live forever | j.m. x f!đŠœ!reader
masterlist | notifs blog pairing: jackson!joel x f!wheelchair user!reader summary: the years since you met joel miller, from when you crawled into jackson wyoming unable to stand to him making your legs weak. warnings: (18+ mdni) fix it fic: smut, fluff & angst this is a chili's triple dipper (HEA), reader is an ambulatory wheelchair user and deals with a severe chronic pain condition, fic spans several years, big ass age gap: reader is anywhere from 19-early 20s (anxieties about losing mobility at her age are a theme) & joel's age is reader's choice, self indulgent the secret history (1992) references, bring dei back to fiction (everyone in this bitch is disabled), mutual pining, joel calls reader kid, falling in love, did i mention smut? yeah, smut. f!masturbation, getting caught, f!oral, fingering, joel miller's filthy mouth, joel COMES IN HIS PANTS!!! word count: 9.1k a/n: this was supposed to be half of a fix it fic, but for the purposes of disability pride month i've chopped it in half. turns out the fix it part of this fic was too much for me to handle mentally at the time i was writing this. reader's experiences closely mirror my own. reader is young and sexually inexperienced because those were the themes i felt most concerned with as someone disabled at the time. maybe someday i'll pick up the 'fix it' part, but for now, this is reader and she means a lot to me so be nice to her, kay? happy disability pride-- you're wanted, needed, and loved. it's hard to be proud of the parts of yourself that might feel unsavory, but if you're disabled, it's part of what makes you, you. try to embrace it this month. i love you all. p.s. to my able-bodied friends: feel free to read this! you r so very welcome here and to put yourself in our shoes is a great way to get to know our experiences.
SPRING, 2024
The first time Joel saw you, he thought he was hallucinating.
He was heading back into Jackson with Tommy fresh off of a patrol, exhaustion having properly sunