumping with excitement as he obliged you. He was relieved you were asking, wanting to be a good alpha for you. Wanting to help you. “We can stay out here or go to the bed, up to you, baby,” he murmured, dark eyes focused on you as you considered.
“The bed,” you mumbled, turning with little fanfare. Joel followed hot on your heels, warm at your back. You were anxious, breaths short and shallow as you tried to calm down.
It was no big deal. It was just Joel. Your Joel.
You got in first, curling beneath the bedding as you turned to look up at Joel. He was toeing off his heavy boots and taking off his belt, shining orange and yellow in the dim firelight. He looked formidable from this angle, tall and broad like most alphas were.
“You alright?” Joel asked, noticing the trepidation in your gaze. He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on the old quilt as he leaned a bit toward you. “I can go back to the couch. Don’t want you to feel pressured—I won’t do nothing you don’t want to do.”
You hummed, nodding. “It’s just sleeping, right?” you whispered softly. Your eyes were wide as you looked up at Joel, laying back on the pillow.
He nodded. “As easy as closing your eyes,” he assured, his drawl thick.
You couldn’t imagine the luxury of sleep coming so easy, but you nodded anyway. Joel clambered into bed with you, sliding beneath the covers with a sigh of relief. You were sure it felt better on his back than the couch, watching him stretch as he settled next to you.
“Just gotta come here,” he said, looking over at you. You looked so sweet in the dim light, eyes wide and lips parted. He wanted to reach out and pull you over himself, instead he dropped his hand, fingers tapping the top of the comforter in anticipation.
You acquiesced, scooting over to meld into his side. His arm curled around you, occupying the void between your neck and shoulder. Joel was so warm, it felt like you were cuddling with a space heater as you settled into him. His big hand pressed between your shoulder blades, rolling you toward him and tucking your face into his throat.
It was so easy to get comfortable, melting into him as you took in a deep breath. You always thought he smelled so comforting, warm and a little musky. You only ever caught his scent in passing, never concentrated like this.
Joel felt how you relaxed against him, a smile on his face as one of your arms stretched across his chest and your nose pressed into the hollow of his throat. It took you a few deep breaths to completely let go of your tension, the set of your shoulders sagging against him. “That’s it,” he murmured as he rubbed your back.
It only took a matter of minutes for you to feel your eyelids drooping, your breathing slowing as you meld into him. “M’tired,” you mumbled, sounding groggy. Your words were muffled against his neck, lips ghosting over the delicate skin of his throat.
Joel chuckled softly, fingers lightly curling at the nape of your neck. “I know, baby,” he said. He glanced at you, dark eyes watching how your eyelids got heavier and heavier with every blink. He was surprised you were so willing to scent him, and how fast it worked.
He shifted slightly, bearded cheek pressing against the top of your head as he let his eyes shut. He felt so calm. The fitful sleep he normally experienced eluded him as you both finally drifted off.
—
Sleep became a sweltering, restless thing throughout the night. Dreams took on dark silhouettes, feverish shapes and flashes of light that seared and burned through your veins. You were weightless in the murky water surrounding you, fingers reaching for something. Someone to anchor yourself to.
Joel.
All your senses smashed into one, an explosion as life-altering as the Big Bang. You were a writhing mass of feeling that had you leaning into air heavy with tension and desire.
He was in it with you, just out of sight. You were so familiar with his presence, his smell, you always knew the weight of when he was nearby. Then, all at once he was with you in the dark place.
He was everywhere. The press and slide of heated skin where your bodies met and separated. You called for him, voice catching and dying in your throat before you had the chance.
You were burning from the inside, your spine an inferno as you reached for him in the dark. You knew he would fix it, knew he was what you needed. He would get you through the blaze and onto the other side.
He was a weighted shadow around you. Completely surrounding you, pulling you tight and grounding you to the anchor of his body. He kept you from drifting off into the fathoms of the abyss.
“Joel,” you whispered. You heard him respond to you in turn, the sound of your name like honey on his lips. The press of his mouth to your neck was like napalm and jolted you—
— and you woke with a rattling gasp, lurching where you lay in bed next to him. Sweat was beaded under your arms and around your temples, heat radiating from where Joel’s arms held you to his side.
You were panting into the cool air of the cabin, blinking until the unfamiliar shapes found themselves into focus once more. It was daylight, far past sunrise from the way sunlight was filtering through the blinds.
Your skin felt a size too small. Everything was uncomfortable and itchy as you stirred in Joel’s embrace, lifting your head out of his neck to take in deep breaths of clean air. It still carried his scent, permeating the room throughout the night. The area between your legs ached like a wound, your thighs squeezing together to relieve the throbbing.
Something made him wake, the air shifted and thickened around him as he slowly blinked into the morning air. Part of him almost surged out of bed, ready to defend and protect. But he understood on first inhale.
The smell of you was everywhere. It was all-encompassing and alluring, filling his senses all at once. Saliva was rushing to his mouth, your scent was an intoxicating thing that had his nerves alight. Desire took hold of him, real and rooted in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.
You knew when he woke, you didn’t even have to look at his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, turning away from him as your hand snaked between your legs to feel the mess of your sex. The predicament you put the two of you into was less than ideal. “I thought we had more time—I didn’t mean to.”
He was relieved. You were still in there, in your own mind enough to talk. His mind was slow to the uptake, blood rushing elsewhere as his thoughts turned over themselves. He was trying to remember from before, trying to figure out what it meant.
A soft heat. A distant memory from a junior high health class sprung into his mind. Not a hard heat brought on by a cycle. A soft one could be brought on by stress or exposure to an alpha, but they are shorter than a hard heat. Temporary. Sometimes a single knotting is enough to pull an omega from a soft heat unlike hard heats that last a week.
Joel cursed. It was too loud in the quiet of the room. His head was swimming from the force of the blood rushing to his cock, painful and aching as you moved away from his side.
“Gotta tell me right now, do you want me to go?” Joel asked, already rolling toward you. He followed the way your arm disappeared beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, your face twisted with both pain and pleasure.
It was a sight he only thought he would see in his wildest fantasies.
You were rigid and panting, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment as you tried to order your thoughts. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of Joel helping you through a heat before. His rough and attentive hands guiding you through it.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cutting into a whine. “You don’t have to—I just, I can do it on my own if I have to.”
The air between you was aflame before Joel kicked the quilt off and turned toward you. The need to give someone, you, what you needed was burning in him. It was a reminder that even after all this time he was still an alpha, he could still do this for you.
A wet stamp of his lips on your throat made you keen, tilting your head back against the pillow to give him more space. His hand curled around your jaw and pulled you to him, lips smashing together in a fervent kiss. It all felt like it was building for far longer than the last evening, the urgency as you opened your mouth against his was the culmination of nearly a year of pining.
The kiss deepened, his body tipping into yours and setting his skin on fire. Joel grabbed you with a wide hand, shifting you fully beneath him as his mouth dropped to your throat. He bit down hard enough to make you jolt, hands grabbing onto his biceps.
You were still mumbling into the air, shaking from holding back. Joel took your jaw in his hand and pressed his forehead to yours, his dark salt-and-pepper curls already damp from sweat. “Stop, baby,” he murmured softly, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “I know what you need, I’ve got ya.”
It was easy to give in then, nodding as you both moved together quickly. Joel stripped you of your clothes, tossing them into the room as your fingers fumbled with the buttons on his flannel. You wanted to feel his skin under your hands, trace the contours of his muscles and the shapes of his scars. He was deliciously broad, all realistic working-man muscles–he had never been the flamboyant type.
He couldn’t help but press his cock into the crease of your hip as his nose traced to the curve of your throat, taking in the sweet scent there. His knot ached with the friction, a groan pulled from his throat as he devoured your mouth.
A big hand gripped at your belly and then your hip, positioning you so he could settle between your bent knees. He blindly found his rightful place between them, wide quads pressing against your own. The breath rushed out of him as he reached down and felt your soaked cunt against his fingertips.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Joel breathed against your jaw. You were in a haze, hardly processing what Joel was saying as you whined, lifting your hips to the press of his hand.
The air was punched out of your lungs as he dipped his fingers lower to collect the slick pouring from you, smoothing the rough pads of his fingers over your clit in swirling motions. His other hand flattened over your belly, holding you down to the mattress as he strummed his fingers over you as carefully as he would a guitar.
“Ohh,” you gasped, letting your eyes fall shut at the feeling as your hips stuttered in his hand. “Joel.”
It was all you could manage to say, all you could manage to think. His expression made your heart trip, your hands reaching for him without hesitation. Your fingers were still slick from when you’d touched yourself upon waking, petting them over his beard as your hips rolled against his hand.
Joel caught the smell of you on your fingers, his dark eyes flashing. His lips dropped open as he sought your hand, pulling your index and middle finger into the hot, wet confines of his mouth. You whined, brows drawing together as warmth covered your face and neck. Needy, wet licks of his tongue took the flavor right off your fingers.
He couldn’t help but jolt his hips forward, pressing the hard line of his cock against the back of your thigh. A deep sound rumbled from his chest as he let your fingers drop from his mouth, rocking you with his hips again.
The hand between your legs dipped lower, two thick fingers pressing into you. An urge he couldn’t articulate spurred him on, a sympathetic moan escaping him as he watched your back break on a whine. His eyes nearly rolled back in his skull as he felt the tight press of you around every curve and bend of his fingers.
You were painfully sensitive, already feeling yourself tightening around his digits as your thighs clamped around his forearm. It felt wonderful, transcendental, but it wasn’t enough, not right now. “Joel,” you gasped, hips tilting fervently against his hand, “I need–”
He nodded before you could even finish your sentence. He knew, of course he knew.
There was an ache of emptiness as he pulled his fingers from you, taking his cock in his hand and smearing your arousal over it. His weight pressed down above you as he hitched your thighs over his, nudging his hips against yours. You keened at the blunt press of the head of his cock through the seam of your sex, the wet sound of your lips parting for him loud in your ears.
He teased you for a few moments, pressing the tip of his cock against your clit to make you whine sweetly. The grin on his face was diabolical, he knew it was mean to keep you on edge like this right now–but he couldn’t resist.
“Joel, fuck,” you groaned, digging your nails into his arms. He got the message, rocking forward to find purchase against you and filling you with a hard slot of his hips. You were wet enough to take him in one go.
You both stilled against one another, panting and holding on as you adjusted to the new sensation. Joel never thought in a million years that he would be so lucky. To have you pressed into the mattress beneath him was a dream come true, making him let out a strangled noise as he dropped his weight to his forearms to press his nose back against your neck.
Your cunt pulsing wetly around him brought the dying man back to life, pulling him in as your pants grew more desperate. He let instinct take over, pupils expanding like ink dropped in water as he set his teeth against the soft skin of your shoulder.
It wasn’t gentle. You didn’t want it to be. Joel grabbed you hard and fucked you senseless, driving you deeper and deeper into the mattress. The repetition of him filling you over and over was merciless, reducing you to mush beneath him as you forgot everything aside from his name. He nipped at your collarbones and anywhere else he could reach, each sharp feeling of his teeth drawing a ragged sound from you as your head pressed back into the mattress.
Joel was completely running on instinct, focused on filling you. To pin you down and knot you deep where you were begging for it.
The walls of your weeping cunt were starting to flutter around him, spine arching like a bow pulled too tight. He grabbed your hip with a wide hand, forcing you to take him deeper. You were whining, mumbling pleas Joel couldn’t quite understand as your hands spasmed on his arms. He pressed his lips against your neck, stamping wet kisses up and down your throat, licking at your heated skin.
He rutted his hips hard against yours, making shivers run up your spine as you tried to catch your breath. You felt frantic, euphoria clouding the edges of your vision as he worked you higher and higher. Everything in you became painfully tight, a strangled whine coming from your throat as your legs shook and squeezed around his hips.
The pleasure was overwhelming, white-hot and practically making you pass out as Joel hitched your leg up, pressing into you as he grunted like an animal. Your whole body spasmed, cunt clamping down around him like a vise as you desperately tried to stay conscious.
Joel’s hips bunched against yours, his teeth setting into the junction of your neck. The tease of a claiming bite, just enough to make you whimper. He jerked back away from your neck at the last moment, lifting his weight off of you as his dark eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure was licking at the base of his spine, muscles of his abdomen knitting together.
He groaned, spilling inside you and grinding your hips together. Too caught up in his instincts, his head whipped to the side to bite the calf that rested on his shoulder, teeth digging into the meat of it. You keened, pleasure and pain mixing as he pressed in close as his knot began to swell inside you.
The soft sheets embraced his body as Joel collapsed, his weight pressing you into the mattress as you shared each other’s breaths. Your pussy was still pulsing around him, making him tremble as he panted into your throat. The ache of his knot inside you was satiating, drinking a cool glass of water after a long summer’s day.
You brought his mouth to yours, the two of you shifting so Joel was on his back and you sprawled over his chest. He was greedy, thick fingers snaking between your bodies to feel where you two were joined. A broken sound came from his mouth as he felt how you were stretched around his knot.
You traded breaths and open-mouthed kisses, breeching whatever semblance of a chance at a professional relationship after this. Joel’s big hand pressed against your spine, pulling your belly to his as he nuzzled at your cheek, the curve of the bridge of his nose mashing into your heated skin. His beard tickled your face, making you scrunch your nose on occasion as you stamped your lips to his.
He softened enough to slip out of you, making you whine as he dragged his fingers through the mess between your legs and pressed it back inside your cunt.
It was his intention to pull away, to go to the living room and give you some space now that you no longer needed him. But you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your face into his chest. Your knees hooked around his thighs, moulding your bodies together as the sun casted stripes across you.
You fell asleep that way, hopelessly tangled as your heart rates slowed and breaths grew heavy.
–
You needed him twice more, waking him up at sunset and in the middle of the night as the moon rose high in the sky. Each time was feverish, you woke him desperately by teething at his throat and pressing your bare pussy against the hard muscle of his quad. It was too easy to press his knot inside you both times, the two of you whispering nonsense to one another as you bedded down, Joel sucking lazily at your breasts before you licked and nuzzled the scoop of his throat.
He felt something terrifying as the moonlight illuminated you after taking his knot for a third time, spend and slick leaking from your puffy, abused cunt as you drifted off. The need to keep you wrapped around his heart like a cage, delirium making him want to hide you away in this cabin with him and never go back to Jackson.
He blearily reminded himself as sleep closed in that you just were in a difficult situation, he was the only alpha you could have turned to. It was nothing personal.
–
Waking up was a luxurious thing, rest seeped into the marrow of his bones as he stretched in the body-warmed sheets. He was lucky you were feverish enough to keep them both warm through the night, the fire in the hearth long burned out. Sun painted his eyelids orange, a hand scrubbing his salt and pepper beard as he finally opened them.
You were curled at his side, eyes open as you looked out the window. Upon his waking you turned to him, pensive and thoughtful as you took in his expression. You were returned to yourself again, calm without the storm threatening to swallow you whole.
“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep as you used his arm as a pillow. The smell of sex and sweat was starting to fade, the evidence only in the marks Joel had sucked onto your throat… and your chest… and your stomach… and your inner thighs. He blushed at how carried away he’d gotten, over a year of hidden-away need manifesting as him greedily taking all you were willing to give yesterday.
“You didn’t have to take care of me,” you whispered, the silence from Joel making you panic. He was just looking at you, his curls sticking up every which way as the back of his skull remained pressed into the pillow.
“‘Course I did, baby,” he murmured, his Texas drawl even thicker first thing in the morning. He reached out to you, gently squeezing your shoulder beneath the grasp of his fingers. “Wasn’t gonna let you suffer.”
You both stared at one another, neither of you daring to move first as though the dream would fall apart. Joel studied you just as you did him, taking in every twitch of your features as his brown eyes turned molten in the morning sun.
It was impossible to say who moved first. Your hand was on Joel’s jaw as his fingers pressed into your waist, lips smashing together in a fervent clash of teeth and tongues.
You straddled him this time, giving his aching back a break as you leaned over him and kissed his jaw. For some reason you felt more desperate now than in your soft heat, cupping his cheeks with your hands as you curled your fingers into his beard.
There were no excuses this time, truth revealed in the morning light. No biological need driving either of you together aside from your lust.
Joel’s big palm smacked the curve of your ass, making you squeak against his throat before a giggle poured from you. He grinned, squeezing the plush flesh in his hands as he pressed his lips anywhere they could reach.
“Can I?” you whispered, eyes wide as you pulled back to meet his gaze. You looked vulnerable, as though you thought he would reject your advances despite the fact that his cock was already swelling with arousal. He couldn’t even imagine a world where he could reject you.
“Anything you want, baby,” he breathed, ready to burn the world for you if you asked.
You smiled, relief flooding through you. You didn’t think Joel would push you away, but you weren’t sure. Thank god you guessed right.
You spat in the palm of your hand, lifting yourself up just enough to reach between the two of you and take Joel into your hand. Without the haze of your heat blinding you, you were shocked by the size of him. It was hard to believe you were able to take his knot at all given the swell of him beneath your fingers.
Your eyes widened as you bent your head to look down at your hand. “Jesus Christ, Joel,” you murmured, the awe in your voice making his chest puff with pride. You glanced back up at his face, lips parted as you experimentally stroked him along the entirety of his length.
Joel’s nostrils flared as his eyes closed, pride warming your belly as you repeated the motion. The skin of his cock was overheated and velvet-soft, a quiet moan falling from your lips as you watched his expression twist. Precome leaked down to mix with your spit, the head of his cock flushed–part of you was tempted to ignore the aching between your legs to get your mouth on him.
You weren’t that generous, though.
It took a bit of contortion to line Joel up with you before you were pressing down on him, the two of you gasping in unison at the stretch. There was a twinge of pain, but you were too impatient to let him open you up on his fingers. His hands were iron around your hips, the force of his hold almost bruising.
He could see all of you in the morning light, his eyes tracing up as though he was seeing God for the first time. Joel was mesmerized, watching the bounce of your breasts as you rode him, the slight jiggle of the soft flesh of your thighs and lower belly. Your eyes rolled back in a way that made his heart twist, the roll of your hips making him root deep.
Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the long-healed scars by knives as you moaned. Joel’s hands smoothed into the creases of your hips, gripping you tight as he brought you down on his cock, hips fucking up into you.
It took all your focus to stay on top of him, thighs trembling as you dug your knees into the soft mattress. Your breath hitched every time he hit the deepest parts of you, eyes rolling back and mouth lolling open. The pleasure was so overwhelming it was almost painful, making you want to sob above him.
Despite your desperate coupling over the past day, this felt entirely different. This was something new and unknown, your bodies moving together as hot flashes of euphoria drip through your veins.
Joel was in awe, the feeling of your soaked cunt gripping at him was almost too much to handle as the bed creaked beneath his back. He didn’t even realize how loud the springs were last night, too delirious to care. Each rock of his hips made your body pitch up before he shoved you back down in a dizzying loop that had you both groaning.
Everything in you tightened as he railed into you, nails digging into his chest as the feeling hooked into you and dragged you toward the undertow. You were at the edge of a cliff, balanced dangerously at the edge of it as you whimpered.
“God, can feel you squeezin’ around me,” he breathed, his voice strangled. He railed into you in a frantic rhythm, brows drawn together as he held you so tight you knew you would be sore.
It only took another one, two, three snaps of Joel’s hips against yours before you fell. You barely were able to catch yourself in time, your orgasm spreading through you like a lighting strike as your muscles convulsed and your cunt spasmed around his cock. He cursed, an arm curling around your back and making your spine arch as he held you against him.
Joel couldn’t get enough of you, the wet squeeze of your cunt felt like a heaven he shouldn’t have been allowed in. He was vaguely aware of his mouth running, your name spilling from his lips as he fucked into you, treating you like a toy for his pleasure as he manipulated your hips.
You took everything he gave you, leaning over him to press your mouth against his. You were moaning against one another, begging in whispers. It didn’t take him long to bring you down onto him and keep you there, teeth gritting and breath stuttering as he pumped you full of him. Joel let out a groan through clenched teeth, sounding like a wounded animal as he forced you into stillness for a few moments before letting go.
The rest was easy, you collapsed onto him as Joel kissed and nosed at your hairline. He scented you where he could, feeling possessive in the aftermath.
You didn’t talk for some time, communicating through touch as you let bliss keep your bodies bound to bed for a little while longer. But the sun was shining in the sky, the truck bed full of supplies for Jackson occupied the back of your mind as you looked down at Joel, soft and sweet.
“Let’s get going?” you asked, sounding more like a demand than a question. You didn’t know what else to do, lifting your chest from his as the air began to cool your sweat. Your legs were shaking like a colt’s against the floorboards, spend dripping down your legs before you wiped it away with your sweatpants. You would change into jeans for the drive home anyways.
Joel watched you with curious eyes, seeing the way you distanced yourself as you dug through your pack for fresh clothes. He stood, groaning a bit with the effort after spending so long in bed. It was only a few strides to get to you, pressing his body along your back.
“I want to do this your way,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his lips against the crown of your head. “I’ll do whatever you want, just wanna be yours.”
You felt giddy, a smirk quirked the edges of your lips that you tamped down, hands still clutching the sweatshirt and jeans like life preservers. “You mean that?” you asked, leaning back against him. “What if I never let you bite me?”
“Then I won’t bite you,” he said, no hesitation in his voice. He squeezed you once, letting you go and allowing the cold air rush against you once more. “Just think about it, you don’t gotta know now.”
Joel stamped a kiss along your hairline before leaving the bedroom.
Packing up went quickly, the two of you working in tandem to make sure everything was still bound down and tarped in the back of the truck before clambering in. You watched the cabin disappear in the rearview mirror, already feeling nostalgic as it vanished behind snow-covered pines.
It wasn’t a long drive, maybe five hours if Joel went slow. He was going to go slow, milking every moment he got you all to himself before returning to Jackson. It only took you ten minutes into the drive to slide across the bench seat, lifting his arm to curl beneath it.
“So my way, huh?” you asked, pressing your nose against the canvas jacket he wore.
Joel chuckled, a victorious grin stretching on his face. “Yeah, your way, baby. You’re in charge.” It felt odd to say, a bit unnatural to give himself to you like that. An alpha bowing to an omega.
You grinned, an arm wrapping around his thick torso and pressing close as he followed the snow-covered road. The landscape sparkled like diamonds, the two of you silent as you didn’t want to break whatever that moment was.
Unsure of what lay ahead, but excited to find out–knowing it just may be something special.
Series Summary: You were on top of the world before the world ended. An up and coming actress with the man everyone wanted on your arm. Then the bombs dropped and you disappeared. Two hundred years later, neither of you are prepared to find each other again.
summary: You have a little crush on Joel Miller, who you sometimes see in the elevator of your building. You also have no idea that he's the one having loud sex in the apartment above you.
word count: 6.8k, one-shot
rating: 18+, MNDI
warnings/tags: reader is AFAB but no overt descriptions otherwise, kissing, dirty talk, smut, protected p-in-v, reader is a bit awkward and unsure, soft-dom joel vibes, implied age gap (late 20s/mid 50s), this is an AU
a/n: i wanted to write something fun and rom-com like and i'm not sure if i achieved that and also not super sure how i feel about this but i'm going to share this anyways because i need to get it out of my system. enjoy <3
credit to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!
You’ve just put your battered copy of The Book Thief on your nightstand when the rhythmic thump thump thump of your upstairs neighbour begins. Then, it’s the moans. The first time you heard it, all those weeks ago, you thought your neighbour might have been watching porn really loudly. Well actually, your first thought was that there was a crying woman. But then the soft whimpers became louder and more pronounced until you could clearly hear a woman practically yelling ‘god yes’ and ‘right there’ and ‘please please please’. And sure, sex can be nice and pleasurable but never in your twenty-eight years of existence has a man ever made you scream like that. So at first, you thought it was fake. Perhaps it was a girlfriend overcompensating. It wouldn’t be the first time. But then the second time it happened, the voice sounded different – a bit lower this time and the words were different too. Which is when you realized that your neighbour was entertaining different women and both of these women were making noises that you had only ever heard on your phone, late at night and at the lowest possible volume, when you needed something to help you take the edge off. Take your edge off, to be more precise.
All this to say, that you’re actually a pretty good neighbour. You never complain and you’re never noisy and the last two times this happened you hadn’t complained even though it had kept you up well into the night. To top it all off, you’re a sensitive sleeper. All you wanted tonight was to read your book and drink a cup of tea and put your horrible day behind you. You had started off late, coffee spilling down your wrist as you transferred it into your to-go cup. Your manager had made a snarky remark as you set your bag down in your cubicle, something about trying to get to work when everyone else does and then to top it all off, you had been stuck in traffic for an hour and a half on your way home. So really, all you wanted right now was some peace and quiet on this muggy Wednesday night. But instead you get the thump thump thump of the bed in the apartment above you and a woman moaning so loudly you think she might lose her voice from it.
“Fuck, right there,” she says and you let out a long sigh. You hear an answering grunt in return but your neighbour, whoever he is, says nothing more. You glance at the clock on your nightstand.
11:04 pm blinks back at you, red and mocking. You reach for your phone, turning up the box fan noises to as loud as it goes and reach for your book.
“Please,” you hear the woman above moan and you send your own prayer up to whoever’s listening. Please you think, let me get some sleep tonight.
You get a grand total of four and a half hours of sleep which would have been fine when you were nineteen and full of boundless energy, but nowadays anything less than seven has you feeling like a zombie. It’s why you’re sitting in front of your personal laptop right now, writing an email to your building manager, Clinton. He’s a thirty something year old man that’s frankly, pretty bad at his job but you’re desperate at this point. You’re wording it carefully, gently even. No mentions of sex or moaning or grunting. Just that the person above makes a little too much noise past ten p.m. and well into midnight and it’s happened three times now. For good measure, you add that you appreciate how people have different schedules but that you’d appreciate it if there was some consideration for late-night quietness. You sign the email off and send it before you can overthink if you’re being too uptight. You grab your work bag and coffee, on-time today since you couldn't sleep past 6:30 am. You lock your door, then jiggle the doorknob twice to make sure it really is locked before heading towards the elevator.
When the elevator doors slide open you’re greeted to the sight of Joel Miller. He’s one of the two people you know in this building and it’s only because there was one time a few months ago where your kitchen sink began acting possessed and the building manager didn’t care enough to send someone in immediately, although your floors were wet. Joel had overheard your desperate pleas to Clinton, who had nodded and told you that the part he needed to fix it would take another day to arrive, and had stepped in to help you himself. You had watched as he knelt down in your kitchen, wrench in hand, and fixed the issue in approximately fifteen minutes. You had also watched as his biceps strained against his Henley, feeling something warm flutter low in your belly. And ever since you’ve nursed a tiny, little neighbourly crush on him. You know he lives on the floor below you in unit 1024 and that both his daughters are away at college, two things he had mentioned in passing as he had fixed your sink. Other than that, you only ever see him in the lobby when you’re getting mail or in the elevators sometimes, where you make polite small talk and try not to blush.
“Mornin’,” he says, in his low, Texan drawl. He looks bright and awake, kind of the opposite of how you feel. His hair, peppered with grey, is pushed back away from his forehead, and it looks wet. He probably just got out of the shower. His beard is neat against his tan skin and his eyes are warm as he looks at you.
“Hi,” you say, smiling before you can stop yourself. “How are you doing?”
You see him smile back, a dimple appearing on his face. You resist the urge to fix your hair, wondering if you look as tired as you feel.
“I’m good,” he says. “And yourself?”
That’s the thing about Joel. He doesn’t talk all that much but he’s never rude. Just to the point. You don’t mind. You think you talk enough for the both of you.
“Tired,” you say, honestly. “Didn’t sleep too well.”
“Why’s that?” Joel asks, and you’re unsure if he’s just being polite or if he’s actually curious.
“The person above me was just noisy,” you say. And maybe it’s the lack of sleep that seems to have made the filter between your brain and mouth disappear but for some reason, you continue explaining. “Like the noisiest sex ever. And it was fine the first time but it’s happened thrice now. It’s like they have no consideration for the people around them. I don’t even know how two people could be that noisy.”
Suddenly, it’s like your brain catches up to what you’re saying. When you glance at Joel, his ears are red and he looks vaguely uncomfortable. Shit. Here you go again, talking way too much to someone you barely know. A hot someone too. And you probably sound like a prude. You suppose in the grand scheme of things, your neighbour having loud sex three times isn’t insane but still. It’s the principle of it. The lack of consideration for the people around them.
“Shit,” you say out loud, feeling your face flush. “Sorry, Joel. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m running on five hours of sleep and two cups of coffee. You can just ignore me.”
Before he can respond, the elevator doors slide open and you both come face to face with Clinton.
“Oh perfect,” he says, clapping his hands together. Your brows furrow in confusion and when you look at Joel, he seems just as lost.“I got your email,” Clinton continues, looking at you. “And I was just about to go talk to Joel about it.”
If you were confused before, you’re absolutely puzzled now.
“Why would you talk to Joel about it?” you ask. Your palms are suddenly sweating.
“Well he’s your upstairs neighbour, of course,” Clinton says and you feel the blood leave your face. This cannot be happening.
“No he’s not,” you say, trying to sound calm. “He lives in unit 1024.”
“No, he lives in unit 1204,” Clinton says, still completely oblivious to the awkward shift in the air. “Tell her Joel.”
Joel’s looking between you and Clinton like he’d rather do anything but that. He runs a large hand through his dark hair, before he nods. The apples of his cheeks are red now too.
“Er – yes,” Joel says, voice low. “I do live in 1204.”
Clinton nods, still smiling. You, on the other hand, are praying to whatever god might exist for the ground to swallow you up right about now. You think about all the times you’ve seen him in the elevator, how he’s never gotten out on the tenth floor and always stayed on even after you got off on the eleventh floor. You hadn’t really thought about it, never having reason to.
“Joel, little miss over here had a noise complaint. I know you both are friendly so instead of filing an official complaint against you, I’ll just give you a warning and we can consider it settled, yeah? I know you’re a good man so you’ll be more careful.” Clinton says, with his big fucking mouth. Joel nods, shuffling out of the elevator. You follow him, clenching your fists.
“Of course,” Joel says, still looking embarrassed. He looks at you then and you can’t even try to mask the mortification on your face. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll be more considerate.”
He uses the exact same word you had used when describing your loud neighbour not two minutes ago.
“Of course!” you say, voice about ten pitches higher than how you normally talk. You clear your throat. “I mean, yeah. Of course. It’s totally okay. I mean, I didn’t know it was you or else I wouldn’t have, you know…” you say, voice trailing off.
Joel nods, still looking uncomfortable.
“Alls well that ends well,” Clinton says, still completely oblivious.
Yeah. Sure.
You spend the next two days thinking of what happened with Joel. More specifically, how you had told him the loud sex he was having was inconsiderate and too frequent. The mortification of it hasn’t seemed to have dampened. You haven’t seen him since and you know it’s your mind playing tricks on you but you think he might be avoiding you. You usually cross paths in the garage when you’re getting back from work, taking the elevator up together and making small talk but that hasn’t been the case for the last two days. You also haven’t heard so much as a footfall from upstairs. Maybe he moved out. You hope not. You spend the next twenty three minutes sitting on your couch thinking of casual ways you could break the tension with Joel. Maybe you’ll run into him again and you could joke about it and it’ll all be water under the bridge. And then you can go back to staring at his biceps and looking at his hands without feeling guilty.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a knock at your door. You get up slowly, feeling sluggish and anguished from your embarrassment. It was more so that it was Joel, who you had embarrassed yourself in front of. Strong, mysterious Joel Miller who fixed your sink and has nice hands and always holds the door open for you. You pause your lamenting to smooth your frizzed out hair down before you open your front door. It’s probably Clinton, letting you know they’re going to be testing the fire alarms at 7 am on Monday morning which is Clinton’s preferred time to do anything related to building maintenance. When you swing the door open, you have about half a second to school your face into a neutral expression. Joel stands before you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his faded blue jeans. His hair is messy against his forehead and he looks tired, dark eyes tracking your face.
“Joel,” you say. “Hey.”
Suddenly, your ability to make conversation seems to have disappeared.
“Evenin’,” he greets, and his voice makes you feel warm all over. “May I come in?”
He’s so polite, always polite, really. It must be those southern manners. You nod, moving aside. You shut the door behind him, immediately turning towards him. He looks only slightly uncomfortable, which you’ll take as a positive.
“Listen,” he says, looking right at you. “I just wanted to apologize for the other day. I didn’t know you could, uh, hear me. And I shoulda been more thoughtful.”
Your eyes widen, and you shake your head immediately.
“No!” you say, only slightly too loud. “I should apologize. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t know you lived upstairs. Or else I never would have said all that stuff about the noise...” You lower your voice as your sentence tapers off. You can feel your ears burn and you can see Joel’s ears are a deep red too. But still, he shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says, voice drawling. “I shoulda known better. I know these walls are paper thin, I guess I just didn’t realize. I haven’t dated in a while, haven’t brought anyone home in years until a few weeks ago. I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.” He clears his throat, looking away. You don’t mean to snort but your brain is already frazzled. Joel looks back at you, raising a dark brow.
“I just,” you start before pausing. “You’re telling me you didn’t realize how loud the women were?”
Your voice is soft, if not a bit incredulous. You’re not judging him, you just can’t understand how he didn’t know. You can count on one hand the number of times a guy has made you actually moan, and even then it’s never been that loud.
Joel looks sheepish now, a flush on his cheeks. His eyes are darker and he shrugs, broad shoulders moving slowly.
“Guess not,” he says and you laugh, not unkindly. You watch his mouth twitch, a small smile appearing. If someone had told you three days ago that you and Joel Miller would be having an indirect conversation about his sex life, you would have called them crazy.
“Must be nice,” you say, still smiling.
Joel’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
That, you most definitely did not mean to say out loud. You can feel blood rush to your face.
“Oh, um, just that, you know,” you stammer before stopping all together. Joel’s still watching you, eyes moving over your face. You can’t deal with his eye contact so you look away, looking down at your hands. Joel clears his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to overstep. S’none of my business.”
Whatever tension that had broken earlier is back, thicker than ever. It lands heavily in the air and you take a deep breath.
“It’s okay,” you say, hoping to make things less charged. “I just meant that most guys don’t really, you know. Women are usually faking it if they’re that loud. Just from my experience. Not that I’m saying your dates were. I mean, they sounded different from each other but just as loud so.”
It’s probably the most awkward thing you’ve ever said to anyone and that’s saying something. You’re pretty sure Joel is never going to talk to you again after this and you’ll make your peace with it. You can settle for ogling his broad back when you see him in the lobby and nothing more. You watch as Joel frowns, his dark brows furrowing once more.
“I should head out,” he says and you school your face to mask your disappointment. You nod, moving to open the door.
“Thanks for stopping by,” you say. “And sorry for like, the word vomit,” you add for better measure. It makes Joel’s mouth twitch, a glimpse of a smile. You watch as he steps past your door and you commit the site of his broad shoulders stretching in your doorway to your memory.
He turns around then, catching your gaze.
“For the record, you shouldn’t be fakin’ it. You deserve more,” he says, looking right at you. Your breath leaves you in a whoosh and before you can say anything in response, he speaks once more. “Goodnight sweetheart.”
And then he’s gone, heading towards the stairwell.
You spend the next three days thinking about Joel. How he had called you sweetheart. How he had told you that you deserved more. You’re not sure if he was flirting. Or maybe it was just southern hospitality. Either way, you had spent that night with your hand down your underwear, replaying his words and thinking of his broad shoulders. Even now, as you adjust the grocery bags in your hands and wait for the elevator, you think of how he had looked at you. His eyes had been dark, assessing. But you don’t know why. Sure you made small talk with him whenever you saw him, making quips about the weather or the way the elevator always sounded like it was about to crash when it went down from the lobby to the garage. But does that mean he’s interested or is it your crush clouding your judgement? Either way, it’s not like it matters much. You haven’t seen him since that night and maybe it’s for the better. You’ve thought about him way too much and you need to get a grip. When the elevators slide open, you get in, glad that they’re empty for once. You left work later than usual today, your manager demanding you get a report done. You had then had to go pick up groceries because your fridge had exactly one can of cherry cola and expired cheese. The dullness of your evening had helped distract you at least, from your thoughts of Joel Miller.
Your bag slips off your shoulder just as the elevator makes the ominous noise it does every time it moves between the garage and the lobby. As if your thoughts about him had summoned him somehow, Joel appears when the doors slide open. You brace yourself for the uncomfortableness, accepting it for what it is.
“Hi Joel,” you say.
“Evenin’,” he says. You feel his gaze trace over you. “How was your day?”
You shrug. “Tiring. Boring. All of the above.”
He smiles, dimple twinkling on his cheek. “That so? Nothin’ good about it?”
“I got groceries,” you say, gesturing to your full hands. One of the plastic bags twists around your wrist, cutting off the blood flow. “How was your day?” you ask because you’ve never much liked talking about yourself. Your days are too mundane anyways.
“Tirin’. Borin’,” he says, echoing you. “Seems like we got that in common.” He takes a step towards you and your heart flutters. You watch as his large hand reaches for your wrist, and you stand there and watch as he adjusts the bag before gently taking it and the other one also being held in your left hand from you. “Let me help you with this.”
“Oh,” you say, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thank you, Joel. But you don’t have to.”
He shrugs just as the elevators stop at your floor. He follows you out and you walk to your apartment in silence. Your mind is racing. Joel’s always been kind but this feels more, somehow. There’s something thick in the air. In for a penny, you think, and then you speak.
“Joel?” you say and he looks at you, raising a brow. “What did you mean when you said that I deserved better?”
“Exactly that,” he says. “A woman like you deserves to be treated good. Shouldn’t be fakin’ it for any man, sweetheart.”
There he goes again. Calling you sweetheart. You feel a flurry of emotions in your chest and you twist one of your rings around your finger. A nervous habit you can’t seem to shake. Joel watches the movement. It’s like his eyes are always tracking you, tracing you, following you. You’re starting to wonder if your crush is as one-sided as you thought it was.
“Right,” you say. “That’s kind of you.”
He hums and then bids you a good evening. You watch the broad expanse of his back as he walks away.
You’ve never been able to leave well enough alone. When you were eleven you had desperately wanted a new bicycle but your mother had disagreed, saying the one you had was perfectly fine. Which it was, but that wasn’t the point. You wanted the bicycle with the pink handles and streamers down the side with the aquamarine finish, not a hand-me down from one of your older cousins. So you had started a lemonade stand in the middle of the winter, frigid January air not deterring you from standing outside on the weekends between eight a.m. and eleven a.m. Your mother had tried to get you to come back in, exasperated and worried about you catching a cold but you had been adamant. She had knitted you a new beanie and scarf instead, forcing you to wear them each time you ventured out. Sales had been painfully slow but eventually, by the summer of that year, you had saved enough to buy yourself the bicycle. All this to say, when you want to do something you can’t let the feeling pass. You have to do it. You have to know you at least tried. Which is how you find yourself knocking on Joel’s door later that evening, clock almost striking ten p.m. When it opens, you’re met with a softer version of Joel, one you’ve never seen. His hair looks soft, curling around his temple and the nape of his neck. He’s wearing a soft looking t-shirt and flannel pyjama pants.
“Were you offering?” are the first words out of your mouth, far less suave and much more accusatory than you intended. You would be embarrassed but you’ve met your quota for that feeling this week and it feels like all your thoughts have been consumed by Joel Miller. You watch Joel’s brows furrow and resist the urge to reach out and smooth out the wrinkle between them. You also realize you’ve asked him a pretty vague question.
“Before,” you start, suddenly losing your steam. You swallow, and his eyes track the movement of your throat. “When you said I deserved better. Were you offering?”
There’s a pregnant pause.
“I was,” Joel finally says, voice smooth and warm. It reminds you of a perfect summer day, when the warm rays of the sun fall against your skin, warming you from the inside. “I was offerin’. Don’t mean to overstep and never mean to make you uncomfortable.”
You shake your head quickly. “You’re not,” you say. “I, um, I want that too.”
Whatever this is, a one night stand most likely, you’ll take it. You’ve wanted Joel from afar for far too long and you’ll take what you can get. You’re suddenly grateful for your tendency to talk too much because at least it lead you to this.
He lets out a breath and your eyes trace the broadness of his shoulders under the soft cotton of his shirt.
“You sure?” he asks, and you nod, far too quickly. “Need you to say it, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” you say. “I’m sure, Joel.”
He nods. He steps closer to you, so that you have to look up a bit to meet his dark gaze.
“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs, voice warm and low. You hum, nodding. You run your tongue over your bottom lip and he tracks the movement, eyes becoming even darker. He cups the side of your face, running a thumb across your cheekbone before angling your head. Your eyes flutter shut and then you feel his mouth against yours, warm and plush. You open your mouth almost immediately, and he groans, so low you wouldn’t be able to hear it if you weren’t focussing on his every action. He moves one large hand to your waist, pulling you right against him. You can feel the heat of him against your body, the press of his stomach against your own. His tongue moves against yours, so hot you feel your whole body flush. When he pulls back you moan in protest, chasing his mouth and he huffs a laugh. His breath is warm against your face.
“Darlin’ we’re still in the corridor,” he says. Your blood is humming beneath your skin. You’ve never been super confident. You’re not the one to instigate things even if you are insistent. In situations like this, you’re usually shy. But Joel seems to drive you insane.
“Then take me to bed,” you say. “Please, Joel.”
His grip on your waist tightens and you relish in the press of his fingertips. You hope he leaves a mark. He tugs you into his house, shutting the door and then pressing you to it. He presses his mouth to you once more, immediately probing and you open for him like a blooming flower. The kissing is frantic, every point of your body pressed to his. You can feel where he’s hard against your stomach, the heat of it leaking even through his sweatpants. You start squirming against him, hitching your hips in a rhythm that makes you feel like you might come right here and now. You’ve never been this close before, not with a man. Joel’s hands move down to your hips, helping you move and you moan against his mouth. He sucks your tongue and your hips move faster, chasing relief. Just when you think you might actually finish, he pulls away, pressing your hips against the door and away from where he’s hot and hard. You look at him, dazed.
“You asked me to take you to bed,” he murmurs. His voice is low and warm, smooth like golden honey. So are his eyes, which watch you so carefully. “So I’m going to take you to bed, darlin’.”
He moves you around and you’re like a puppet, letting him. He maneuvers you in front of him with his hands on your waist and then leads you down the corridor. If you were less close to orgasm, you’d probably look around, wanting to understand your handsome, mysterious, sex god of a neighbour. But all you can think about right now is feeling Joel around you and inside of you. And it seems like he has a one track mind too with the way he walks behind you, so close that he’s pressed up against your back, pressing hot kisses to your neck. It makes you shiver.
His room is neat and cozy, all dark greens and wooden furniture. His bed is made and seeing it makes a wave of nerves rush through you. You stop, turning around to face him, still so close that you can count the eyelashes that frame his dark eyes and see the scar across his nose so clearly, the skin there pinker than the rest of his tan face.
“Joel,” you say, voice soft. “I don’t really do this often. Like, um, one night stands I guess.”
Something flickers across his face, too fast for you to recognize. But then, his eyes soften and he cups your face, running his calloused thumb across the highest point of your cheekbone.
“We can do whatever you want,” he says, voice just as soft as yours. “If you wanna stop right now, that’s completely fine with me darlin’.”
You shake your head, twisting your fingers in his soft t-shirt. “I don’t want to stop. I just don’t want you to be, uh, disappointed.” You look away from his gaze, down at your feet. You think of the other women who have been over, and wonder if you’ll measure up. Whether you’ll make the right noises or move the right way.
Before you can spiral too far, Joel lifts your chin up so that you’re looking into his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” he says and it feels too intimate for what this is. A one night stand. Still, you feel something loosen in your chest and your face flushes.
You swallow and Joel tracks the movement of your throat with his eyes. “Joel,” you say. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” Joel says and your mouth twitches, unable to hold back your smile. “There we go,” he says and then he’s kissing you again. You feel the back of your knees hit the edge of his bed and then Joel is laying you softly on his bed.
“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging at your shirt. You nod and help him, raising your arms. Goosebumps break out across your skin and you can feel your nipples hard against your bra. It’s one of your nicer ones, a bralette that’s a deep green. Joel runs a thumb across the material, and you arch into his touch. When he brushes your nipple, your eyes flutter close. His thumb runs down your sternum, past your belly button and lingers at the edge of your sleep pants. You open your eyes and meet his molten gaze. He raises a dark brow and you nod. Slowly, he tugs your pants off, leaving you in just your underwear.
“Oh baby,” Joel says, looking at you. “You’re so wet.”
Your stomach clenches and before you can think of what to say he’s running a finger against where you need him the most. His finger brushes against your clit and your hips buck into the touch and he tsks.
“Do you need it?” he asks and when you don’t answer he moves his finger away. You let out a sound of protest opening your eyes. He’s looking at you expectantly. “You need to say it, darlin’.”
“I need it, Joel,” you say, voice breathy. He smiles and then he’s pushing the gusset of your underwear aside, touching you directly. You’re so wet that it smears against your thighs. Joel runs his pointer finger from your clit downwards and you feel like you might melt into the bed. His touch is featherlight and you need more.
“Joel,” you say. “Please.”
He pulls his hand away again and you’re about to protest when you see him tug at the back of his shirt and then suddenly he’s shirtless. He’s even broader now with no fabric hiding him from you, his body muscular in a way that you know comes from years of manual labour and not just going to the gym. His arms are thick with muscle, a juxtaposition to his softer belly. Then he’s kneeling, pushing your legs apart so they rest on his broad shoulders. He presses his nose against you, and inhales and you buck into his face. If it weren’t for his big hand against your hip bone, you probably would have broken his nose with how much you move. He pulls your underwear aside and then he’s licking into you. It’s perfect. You’ve never experienced anything like this before and you don’t think you ever will again. His nose presses against your clit as he devours you, moving his tongue inside you in a way that has you squirming and seeing stars. Your hand moves down to grip his soft hair and he groans against you, licking into you more deeply. Then, he curls two fingers into you, the squelch of him breaching you sounding so loud to your ears. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t on the verge of coming. Joel sits up, watching you as he curls his fingers inside of you.
“My messy girl,” he says as he scissors his fingers, and you see the wetness of yourself drip down his wrist. The possession of what he says makes you even wetter. He curls his fingers, once, twice and then something in you snaps and you’re writhing against his hand as his mouth latches onto your clit. You’re not sure how long you’re out for but when you open your eyes, he’s above you, watching you with dark eyes.
“Okay, darlin’?” he asks and you take a shuddering breath.
“Yeah,” you say, voice husky. He hums. “So good.”
“Yeah?” he asks and you nod, gripping the arm he’s using to brace himself above you. You feel empty, suddenly ravenous to have all of him inside of you. You want to feel his chest pressed against yours, his mouth against your own and you want him inside of you now.
“Joel,” you say. “Please. I need you.” You tug at his arm and he smiles, something too soft for what you’re both about to do. You like the crinkles by his eyes, the way there’s grey in his beard. You reach up, running a hand against his jaw and he follows the movement with his mouth, pressing a kiss to your palm.
“Okay baby, I got you,” he says. He kneels on the bed, and spreads your thighs so you’re open for him again. At some point he must have taken his pants off because you see him now, in all of his glory and he’s big. No actually, he’s huge. Your mouth opens, eyes widening and when you look back up at him he smiles, running a thumb against your plush mouth.
“We’ll make it fit,” he says. “I’ll go real slow, okay? Stretch her out real good.”
“Okay,” you say, eyes wide. His thumb is still against your mouth and you brush your tongue against the rough pad of it, tasting the salt. Joel watches, eyes dark. You take it into your mouth, sucking and he closes his eyes, a shudder running through him. It makes you feel good knowing he’s similarly affected – that it isn’t just you losing your mind. He taps his dick against you, where you’re wet and glistening, and then runs it against your folds. Your hips shift, chasing the movement and then he notches himself against where you’re open and waiting.
When he pushes the head of him into you, both your breaths hitch.
“Joel,” you moan when he presses himself another inch forward.
“I know baby, I know,” he says, voice placating as if he isn’t splitting you in half. “There we go, biiig stretch,” he adds as he pushes himself further in and you feel dizzy with pleasure, reaching a place so deep inside of you, your eyes roll back. He’s slow with it, giving you time to adjust.
“Okay?” he asks when he’s all the way in and you nod.
“So good,” you say, sounding far away. “So good, Joel. Please move. Please, I need it.”
His eyes darken and he groans, pulling back before pushing in again.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “You’re perfect for me. It’s like you were made for me.”
“I am,” you moan, lost in pleasure. “All yours.”
“Yeah, baby?” he asks, his hips moving faster. “That’s right. You’re mine. Thought about this all the time. When I’d see you in the hallways or in the elevator. Wanted to take you home, take care of you and make you feel good. Fuck baby.”
You’re not fully registering his words, but you know it must be the sex talking. And now you get why those women before you had screamed the way they did, why you could hear them through your walls. He moves a hand down to your clit, circling a thumb around it and you flutter around him. Wetness clings to your lashes and runs down your cheeks and Joel leans down, chasing the salty tears with his tongue, so hot against your skin that you can feel yourself unraveling.
“All of you tastes perfect, sweetheart,” he rumbles, biting lightly at your jaw.
“Joel,” you wail and he grunts, almost animalistic. “Please.” You’re not sure what you’re begging him for but he seems to understand. He moves over your clit faster and you feel the tightness in you snap. You clench around him, arching as he moves his hand to press down against the lower part of your stomach. You can feel him there, inside of you. You must say it out loud because Joel groans.
“Yeah, you can, can’t you? Can feel me right here,” he says, pressing down harder and you moan as you come, a gush of wetness coating you both. Joel follows right behind you, pressing you down into the bed as he comes inside of you, hot even through the condom. It might be minutes or hours later when he shifts, pulling out and you make a noise at the loss. He pulls back and you open your eyes. You take a deep breath, legs still shaking and wrapped around his waist.
“Wow,” you say, voice hoarse. Joel’s face lights up as he lets out a laugh. You watch him stand up, his broad back facing you as he walks towards the bathroom. He’s in there for long enough that doubt starts creeping into you. You should probably get up and find your clothes. You know what this was and you’re not going to make it weird by lingering, no matter how badly you want to press yourself into Joel and fall asleep. Just as you stand up, reaching around you for your underwear, Joel comes back.
“What are you doing?” he asks and you feel reprimanded.
“Um,” you say. “I was just looking for my clothes.”
Joel shakes his head, coming to stand right in front of you. He has a washcloth in his hand.
“Sweetheart,” he says. “Let me take care of you.”
It’s so tender that something cracks open in your chest. You feel a swell of emotion and look away, swallowing. Joel leads you back so that you’re lying against the headboard. He parts your legs gently, so unlike the intense movements from before. You let him, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He’s gentle as he wipes between your legs, even pressing a soft kiss to the crease of your thigh. You’re not sure what to do, what this is. He moves, gently pulling your underwear up your legs and you shift your hips to let him fix the waistband against your stomach.
“I can feel you thinkin’,” he says, voice soft.
“I don’t want to impose,” you say. “You don’t have to do this.”
Joel shakes his head. “You’re not makin’ me do anythin’.” His accent sounds stronger now, the low drawl of it reminding you of hot days and lemonade. You blink fast, swallowing back a surge of emotion.
“I meant what I said before,” Joel says. “When we were…when I was in you. I’ve wanted to ask you out for ages, every time I saw you really. But I thought you only saw me as an old man before the, uh, noise debacle. I was going to ask you out actually, when I saw you tomorrow. But then you came to me tonight and fuck sweetheart, I’m not strong enough to say no to you. Not when you’re at my door lookin’ at me with those big eyes of yours.”
You take in the information, feeling something lighten inside of you. You bite the inside of your cheek.
“I like you too,” you finally say. “A lot. I just didn’t know if you felt the same and I…” you trailed off, unsure of how to continue. Joel moves so he’s standing between your legs. He cups your face, leaning down to kiss you gently. Your heart flutters and he pulls back. He kisses your forehead then, inhaling and then he pulls back. You pull him down and it takes a bit to get you both comfortable, but then you’re resting against him, head pillowed against his firm chest. You look up, pressing a kiss to his chin and he smiles.
“I’m goin’ to take you out to breakfast tomorrow,” Joel says and maybe you take too long to answer because he clears his throat. “Uh, I mean if you’d like that.” he adds and you laugh.
“I’d like that, Joel,” you say and you can feel him relax against you.
“And then I’d like to take you out to dinner. Multiple dinners,” he says and you hum.
“And then you’ll bring me back here,” you say.
“If you’d like that sweetheart,” he says and you push yourself closer to him.
“I’d like that a lot,” you say and he presses a gentle kiss to your hairline.
A/N: This has been in the docs for a while, and it’s all just filth. Thank you to @mountainsandmayhem for helping me get that one sentence just right! This one is dedicated to all the bratty girls who love to be punished, especially @littlevenicebitch69 😈
Summary: Tonight, you planned for beer, loud music, and sloppy sex with one of your hot college classmates. Instead, you get your best friend’s dad putting you in your place.
Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI
Word Count: 6.7k
Tags: Porn with plot, large age gap (reader is 23, Joel is 46), best friend’s dad! Joel, unprotected piv, brat tamer! Joel, fingering, oral (f/m receiving), no use y/n, pre outbreak! au, switching POVs, dirty talk, edging
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
The lights flash like disco balls across the silhouette of the glass windows as Joel enters the front door of his house. His eyes blow wide, eyebrows furrowing when he sees the absolute mess in his large two-story house.
The wooden floors are caked in spilled beer, bottles litter the vicinity of his college infested living room. The loud music blares through the speakers, bodies cramming the now made dance floor with the leather couches pushed back out of place. Antique lamps get knocked over, footballs get thrown around by some jocks in the kitchen, chips get crunched and crumpled by careless feet over by the rustic coffee table.
He can’t see an end to the madness of this unwelcome house party that was obviously thrown without his knowledge, and he’s fucking pissed.
He scoffs as a tall blonde football player rams into his shoulder, not even muttering an apology, only yelling “Watch out, old man” as be barrels through with an open beer bottle clutched in his firm hand. That makes Joel burn with hot rage, his jaw ticking as he goes searching for Sarah in a sea of college party goers.
He was supposed to be away on a contracting gig all weekend, but he unexpectedly got to come home early after the clients changed the dates yet again. He was going to surprise Sarah by taking her out to dinner, but not anymore. Not after he walked into his house that’s now completely trashed by fucked up college kids.
He clamps down on his seething tongue and tastes blood run down the back of his throat, pushing himself through a couple making out by the kitchen entrance, cursing under his breath when almost no one even realizes he’s right there in the midst of it all. A rowdy boy shotguns a beer in the hall, all his friends hollering for him to chug. Joel grabs the aluminum can out of his hand and throws it on the ground, crushing it under his leather work boots while he scowls at the piece of shit.
“Get out of my fuckin’ way,” he growls, pushing the college kid out of the way and into the wall, stomping down the hall back into the living room when he doesn’t see Sarah anywhere around him.
He barrels past a sleazy couple making out by the stairwell, hearing them yell back while he huffs and pushes past them. Fucking college kids.
Turning and looking up the stairs is where he finds you standing there, nursing an alcoholic beverage from a red solo cup. He clenches his jaw, narrows his eyes as he stares at you, Sarah’s best friend, not even comprehending he’s right there basically at your heels.
He growls under his breath, hands balled in tight fists as the loud music booms through his eardrums, cursing when he sees another red solo cup fall to the floor, spilling liquid all over his newly polished floors.
Goddamn it.
He assesses you carefully, flicking his eyes over your too tight little black dress, barely covering the globes of your ass. Your low cut neckline basically reveals it all, cleavage spilling from where your perky breasts tease the boys. He takes in your tanned, toned legs, your slutty outfit making all the guys drool over you. And he knows that’s what you fucking want because you love attention.
If attention is what you’re seeking, then he’s about to smother it.
He scoffs under his breath; a jealous anger rises deep in his chest. He equally loves and hates how attractive he finds you. Your long legs could make any grown man weak in the knees, and your pouty red lips are so plump that they drive him absolutely wild. He so badly wants to suck that pretty little bottom lip between his teeth so he can finally hear what your pleasurable cries sound like while they ring melodically through his ears.
He should be mad, furious that you were a part of putting this party together. He knows you were; Sarah wouldn’t do this by herself. Not his little girl. No. She obviously had some convincing from you. He always knew you were a little troublemaker.
And you know what happens to little troublemakers? They get taught a lesson. And that’s exactly what he plans to do.
“Isn’t this party great? You and Sarah really pulled it off. Didn’t think you could. Bravo,” Kylie congratulates you, tipping her half empty beer bottle to your red solo cup, spilling a little of the mixed alcohol over the side of your cup.
“Yeah, well this wouldn’t have even happened if we thought her dad would show up. Kinda was hesitant to even help throw it, but guess it worked out,” you sigh with relief, a smile painting over your tinted red lips.
You relax against the wall, taking a deep breath while the drifting music fills your ears, lulling in the alcohol that calms your racing mind. “Good thing he’s not here, right? That’d be a shit show,” you laugh.
After a couple of minutes, Kylie hits your arm and almost screams into your ear. “Wait. Oh no. Isn’t that… is that Sarah’s dad?”
You stand up straight, pushing yourself off the wall frantically. As you look down the narrow staircase and gaze through the parted crowd, that’s when you see him staring up at you with a clenched jaw and fire lighted in narrowed eyes.
Oh shit.
You swallow a generous gulp of the bitter alcohol, biting the tip of your tongue hard as Kylie disappears and leaves you alone with the hungry panther that’ll surely show his claws to you any moment now. He stalks towards you, climbing the stairs and pushing past party goers, his big lips twitching and glowing eyes glaring your way.
Fuck. He’s so angry. You’re in big trouble.
He points a thick finger accusingly at you, mouthing your name angrily through his gritted teeth. When he reaches you your eyes blow wide, mouth dropping open, standing speechless in your black high heels. Your red solo cup slips out of your hand, and you gulp when the cup lands on Joel’s tan work boots, spilling alcohol all over the worn leather. Shit.
He rakes a hand roughly down his salt-and-pepper trimmed beard, muttering curse words under his breath. “Jesus Christ,” he huffs.
“Sorry…” you stutter, almost falling backwards before he places a strong hand around your wrist, holding your gaze with his narrowed eyes.
“So, you and Sarah decided it was alright to throw a fuckin’ party over the weekend I was supposed to be out of town, huh? Thought it was fine to trash my goddamn house?!” His voice is sharp, stern, filled with a deep gravelly tone that almost scares the daylights out of you. You’ve never seen Joel mad before, not like this. You’re in so much trouble.
“No… I mean, we didn’t mean to…” you mutter quietly.
“Didn’t mean to my ass. This was planned. Parties don’t jus’ happen. But let me ask you one thing, where is my daughter?” His amber eyes dig into you, a deep scowl forming over his lips while you try to hold your shaky breath.
You wouldn’t rat Sarah out, not to her dad. She was busy hooking up with Ryan by the pool, and you did not want her dad knowing that. He would probably take his meaty hands and physically kill the poor guy.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her in a while,” you shrug, pretending like you don’t know a thing.
He slides his tongue along his bottom teeth, his cold eyes slitting into narrow slots. Oh god, you’re done for. “Upstairs, now!” he yells. He grabs your wrist and drags you upstairs, down the narrow hall, past the occupied bathroom and down to the last room on the right.
His bedroom.
He throws you inside the room and flips on the lights, slamming the door shut with a bang and clicking the lock into place. No place to escape now. Your wide eyes scan the room, glancing past the corner with his acoustic guitar, taking in the navy blue walls, the collection of stacked albums in the little glass case, eyes flicking over the king-sized bed with clean white sheets and a dark blue blanket thrown neatly on top.
You don’t have time to really take in your surroundings because he’s suddenly screaming at you through clenched teeth. “Where is Sarah?” he growls, pacing in front of you with blown out angry eyes, tanned arms crossed over his broad chest.
You push all your fears aside and decide to turn on the charm, hoping you can flirt your way out of this one. “I dunno, Joel. Where do you think she is?” you giggle, twirling a lock of hair between your fingers, giving him your best innocent look as you bat your eyelashes up at him, trying your hardest to not turn your best friend in.
Something snaps hard in him then. He crowds your space, pinning you against the navy colored wall, his meaty hands grazing against your hips roughly. “It’s Mr. Miller to you. Now look, I ain’t repeatin’ myself again. Now where is she?” He snarls, showing his incisors as his nostrils flare, making his chocolate eyes grow into big black holes. Oh god, he’s furious.
“Like I said, I don’t know.” You smile, shrugging your shoulders like you don’t have a clue in the world. He obviously knows you’re lying, and he won’t stand for that.
“I’m not fuckin’ playin’ around, little girl. Tell me where my daughter is or so help me.” He clenches his jaw, a repressed growl held in the back of his throat.
“Little girl, huh? You think a twenty-three-year-old is a little girl?” You scoff, pursing your lips annoyed.
“Shut up, will ya? Christ. Jus’ tell me where the fuck my daughter is,” he growls, pinning his broad chest against yours.
You smirk his way, challenging him with an ounce of liquid courage in your system. “Make me.”
He digs into the sides of your hips with his thick fingers, making you gasp at the nervous butterflies that flit through your stomach. He gnashes his teeth together, dark eyes blowing wide as he ghosts dangerously close to your lips. “Better be careful there, sweetheart. You’re walkin’ on mighty thin ice,” he warns with the flash of black eyes.
“Am I?” you challenge, giggling with a gleam in your eye. He curses under his breath, ready to give you just what you deserve. “I see the way you look at me when Sarah’s not around. The way your eyes peel over me, especially when I was wearing my little pink bikini by the pool. Couldn’t stop staring, could you?” you smirk.
He clenches his teeth together, groaning curse words as he scowls your way, fighting every ounce of control he has left in him, but he has none. “You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that?” he spits your way, eyes lit like smoldering flames.
“Only a brat for you,” you wink.
“Jesus Christ,” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thick fingers until he’s looking back up at you with danger written all over his handsome face. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Mhm,” you nod, grabbing onto the front of his green flannel, your fingers curling ever so slowly over the soft material. “So, what are you gonna do about it, Mr. Miller?” you ask all flirtatiously, pulling him up against your chest while his big hands hover over the soft fabric of your tight dress.
He carves his hand over the middle of your cleavage, running a calloused finger dangerously close to your breasts, anger still coursing through those dark eyes of his. “How much have you had to drink tonight? You’re actin’ rather bold, little girl.” His index finger grazes the underside of your breasts, and you hold in a surprised gasp.
“I’ve had a couple sips, but I’m not drunk,” you promise, watching his eyes flick back and forth from your vision to your spilling breasts that scream to be freed from the suffocating dress.
He assesses your face, scanning your flustered features while he ticks his jaw, analyzing if you’re really drunk or not. Once he’s satisfied with your answer, he lets out a gruff sound from the back of his throat. “Okay then. You’re not drunk, but you’re jus’ choosin’ not to tell me where Sarah is, and you’re givin’ me a damn headache with the way you’re actin’ like a little brat,” he snarls with gritted teeth. “What’s it gonna take to get you to answer me, brat?”
The nickname brat makes a wave of slick form in the gusset of your pretty lace and your insides quiver with need. You know exactly what you have to do now.
You take your nails and run them slowly through his greying scruff, watching him clench his jaw and growl through his teeth. He grabs your wrist and peels it off his face, pinning it high above your head while he takes a step forward and leans all his weight into you.
“Don’t think for one fuckin’ moment you have control, sweetheart. I’m in control here. Now, are you gonna tell me where my daughter is or am I gonna have to fuck it out of you?” His eyes blow wide, black pupils taking over your vision as his hardening cock digs into the middle of your thigh. Oh fuck. He’s big.
You smirk up at him and raise your eyebrows. “Think I can tell you where she is. After you fuck me first, Mr. Miller.”
He snarls your way and grabs your wrists, pulling you from the wall and throwing you in the direction of his king-sized bed. Before you can even make a move, he's right behind you, spreading your legs and pushing your chest against the soft mattress, slowly hiking your dress above your hips.
“If you’re gonna act like a brat then I’m gonna fuck you like a brat, fuckin’ tease,” he growls.
You feel the cool air against your center before you can even comprehend what’s happening. He rips your lace panties in half, shredding the material and spreading you wider while he spits on his large hand and starts dividing your folds, calloused fingers gliding through the slick of your wet pussy. He pushes on your buzzing clit, already overstimulated by his meaty fingers pressing against you, and you can’t help but pull a low groan from your glossy lips.
“You like that, huh? Dirty little thing, jus’ wait till I get my mouth on you,” he smirks devilish.
“Oh, god,” you groan loudly as he curls one thick finger inside your dripping hole, quickly slipping another in to make a delicious burning sensation light your core on fire.
The room starts spinning as he languidly fucks his fingers in and out, making sharp, deep movements as they scissor inside you over and over again. It’s like he’s kissing the back of your cervix, reaching impossibly deep inside your soul, and his deft fingers are so fucking experienced that you think you see god himself when he curls at just the right spot and presses into the spongy spot that has you seeing twinkling stars before your wide eyes.
The heel of his palm presses firmly against your clit, and you can’t help the obscene noises that squeak out of you, just like the wet, squelching noises your pussy is making every single time he fucks into you nice and deep. The way he’s finger fucking you is unforgiving and relentless, and you can tell he’s thoroughly pissed that you kept taunting him. He’s trying to teach you a lesson, but it feels so fucking good that maybe you should tease him more often. Maybe he’ll keep being rough with you because you like this more than you should.
You buck your hips up, pressing your clit against his rough palm as you reach for that friction you so desperately crave. You’re right on the verge of coming, and you need to feed that burning sensation that almost snaps like a twig inside your core.
“Greedy fuckin’ brat, ain’t ya? Who said you could come already, huh?” he growls with bared teeth. He releases his drenched fingers from your core, and you feel complete loss when those damn thick fingers stop you from getting your sweet release.
You whine as he throws you on the silky sheets flat on your back, his large body climbing over yours while he pins his muscular legs against your thighs, spreading you wide to be on full display for him. You gasp and try to break free of his strong hold, but he’s much larger than you are, and his body is as taut as a brick wall. No way you can knock him off.
You lick your bottom lip in frustration and pout because your clit burns, and you need to get relief before you combust into uncontrollable flames. “Please, Mr. Miller,” you beg, tears pooling in the backs of your glossy eyes.
“You gonna tell me where Sarah is?” he asks, his large stature toppling over your body as his smoldering eyes incinerate the flames a thousand degrees hotter.
“Maybe after you make me come.” You puff your bottom lip out and smile through the burn of your core. He’s not going to budge, so you might as well push him to the edge.
“You think a little brat like you deserves to come?” he snarls, his eyes blowing wide as they trail like fire down your writhing body.
He spots your wet center and smirks, ghosting his fingers right over your bundle of nerves, exactly where you need him most. Your voice box dies as you watch his thick fingers skate across your middle region, and you grow mute as a blinding pleasure of need crashes through your bloodstream.
“I asked you a question, little brat. I expect an answer,” he growls with clenched teeth.
“Please,” is all you seem to be able to whisper out as the heel of his palm brushes against your over sensitive clit. “I… I need it,” you whine, feeling the bottomless pit your stomach seems to plummet into.
“You need it?” he chuckles darkly, dipping his head down between your legs slowly. “This pretty pink pussy wants to come?” he smirks as his lips brush dangerously close to your throbbing mound.
“Mhm,” you whine, panting excessively when his hot breath fans over your clit, sending your carnal need spiraling while his large hands push your thighs further into the slick white sheets.
He lets a string of saliva pool inside his mouth, and then he slowly lets it drip down like a waterfall onto your already drenched pussy. “Can never be too wet, little brat,” he grins wickedly. “But look at you, already soppin’ for me,” he chuckles darkly.
The tip of his thumb slides against your slit, covering drool and slick up to your puffy mound as he meticulously circles over that sweet spot that makes you pant his name uncontrollably. You buck your hips up, begging for more, but he just settles nicely between your legs and lets his eyes lust over with black pits that threaten to eat you alive.
“Mr. Miller,” you beg like a desperate bitch in heat. You need him, want him, and it’s so fucked up that you want your best friend’s dad. But he’s just so enticing that you can’t resist, like a prized possession you just can’t lose.
“Now, let me taste jus’ how wet you are, little brat. Maybe you’ll stop runnin’ that smart alec mouth of yours for a minute,” he smirks cruelly.
You take a breath, about to spout off a flirty response to mock him, but then his mouth fuses to your pussy, and there’s suddenly no air left in your lungs. He languidly licks a long stripe up your glistening folds, making a shocked gasp escape your mouth while he peels his carnal eyes up at you and fucking smirks while his tongue slowly envelops your buzzing mound.
Fuck. He’s even better with his tongue than you imagined.
“Ohhh,” you moan breathily, mouth agape with drool nearly sliding down your chin. His tongue makes your pussy clench up over nothing, but then he slips two experienced fingers inside your dripping hole and curls up up up until he hits that spot that makes you lose your fucking mind.
Another flick of his long tongue and you’re nearly choking on dry air. You try to speak, but his skillful fingers and lapping tongue make you forget every single thought that’s ever plagued your mind.
“Look at you, all choked up like you don’t know any words. What’s the matter, little brat? Cat got your tongue?” His menacing words cut through the thick air, and his piercing black eyes flash with mischief when his tongue slides along your puffy clit.
“Y—yes,” you choke, words getting jumbled on the tip of your tongue the minute he plunges his thick fingers deeper inside you. “Oh my god,” you moan, feeling his thick beard brush against your inner thigh, his tongue dancing impossibly fast around your bundle of nerves. “More,” you beg, “please.”
Joel’s tongue snaps back in his mouth, and one of his large hands tugs you closer, possessively pressing into your thigh like he fucking owns you. “Beggin’ for me now, s’that right?”
All you can do is nod in response. “Mhm.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, still skillfully curling his magical fingers up inside you, almost making your vision turn to black. “You gonna behave if I make you come, pretty little slut?” he asks with a snide smirk, fanning his hot breath along your sticky center, right where he’s ruined you most.
“Mhm. I’ll be good, promise,” you squeak out, bucking your hips to try to get his warm mouth back on you, but he only digs deeper into your thigh, right to the point of both pleasure and pain mixed together.
“Attagirl,” he smiles wickedly, his dark eyes turning back into big black pits.
In the next second his mouth is back on you, biting and sucking and teasing his tongue along your wet folds, his curved nose inhaling deeply in your curls above your mound, and then his mouth takes your needy clit and sucks. Hard. Your eyes roll in the back of your head, reveling in the feel of his smooth tongue, moaning with every curl of his thick digits that he gives you, relishing the sick, pleasurable feeling of knowing that you finally teased him enough that he gave in. And it’s honestly better than any fake fantasy that you conjured up in your twisted brain. This right here is something you’d be on your knees for every second you could get Joel fucking Miller alone with you.
Another lick to your center and your fingers fall and twist around his dark greying tousled locks. That elicits a groan deep from within his throat, and he has you panting even heavier the more he ravishes your sticky center.
The coil sharply snaps in your belly, and you feel molten lava run down your spine, slipping down your center, your walls clenching tightly around his calloused fingers. “Fuck,” he groans, his tongue lapping up the spilling slick that runs down your thighs messily.
Even coming down from your orgasm, the man still sets your core on fire. “You taste so fuckin’ good, little brat. Like fuckin’ cake on my lips,” he hums, licking off your glistening slick that sticks to his plush lips.
Once you’re coherent enough to form a full sentence, you breathe out raggedly. “Need you, Joel,” you whine, reaching for his flannel collar until he pushes your hand away.
“Mr. Miller,” he snaps. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mocks, his tongue darting across his bottom lip while he takes his time pulling the top of your dress down. “You want this cock?” he asks smirking, his big hands toying with your now revealed breasts, pinching the pebbled nipples between his fingers, humming happily when a moan slips off your tongue.
“Yes, please,” you beg, hoping he’ll give in to your sweet voice that nearly sings each time his warm body brushes against yours. You’re desperate because now you really want him. You want to know what it’s like to be fucked by Joel Miller in the flesh.
“You gonna tell me where Sarah is?” He leans in and brushes his soft lips against the shell of your ear, gently biting until pain turns into raw pleasure.
“Yes,” you say shakily. “After you fuck me.”
His chocolate brown eyes turn carnal, black pits taking over once again as a deep smirk flicks across that warm mouth of his. “If you wanna be fucked like a slut then so fuckin’ be it,” he growls viciously. “Needy fuckin’ girl.”
He yanks the leather belt from the loops of his denim jeans, throwing it quickly over the side of the bed as it falls with a clatter onto the floor. He wastes no time and unzips his metal zipper, ripping his jeans down his legs, his black boxer briefs following quickly after. Your eyes widen when you see just how massive he is, his thick cock hard and pressing firmly against his soft tummy, precum spilling messily over his red, swollen tip that’s begging to be stuffed inside you.
Your jaw drops, and searing pleasure tears through your core the way his cock twitches when he looks down at just how soaked you are again. You’re like a fucking water fountain with no end of flow in sight. You’ve got it so bad for him, but now all you want is to be fucked by this beast of a man.
“Jesus Christ. Already wet for me again? Little slut wants to be stuffed full of my cock, s’that right? Well, congratulations because I’m about to fuck you until you can’t think about anything else but me splitting you in two,” he growls cunningly.
His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, and then he’s driving his cock straight through your damp folds. The breath gets knocked from your body the moment he plunges inside you, his large width literally splitting you in two until all you can feel is him penetrating your tight walls.
“Fuck,” you moan as his arms come down around your shoulders, caging you in as he drives in harder, bottoming out each time his hips snap up against yours, making you feel so satiated but also starving for more. You love his cock, and you don’t think you’ll ever have anyone else that can measure up to the god of a man he truly is.
“Yeah, takin’ my cock like such a good girl,” he purrs, slapping his hips over and over as your mind starts to become numb from the thrusts of his massive cock.
“M–Mr. M… Miller,” you garble out, eyes rolling into the backs of your lids, reveling in the pleasure of the way he slides in and out of you, hitting that spongy spot that makes your fingers curl into the now dampened sheets.
“‘S’right, sweetheart. Say my name. Look at you all cock drunk. Givin’ you jus’ what you deserve, like the little slut you are,” he chuckles darkly as his tongue darts out and licks ravenously at the nape of your neck. “Lettin’ your best friend’s daddy fuck this tight pussy? You’re such a fuckin’ slut,” he chuckles.
You don’t know why, but the nickname slut makes your insides tremble and has more slick running down his cock with each brush he gives your center. You’re such a bad friend, but you don’t care. You’ve wanted him for so long, and now you have him. You don’t intend to stop now.
He bends your knees toward you, folding them until you’re in the shape of a pancake, his cock spearing into you at just the right angle that makes your moans louder and desperate as he drives you to your quickening second orgasm of the night.
The head of his cock kisses your cervix, drawing shallow breaths from your lungs until the room is enveloped in amber flames. You’re burning for him, and he fucking knows it, too. “Come on, pretty girl. You know you wanna come on my cock,” he taunts, eyes lit with pure mischief that threatens to swallow your cries whole.
“Yes, fuck. I’m right there… I’m right–” Your voice is cut off by the deep growl that comes from his throat the moment your walls clench tightly around his cock, and you feel those walls inside you starting to crumble like every single thing around you does.
“That’s it, little brat. Take it. Spill for me,” he commands with a deep, intoxicating tone that has you coming just seconds after he speaks. You arch your back and moan his name, your ragged breaths scratchy and dry as you come hard on his cock.
“Oh, yeah. Fuckin’ messy girl, goddamn,” he growls as he fucks you relentlessly through the high.
Just when you think he might come too, he pulls out and leaves you crying from the emptiness that makes you hollow from the inside out. You lay there panting, your center ruined from your dripping cum. He doesn’t even give you a chance to breathe; he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you off the bed, pushing you down until you’re settled between his thighs.
When you look up from under your long lashes, you see his hard cock shiny with your slick, and his eyes are lustful black pits. “Why don’t you be a good girl and open that pretty mouth, sweetheart. Wanna fuck it. Knock some sense into ya,” he growls.
Your eyes widen and you try to turn, but he grabs the crown of your head and forces your mouth open with the tip of his thumb. “Open. Your. Fucking. Mouth.” It’s not a question but a demand. And god, you willingly do as he says without a fuss.
Your hands wrap around the base of him obediently, and then your tongue laps at the underside of his cock, tracing the bulging veins that spread like vines down his shaft. Licking across the swollen tip of him, your tongue whisps against his slit, feeling the hot, salty precum envelop your throat as you hum around him.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, your tongue is so… fuck,” he moans once your lips are fully wrapped around him, taking him deep inside your throat until he’s bottoming out, making you gag.
You pull your lips from his cock, catching your breath as a bead of drool connects from your bottom lip to the tip of him, like a spider web spinning its web slowly and maliciously. He looks down at you with a glint in his mischievous eyes, and it’s so smoldering that it catches you on fire.
The pad of his thumb traces gently on your bottom lip, and for a moment you see a glimmer of softness in those dark irises. It’s quickly masked the second he grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs hard, pulling you to the edge of his messy cock. “You wanted to be fucked so badly, so let me teach you another lesson, little brat. Wanna shut you up with something else other than my hand.”
He tugs you forward, and his cock plunges deep into your throat, languidly sliding it in and out, harder and faster with each stroke of his cock. Your eyes water as tears stream down your face, mascara trailing down your lash line with every thrust of his cock. Your cheeks hollow out, but nothing could’ve prepared you for how he humiliates you and ruins you by fucking your mouth repeatedly.
The chilly air hits the back of your bare ass, and the room fills with obscene gagging and choking noises the more your mouth drowns in him. Drool coats your chin and runs down his thick length, but he doesn’t stop, he just keeps plunging deep into the back of your throat like it’s life or death.
“Finally learned how to shut you up,” he teases, ragged breaths growling from his throat the closer he gets to his climax.
You can’t talk, only the washed out sounds of drowning on his all-consuming length fill the void. He practically rips your hair out of the base of your skull, tugging forcefully, snapping his hips aggressively until you feel his tip swell and almost combust. A guttural groan leaves his mouth, and with one more snap of his hips he’s finished.
“Swallow,” he commands. And then he’s spilling his hot seed down your throat. The salty taste makes you moan around him, and a unique taste that can only trademark as his own serenades you, claiming you as his own prized possession.
He ruts once more inside you and then slowly slides out, collapsing on his back while you fall to the floor with a thud, gasping for breath as you choke on thick air. Your nails dig into the soft carpet, piercing through the thick material as you get a hold of yourself. Carefully tugging your dress up and down over your ass, you push yourself up after a few minutes of trying to decipher all that just went down.
Joel lays with a large hand shielding his eyes, groaning to himself and mumbling nonsense under his breath. He’s probably regretting this entire night now, but you know you’re not. And you’d do it again in a heartbeat.
After a moment of standing there staring, Joel lifts himself up and leans his elbows against his knees, his eyes flicking over your panting form carefully. His stare isn’t kind but condescending, until it melts into something a little softer that you just can’t place your finger on.
Is he… growing soft on you?
His eyes flick to yours, his jaw slack and irises golden brown, no more lusting black pits. Something snaps in you, tugging at the pit of your gut that feels a lot like longing, yearning. And you shouldn’t feel this way about your best friend’s forty-six-year-old father, but you do. And nothing could convince you to stay away from him anymore. One taste and you were hooked.
You rock on the back of your heels, almost speechless by the aching feeling in your gut that screams from the loss of his hands on your body, his cock twitching inside you, and for a moment you feel sadness that completely shatters your fragile heart. Finding an ounce of courage buried deep in your throat, you fight to find your now meek voice again. “Are we going to make this a habit, Mr. Miller?”
“Don’t count on it,” he mutters under his breath. “‘S’not a good idea,” he sighs.
A wave of disappointment comes out of nowhere and just about knocks you on your ass, but you stand tall, your chin high in the air. “Fine. I learned my lesson, Mr. Miller. Guess I’ll go find another man to teach me another,” you mewl, letting the cold chill in your spine settle your agitation long enough to turn away from his clenched jaw and deep eyes that try to glue you to the dark carpet of his room.
You give him a mocking smile and flip your hair across your shoulder while you sway your hips toward the closed door. Fine, if he doesn’t want you then you’ll just have to find someone else who can fill you as good as Joel did.
A deep groan falls from his lips, and then you hear him pushing himself off the bed like his life depends on catching you. Joel snatches your waist and spins you around, pinning your back to the wall, just like the position you were in when you first got dragged to this room tonight.
“I don’t fuckin’ think so,” he spits out, onyx eyes flaring with a hint of jealousy and possession, and then his lips fuse to yours, consuming every fiber of your body as his own.
His plush mouth molds to yours like clay, his warm breath fanning across your swollen lips, and you swear you’ve never craved a man like this, not when his mouth is feasting on you. Parting your lips pliantly, you allow him access inside, his tongue slotting between your teeth and then dancing against your tongue. He tastes like whiskey and smells like sandpaper. He’s intoxicating.
Heat bursts through the room as his tongue invades your mouth, making you dizzy and incredibly needy the moment his hands cup the sides of your face, your fingers scraping gently against the back of his neck. He groans in response, deeping the kiss as he swallows you whole. You don’t hear the blaring music down the hall, you only hear his breath mixing with your own, your moans colliding in sync as a symphony fills the room.
The kiss ends moments later, and you’re standing there panting raggedly, trying to cool off from that heated moment. Joel steps back and rakes a hand heavily down his greying beard, his eyes in a far off place as he thinks and thinks about the actions he made in this musky, dark bedroom of his. Licking his bottom lip slowly, his chocolate eyes finally flick up to meet yours again. “Think you should go on now, sweetheart. We had our fun.” His eyes are heavy, his lids closing momentarily as another long sigh fills the void.
“Can I… can I see you again?” you ask nervously, your heels digging deep into the carpet while you wait with bated breath.
“‘S’not a good idea,” he warns, his nostrils flaring just the tiniest bit until he relaxes his tight shoulders.
“I don’t care,” you whisper.
He looks at you a beat, his gaze trailing over your body, slowly nodding to the door, your cue to leave. You give him a small smile and make your way out, only stopping in the doorway when the door is inched open and loud music fills the room. You turn and give him some words for him to mewl over. “Ummm… thank you, Mr. Miller. For making me feel alive,” you blush.
“Jus’ Joel, sweetheart. Jus’ Joel.”
“Right…” you smile, knowing you won him over. “Oh, and Sarah’s out back by the pool. See you around, I guess. Joel…” Without giving him a chance to say anything else, you turn down the hall, your chin held high knowing you just charmed Joel fucking Miller.
He’s everything you ever wanted and everything you couldn’t have. But this wouldn’t be the only time you saw Joel Miller. No, you’d see him again.
Joel topples onto the bed, letting the scent of your vanilla perfume permeate his ruined sheets. He fucking smells you everywhere, and now he can’t get the sight of your pretty, glistening eyes out of his smothered head. He groans, letting the heel of his palms dig deep into the sockets of his eyes. Maybe if he couldn’t see your shredded panties on the floor he wouldn’t be so wound up about you, but he still is, even with his eyes locked shut
This is so fucked. You’re his daughter’s best friend, and he’s way too fucking old to be playing games with a twenty-three-year-old. But yet he wants to play, wants to teether you to his body until you can’t move, can’t escape from his strong hold on you. He’s got it so bad that he can’t even think straight. All he sees is you. And he doesn’t think he can stay away for long, so he won't. No. He’ll have you again and when he does, he won’t let you leave so quickly.
He clenches the sheets in his fists and sighs, letting his eyes close as his body relaxes, tuning out the booming music that floats through his door. He lets your sweet scent carry him off into a light sleep, and the last thing he hears is your beautiful voice float through his ears as you call him Mr. Miller before sleep takes him down.
And when he dreams, all he sees is how fucking wrecked you looked in between his ruined sheets.
summary: jackson's loud mouthed spoiled princess has suddenly gone quiet. what or who could be behind such miracle?
warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (20s/50s), pwp, p. in v., oral (m. and f. receiving), brat taming, dacryphilia, pussy spanking, fingering, humiliation kink, dom!joel, sub!joel if u squint, soft!joel (look at that switch sandwhich fr), brat!reader (she's annoying and v mean, you've been warned), denial is a river so take this before the world mourns joel miller again
word count: 5,391 words
side note: new layout my citizens! will eventually update all of the blog but as for now, enjoy this one and the masterlist. quick thing, i just wanted to say that i had a very shitty week and for the life of me, can't find a way to make ttdik pt. 4 not oversaturated with angst bc i wish all men a very pleasant die or how to connect what i've written so far. note that this was kinda rushed; i feel confident of some parts and not the whole thing. just hoping it works for y'all! (based on this request)
Joel Miller isn't who he used to be before.
Life in Jackson has made him... soft. This version of him, tired of a life of killing and running, tainted with blood and regret. But he's now an uncle and a father. Well, used to be. Ever since Ellie had found out the truth and wanted nothing to do with him, he had somewhat become downright pathetic. Joel could be both Jackson's most useful man, even at his age, while also being their biggest wretch. Ah, yes: Joel Miller, the man who lived in the house down the street, alone and certainly worth the townsfolk's pity.
Maybe that's why you couldn't bother to be nice to him. In your eyes, a man like Joel just didn't deserve your time or respect.
But it wasn't personal, really. He happened to, unfortunately, be in charge of your patrol. That, in your eyes, made him your enemy: a person to be defied and picked apart. And the worst part is, in his current position, Joel just didn't have the energy to fight you back.
"You want me to cross that wearing this?" your protest comes in the form of a whiny pitch. "Ew, no. I'd rather be dead"
At least dead, you wouldn't be a bother. He rolls his eyes, rubbing his face tiredly. The rest of the group watches the interaction in silence, expressions pretty much the same.
"I promise 'cha, princess. Ya' wouldn't want that"
The nickname should irk you, but you let it pass. It is no news to anyone that you are indeed a princess: Jackson's resident little spoiled brat.
Sheltered from early starts of civilization's downfall, maybe your parents had done more bad than good trying to protect you and settling early on in Jackson. You had grown to be a pampered bitch who made Joel's patience wear thin. Of course, to keep him busy and distracted, Tommy had assigned you to Joel. And while he'd rather not spend his days on a house too big for a person, he too wasn't exactly excited about having to deal with you on your patrol shifts.
(If you could call them that. You did anything but patroling)
You cross your arms, petty. "I'm not moving unless you carry me"
Maybe your need to defy him also came, partly, because of this: the way he's looking at you right now, a quiet rage simmering in those big round brown eyes that remind you of a kicked puppy, but when they burn, they seem like a forest fire, old remnants of the hunter that had been tamed by domestic life and a broken relationship resurfacing.
It excites you.
All your life, people seemed to bend to your will-- a force of nature: to your cruel harsh icy wind. You kept Jackson down at their knees, but it wasn't kindness, rather your shoe up their throats what put them to your feet.
Yet, Joel... he could be a loser to you, but he was probably the only one you'd met to be insane enough to defy you. The only man who didn't succumb to your fluttering eyelashes, pink lips and princess manners. No, he ignored the way you looked at him and your constant begging for attention, leaving the job to those men who seemed to follow your every step, ready to be themselves a carpet for you to step in. He'd roll his eyes and walk past you like you were the most bland, boring and uninteresting thing in the world: not worth a second of his attention. Joel simply wouldn't entertain your spoiled attitude past replying to a few snarky comments.
And that revolted and aroused you in equal parts.
It's not like you could escape your obligation, but perhaps, the bigger reason you chose to not skip patrol like you used to before his arrival, is to see Joel Miller's sinking ships for eyes try to wash over your rebel flame.
"Be free to stay then" he replies, but you don't miss the way his grip on his rifle turns white. "I ain't carryin' no one"
"I can carry you" one of the guys from your group offers.
(You can't remember his name)
"Sure" you chuckle, victory smile dancing on your lips at the sight of him looking above his shoulder in a barely stolen glance, thinking you won't notice.
But you do.
Joel Miller fucking hates you.
After five decades alive, he simply can't stand the idea of breathing the same air as a spoiled little brat like you.
Joel's seen destruction, loss, hopelessness and blood up close, and the thought of you walking around like the world owes you a favor fills him with vitriol.
He's been alive for fifty-six years so he's simply just tired. Too tired to give a damn about your attitude, despite how you manage to press all his buttons every time you open your mouth.
He still remembers the first time he met you, how you laughed like people did before all civilization was destroyed. You walked with a confident strut, boots clicking against Jackson's streets, every step made with determination. Like you knew just where you were going.
He envied you, in a way. After Salt Lake City, he seemed to have lost his path, all in the name of love. Then, that warm feeling had turned cold and cruel like all things in this world ravaged by pain, and he felt even at more loss than the first time he experienced grief.
But you? You lived everyday with a dismissal so cold it seemed like nothing could hurt you.
He missed that part of him who just survived: hardened by the world around him.
But Jackson tamed him. Ellie made him soft.
And then you brought up that old dark part of him: the putrid black liquid that spewed through the cracks of his new character that made him loved by Jackson. The same one that made people fear one of Boston QZ's most brutal smugglers. It was that vicious anger, red on his vision like the ichor that would splatter on his clothes or cover his bruised knuckles.
He hated you for it.
But that was in the past, and Joel Miller simply didn't care.
Yet, you made him care. Outright forced him to.
In a way, it seemed like you enjoyed this: the banter of contained rage and practiced patience, dripping as a leak until it overflew. You'd shot your bratty remarks and petty complains until he'd turn around and see you. Then, you'd smile, like that's all you needed to feel better. Far superior. And he hated it. Knew your little game, and fed into it, even as he told himself he wouldn't. Like a drug: a destroying addiction.
Joel didn't understand why you took the time to enrage him, having even heard once when he was late for patrol (he overslept), how you talked bad about the, in your words, Lonely Pathetic Man From The House On The End Of The Road.
Joel Miller has been patient. God knows he has. But he isn't religious, and was never the type to let things pass by.
No. Joel Miller was born with impel, and no matter how many love he had to give, the world around him constantly reminded him of the power hidden behind the exertion over others, how alive he'd felt with the gift he'd been given by heaven.
He isn't patient. He isn't a fool. He isn't pathetic: and Joel Miller will take matters between his rugged hands.
Tommy had arched an eyebrow first, looking at just his and your name on the patrol schedule.
"What's going on?" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother.
"Found a cabin deep on the forest" curt, "I'ont need lot'a people to scavenge the place"
In the end, he agreed. Who didn't? You, obviously, the reason so many before him had gotten rid of their obligation of you. To flirt with you at the Tipsy Bison? Hell yeah. To have you in their patrol team? God, no.
"Where is everyone else?" you cross your arms above your chest, bracing yourself because of the weather. "Also, isn't this climate not patrol appropiate?"
Joel's not dumb, of course he knows that-- he can feel his aching joints shiver and bones creak because of the temperature. But he also knows he's sick of your shit.
"Ain't you little Ms. Know it all" he mocks, brushing past you, shoulders clashing with the same harsh force the icy breeze does to your face.
"And you're an asshole" you're quick to counter, "bringing us out here in the cold. If you wanted to kill me, you could've made it easier for both of us and done it way back in Jackson"
He rolls his eyes at your incessant bickering.
"Watch y'er mouth" is all he says, the brat hanging dangerously close to the tip of his tongue.
"I'd rather watch my step, thank you very much" you purse your plush pink lips, annoyed. "Have you seen the size of this roots? I will trip and break myself"
He chuckles at your hyperboles and the way you jump in a rather exaggerated manner, more in amusement than irritation.
"Don't think ya' can handle all'at?" Joel taunts. "Gon' break like a doll?"
Doll. It hangs in the air, like the snowflakes that fall into your hair and his eyebrows, the white fusing with his own.
"I'm strong" but it comes out weak.
"Don't seem like it" he's laughing at you again, a sharp annoyed edge to it. "With all that complainin' ya' do"
You huff, your incredulity condescing in the air.
"What's wrong with that?"
"With bein' annoyin'?" Joel quips.
"With voicing out my concerns"
He's walking ahead of you, yet you see his shoulders slump, like he does when he disagrees.
"Those ain't concerns, jus' moanin' and bitchin'"
It's still inside the fun banter you're carrying, harmless, but for some reason, it strikes you in the face.
"If you can't stand me so much, why don't you quit on me, like the others?"
You may seem cold, but there's that cut that always bleeds. Or it may be the need for something that blurs the line between you and those survivors out there who've outlived the worst a man can endure.
Like Joel.
You just can't help wanting it all.
Joel stops on his tracks at your words, response barely above a whisper:
"'Cause I ain't a quitter"
As if that could bring any sense into what had started the moment he layed eyes on you.
You finally reach your destiny in silence, the old cabin hanging by a thread.
"This looks like shit" you comment out loud.
Joel lets out a laugh, a deep rumbling sound coming out of his chest. For a reason, red dust makes it's way into your warm cheeks.
"No, doll. In this world, this ain't shit. It's decent"
You don't miss the way your breath hitches and heart skips a beat at the petname. He doesn't miss the way his tongue burns and his jeans squeeze at the sight of you: powerless.
God, Joel could go to hell for this. (But he'd probably be fine)
"Decent? You're one to talk" it spills out, your fear attacking the only way you know how when you're nervous.
Bite.
You hate feeling weak. You hate how your own game has turned on you.
It seems, Joel Miller isn't just a pathetic man but one who knows how to play.
(You knew this. But now, it's real, not the image you touch yourself to during nighttime, and it's equally both exciting and scary)
The red desire for hunger is there on his eyes. "What's that s'pposed to mean?"
You tilt your head, tone feigning innocence. "I think you know what I mean"
He paces around the room, like your floral scent is too suffocating and the cold isn't enough to shake the fire that burns inside him.
"Spit it" he dares, stopping midtrack. You remain silent, so he walks over to you, face so close, some spit lands in your face. "I said, spit it"
"I think you're pathetic, Joel Miller" yet, for some reason, your heart wavers. What were you even doing? Never had you doubted yourself once, sometimes even finding pleasure in the wicked cutthroat words you'd spew, but today, as his face stands dangerously close to you, his breath ghosting over your lips as his eyes roam over them and you count his wrinkles, it feels wrong.
"'S that what 'cha think, doll?" he chuckles, leaning forward. His lips barely brush against yours by mistake, yet it's enough to send shivers all over your body. "Wanna know what I think? I think you're da' real pathetic burden here. Fucken annoyin' and unuseful. All you know how ta' do is complain' and be a bitch"
"A bitch?" your voice is loud as your roar back, probably because it's coming into your face with the force of a train. But that's how truth feels, and it hurts like hell. "Did you just call me a bitch?"
He laughs, bitterly so, equally irritated as fascinated by how easy it's to see you crumble.
Joel made you out to be this unbreakable force, but at the end of the day, you're human, just like him.
"And y'called me pathetic, s' I guess we're even"
You look crazy: hair disheveled by the wind, chest going up and down and that same craze look on your eyes.
"Fuck you, Joel Miller" you seethe.
It's a simple comeback. No witty retort, no elaborated plot. Just four words, yet it's the way you said it, venomous, with such hostility, like his presence alone made you sick. Your skin crawl. Like the thought alone of being equals couldn't pass through your thick skull, and you had to get rid of just the concept; an ofense.
You pull back, realizing how truly close you were. You then march to the bedroom, slamming the door behind you.
With Joel, there's always a first when it comes to you.
(The first man to catch your attention. The first man to show lack of interest or amusement to your well-known tactics that worked every time. The first man to make your skin crawl like seeing yourself in the mirror. Like you would stare until your image would imprint on your brain, and you'd pick apart every small detail you don't like about you. That was Joel fucking Miller, rolling like thunder, ready to strike over your walls, like he knows where to hit to make you crumble, as if the façade you've built is as much in vain as the hate you carry even with the easy life that's been given to you)
He may be the first man to make you cry.
"Come here!" he shouts, roaring voice reverberating against the walls of the cabin. He swings the door of the bedroom open, finding your satisfied expression as you sit over the old worn out mattress, wiping your tears quickly with a harsh tug of your sweater, coat lying on the dirty floor.
"What?" you ask, as if you hadn't started the fight five seconds ago.
"Ya' think y' can shout and then leave like that?" he spits, "you fucken brat!"
A weird wild spark settles in the pit of your stomach.
"I can do whatever I want"
(The fire. It burns)
He scoffs at your childish response. "Not when y'er under my watch. Like it or not, y'r ma' damn responsability, kid"
Now it's your turn to sneer. "Don't call me that. I'm not a kid"
Of course you fucking weren't: he's got eyes. But goddamn, didn't you act like one all the time?
"Good" his voice adquires a weird tone to it, dropping. "Then strip"
It's like the air's been knocked out of your lungs.
You scoff. "Excuse me?"
"I know you ain't deaf" tone stern, "nor stupid. Are you?"
"Did you just call me stupid?" you raise your voice. Was he going to pull out every single insult from the book? Fair, you think, after you had told him to fuck off in the way you did.
(You were aware your words shoot to kill when you were mad. You had a lot of regrets about that)
"I asked 'cha if ya' were. If there's no answer, I s'ppose that's it"
"I'm not stupid" you counter.
"What?" he's asking you to say it again, like he hasn't heard you.
"You aren't deaf" you repeat his earlier words, eliciting a chuckle out of him.
The windows of the cabin rattle, the cold winter slipping inside the cracks. You shiver yet stand still, not wanting him to misinterpret your body language.
As if you'd ever surrender to him. As if.
"I'm sick of your bullshit" he seethes, "thinkin' ya' can make a clown outta me infront of everyone else, and then look at me like I'm sum piece of meat. Now it's your turn"
"My turn to what?" but this time, your voice wavers. You walk closer, eyelids fluttering.
His uneven breath condensces in the air with a shaky gelid exhale.
"Y'e don't know what you're gettin' into" he warns.
You smile at his barely contained temper. "I think I do"
Joel's body is completely surrounding yours in the bedroom. Before you register, he pulls you by your jaw with his hand.
"Still thinkin' that?" he mocks, thumb pulling your bottom lip down, forcing your mouth open. "Answer me"
But he's pressing his finger on your tongue. You feel yourself starting to drool.
"Ya' really want 'tis, don't 'cha?" his eyes darken, "droolin' like a fucken cockstarved slut. Now strip" his grip tightens, "I won't ask again"
Your body shivers, but no longer because of the temperature drop. A treacherous jolt runs in between your legs at the very first instance of someone putting you in your place. It feels too good to backtrack, but the last remaining drops of sanity plead you to quit.
"Joel" you say his name like a prayer, and he thinks he'd like to see you beg. "I was fucking around-"
"Don't make me repeat myself"
You sit on the edge of the bed, getting rid of your clothes. It's like your mind has stopped working and your body belongs to someone else.
But you want this. Fuck, you had begged for this: sharpening your knife to make your words cut deeper with him until the bleeding was too big to ignore.
You wanted this. Craved it. Needed to satisfy whatever foreign feeling you'd now attribute to your rebellious and spoiled nature.
(You had never been denied anything, and even now, Joel knows this, but can't help and too give in)
"Not so loud now, are we?" he jests, "but 's worth the view, lettin' 'cha run your spoiled tongue off"
He hums with approval at the sight of your body, your pliant energy making his hard cock twitch in his pants.
"You like what you see, Joel?" you ask softly, despite your resistence.
He groans at that, calloused digits grazing the soft skin of your virgin collarbones.
"I do, princess" he answers, lifiting your chin up. "I'll show ya'"
He takes your hand into his bigger one, moving it right onto the spot between his legs.
"You've been bad, little spoiled brat" Joel's voice rasps as your thighs rub together. Y'er lucky I like that"
He pats your cheek. "Wanna make it up to me?" you eagerly nod, desperate for Joel's approval. You hate not having the upper hand, and a part of you thinks you'd get it back if you behave well. "Good girl. Now sit"
He sits next to you, patting his thick thighs. You salivate just at the thought, moving your body over his denim clad lap. "Right'ere"
"Look at 'cha" he parts your legs, a hoarse tks falling from his lips. Joel chuckles at the wet mess that's created. "So fucken wet and I ain't even touched yet"
You feel his rough digits ghost over your dripping cunt, just as his lips had done minutes ago. The teasing sets you on edge, thrill coarsing through your veins. Without warning, his big palm slaps against your cunt, and you feel yourself soaking your folds like you had never ever before.
"Fucken dirty whore. You ain't no princess, gettin' wet to 'tis" he mocks, "what would daddy say"
"Shut up" you sneer, but your body is full of hormones and treason.
"Not when I'm above 'cha, darlin'. Wouldn't wanna piss me off when I'm the one who decides if 'tis pretty pussy comes or not"
"What makes you think I'll take shit from you?" but it comes out as a whimper. Smack. A jolt runs straight from your pussy, stinging from the contact. "Didn't take it when we where in patrol, why should I do now?"
He laughs, darkly. It's haunting.
"'Cause you want 'tis. And I know you'll be a good girl for me to get it"
You feel yourself dizzy, head spinning as you land on the floor.
"Let's see if I get 'cha to shut up if that dirty bratty mouth of y'rs is stuffed full of ma' cock"
He pulls down his worn-out jeans, getting rid of his belt on a harsh pull. The clinking sound makes you rub your thighs together in a new found anticipation, instead of taking the time to run away from this, whatever the hell this is.
No. He's right.
You want this as much as he does.
(Isn't that the scariest part?)
"Ya' like what 'cha see, y/n?" he's smart to use your same words back, but it's the way he's said your name, like he was always meant to say it, or the angry throbb of his cock, what makes you drool at the red furious tip, dripping with rage and need.
"I think it's your dick who's more excited than me" you taunt, tracing the inner soft skin of his thick thighs. "Practically begging for me to lick it"
His adam's apple bobs.
"Tell me, Joel, when was the last time someone made this pretty big cock feel good?"
"Enough" his fingers grab your hair, pulling you harshly until he drags your mouth onto his cock. "I'm tired of y'er bullshit"
You aren't a stranger, he thinks, with the way you kiss his tip, tongue making a wet circle through the head of his cock. You take him into your mouth, pulling out in a second.
"W-what you do that for?" he asks, breathing rapidly. Strained voice.
You smirk.
"To watch you"
To watch how his eyes had closed as soon as your breath ghosted over his leaking cock, how he threw his head back and gripped the sheets viciously at just your shameless lazy circling. Joel Miller could be in charge, but God, wasn't he touch-starved?
(And for a reason, that was so fucking hot. And, in a way, adorable)
"J-just 'cause I'm-" he cuts himself off, probably out of need or out of embarrassment. "You're not in charge, so don't fuck around with your chances, slut. Imma show you y'r place real quick"
His grip tightens in your hair, forcing himself back into your mouth. Joel was punishing, with the way he's pushing your head down until it was at the base of his cock. You gagged for a moment, eyes closing at the weight of his thick girth on your tongue.
"Takin' it like a champ, princess. Usin' that mouth of y'rs for good" and then, with a softer tone he adds, "like ya're made for me"
You moan around him as he starts fucking into your mouth, pulling you off quickly, saliva slipping out of your mouth as you gasp for air.
"Joel" you whine his name, legs pressing together in order to get any friction.
"Now you beggin'? 'S gonna take more than jus' that, doll" he taunts, but there's a certain wicked softness to the way he traces your cheek as you scramble an attempt. "Try harder, princess"
"I'm sorry, Joel-"
He moves his head, clearly dissatisfied.
"Not Joel. Ya' call me sir when I fuck you"
A mewl escapes your lips.
"Sir" comes out like a faithless prayer, begging to be heard. "I'll do anything, sir, please, touch me"
"Al'ight, but still, it ain't 'nough"
Oh.
The hot tears in the corner of your eyes shouldn't arouse him this much, but the watery promise makes his cock twitch.
"I-I'll do anything, I swear" you beg, the salty tears stream down your cheeks in cascades. "It hurts, Jo-" you whine, "sir, please. Just fuck me goddamit!"
Your once poised voice, now reduced to a whimpering begging mess. Your red rimmed eyes, beginning to puff. It's the way a gloss seems to coat over them, making you look like a doe-eyed deer and not the brat who challenged his every decision and word.
Fuck, isn't he aroused.
"Lookin' so pretty when you cry" he smiles, but instead of wiping the tears, it's his tongue that licks them off your face. "You beggin' that bad to take my cock"
You nod, eagerly so.
"Please, Jo- Just, please. D-don't make me beg" your face feels hot and wet again, "I-I can't take it anymore. Just fucking give it to me!"
"Easy, baby. Can't understand a thing you sayin'" Joel teases. "Where your manners at, besides?"
"Please, sir" he gently pulls you up, humming in satisfaction.
"Goin' crazy over my cock, baby? Y'sure have a nerve to call one pathetic if you gon' act like this, you little brat"
But he is the one moaning when his lips cature your mouth with a fierce impulse, like he wants to devour you whole and swallow your vocals, as to never speak up again.
(But then, he wouldn't hear his name on your sweet albeit snotty voice, and that's a privilege he can't forbid himself from, no matter how annoying you can get sometimes)
"Please" you whisper one last time. He wipes a stray tear with his rough thumb. "I'm yours"
"See, baby? It ain't that hard to shut that mouth of y'rs"
He guides you to the old bed while renewing the kiss, tongues now engaged on a battle for dominance, like even without using your words you'd still need to assert your power over the other. You moan into his mouth when your body slams against the mattress and Joel lands on top, his weight sinking you in the old bed, that creaks.
"I just want to be a good girl for you" you whimper.
"You sure of that? Not gon' be a brat?" and despite his harsh tone that seems to humiliate you, his wandering fingers are gentle with each touch, like if he were to put any more force, you'd break. Joel thinks it's not necessary with you: just with you begging for his cock, he's broken you.
"No, sir" and then you whimper as his mouth dives to the collarbones you had taunted him with before. Joel takes his time, inhaling the musk and savoring the sweet of your skin. Needy whines leave your lips, and he's having the time of his life seeing you surrender so easily, like you had no idea what limits to push, where they'd take you and how you'd pay for that.
"C-Can I touch you?" you whisper, hands itching to tangle on his grey parted hair. He chuckles at the eagerness and tenderness you don't seem aware of.
"S' you can be sweet if ya' want to, huh?" he leaves a fluttering kiss to your chin. "Needy and desperate too. Do ya' want to touch, princess? Remember to use y'r words"
"Yes, sir. I-I want to touch you"
"Thought I disgusted you, hmm? I take you've learnt y'r lesson now?"
"Yes, I've learned. Please, sir, won't do it again" you plead.
"I'll allow ya' to touch, doll" he gives you a smirk, "but 'ts all you get for now"
He lets your hands cling to his coat, taking it off. Then, you proceed to his buttoned shirt, fingers flidding with buttons until you grown annoyed and desperate, pulling the fabric over his head with need.
"Look at 'cha" but there's only adoration, proven so when he starts to kiss the trail of soft skin that goes from your neck to your stomach, making you squirm. "Easy, baby. 'M gettin' down there"
He finally reaches your core, kissing the inner side of your thighs with wet and sloppy lips. His hot breath tingles over your clit, and a beat later, his mouth presses into your cunt, your back arching at the cold contact of his chapped lips against the humid hot of your folds.
You muffle a moan, embarrassed at the whole situation.
"Ain't need to worry 'bout nothin', doll. Nobody can hear us" he grins, tongue flicking your clit. "Wanna listen to your pretty whimpers as I make 'cha feel good"
You cry out of pleasure, the sound escaping past your lips. Joel has a laugh.
"Good girl"
Joel rewards you with another series of minstrations on your bud, licks made with determination only the expert man knows of. He then slides one finger into you, slowly moving it in and out of your soaked trembling heat.
"M-more" you beg, eager to get more fingers inside you. "Please, more, sir"
You buck your hips to try to get closer to him, meeting his thrusts.
Joel tuts, "What're you doin', spoiled brat? Did I tell ya' to move? You were doing such'a great job... guess I gotta punish you-"
"No!" you shout. "Do anything you want, but touch me, please- touch me!"
He introduces a second finger, raising his brow at the immediate way you clench around him. Joel curls them, robbing another moan out of you.
"Feels good?" you can't answer, as a hard thrust robs another moan from you. "But I'ont want 'cha to think we done, princess. Think I'd let you come, jus' like that? After all's happened?"
"Need you" you tug him closer with your arms holding onto his. "Joel, sir- please"
"Oh, princess" he smirks, "I think you don't know what you askin' for"
Joel grabs his hand around his length, coating the tip in your slicky juices, and then, he presses his length into you in one thrust.
"You're big-" you pant as he gives you time to adjust to his size. Joel then picks up an unrelenting pace that makes moans spill out of you like a fountain, the pace of his thrusts sending you closer and closer to the edge.
"N-need to-"
"Don't" he seethes. "Ya' won't 'till I tell ya' can"
All you could do is moan, helplessly pinned between his body and the bed. Your whole body shakes in an effort to contain as his hips loose their rhythm, his groans louder as he gets closer and closer to the edge.
"Al'ight. 'Cause you've been good" his cock drives through your walls with rhythmic melodies. "Cum, princess, but when ya' do, look at me"
You're seeing stars the moment your toes curl and his head falls to clash against your forehead.
(The beads of sweat roll down out of him like trails to follow, and his scarred rugged skin doesn't compare to your soft one, painted with the maroon of his bites and kissing at the skin of your collarbone. The dried up trails of tears. Your begging and desperate voice. His name on your lips)
It only takes a few more thrusts before he spills in you, cock twitching until every last drop of thick hot white cum is pumped into you.
Joel then pulls out gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead before flopping onto you, the mattress dipping even further. With his hand, he removes a stray strand of damp hair, putting it behind you ear with such tender kindness, your heart strings pull.
"In fact, I want ya' to look at me next time y'even think 'bout defying me. See if that mouth of y'ers can talk after 'tis"
A week later, you're back at patrolling.
"Anyone got anythin' to say?"
The group looks at you. You're about to open your mouth, but Joel cocks an eyebrow.
Just like that, and you're gone. Great job, y/n.
"Whatever" you sound meek as you push past him, yet he catches a glimpse of your warm cheeks. "Let's go"
The rest are too stunned to speak, the silence only cut off by Miller's laugh.
"Would 'cha look at that?" he whistles. "Ain't nobody tell ya' miracles don't happen anymore on this goddamn world!"
i want this man to do gross, disrespectful, unspeakable, borderline illegal things to me
💋 inbox | discord | ao3 💋
requests: temporarily closed | tag lists: open
last updated | 1/24/26
notes | i'll update this post as i continue to write. fics will be 18+ unless stated otherwise. requests closed so i can catch up on the ones already submitted - will be opening up again soon! season two!!! we’re so back baby 😜
feel free to send in thots, questions, etc! | feedback is always appreciated 🩷
✦︎ sticky fingers
the ghoul x reader
one-shot | 18+
“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.”
⤿ READ
✦︎ janey's dad
cooper howard x reader
two-shot | wip | 18+
“We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”
⤿ READ PART ONE | PART TWO TBD
✦︎ run rabbit run
the ghoul x reader
drabble, request | 18+
the drabble thing HNNNGH think about coop calling you bunny from the start bc he clocked that you were always a down for it and you not getting it until he after you fuck for the first time
⤿ READ
✦︎ in the middle of the night
the ghoul x reader
drabble, request | 18+
Cooper watching you sleep. Its a quiet night. nothing but bugs passing by. Cooper keeps watching, and his mind wanders. cut to him "borrowing" your soft and smooth hand, pulling it from under your makeshift blanket and wrapping it on his dick, jacking himself with your hand bc he's bored/trying to pass the time/stay awake
⤿ READ
✦︎ wish you'd make me cry
the ghoul x reader
drabble, request | 18+
"You’re such a needy fucking brat." :3c
⤿ READ
✦︎ dog days
pre-war cooper howard x reader
fluff, request
I was wondering if you'd write something about maybe prewar/postwar (either one) cooper where his love is a bit sick (not life threateningly so ect) and he just takes good care of them
⤿ READ
✦︎ it's always the quiet ones
pre-war cooper howard x reader
drabble, request | 18+
We can see that Cooper tends to go for good girls but what if he ran into a seemingly innocent - or at the very least kind - person… but they dirty talk like a sinner in the sack?
⤿ READ
✦︎ no use cryin' over spilled milk
the ghoul x reader
one-shot | 18+
based off this ask; trying to survive topside after growing up in a vault is hard enough, but doing it five months pregnant? it's a good thing you find the ghoul when you do.
⤿ READ
✦︎ i can taste your skin in my teeth
the ghoul x reader
drabble, request | 18+ | NEW
drabble request thingy: "you're so wet and I haven't even touched you" and/or "aww... you're pathetic" I feel like these go so well together in a very mean(super hot) way >:)
⤿ READ
✦︎ use me
pre-war cooper howard x reader
drabble request, wip | 18+
for the drabble request "I want to use you so fucking bad" with pre bomb coop?
✦︎ don't threaten me with a good time
the ghoul x reader
request, wip | 18+
how do you think our ghoul would handle having a breeding kink?
✦︎ in the collision of your kiss
pre-war cooper howard x reader
wip | 18+
"As I live and breathe, that's Cooper Howard! Why, he must've cost a fortune -- how ever did you get him to agree to attend a children's party?"
✦︎ criminal tongues
the ghoul x reader
request, wip | 18+
Could I get and aggressive smut with coop like he hasn't had any in 200 something years ! Hes needy and wants it NOW
✦︎ finders, keepers
the ghoul x reader
request, wip | 18+
Cooper wants people to know the reader is *his*, and she best damn well know it to. If she doesn't, he'll have to show her
✦︎ god is a woman
pre-war cooper howard x reader
request, wip | 18+
If you don't mind of making cooper howard/the ghoul being submissive or treating reader like a goddess of a smut?
✦︎ bury all your secrets in my skin
the ghoul x reader
request, wip | 18+
I was thinking how it would be to be the first to get him to take all his clothes off since the bombs fell. Being the first to get him to be vulnerable in this way. If you would write this I would be very grateful.
✦︎ isodoped
john hancock x reader
request, wip | 18+
a ghoul (Hancock or Coop) taking chems (jet, mentats or buffout) and kissing the reader to share it.
Maybe with a little "come here, sweetie"... +
i cannot stop thinking about john hancock teaching you how to take a hit of jet for the first time.
sitting in his lap, his fingers around your chin, the other hand holding the jet against your mouth and just... coaxing you... encouraging you....
You're face-up on the bed, legs mostly together, stuffed with Steve Murphy's cock. He's supposed to stay with you while Javi runs to the precinct, and he was balls deep before Javi even got to his car and realized he had the wrong keys...
Javi warns, "don't move" as approaches the bedroom. Apparently, he's in no hurry. He takes his time unbuttoning his shirt while his jeans tighten at the sight of Steve's spread cheeks straddling you. As good as it feels being packed with cock, you'd love for Steve to move. He doesn't. He glances down at your tits and lets out a barely audible, closed-mouth moan.
You mouth, "Is he mad?" and Steve flashes his eyebrows as though to say, let's hope so.
Steve's nose twitches and he stretches his top lip down, curled over his teeth like he has an itch he can't scratch. You scratch his mustache for him as soon as Javi turns his back.
The next thing you hear is a bottle of lube popping open, then squirting. Steve wets his lips and looks at you darkly. He looks at your mouth like it's killing him not to kiss you.
Javi kneels onto the bed and straddles your ankles behind Steve. Javi slowly pumps his own cock and Steve twitches inside you in anticipation. No one speaks. Your chest is filling with butterflies.
Javi spits on Steve's spread crack and lets the saliva slide down before using his thumb to smear it into his asshole. Javi lowers his head and buries his face in Steve's ass. A growl rumbles in Steve's chest and he closes his eyes. You dare to reach up and rake your fingers through his hair. He opens his eyes, then looks at your lips. You pull his head down, and before your lips meet, Steve gasps and his cock jerks inside you.
You're dying to wrap your legs around him, pull him deeper, but your legs are pinned to the bed. You yearn to feel his mouth on yours. "Mm," he grunts and his cock swells and twitches again.
You whimper, "please."
Javi's voice is partly muffled when he remarks, "I heard one please..."
Steve rolls his eyes with a silent chuckle. You mouth, "Please."
"Mmm," Steve's hum turns into a sigh. "Please," he whispers.
Steve's skin peels off yours as his spine curls forward. He looks down at your tits and wets his lips. You want to kiss him so bad you're salivating. Javi's silhouette emerges behind Steve, placing one hand on Steve's back as he lines himself up between Steve's pale buttcheeks.
Javi grabs on for leverage, and Steve's neck vein bulges and as Javi's lubed cock slides into him. The look of pleasure that spreads across Steve's face sends a shiver down your spine, making you clench on his cock. You glance up at Javi, and Javi snarls back as he bottoms out with a punch of his hips that fills you all the way up with Steve. Oh, God.
Javi keeps his eyes on you, and you try to return the attention, but Steve's wrecked face is closer, and the way he looks at you makes your heart flutter, makes you pinch your eyes shut, makes you dread the moment he pulls out.
Your stuffed insides are swollen with tension, ready to burst any moment. Overwhelmed by pleasure, tears push through your lashes, and you whimper "mm mm," broken by the rhythm of Javi pounding Steve.
"Fuck," you whine, trying to hold off another minute, trying to savor this before you cum. "Oh, God," you whimper.
"You're--oh, fuck-- you're okay, baby," steve pants. The air is thick and dirty with moans. "Hey," he whispers and your eyes meet his. Tears stream down your temples. Steve lowers his head to plant a quick kiss on your forehead but he doesn't make it there in time before a sharp thrust from Javi makes him groan as he lurches deeper into you. Javi grabs him by the hair, and Steve's Adams apple and bulging neck vein hover over your face.
You whimper and your hips lift, still pinned to the bed by these men who sound more like animals right now.
Heavy breathes and moans. The salt of sweat, the smell of sex. Pressure building in your gut.
"Eyes on me," Javi commands, and you obey. He releases Steve's hair, and his hips slow down.
"Good girl," Javi coos. You bite your lip and watch Javi's glistening neck. Steve drops his head with a low moan that lands in your ear. Jesus, fuck, he feels so good. You're so, so full-
You hear yourself unravel as the climax rips through your body, clenching your muscles, making your hips lift. A massive but short lived wave of relief before it seizes you again and doesn't let you go. You quiver around Steve's cock and he unleashes a string of curses, followed by a hot load that keeps you seeing stars.
By the time you can fully breathe again, you can barely keep your eyes open to watch Javi cum.
Javi's chest heaves and glistens as he finishes with a sigh, and Steve releases the last of his load in your depths.
You can't keep your eyes open, but feel Javi getting off the bed and hear him smack Steve's skin. Steve sighs, "mm."
Steve rests his forehead on the pillow next to your head. You lie there breathing, and when you open your eyes, Javi is tucking in his shirt.
Steve pulls out slowly, anticipating your whine.
"shhh," he whispers, then kisses you on the forehead. He lies half on top of you, and you'll be grateful for his body heat as your swear turns cold.
By the time Javi's out the door for real, you and Steve are dozing off in the wreckage.
----
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Thank you for reading 🖤🖤 please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed.
Summary: You’re cramping, cranky, and just needed to grab a few things. Joel’s mouth had other plans. What starts as a simple ride to the store turns into a slow spiral of sleazy muttering, tuna-fueled rage, and unsolicited period advice. You’re in pain. He’s insufferable. And somehow, you still end up in his van—a heat pad, a stolen shirt, and Joel’s version of comfort waiting in the back.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, non specified age gap unprotected sex, fuck buddies, sleazy!joel (he’s back hehe), pinv, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, period sex, size kink, slight descriptions of blood, praise kink, chubby/fat!joel, slight degradation, daddy kink (just once), joel says the most unhinged things, aftercare, no outbreak,
A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR MY POOKIES!!🎉🥰 Can y’all tell I’m on my period rn lmao😭 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write a period fic and I finally did it!! Also yes, I used a picture of Hopper for the header—SUE ME. We needed to see Joel Miller’s belly more 😔😔😔😔
Joel pulls up in that same beat-up truck—the one that sounds like it’s coughing up its last breath every time it moves, held together by duct tape and Joels stubborn will.
The passenger door creaks loudly as he opens it for you to slip in.
“Looking good, sweetheart,” he drawls, eyes flicking over you with that lazy smirk that always makes you want to roll your eyes and punch him into the ribs. “You do somethin’ different with your hair, or is that just bedhead?”
You don’t answer.
“Goddamn door’s stickin’ again,” he mutters, slamming it shut behind you with a grunt once you’re in. “Gotta hit it twice now. Like I’m tryin’ to put down a damn zombie. I swear, one of these days this whole piece’a shit’s just gonna fall apart while I’m drivin’. Hood’ll fly off, wheels’ll roll in opposite directions, and I’ll just sit there like an asshole in the middle of the road.”
Joel was a man of many words. Too many, as you always liked to say. There wasn’t a sentence he didn’t lace with a curse or a complaint, but that’s just what made him Joel.
He slaps the dashboard affectionately, like it’s a stubborn old dog. “But she’s got character, y’know? Can’t just toss her out. She’s earned her miles.”
You glance at the cracked windshield, tape curling at the edges, smelling the familiar faint scent of gasoline and old leather.
He’s already shifting into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the back of your seat. The truck lurches forward with a wheeze, and Joel mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse (once again).
You weren’t sure when exactly your life veered off of course—which wrong turn, which bad decision, which moment of weakness landed you here, tangled up with this sleazy, grumbling old man who smelled like motor oil and cheap soap and somehow still managed to get under your skin in all the worst ways.
Joel wasn’t your boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even really a friend. He was just…there. A warm body, a familiar mouth, an orgasm when you need it the most.
And yet, here you were asking your fuck buddy to help you run errands, as if that was something normal.
“Tommy called this mornin’,” he starts, like he has been waiting all day to talk about it. “Said he needs help fixin’ the fence again. I told him, ‘You break it every damn week, maybe stop leanin’ ya fat ass on it.’”
He snorts, clearly pleased with himself. “Didn’t like that much. Got all huffy. Said it’s not his fault the wind knocked it down. I said, ‘Bullshit. The wind didn’t eat three burgers and leaned on that damn thing.’”
You glance at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t notice.
“Then he starts goin’ on about how I never answer my phone. I said, ‘Maybe if you stopped callin’ me every time a nail pops loose, I’d be more inclined.’ Told him I’m not his damn handyman. He said, ‘You’re not doin’ anything else.’ I said, ‘Exactly. Let me keep not doin’ it in peace.’”
He shakes his head, muttering, “Idiot’s gonna be the death of that damn fence. Or me.”
He glances at you again, expecting a smirk, a laugh, something. But you’re just staring out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest.
Joel frowns, drums his knuckles against the steering wheel, a soft, rhythmic tap that fills the quiet. His eyes flick back to the road, then to you again.
“What about you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice casual but slightly unsure. “How was your day?”
You shrug, barely. “Forgot my eggs on the pan.”
He snorts. “Shit. Bet the whole house smells like rubber now.”
You nod, still not looking at him.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “One time I damn near burned my kitchen down doin’ that. Left the stove on, went outside to yell at the neighbor’s dog—little bastard kept barking like a maniac—came back in and the whole pan was blacker than my coffee.”
You shift slightly, arms still crossed, but your mouth twitches. Just a little.
Joel catches it. Keeps going.
“Whole place smelled like shit. Like scorched tires and disgusting rubber. Took a week to air it out. Had to throw the pan out too—thing looked like it’s been through a war.”
A quiet laugh escapes as a huff, involuntary and short.
Joel glances over, smug. “There she is.” He taps the wheel again, slower this time. “You alright?”
You don’t answer. Just shift again, pressing your hand to your stomach, feeling that sharp pain tearing through your insides.
Joel notices. But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.
“Where d’you want me to take you, sugar? Grocery store? Liquor store? Straight to hell?”
You mutter, “Just grocery store.”
“Good. I was runnin’ low on stuff too.” He answers, looking at you, expecting a smile—a something. But you just look out of the window.
He asks again, slower this time. “You really good?”
You nod, but it’s tight. Joel doesn’t push—not yet. Just mutters, “Alright then,” and pulls out onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on his thigh.
The ride to the store is mostly filled with Joel’s annoying voice: a steady stream of complaints about traffic, gas prices, and some guy who apparently parked too close to his truck last week. You let it just wash over you, eyes fixed on the trees and strip malls outside the window, while your stomach cramps in slow, mean pulses.
Inside the store, the fluorescent lights are too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like a swarm of insects.
You move through the aisles on autopilot, grabbing the essentials: a bottle of ibuprofen, a bag of chips you probably won’t eat, a chocolate bar you definitely will. You pause at the feminine hygiene aisle, grab a box of pads and one box of tampons—just to be prepared for everything.
And Joel…well Joel, of course, is nowhere near the checkout. You find him two aisles over, standing toe tp toe with a man in a hoodie, voice raised just enough to draw attention.
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s real damn fish,” Joel is saying, gesturing wildly with a can of tuna in one hand. “You think they’re just grindin’ up mystery meat and callin’ it tuna for fun?”
The other man scoffs. “I’m just sayin’, it don’t taste like fish. It’s like…fish adjacent.”
Joel’s eyes narrow. “You ever seen a cow in a can? No? Then shut the hell up.”
You sigh, stepping in before it escalates. “Joel.”
He barely glances at you. “Tell this guy tuna’s real damn fish.”
“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the checkout. “Come on.”
He lets you pull him away but not without a parting shot. “You’re the reason the country’s goin’ to hell, y’know that? Can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”
You don’t respond. Just shove your items onto the band and pretend you don’t know him while he mutters under his breath about “fish truthers” and something about “goddamn grocery store philosophers.”
Back in the truck, you toss the bag into the backseat and climb in, settling into the passenger side with a sigh. Joel’s already midrant, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like he’s still in the store, still arguing with the guy in the hoodie.
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s fish. Tuna is fish. I don’t give a shit if it’s in a can or swimmin’ in the damn ocean.”
You don’t even care anymore.
Because this is Joel—a man who’d argue with a stranger over canned tuna like it was a matter of world security. A man who was always loud, always wrong, and always ready to throw hands over the dumbest shit.
But he could fuck. God, could he fuck. And when this whole thing started, that was the only part you let yourself care about.
The rest? The attitude, the mouth, the sleaze—you told yourself you could ignore. Just noise. Just background. Even while it’s annoying.
Joel keeps going, voice low and gravelly. “I swear, people get one opinion and suddenly they’re a damn marine biologist. ‘Oh, tuna’s not real fish.’ What’s next? Chicken’s not real poultry? My dick’s not real meat?”
You snort, but don’t look at him.
Joel catches it instantly. “You agree with me now, right?” he says, smug as hell. “Knew it. Knew you were on my side.”
You shake your head, staring out the window. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I just think it’s funny you almost fought a man over a can of fish.”
He scoffs, still grumbling about the tuna guy when his voice drops into something lower, lazier—familiar. His voice softens, just a notch. “You got everything you wanted, hon?”
You nod, slow. “Yeah.”
He watches you for a second longer, then shifts his gaze back to the road. “Need to go anywhere else?”
“No, but…thank you.”
“Oh, my polite girl,” he says, grinning all cheeky. He reaches over and pinches your cheek, rough fingers warm and calloused.
You huff, batting his hand away. “Don’t.”
He chuckles, leaning back against his seat. “Got adrenaline runnin’ through my veins. You should’ve just let me fight that dude.”
You glance at him. “You still there?”
Joel scoffs. “Ain’t lettin’ myself get disrespected like that. People piss me off,” he mutters. “Whole damn store full of idiots. Got me all wound up.”
He glances at you, then back at the road. “Could use a distraction. Somethin’ to take the edge off.”
You shake your head.
He smirks to himself, voice dipping into that slow, familiar drawl. “Could bury my face in somethin’ soft. Shut my mouth for a while. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You don’t even look at him. “Shut up.”
That actually makes him pause.
“Woah,” he mutters, glancing over. “Usually you like my tone.”
You don’t respond, keeping yourself from insulting him.
He watches you for a second longer, then scoffs. “What, now you wanna get on my nerves too?”
You still don’t say anything.
Joel shakes his head, muttering, “What’s the matter with you today anyway?” Then, under his breath, half a joke, half a threat: “All stuck up. Need me to fuck it outta you?”
You roll your eyes while shifting, pressing your palm tighter against your stomach, jaw clenched.
Joel watches you for a second longer, then leans back in his seat with a low exhale. “Ah,” he mutters. “So that’s what this is.”
You glare at him. “Don’t.”
He grins wider. “You on your period, sugar?”
You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Joel.”
“What?” he says, all mock innocence. “I’m just observant. You get all quiet and mean, start holdin’ your tummy like that. I’ve seen it before.”
You mutter something under your breath and look out the window.
He leans in a little, voice dropping. “Y’know, I used to see this girl who loved gettin’ fucked on her period. Said it helped with the cramps. Said I was better than Midol.”
You groan. “You’re disgusting.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m not wrong.”
A beat of silence. The truck hums beneath you, tires rolling over cracked pavement.
Then Joel shifts, glancing at you again — slower this time. “You want me to take you home?”
You shake your head. “Don’t feel like being alone.”
He nods once, like that settles it. “Alright.”
Without saying anything, he reaches over—rough palm warm through the fabric and lays his hand over your tummy. Rubs once, slow and firm, like he’s done it before.
“C’mon,” he mutters. “Let’s go back to my van.”
You furrow your eyebrows.
He shrugs, voice low. “I’ll crank the heat. You can lay down, steal my last clean shirt, bitch about my mattress. I won’t even try anything.”
You raise a brow.
He smirks. “Unless you ask real nice.”
You roll your eyes, but he’s not done.
“Could even rub your tummy,” he adds, voice syrupy. “Or your thighs. Or whatever else’s achin’. I’m versatile like that.”
You snort. “You’re a menace.”
“Damn right I am,” he says, grinning. “But I’m a menace with a heated van and a soft spot for cranky girls who forget their eggs on the stove.”
You try not to smile. Fail.
He sees it. “There she is,” he says, satisfied. “Knew I’d get you.”
You sigh, long and slow. “Fine. But I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight.”
Joel taps the wheel, already pulling into a turn. “Good. I’ll keep it to a low simmer.”
You shake your head, but you don’t stop him. And he doesn’t ask again.
Joel doesn’t shut up the whole ride back.
He’s still going on about the tuna guy, about “idiots with opinions and no taste buds” and how “this country’s gone soft, that you can’t even trust a man with a can opener anymore.”
Every few minutes, he reaches over to poke your side, just enough to make you flinch and swat at him, which only encourages him more.
You’re too tired to argue, and the cramps are starting to dig in deeper, like something inside you is twisting just to be cruel.
By the time he pulls up to the van, the sky’s gone a dull gray, the kind that makes everything look washed out and tired. The van’s parked in its usual spot—half on gravel, half on dead grass, tucked behind a sagging fence that leans like it’s given up.
There’s a busted lawn chair tipped over in the dirt, a rusted grill that hasn’t seen fire in years, and a pile of wood that might’ve once been a table.
It’s a mess. But it’s Joel’s mess. And somehow, that makes it feel…familiar. Even safe in a twisted way.
He hops out and circles around to your side, opening the door for you with a dramatic bow.
“Ma lady,” he says, voice syrupy.
Inside, the van is exactly how you remember it.
Dim, cluttered, smelling like cigarettes, old leather, and something vaguely wooden. The red curtains are drawn, casting everything in a soft, crimson gloom. Then there’s a pile of laundry in the corner, a half empty mug on the counter, and a pair of boots kicked off near the door.
The bed’s unmade—sheets rumpled, blanket half on the floor—but it’s still comfortable. You know it.
It’s the same bed where Joel first pulled you down with that crooked grin and promised to show you some “lovin’ and care,” and then fucked your brains out.
You sit down on the edge of it now, letting out a low groan as you clutch your stomach.
Joel watches you for a beat, then makes a soft, exaggerated cooing sound. “Poor baby,” he says, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. “Need some water?”
You nod, and he moves to his tiny kitche, grabbing a bottle from the mini fridge. It’s not cold, but it’s water so you take it with a quiet “thanks.”
He eyes you for a second, then gestures vaguely towards your jeans. “You need to change or somethin’? I got a shirt you can wear. Big n’soft. Smells just like me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not a selling point.”
He smirks. “Sure it is. You love how I smell.”
You don’t answer that with a response, but when he tosses the shirt your way—a faded green thing that’s probably seen more oil stains than laundry detergent—you take it anyway.
It does smell like him. Cigarettes, sweat, and something warm and earthy underneath. You change in the cramped little bathroom, peeling off your jeans with a wince and tugging the oversized shirt down over your thighs.
When you come back out, Joel’s already stripped down to his boxers, scratching at his stomach with one hand and tossing his fannel into the laundry pile with the other.
“Gotta take a shower,” he mutters. “Sweat my damn ass off today arguing with that guy.”
You don’t look at him, but you can hear the way he grunts as he moves, the way the floor creaks under his weight. He’s big—broad and solid, with a belly that presses against the counter when he leans over it, soft and round and unapologetic. He doesn’t suck it in. Doesn’t hide. Just scratches his ribs and yawns like you’re not even there.
“You stay here, yeah?” he says, nodding toward the bed. “Look—heating pad.”
He pulls it from under a pile of flannels and plugs it in, testing it with his palm before handing it over. “Old man like me needs somethin’ warm for his back, but you need it more than me right now, hon.”
You take it without a word, pressing it to your stomach as you sink back onto the bed. The warmth is immediate, soothing. You close your eyes for a second, breathing through the ache.
Joel steps closer, leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead—rough lips, scratch of stubble, the faintest scent of wood and sweat.
“Stay here, baby.”
You don’t argue, don’t roll your eyes. Just curl onto your side, the heating pad tucked against your belly, and listen to the sound of the water starting up in the tiny shower stall.
The van creaks as Joel moves, his body brushing the narrow walls, muttering something about how “these damn doors keep shrinkin’” as his stomach bumps the frame.
You don’t look, even while the door is open.
You’ve seen it before. The way he moves like he owns every inch of himself, the soft weight of him, the stretch of his skin, the way he doesn’t flinch when he catches his reflection. It’s not confidence, exactly. It’s just Joel. Unbothered. Unapologetic.
And somehow, that’s the part that makes you stay.
The water shuts off with a metallic groan, and a moment later you hear the soft thud of Joel’s feet against the floor, the creak of the bathroom door swinging open. Steam rolls out in a wave, curling into the cool air of the van.
He steps out, towel slung low around his hips, belly damp and flushed pink from the heat. His hair’s slicked back, droplets clinging to his chest hair, trailing down the curve of his stomach.
Then, his eyes land on you, curled up on the bed like a cocoon, Joel’s oversized shirt swallowing your frame. The heating pad hums faintly beneath the blanket, but your face is pinched, one hand still pressed to your stomach, the other curled into the sheets.
Joel’s expression softens. “Oh, honey girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You look like hell, don’t you?”
You don’t bother answering. You’re too tired, too sore, too wrapped in the dull throb of your own body to do anything but breathe through it.
He crouches besides the bed, towel shifting slightly on his hips, and reaches out to brush your hair back from your forehead. His fingers are warm, still damp, and surprisingly gentle.
“There she is,” he says, voice low and fond. “My little grump.”
You close your eyes, letting him touch you. comforting. Familiar. His hand moves to your head, stroking slow, then down to your shoulder, thumb tracing lazy circles into the fabric of his own shirt.
“Hurts bad?” he asks.
You nod, barely.
He sighs. “Alright. Scoot over.”
You do, and he climbs onto the bed besides you, the mattress dipping under his weight.
The towel stays on (barely) as he settles in behind you, one arm draping over your waist. His hand finds your stomach, warm and broad, and he starts to rub in slow, steady circles.
“Like this?” he murmurs.
You hum, the pressure easing something deep inside you. He keeps going, patient and quiet, his breath warm against the back of your neck.
After a while, his hand drifts lower, to your hip, then your thigh. Kneading and soothing. His touch is firm but careful, like he’s trying to press the pain out of you with his palms.
You melt into it, tension bleeding out of your muscles one knot at a time.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Told you I’m better than Midol.”
You don’t answer, but your body does—softening under his touch, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re warmin’ up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Feelin’ better?”
You hum, eyes half-lidded. “A little.”
He leans in, lips brushing your temple. “Good. Hate seein’ you all curled up like that. Makes me wanna fix it.”
His hand drifts up, slow and warm, brushing the hem of the shirt. He pauses just beneath your ribs, thumb tracing lazy circles into your side.
“These girls also sore?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
You don’t answer right away. Just let out a soft, miserable whine and nod, eyes still closed.
Joel hums, like he’s been given permission. “Yeah, figured.”
His hand slides up, careful and slow, until he’s cupping you through the fabric. No pressure, just warmth. His thumb strokes gently along the curve, feather-light.
“Mm,” he murmurs. “All swollen. Poor things.”
You let out a shaky breath, but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. So he keeps going, slow and steady, massaging with the kind of care that makes your chest ache in a different way. Something that makes you feel safe and seen.
His hand quietly drifts lower, just a little—not quite crossing any lines, but close enough that your breath catches. He notices. Of course he does.
“Y’know,” he says, tone going sly, “I wasn’t kiddin’ earlier. Had a girl once swore up and down that a good fuck was better than any painkiller.”
You groan, but it’s half-hearted. “Joel…”
He grins against your skin. “What? I’m just sayin’. Could be medicinal. Therapeutic, even. I’m a giver like that.”
His hand slides a little farther, palm warm against the top of your thigh now, thumb pressing slow, soothing circles into the muscle.
“Bet I could make you forget all about that ache,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel. “Real gentle. Real slow. Just enough to take the edge off.”
You don’t answer, but your body does. Your hips shifting slightly, breath hitching and already a small pulse inside your underwear.
Joel chuckles, low and pleased. “That’s what I thought,” he says, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Feelin’ better already.”
There’s a pause—not awkward, just quiet and then you murmur, barely above a whisper, “I’d bleed all over your sheets.”
Joel’s hand stills for a second. Then he lets out a soft snort, amused but not mocking.
“Y’think I care?” he says, voice low and rough. “Sugar, I can throw ‘em in the machine. Hell, I’ll toss ‘em out if I have to. Ain’t like they’re made of gold.”
You don’t say anything. Just stare at his sheets, jaw tight.
He leans in, brushing his nose against your temple. “Ain’t nothin’ about you that’s disgusting. You hear me?”
You shift again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with your body. “It’s not exactly…sexy.”
Joel huffs. “Who said anything about sexy? I’m talkin’ about you. Hurtin’. Needing somethin’. I don’t give a damn what time of the month it is. You think I’m scared of a little blood?”
You glance at him, uncertain. He meets your eyes, steady and sure.
“I’ve seen worse,” he says, smirking. “Hell, I’ve bled more than that just tryin’ to fix the damn carburetor.”
You let out a reluctant laugh, small and shaky.
“You know i’m right” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do that’d scare me off. You wanna lay here and groan, I’ll rub your back. You wanna cry, I’ll hold you. You wanna ride me bloody, I’ll lay down a towel and thank you after.”
Your face burns. “Joel.”
He grins, unbothered. “What? I’m just sayin’. You don’t gotta be embarrassed. Not with me.”
You look at him, really look, and there’s no judgment in his eyes. Just that same crooked affection, that strange mix of sleaze and sincerity that somehow makes you feel…safe.
You exhale, long and slow, and let your head fall back against the pillow.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Joel leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead again—softer this time, lingering.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now stand up. Let me take care of you.”
Joel shifts behind you also standing up, the bed creaking under his weight as he leans over to the far end. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, the tug of a pillow being yanked free from under a pile of laundry, the click of the heating pad being unplugged and moved.
You blink up at him, glassy eyed. “What’re you doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just lays a pillow down near the end of the bed, smooths the heating pad over it, then tosses a towel on top.
“Gonna make you a little nest,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “Get you all warm and comfy. Then I’m gonna fuck the pain right outta you.”
You huff, but your body’s already responding—a slow, low ache curling in your belly, different from the cramps. Deeper. Thicker.
Joel pats the towel. “Lay down on your tummy, sugar. Right here. Let that heat hit you where it counts.”
You hesitate, but only for a second. Then you shift forward, letting him guide you down. The towel’s soft against your skin, the heating pad radiating warmth through the fabric, straight into your lower belly. You exhale, already feeling the relief.
Joel stands behind you, hands smoothing over your hips, adjusting you just so. “There we go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy. Just like that.”
You bury your face into the sheets, the scent of him everywhere—smoke, sweat, soap.
Then he leans down, presses a kiss on your thigh, and whispers, “Just let go, baby. I got you.”
You feel the slow, deliberate tug of your panties being eased down.
“Is it… is it dripping blood?” You tense.
Joel pauses for half a second. Then he lets out a low, appreciative sound, voice thick with that familiar drawl.
“Nah,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “It’s drippin’ heaven, baby.”
You groan, burying your face into the sheets. “You’re disgusting.”
He chuckles, unbothered. “Yeah, but you’re still lettin’ me touch you.”
You don’t argue. You can’t. Not when his hands are back on your hips, warm and steady, not when his voice is in your ear, all gravel and heat.
He shifts behind you, the rustle of his towel hitting the floor barely audible over the sound of your own breathing.
One hand slides down, fingers brushing between your thighs, exploring your folds. “Already wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, lower: “Need me to prep you?”
You shake your head, barely. You just needed relief.
He exhales, rough and quiet. “Alright.”
He pushes in slow, careful, just the tip and then stills, breath catching in his throat.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough. “You’re so damn tight like this.”
You whimper, hips twitching under his hands.
He leans over you, lips brushing your hip. “But feels like heaven, baby. All warm and snug and squeezin’ me like you missed me.”
You bury your face in the pillow, flushed and aching, but you don’t pull away.
He pushes in slow, inch by inch, his breath ragged, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. You’re warm and tight around him, body pulsing with heat and ache, and he groans low in his throat.
Joel groans, rolling his hips just a little. “Could stay right here all night. Just like this. Deep and slow. Let you milk the pain outta both of us.”
You whimper, burying your face into the sheets once again, the stretch deep and aching but good. So good.
Joel stills once he’s fully seated inside you, chest heaving. Then, with a low grunt, he shifts—knees bracing on either side of your thighs, his body rising over yours.
And then he lowers himself, slow and heavy, until his belly settles against the small of your back, warm and solid.
You moan, the weight of him pressing you deeper into the heat of the pillow, the pressure on your belly somehow soothing and overwhelming all at once.
“Too much?” he murmurs, voice rough but careful.
You shake your head, breath shallow. “Just…heavy.”
He chuckles, low and fond. “Yeah, I know. Big ol’ bastard, ain’t I?”
You huff a laugh, even as your lungs work a little harder under him.
Joel shifts, just enough to take some of the weight off your ribs, his forearms bracing him up. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll hold myself up. Don’t want you passin’ out on me—not unless I earned it.”
You roll your eyes, but your body relaxes under him. The weight of him is grounding, comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Like being blanketed in heat and muscle and the steady rhythm of his breath.
The bed creaks again as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that rock the whole frame. The headboard taps the wall in time, a soft, rhythmic thud that fills the space between your moans and his low, filthy praise.
“Fuckin’,” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn soft under me. Like a warm fuckin’ peach, ripe and drippin’.”
You whine, half from the ache, half from the way his words go straight to your spine.
He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s it, you just lay there, sugar. Let me do the work. Let me press all that ache outta that sweet little belly. Ain’t no Midol in the world that hits like this.”
You cry out, feeling him hit that one spot in you.
Deep, dragging thrusts that make your breath catch and your fingers curl into the sheets. Every inch of him presses into you, every roll of his hips sending a fresh wave of heat through your belly.
“Shit, girl… I’m stickin’ to you. Sweat, blood, all of it. My belly’s glued to your back like we’re welded together.” He murmurs.
You’re already so sensitive—from the cramps, from the heat, from everything he’s done to you tonight. Every stroke against your walls feels like too much and not enough all at once.
And then he shifts just right—hits that spot deep inside once again, and you gasp, a high, broken sound, and your thighs tremble.
Joel stills, just for a second. “Oh, baby,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “You gonna cum already?”
You can’t even answer. It’s already happening—your body clenching around him, breath stuttering, pleasure crashing over you like a wave you didn’t see coming.
Joel groans, low and guttural. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl. So goddamn tight, milkin’ me already.”
You whimper, overwhelmed, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your neck—his weight just pressing you down more.
“Didn’t even have to work for it,” he murmurs, voice all grit and honey. “Just slid in and you broke for me. That sweet little body was beggin’ for it, huh?”
You’re still trembling beneath him, body limp and flushed, breath catching in your throat as the last waves of your orgasm ripple through you. Joel stays buried deep, his weight a warm press on your back, his breath hot against your neck.
He leans in. “That helped? Made your cramps all better?”
You nod, still dazed, cheek pressed to the mattress.
He grins, slow and smug. “Told ya I’d fuck those cramps right outta that pretty little belly.”
Then he looks down again, and you feel the way his breath hitches—the way your hips twitch, the way the blood is dripping down his cock.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “All that blood and slick… drippin’ down my cock like you needed it.”
You cry out under him, body limp and flushed, when Joel grinds in again—slow, deep, relentless. The overstimulation sharp and sweet all at once.
“Sensitive?” he rasps, voice thick with heat. “Good. Daddy likes it like that.”
He shifts his knees wider, bracing himself, and then he thrusts deeper. So deep. You gasp, the pressure sharp and overwhelming, like he’s pressing into something you didn’t even know was there.
“Shit,” he groans, voice thick and ragged. “You feel that, baby? That’s me hittin’ the end of you.”
You whine out loud, hips twitching, the pillow under your belly pushing everything tighter, more intense.
Joel leans in, his belly heavy on your back. “Can feel your little womb flinchin’ around me,” he mutters, filthy and reverent all at once. “Like it’s beggin’ me to stay.”
You moan, overwhelmed, and he grinds in again—slow, relentless, like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into you.
“You’re shakin’ like a leaf, baby.” He coos. Overstimmed, overstuffed, and still takin’ it. That’s my girl. That’s what I like.”
“Joel—“ you whimper, your head already floaty.
“I know, honey.”
The bed creaks beneath you both, the heat from the pad, the weight of him, the stretch—it’s all just too much and not enough. You’re drowning in it, in him, in the way he fills every inch of you.
Joel kisses your shoulder, then growls, “You’re gonna come again, baby. I can feel it. Gonna milk me dry, ain’t you?”
And with the next thrust—deep, slow, all in—you do.
Body shaking, cunt releasing all kinds of fluids and your breath knocked away.
“Second one’s always the messiest.“ he whispers, pulling out an inch and looking at all the mess you did. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that? Sweetest little thing I ever ruined.”
You’re wrecked. Muscles slack, thighs sticky, brain fogged. And before you can calm down, he moves again. Gentle, deliberate rolls inside your cunt and your body jolts like it wasn’t expecting more.
You gasps, voice all breath and disbelief: “You’re still? Joel… I can’t take no more…”
And he just leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand now sliding up your ribs to hold you still.
“Shhh… hush now.” A low, lazy murmur. “You said that last time. And look at you—still here. Still takin’ it.”
He starts pressing in deeper, making you see stars.
“Mmm… this one’ll fix those cramps up real good. Better than any damn pill ever could.”
You try to speak, to protest, but all that comes out is a broken moan. Your legs twitch. Your breath stutters. And he feels it—the way your body starts to tighten again, even before your mind catches up.
He slows down, just enough to make you feel every inch, every drag of him inside you. His hand stays between your legs, fingers slick and steady, working your clit with maddening precision. You’re trembling, overstimulated, breath hitching with every pass of his thumb.
“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re sensitive.”
You whimper, hips twitching, trying to pull away—but he just follows, keeps you pinned with his weight and his mouth at your ear.
“But you’re takin’ it so good,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ good for me. Just one more. You can do that, can’t you?”
You shake your head, but it’s useless—your body’s already betraying you, clenching around him, grinding into his hand like it’s got a mind of its own.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me feel you. Let me help. Gonna fuck those cramps right outta you.”
And then he adds: “That little belly will thank me later.”
You’re too raw, too full, too far gone—and he knows it. He wants it.
“Cum for me,” he growls, thrusts deep and slow. “Give me that third one. Let me feel you fall apart.”
And you do—again—with a cry that’s more sound than breath, your body seizing around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your overstimmed, aching core.
Your thighs clamp under his hips, your cunt pulsing so hard it borders on pain. You sob through it, too sensitive, too full, and still he doesn’t stop, dragging it out until you’re writhing, begging, soaked and ruined.
He groans deep, guttural, and his hips stutter, grinding in deep, and staying there. His voice is a rasp: “Fuck… that’s it. That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it.”
You feel him spill inside you, hot and slow, his whole body pressed tight to yours, breath ragged against your neck. You’re shaking. Floating. Gone.
“God damn it—my fuckin’ back—” he grits out, voice cracking as he drives in deep one last time.
He groans, loud and low, like it’s being torn out of him, and you feel it—the heat, the weight, the way he spills inside you like he’s been holding it back for hours.
“Shit… that’s it… that’s it…” he mutters, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body trembling. “Gonna need a fuckin’ ice pack after this. Jesus.”
You can’t help it—you laugh between all that overstimulation, breathless and wrecked, still clenching around him.
He huffs a laugh too, catching his breath. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, woman. I just threw my back out makin’ you see stars.”
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, heavy and warm, muttering into your skin.
“You good, darlin’?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Still breathin’? ‘Cause I ain’t sure I am.”
You hum something soft, too gone to answer, and he chuckles—a slow, wrecked sound.
Finally, with a grunt and a muttered “Alright, here we go…”, he shifts his weight, pulls out slow, and pushes himself up. His knees pop again. His feet hit the floor of the van with a heavy thud, and you groan because you can’t feel your body.
“Sticky little thing. You know what you look like down there? Goddamn…like strawberry cream pie, baby. Red white and split open and spillin’ sweet all over me.”
You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “Ugh, Joel… you’re so disgusting.”
He just grins, slow and lazy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“Yeah?” he drawls, dragging two fingers through the mess and smearing it along your thigh. “Then why you blushin’, huh?”
You try to glare at him, but your face is hot, your body still trembling, and you can’t stop the way your hips twitch when he touches you again.
“Shut up,” you mumble, voice thin and wrecked.
He grabs a towel, wets it from the bottle, then kneels between your thighs.
But before he even touches the towel to your skin, he leans in and drags his tongue through the mess he left behind. Blood, come, sweat all of it.
You gasp, hips twitching, eyes flying open.
“Joel—”
He just chuckles, low and wrecked, licking his lips like he’s savoring it.
“Tastin’ like honey,” he mutters, voice thick with heat. “Sweetest thing I ever put my mouth on.”
You groan, half mortified, half melting, and he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
Then he takes the towel and starts to clean you sweet and slow, gentle strokes, careful not to press too hard.
“Easy now,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you, darlin’. You earned it.”
He leans over, brushing your hair back from your face.
“Y’wanna stay like that, or y’want me to change you?”
You groan into the pillow. “Can’t move.”
He chuckles, low and fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you up, sweetheart.”
He slides an arm under your belly, the other under your chest, and lifts you slow—careful not to jostle you too much. You wince, legs trembling as you shift upright, and then you see it.
The sheets.
Blood and come smeared across the fabric in thick, dark streaks. A mess. Your mess.
You gasp, eyes going wide. “Joel—your sheets—”
But he’s already shaking his head, brushing a kiss to your temple.
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. Sheets can be washed. You? You’re what matters.”
You blink at him, still dazed, still flushed, and he smiles, soft and crooked.
“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up proper.”
He helps you to your feet, one hand steady at your waist, the other grabbing a clean towel. The van rocks gently as you both move, and he groans again.
“Goddamn suspension’s worse than my knees.”
You laugh, leaning into him as he guides you to the little bathroom, and he mutters something about “gonna need a chiropractor and a cigarette” under his breath.
Btw guys, i finally have an Ao3 acc. I’m trying to post all my fics also there but i can’t promise anything because i’m struggling to understand that damn website lmao😭 but if you like to check it out here is the link!
I hope yall enjoyed sleazy!joel hehe and again, happy new year everyone! I hope you all started safely and happy and i hope this year will be just a little bit better! 🫶🏻
summary: when you learn your wanting is not only your own
|| smut MDNI 18+, no outbreak, idk why but I totally pictured long haired joel in this, neighbor!joel, pervy!reader, mommy issues, parentified child, nonspecific (but legal, made clear she is not a teenager) age gap, pining & yearning, dirty thoughts, tommy cameo, sarah cameo, neighborhood parties, slight voyeuristic tendencies but not in smut, f!masturbation, m!receiving oral, handjob, underwear stealing, fingers in mouth, mouth inspection, pinv, dirty talk, praise kink always, tiniest bit of degradation, little bit of pussy pronouns, joel refers to himself as daddy, daddy issues mentioned (joel is here to fix them), reader has free-use fantasies, creampie ||
references & inspired by: In My Room by Julia Wolf, Fleabag s2, All the Things She Said by t.A.T.u, Crush by Ethel Cain
a/n: if you ever watched s2e4 of fleabag and wished it was joel miller, your prayers have been answered. all my love forever and always to @pearlessance for clappin' eyes on this baby before it was ready
wc: 9k
You weren't really into these things.
Parties, that is. Neighborly ones. Where the whole street would get together and cook out, pretending they hadn't been shoving their noses in each other's business all year long. But it was supposed to be cheerful, joyous. It was Christmas in Texas, after all.
Everyone who had been home for the holidays were there. Most of the kids had off from school and those who had jobs that paid them to spend time off loitered and ate and laughed together. It all felt so… merry. Maybe it was just because you still felt so new that it felt otherworldly. You'd only moved to Austin two years ago when your mother decided LA was no longer 'artistically aligned' with her anymore, and that she swore her music career would really take off here instead. So, you'd picked up and moved with her. You felt some sort of…parentified responsibility over her. She was such a free spirit that often she needed reminding of things: appointments, bills, to eat whole meals and drink water. She was off chatting to a handsome man who was one hundred percent not her age, but old enough to know better. He had a cocky smile, freckles over his nose. You recognized him, though he didn't live in the neighborhood. A family member of one of them, you expected.
The backyard you inhabited was full of woodsmoke in the late afternoon, a hum of chattering gossipers filling your ears like bees. One of the girls, Sarah, who was younger than you, was over by her dad, talking animatedly. You thought maybe she was asking him something. For his car keys or some other. She was younger than you, but you knew she was a sweet kid. You almost wished there were more people your age, but you didn't mind today, not when you were so focused on the one person you'd come to see. Most of the people here all belonged to one another; their lives braided together through the years. You'd never been able to find your place, always on the outskirts or an afterthought. Other than your mother, but she wasn't around much, so you weren't sure that counted.
But there was one person who you'd always kept your eye on. You could say it was the one good thing about still living with your mother. Because outside your bedroom window, sometimes when you were crossing your yard to get to your car, you'd see him. If you peeked out in the morning and saw him drinking his coffee on his porch, you'd make sure to wear your tiniest shorts, your lowest top, anything to get him to look at you. Sometimes he'd shake his head at you, a gruff disappointed look. It only made you want him worse.
Joel Miller.
Today was no different, though you wore a flowing sundress instead of your usual daisy dukes. He was hosting, so you made sure to pull out your best cards. Even if it was winter in Texas, the South allowed for things like this—skimpy things—even if you'd been chilled ever since stepping outside. You could feel your nipples pebbled against the thin cotton of your bustier. You didn't care. You actually hoped he'd notice.
You pulled out your phone and scrolled through your socials, looking at them the way he might if he ever went snooping. You thought you came off sweet, approachable, all those old photos with your friends and the dogs and cats you pet-sat filling your feed, softening the ones of you partying back home in LA. Your Tinder was set all the way up to men in their sixties, though you had never seen him there. You ignored all of the other men, so many left swipes you'd developed a trigger finger. Still, just in case, you made sure a bikini photo sat right at the front, bright and impossible to miss. Just in case.
He was across the yard, beer nearly finished, Sarah having run off, and he was listening to that old cranky asshole who always yelled about dog shit in his yard. You watched as Joel nodded along politely, saying little, his hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
God, those hands. Thick and broad and cracked from the sunlight, you could admit you'd thought of them many times. How they'd feel running up your body or holding you down as he fucked you into the mattress or maybe how they'd feel between your legs instead of your vibrator. You would let him do it—grope you, touch you however he wanted. You might even beg him to. You wanted to feel them wrap around your thighs or push up your dress right here to get a look at you. And his arms. Banded with bulging veins, sun toughened and tanned, clearly used for work that wasn't made from inhabiting the gym. A man, through and through, tall and thick and bearded and…
You stood from your lone chair by the corner of the yard and made your way over to the cooler. Your bare feet marched along the concrete, and then into wet grass, fishing for a specific brand before walking right up beside him.
Your chest brushed the corner of his elbow.
"Mr. Miller," you purred, offering the cold unopened bottle.
He turned to look at you, suddenly surprised at your arrival. His eyes scaled down your form, taking in your little dress, your goosebumped skin, and you could've sworn they landed on your breasts for a second too long. You had to bite down a smile. Did he feel guilty for it? Or was his head filling with the same filthy thoughts you shared?
"Howdy," he said, clearing his throat, "how are ya?"
"I'm good," you smiled sweetly, exhaling. "I wanted to thank you for having us, Mr. Miller. I noticed you were out of your drink and…I thought you might want another?"
"Oh," he replied, looking down at his own empty bottle like he'd forgotten about it, "uh, thanks, darlin', that's mighty kind of you."
You handed it to him, and when your fingers brushed, it felt like swallowing the sun. His calluses passed over your soft knuckles, and they were just as rough as you'd imagined. You wished he'd put them all over you here and now. That maybe he'd pull the top of your dress down for everyone to see you weren't wearing a bra, palming at them in front of the entire neighborhood. You might beg him to do that too.
"You're welcome, Mr. Miller," you said with a brighter smile, "is there anything else you need?"
You couldn't help yourself as you looked up at him, doe eyed and innocent—hopeful, even.
He huffed a quiet laugh, looking at you a little longer, "No, no," his eyes dropped again, "I'm all good here, you ain't cold?"
You could've sworn his cheeks went a little pink. Wishful thinking.
"I'm fine," you lied, "maybe I'll step inside for a minute, use the restroom."
Turning around and heading for the house, you let your hips swish a little extra, hoping—praying—he was watching.
Inside the sliding glass door, the hush of the house made your ears buzz, overwhelming and warm against your flesh where his eyes had burned it. It was dimly lit, other than the light of the kitchen where the food sat half-eaten and the Christmas tree cast colorful rays along the walls as the sun began to sink outside. The party continued on without you, laughter and music muffled against the threshold of a closed door.
Ahead, the bathroom door was ajar, but your gaze didn't stay there very long. Instead, it landed on the staircase.
You glanced around one more time, ensuring your solitude. You were alone.
In his house.
You took your chance.
Bare feet padding silently, you were clutching the banister in seconds. Your fingers tightened hard enough to blanch your knuckles, using it to haul yourself up the stairs two at a time, heart hammering like it knew what you were about to do, screaming don't, don't don't!
The landing was quieter once you made it all the way up. It creaked underfoot as the last rays of sun lightened your path ahead. You'd imagined all of this so many times, when you'd see the faint glow of the hall light on in the night, staring across the street as if he'd maybe pass by if you willed it. He had, one time, shirtless, to your mouthwatering joy, though he'd barely been more than a silhouette, closing the blinds, allowing your eyes to soak in as much as you could before they fell and the light went off.
You swore you could smell him now, following the scent of his aftershave, something with cedar and tobacco, the smell of sun on leather as you stayed to it like a hound on a hunt into the largest bedroom on the left.
You didn't dare turn on the light. There was an intimacy of the darkening day, a secret, desecration kept quiet.
The bedroom smelled like him even more, a freshness of laundry and the musk of a man. You wanted, so badly, to roll around in his bed, made so neatly but so plainly. Like any other man, dark blue comforter and gray sheets. A dusty elliptical stood by the window, looking like it was used more as a drying rack than anything for exercise. He didn't need it, you thought. He was built by labor, body hewn from his job, lugging and hauling and building. Man man man.
You breathed in deeply, trying to log everything to memory in the shadow of the sunset that lit the room as you padded around. You smiled when you saw a pair of reading glasses sitting atop the magazine titled: Everything You Need to Know About Creating a Startup. And then, gaze landing on the flannel shirt that laid on a wooden chest, you walked over to the end of the bed, bringing it to your nose without a second thought, inhaling his scent. Musky, sweaty, warm with a faint trace of cologne. You tried to place it, something woodsy and pine with bergamot. You wondered what the brand was, already half-imagining finding it somewhere and buying it for yourself, just so you could sit in your room on lonely nights and spray your pillow like he was there with you. Good God, you really needed to stop this before it—
And as you exhaled, opening your eyes , your gaze landed on something else.
Oh, but there really was no outrunning it, was there? This, yourself, this bottomless ache you’d built a body around. It felt as if lived in you like a second spine, needy and animal, mouthwatering in its persistence as you stared at the half full laundry basket. You shouldn't…But... There was no scrubbing the thought from your tongue, no rinsing it from the back of your teeth or pretending it wasn't what you came for. What you wanted.
Your breath came short, your heartbeat rocketing against your ribs as you dropped the flannel haphazardly, drawn like moth to flame.
You began to sift through the plastic bin, already knowing your treasure lied within. Your stomach bubbled, excitement trickling between your legs so that you were pushing your knees together. Your hand reached in, grabbing onto one piece at a time, bringing them to your nose. There was a white t shirt that smelled like days old sweat, marked where his body had lived in it, the soft cotton holding a ghost of warmth. You breathed into the place his shoulder met his chest, where his skin might've pressed to it, and your throat ached.
And then, fishing in again, your fingers gripped something lighter. You drew out a pair of briefs from the heap, navy or black, you couldn't really tell by the orange light that caught the room as if it was on fire. As if it was alarming the world as to where you were, caught red handed with your finest prize.
You brought the fabric to your nose.
The scent hit you and your thighs pressed harder together, a noise escaping that you only just had realized was your own. A sort of moaning as you inhaled the musk of the fabric, open mouthed. The briefs were definitely worn, not entirely unclean, but perhaps discarded after a long day of work. He smelled like sun and earth after a heavy rain, like the hollow of a throat.
You weren't sure if you were thinking clearly anymore, something like reason in the back of your mind telling you that you were taking much too long, but you couldn't help it. You dipped your tongue out to taste the sweat there, salty, dry. It was as if you'd been starved of this all the time you'd spent watching him over two years, seven hundred days goading him and finally finding your treasure. You sucked in another deep breath again, longer this time, filling your lungs.
A noise downstairs alarmed you suddenly, making your spine nearly jump from your skin, the backdoor opening and closing. You hesitated…you could just…but no, you really shouldn't… You licked your lips, quickly glancing between the door of the bedroom and the garment in your hands, and made your decision.
Eventually you did make it to the bathroom, but you chose to stay to the one upstairs, unable to force yourself to walk down the stairs just yet. It felt a little indulgent, stepping inside just to see more of his world. You saw his tooth brush and a razor, next to the things that were reminiscent of a teenage daughter: mascara, a glittery eyeshadow pot, a friendship beaded bracelet. They barely grazed your awareness as you at on the edge of the counter. Adrenaline was still streaming into your blood, a throb of need between your thighs that hadn't settled since you walked into his room.
Facing away from the mirror, you leaned your head back against the glass, and opened your legs.
You only had a few minutes, and you shouldn't be up here.
But regardless, you lifted your dress, the skirt bunching around your waist, and pressed your feet into the cold porcelain. Finally, your hand descended to your core, already wet and needy.
Fuck, you whispered, pressing a finger over the fabric of his briefs.
Because, yes, you'd put them on.
Just over your thong, letting them press into your core where his balls might've been, where his dick was held snug in the fabric all day. Sure, they were a little big on you, the waistband rolled over twice, but you didn't care. Your dress covered enough, being flowy around the skirt and tight on top, no one would be able to tell.
You pressed your fingers to your covered center again, gently making circles around the valley where your bundle of nerves was, swollen and wanting. Your mouth fell open, jaw unhinging as you let out a quiet whimper.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, two fingers now swiping back and forth over your covered yet sensitive core. Your thighs twitched, heels dangling off the counter’s edge as you started to rub harder right through the briefs, imagining the weight of him grinding into where your hand was, thinking of the rough callouses of his palm on your throat. The bristle of his beard against your jaw as he calls you a bad girl, asking what kind of pervert steals a man’s underwear, what kind of little minx touches herself in his bathroom?
The sensation built until you were being yanked over the edge of your orgasm, silently clenching your teeth around the knuckles of your opposite hand, body seizing through your climax.
Heaving in heavy breaths, your chest rose and fell, your breasts still piqued from the amount of dopamine coursing through your body as you come down from your high.
A little embarrassed, you washed up quickly, and headed downstairs.
Of course, in the kitchen, was Joel.
You were a little surprised to see him alone, and you glanced out the sliding door to see just your mom and the man from before, giggling around a small fire pit in the yard. How long had you been gone?
"Hey!" you said a little too breathy, gleeful almost, hooking your thumb over your shoulder, "Sorry, the downstairs bathroom was taken when I came in, so I hope it's okay—"
Joel shrugged. “Yeah, s'no problem.” Then his eyes settled on you again, longer this time. “You okay?”
“What?” you laughed, stepping toward the food, trying to stay easy and pleasant. “Totally. Party’s great. Honestly, ten outta ten.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I dunno. Sarah just left for the movies, everyone’s kinda trickled out now. Feels like the tail end.” He nudged the rack of meats, only a few left over. “But those ribs Frank brought over—”
“Insane,” you agreed, nodding, and plucked a strawberry from another tray. “But really— you’ve done a great job, Mr. Miller. Especially for your first year hosting.”
He paused with the beer halfway to his mouth, leaning back against the counter and his brows lifted in surprise. “That obvious it's my first?”
You grinned around the strawberry, lips pursed as you bite off the end, the slightly sour juice blooming over your tongue. You couldn't help but drink him in, oxytocin still flowing in your bloodstream from your secret escape to his upstairs, a sort of high for wearing his briefs in his kitchen, unbeknownst to anyone but you. He looked so good in that flannel, the way it was pushed to his elbows to show you his forearms. God, what you wouldn't do to have him bend you over the counter right then and there, to see your crimes, to rip off of the evidence of what you'd done and—
"What?" he said, a chuffing sort of breath escaping him.
“You bought enough food to feed a town." you said, shrugging, though you were smirking as you went on: "That’s rookie behavior, Mr. Miller.”
“Fuck you,” he said, so quiet you nearly missed it, blasphemy on his tongue. He raised his beer to his lips as if to hide the smile pulling across his face. “Callin’ me Mr. Miller like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”
Your mouth fell open, the strawberry forgotten between your fingers, waiting on your tongue to be swallowed.
Your brain was a scramble, trying to make sense of the words, if you'd even heard him right. You felt it lagging behind your body, which was already reacting: throat tight, pulse surging, blood scorching up your neck. Could he see you? Could he see what you really were? An obsessive, perverted little thing that was so full of hunger and ripened want, still wet from what you'd done upstairs, wearing the proof of it beneath your sundress. Maybe he could read your mind. The thought was horrific as it passed through you. But then, if he could, he would've run for the hills by now, scared of you. The feelings you had scared you, too.
Joel tipped his head back, lips catching the opening of his beer bottle, and you watched him watching you, his throat flexing around another swallow of liquid. You could've sworn there was a certain glint in his eyes as he stared back. It made your stomach fumble and twist, the berry in your hand suddenly stupid and heavy.
You closed your mouth, then opened it again, dry as anything, unable to form words, when a disturbance rented the room. Turning toward it too quickly, you were grateful for the noise, for anything that could offer an exit from whatever trap you'd gotten caught in.
"Honey! There you are. I think I'm gonna—well, we—" your mother was smiling brightly at the man beside her, "Tommy here said he wanted to show me this great place downtown," she said, her red painted fingernails gripping the man's bicep beneath his Henley, "Apparently it has a great open mic night tonight."
"Okay," you said, clearing your throat, unable to look at anyone now, embarrassed, humiliated in your want, as if everyone could see it.
"Great hang, brother," Tommy called over his shoulder as the two of them walked through the room and out the front door.
"I'll be home late, hon!" your mother added as it closed behind them.
A hush fell over the house again.
Joel was not looking at you now, his gaze dropped, lashes dark against his cheekbones. Outside, the last of the daylight had bled away, leaving only the Christmas lights to paint the room in soft, uneven color, reds and golds slipping over his face and hands. The low underlights that drenched the counters in amber came on, igniting the intimate quiet. It wasn't until you'd heard the engine of the truck outside roar to life and drive away that either of you spoke.
“Can I get you a drink?” Joel asked at last.
You nodded.
“Don’t move.”
You didn’t. You weren't sure you could, your body feeling like it was caught in a bear trap, unwilling to move or else risk a hurt you couldn't repair.
He turned toward the counter, the clink of glass loud in the quiet as he reached up over the fridge for a bottle, poured a few fingers of whiskey into two liquor tumblers. When he held one out to you, you found yourself stepping forward anyway, your body moving before your mind caught up.
Something felt off, and you weren't sure if it was wrong, but like…change. Things were different. You tried to remember a time you felt like this, suddenly small and nervous in front of him. It was so easy to pretend like all your flirting was just fun, just a game you played. To not think of him as a player in it, only something you were trying to attain, the prize you'd win in the end if you were lucky. But seeing him like this, so close, so himself, it felt.... It felt like standing on the edge of something deep and loud and crashing, knowing you could step back, knowing you could fall in, and that neither option felt as simple as before. Turning your back was no longer an option you wanted, the escape you always planned when it became real. And now…alone…in his house. You felt a bit naughty about it all.
It felt like that thing—Schrödinger’s cat— the terrible not knowing of it all. When had you been so obvious? Had you been all along? Didn't you want to be? You wondered whether something was waiting on the other side of this moment at all, or whether it would stay suspended like this forever, neither alive nor dead until someone dared to peer inside.
"I'm…" you swallowed dryly, "I'm sorry, If I…"
He lifted his glass towards you, "To peace,"
You lifted your glass instinctively, your tongue suddenly parched, aching for the golden liquid within. Aching to know. You had to see, you had to know.
"And those who get in the way of it." he finished.
You took the smallest sip, only enough to coat your tongue. And you realized you were shaking.
This was a threshold, you realized. The thing before something. How thresholds change, the more you get accustomed to things. Maybe that's what you had been doing, being accustomed to him never giving in, never saying anything, so you pushed and pushed him. Wearing less and less, even as temperatures dropped in this southern town. This was the threshold of it all.
"Tell me something." you whispered.
Hm? he murmured, a brow raising, his pretty hazel eyes soaked in the amber lighting as they looked at you.
"Anything." you said, even quieter. You would not admit to anything until he said so. You only wanted…if he wanted. And you wanted so, so badly.
He drew in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “If I did what I wanted to do,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t… my whole life would be fucked—”
You held onto your drink with two hands, fingers clammy against the glass.
“—My daughter is the one thing that matters to me.”
“I understand,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, almost sharp, but then he softened, gentler, like he was trying not to scare you. “I don’t think you do.”
You watched him. Every small movement felt enormous as he set his glass down, the sound of it touching the counter too loud. His hands spread behind him, hanging onto the edge as if looking over a cliff, his eyes on the floor below. Jump, you thought, jump in with me.
“If you and I… we can’t,” he said, exhaling, his head shaking. “This can’t be anythin'. You understand me? You need to stop.”
“We’re not anything, Mr. Miller,” you said, too quickly, trying to keep your voice steady.
“But fuck me, I want—"
He didn’t finish his sentence, letting out another sore breath.
Your heart felt traitorous in your chest, wishing death upon you, to take this moment from you. It stopped, skipping over beats, your head going dizzy as he confessed his sins.
“I want…I’m tired of pretendin' that—that I don’t notice you. That I don’t think about how your ass looks when you walk across the yard in those stupid little shorts, or the way you look at me like you’re waitin' for somethin'. I know I shouldn't…but god damn, you… you make' it hard to be a good man. And if I give into you, I'll never be able to stop.”
You set down your glass.
“Tell me what to do,” you whispered, because you were empty without it, because you needed him to fill the space with something that would let you breathe again.
He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut for a second before he shook his head again. “I—” He swallowed, lifting his drink and holding it against his chest like a shield, stepping away from the edge of that cliff, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please."
A long moment stretched between you, the two of you just staring. He was so pretty. His hair had grown out this year, thick and dark, threaded through with gray, streaked with winter and age, and you found yourself wondering how it would feel under your hands. His beard was thicker now too, rougher, fuller.
You hadn't noticed how long you'd been standing there, frozen in time, that paradox of waiting, not knowing. Dead or alive. Nothing or everything. It felt alive now. You felt alive, more seen than you ever had in all the seven hundred days you had lived here, seven hundred days of watching your neighbor, wanting him, imagining slipping into his world on the nights his daughter was away.
"Kneel."
You felt your heart drop into your stomach. "I—what?"
He only nodded, drinking the dregs of his whiskey before setting down the empty glass again.
You moved toward the center of the kitchen and stopped in front of him. The shadows cut him into contrast, gold along his skin, thick beard dark against it, his eyes unreadable as they swallowed the dark room. You were so close you could smell the whiskey, the musk of him, that cologne he wore.
You knelt before him, as if in prayer at your altar.
Joel sighed above you, a long, held breath, like his lungs were finally giving over every last bit of air they had been hoarding. You felt a little silly, a little wicked. A girl come to confess her sins to God. That she had been perverse, tainted with the sin of want, of lust, of need and desire.
His hand, oh god, his hand, it reached out, touching you, only barely. Thick, rough fingertips ghosting along the side of your face, the highest point of your cheekbone, you didn't dare close your eyes, even when he traced along your brow and down the bridge of your nose. His thumb pressed ever so slightly against the bow of your lips, brushing, testing, then opening them only to let your lip bounce back.
And then he was leaning over, two hands on you then, cupping your face, fingers at the nape of your neck, cradling your skull in his two, big, steady hands. Just as rough as you pictured. He so much bigger than you, dwarfing you, it was overwhelming. And he was leaning forward, oh fuck, he was—he was—
He stepped off the cliff and fell into the crashing water below.
You felt his mustache tickling your nose before his lips pressed against yours, and you couldn't help how you'd frozen in place, eyes widening, inhaling him again, so close. You wanted to taste him, to know if his mouth carried the whiskey you could smell on his breath, if his lips held it too, that forbidden sweetness of Eve’s apple, dangerous and delicious.
He pulled away after only a brushing of his lips on yours.
"Kiss me back," he murmured, brows pulled together.
"Tell me it's not just this one time," you whispered, "promise me."
You weren't sure where the words were coming from, hell, this is all you'd wanted for so long, why were you attaching strings? All you'd ever wanted was to crawl to him, give to him, let him have, for him to take you and use your body to his own depraved needs. But now…now… you didn't know if you could go on, knowing this might be the only time.
His eyes were watching you, the eyes of god, one you'd prayed to for seven hundred days. They flicked between yours, trying to read you.
“I don’t think I can stay away from you anymore,” he said quietly, and you felt the breath of every word against your face. His hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear while the other still cupped your cheek.
"Then don't," you said, and this time, you leaned in, catching his mouth on yours, suckling gently on his upper lip, the prickling of his beard scratching where your skin brushed his. Yes, you could taste the whiskey now, the sweet warm flesh of his mouth, You let your hands explore, reaching up, threading your fingers into his hair, and he let out a broken groan. His hands gripped your face harder, though he was really so gentle. You tugged at the length of his hair, long enough now to tickle the back of his neck, and he answered with the same urgency, fingers sliding to the nape of your own, pulling just enough to make you gasp and open to him.
Instead of what you had been greedily hoping for, he pulled back, his mouth mirroring yours, parted and breathless, like he was stopping himself at the very last second.
He held his one hand at the back of your neck, scruffing you, as if you'd been naughty and needed to be contained. Your eyes were dizzy as you realized they'd closed in the heat of the moment, opening them to take him in. His other hand released your cheek, to grip your jaw now, opening you up more.
"Lemme see," he murmured, "I've wanted to see, for so long—open your mouth baby,"
You did as you were bid.
He exhaled, a growling reverberation from his chest, still leaning over you. And then, you tasted something salty and thick. He was sticking two fingers into your mouth, flat to your tongue where your muscle reacted, licking him, wanting, so badly, to close your mouth and suck on them, to show you how good you could be. But you knew better.
"What a good girl," he praised, kneeling in front of you now, eye level, and your thighs pushed together at the sound of the words on his lips, "show me your tongue now, yeah, that's it,"
Your tongue stuck out, resting over your bottom lip, and he pressed his fingers there, just enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your eyes burn with it. Then he loosened his grip on your hair, his palm sliding up to your cheek, holding you there as his fingers continued their slow exploration.
He shifted them slightly, pressing into the softness of your cheek, feeling the warmth of your mouth around them, his other hand still bracketing your face, feeling where his fingers probed against the wet wall of your mouth. A sound slipped from him at the sensation.
This was heaven. You wondered if you'd died today, maybe the house had caught on fire or lightning had struck in a freak storm, because this couldn't be real. Maybe you were asleep, and this was all just a dream, and you'd wake up to slick between your legs again. Because Joel Miller was moaning at the feeling of his own fingers in your mouth, phallic and warm and greedy.
"Always wondered what my cock would feel like in this sweet little mouth," he said, his voice so low and breathy it nearly slipped into a growl, "but you ain't really that sweet, are ya, baby? You play at bein' a good girl, Mr. Miller this, and Mr. Miller that, all the while showing me how pretty your tits look in this dress today, scamperin' around my neighborhood wearin' nothin' for any jackass to see."
The last words were said through gritted teeth, his fingers pushing harder against the side of your mouth, and you felt the heat of shame rise to your cheeks, your eyes watering with the stretch of skin. He soothed you, pulling his fingers out, only to lick them himself before crashing back to your lips, tongues and teeth and hunger and shared sounds of ecstasy.
His tongue, oh, his tongue. It was delicious, a thick, insistent muscle that seemed to know exactly what it wanted from you, plunging past your lips to take and take and take, like it was trying to learn the shape of your mouth by heart. He was eating at you, all heat and breath and urgency, and you could barely tell where one sensation ended and another began. Your hands kept finding him, clutching at fabric, at warmth, at something solid enough to keep you here, even as your thoughts slipped loose, floating somewhere just above the room.
"I wanna see you," you gasped as his mouth descended to your jaw, kissing and licking your fevered skin there. Your voice was thin and rushed and all breath: "Please, I wanna see everything."
"Go on then," he murmured as his hand cupped your face as he dipped your head back to open your neck, baring more to himself so he could bruise your skin with his teeth.
You could hardly focus, eyes threatening to roll back or close, but you couldn't, you needed to see him, needed to see it all. You were trembling, fingers clumsy, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break from your ribs and pour out onto the floor. Finally, finally, you were pushing the fabric from his broad shoulders and letting it descend.
You looked at him then, and he looked at you. And for a moment, everything was reduced to as it was: two people, a small miracle of being seen. His chest heaved in lungfuls of breath, hypnotic in the rise and fall of it. There was thick hair wirey like storm clouds across his chest. A dark line of hair trailed down his stomach, coarser, darker, disappearing where your eyes could not follow, and the sight of it made something in you ache with a sharp, humiliating want.
Your eyes flicked up again to find his. They were a little wild, a little unmoored, black pupils swallowing all that pretty color you liked, his lips kiss bitten and mustache pearled with some of your spit where you'd licked him.
You stared at each other like that for a long, suspended second, caught in the sight of one another, before both of you broke into the same breathless, crooked smile and moved toward each other all at once.
He picked you up easily, his hands locking around the back of your thighs, letting your knees hike over his hips as he carried you up to the counter. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he groaned softly, setting you down and stood between your knees. His mouth, so soft and wet with want, found yours again, licking deep into you like he'd missed it already, suckling at your bottom lip before biting it gently and pulling back just to watch the look on your face. You realized, then, that he kept his eyes open when he kissed you too, wanting to see, wanting to watch, to memorize just like you.
His hands reached for the straps of your dress then, tugging them down with a kind of surged urgency. His mouth followed, open and wet, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere his hands were, his mouth found next. When he finally pulled the bustier down, baring your chest to the cool air and his hot mouth, he set back just to look, to take you in.
"Knew it," he smiled, and looked at you again, his hands wrapped around your waist so he could be close, so close. You felt so warm despite the goosebumps of arousal pebbling your skin, making your nipples tighten.
"Knew you didn't have a damn thing on under this today," he said, voice thicker and rough, as he nuzzled the underside of your breast with his nose. You whimpered, barely able to stay upright with one hand braced behind you on the counter, the other tangled in his hair again. All you wanted to do was touch, to anchor yourself to the here and now. It made you jealous, envious suddenly. That anyone else had been here before, touching him like this, having what was rightfully yours. What you'd dreamed about for seven hundred days.
His lips finally wrapped around your nipple, and you were unable to contain the noise that escaped your throat, a choked whimper, back archinig into him as his hands lay flat against your spine, pulling you in closer. You were completely wrapped around one another, bodies mirrors of one another, yours bowed to him like an offering as he took and took.
He kissed and moaned and licked into the valley of your breasts, then up again, gently suckling and then not so gentle as he bit down, making you gasp. Your body bent to an entirely new angle, hips rolling against the cool porcelain beneath.
And then, you felt his hands leave your spine and push up your dress, and you remembered.
"Wait!" you gasped, pushing his chest back.
He paused, eyes widening, chest red and heaving still. His hands stayed on you as he looked up at you.
"I wanna—let me—please—" you were scrambling now, looking pitifully half dressed as you slid from the counter, closer now, looking up at him, and turning the both of you as your hands laid gently on his bare arms. You turned him so his back was to the counter again, and slid down to your knees once again.
"Oh, baby, you don't gotta—" he said, voice hoarse as honey on grit, but your hands were already unbuckling his belt.
"It's all I've ever wanted," you said, kissing the denim of his fly before unzipping it.
Your eyes found his, and he looked wrecked. Like he was holding himself together by sheer will. There was a line between his brows, a frown on his face.
Oh, fuck, you heard him whisper when you finally pulled his cock free. No briefs.
"You're just like me, Mr. Miller," you smiled up at him as your hand wrapped around his length. Your fingers couldn't even touch.
He didn't laugh or smile, his hands were blanched as he gripped the counter beside him.
“What, Mr. Miller,” you said sweetly, slowly stroking him, the velvet soft skin of the head, the thickly veined shaft, it was absolutely dreamy in your hand, “are you nervous?”
He shook his head, letting out his long breath as your mouth closed around the head of his cock, "Not nervous, baby, just…don't know—fuck, yeah, little more tongue, angel—not sure if I'm gonna last too long with you like this."
His head tipped back as you took him deeper, your lips stretched wide, his size overwhelming. You couldn’t even graze the thick hair at the base, but you fisted the rest of him with your hand where your mouth couldn’t reach, starting to work him in rhythm.
“Watch me, Mr. Miller,” you whispered when you pulled back, slick on your lips as you used both hands now, your mouth suckling just on the tip. His eyes found you, and there it was: he was going insane now, that unglued look, the desperation, the disbelief. Just like you’d imagined it. You, on your knees, ruining him for anyone else.
"You make me so wet, Mr. Miller." you said, emobolded by it all now.
"Joel—" he choked, "please, it's—oh fuckkk,"
"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to do this, Joel," you said, flattening your tongue to the underside of his cock, licking up to give yourself more slick to slide against with your hands. He tasted like a man, musk and sweat and irish spring. You'd swallow poison if it tasted like him.
Confidence bloomed fully now with him in your grip.
"Today, outside, watching you, all I wanted was to blow you there in front of everyone," you purred, lips wrapping around the head of his cock again, letting your teeth graze him before releasing with a wet pop, your hands still working, fondling his balls a little, "I would've let you take off my dress and fuck me in front of everyone, show them who I belong to, make me scream your name so they'd—"
His fist snapped into your hair, wrenching your head back before your mouth could find him again.
“Yeah?” he growled, and then he was lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing, turning you sharply and bending you over the counter. “Wanted me to fuck you in front of your own family, that it? My little free-use slut so needy she couldn’t wait, huh? That why you had your legs spread while you sat in your chair every time I looked over? That why you were pushing your tits into me while I was talkin’ to fuckin’ Jerry?”
You could barely breath, let alone think as the air felt pushed out of you.
“Yes,” you managed, voice small, dizzy, but your hands were shaking now. The heat of nervousness again, your eyes wet and wide.
And as his thick hands groped your hips, making you whimper, he pushed your dress over your hips—
—and paused.
Everything was suddenly very still. You couldn't look, couldn't force yourself to take in the way his brain must have been cataloging your underthings. Those briefs. What a reckless, humiliating thing to do. To wear them, to steal them. To slide them over your thong like a secret. Your thoughts were collapsing into themselves now, a black void where language failed, and you felt stripped bare in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
This, again, was a threshold. Where the story splits. Every fantasy you'd had about him, every private, humiliating thing you'd done in his name, all of it suddenly feeling like it was standing here between the two of you.
You felt his hands move to the folded over waistband, inspecting the fabric.
"Whose are these?" he finally asked, quiet. He wasn't angry, you could tell. Maybe a little incredulous, a little…but no, you didn't know for sure.
You dropped your head between your arms, forehead resting against your fists braced on the counter, as if you could disappear into the laminate. Your face burned. Your chest ached with the force of your heartbeat, slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. You couldn't answer.
He leaned over you, his hand going to your face. It was gentle, almost reverent as it slid across your jaw, to take your cheek in his palm. But once he had a hold of your face, his grip tightened as he forced you to look at him over your shoulder. He was so close you could see every line of age, his body so warm as it bent over you, itchy where the hair on his chest pushed into your back.
"Are these mine?" he said, his gaze landing on your lips when he asked.
He squeezed your cheeks, forcing your mouth into a pucker, and he jostled you a bit, making you gasp, your knees buckling.
"Tell me." he growled, "was this what you were doin' upstairs today, you little freak?"
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You couldn't tell if he was disgusted or fascinated or something worse, something that made your stomach twist with a kind of awful hope.
“Tell me,” he snarled again, closer now, his mouth nearly brushing yours, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth were bared, voice stripped of patience, demanding your answer.
You squeezed your eyes shut, tears welling there, and he reached down to kiss the corner of your eye where the salty drop began to fall. His lips caught it, before kissing your puckered mouth too.
"Ain't gonna be mad," he whispered right there, against your ear, soothing reassurance. He ground himself behind you, and your eyes flew open at how hard he still was. You cursed yourself, if only you hadn't put the briefs on you'd be able to feel him, really feel him, skin to skin, just as you wanted.
"Yes," you choked out, "Yes, I'm sorr—"
But he was kissing you again, relaxing his grip on your face, letting his tongue find yours again, and you kissed him back desperately, furiously, wanting to taste and know.
"Fuck," he whispered between breaths, kissing you more and more, harder and harder, tongues and teeth and a need you'd never felt before from anyone, "you're a sick little thing, twisted in the head, ain't ya?"
"Yes," you said again, prayer, chant, a hymn, "for you, only for you, please, I'm sorry,"
You were pushing back into him, moaning as you felt his cock jump against your dampened core.
“You’re drenched,” he said. His hand came down to cup you through the fabric, thumb dragging upward along your slit. The friction made you whine. “Did you—?”
"Touched myself in them, earlier, before—I couldn't help myself. You make me insane, Joel," you said kissing against his mouth, slopping and insatiable. Your fingers tangled up to his hair to drag him closer, as if he was the confessional, and you were telling him everything your depraved mind needed to get out before you could be whole again, "and—and blowing you, fuck, just kissing you—it just made me want you worse, makes me so wet to think about you, just fucking thinking about you—"
"Christ, woman," he said, shaking his head, palming your center, making you moan until he was too ravenous, wrenching them down your legs, your thong following, only to your thighs, to gain him access. He was groping you so hard, your hips, the flesh of your ass, "if you'd just—if I'd known, I would've—Jesus,"
"Tell me," you said against his gasping lips, your open mouth inhaling every breath he exhaled, and he inhaled yours as his cock notched against your entrance. It slid easily through your folds, the wet schlick of it making him moan as he lightly kissed your open mouth again.
His forehead pressed against yours as he pushed in, and your eyes began to roll back.
“Look at me,” he growled, forehead pressed to yours. “Look at me. Jesus—this what I was missin’? This wet little pussy, fuckin’ soaked for me?” he exhaled, grinding his forehead against you as you kept your hand fisted tighter in his hair as he stretched you open. You moaned again as he pushed in another inch.
You tried, tried so hard to keep your eyes open. Joel, you moaned, already full and trembling.
"If I'd have known you were upstairs touchin' yourself," he chuckled, a kind of manic, breathless smile on his face, "I would've followed you upstairs, made you do it in front of me," he kissed you on the lips before adjusting his stance, changing his angle so he could begin thrusting in and out, making you cry out. Your hand fell from his hair to cling to the corner of the counter, keeping yourself upright.
“If I’d caught you takin' my clothes,” he went on, “I’d have bent you over and spanked your little thief ass red.”
“Yes,” you sobbed. “Yes, please—”
His thrusts picked up into a hard, ruthless pace. Each one pushed you into the counter’s edge, bruises blooming beneath his fingers where he held you too tightly. But you wanted it, wanted the ache, wanted the shape of him imprinted into your skin.
“Little thief,” he spat. “Touchin’ things that don’t belong to you. Rubbin’ this messy little cunt to the thought of me, weren’t you?”
“I'm sorry!” you shrieked, voice shattering as he fucked you harder, the sound of it echoing loud and obscene through the kitchen.
“Only bad girls steal their daddy’s things,” he rasped, voice thick with lust.
You turned your head, wide eyed and lips parted.
"Oh," he purred, "yeah, that's right, all you needed was a daddy to show you what's right and wrong huh?"
Your chin quivered, a sob crawling up your throat. His body folded over yours tighter, his chest to your back, mouth hot at your ear.
“I know,” he said, thrusting deep and slow. “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll teach you how to be my good girl. Oh—right there, huh? She loves that. Look at me, fuck, yeah, she loves that.”
You nodded your head, but your breath felt frantic, your heart climbing up your throat. The breath of him against you, his closeness, it was overwhelming, everything you wanted. Your legs began to shake, your stomach tumbling towards that cliff edge, it would be too quick, too soon, you didn't want it without him.
"Joel—" you cried out as he kept up his unrelenting thrusts.
“Yeah, baby?” he panted.
“Wanna come with you. Please. Please, Joel—”
“Oh, but you were bad today,” he breathed. “Came without my permission. What makes you think you get to come again, huh?”
"I didn't knowwww," you mewled, squeezing your eyes shut. Your stomach was tightening, hips sezing up.
“Okay,” he soothed, voice gentle again, kissing the side of your neck. “Okay, baby. You wanna come on daddy’s cock now, huh? Go on. Let go. Daddy’s right here.”
“Inside,” you begged. “Please, I’m—I'm on—I have an IUD—I just wanna feel you, wanna feel it leaking out of—"
“Shut up, shutupshutup” he hissed, squeezing his eyes closed. “Don’t say shit like that.”
"Pleaseeee," you moaned as his cock began to swell and twitch inside of you.
But his body was giving in. His forehead slammed into your shoulder, his hand coming up over your mouth as your walls clenched tight around him. You were too far gone to care if he was trying to silence you or just survive the sound of your moaning.
"God, you're—you're squeezin' my cock like a god damn vice. Best pussy I've ever had, baby, so good, you're such a good girl, takin' it so good, okay, alright—fuck I'm gonna—"
You shoved back into him just as your orgasm hit. Your vision sparked, your knees gave out, and you screamed into his palm. It tore through you, sharp and staggering, a sob caught in your throat.
Joel's groans drowned out the sound of your cries as he pushed into you one last time, his entire body seizing, hands gripping your flesh until you thought he might rip you in half. His mouth stayed unhinged against your neck, panting hot breath, cursing and praising filthy nothings in your ear.
He stayed inside of you for a long moment, chest slick with sweat against your back. His hand fell from your mouth to wrap around you as he held you tight against him. You felt every rise and fall of his chest, your breath keeping in time with his, breathing in together, breathing out together. The air was thick and quiet with heat and salt and the musk of him and sex clinging to your skin like smoke after a fire. Neither of you moved.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"Where have you been? All this time." he sighed, pushing his forehead against the crest of your shoulder.
Your throat tightened, eyes falling shut as you smiled—remembering how many afternoons you'd watched him from your window, how often you'd worn your prettiest thong on the off chance a random Tuesday might be the day he gave in. Just in case he decided after doing yard work, or after waving politely across the street. Just in case.
You turned your face, the coarse damp strands of his hair ticklish against your lips.
"I've been here, all along," you whispered, kissing his hairline, "waiting for you."
His eyes found yours, sweat glinting at his brow, the lines of age carved deeper as he lifted his gaze. Hazel again—warm in the amber light, searching and soft. He pressed his mouth to yours like promise, holding it there, inhaling, like finally reaching the shoreline after jumping from the cliff before saying:
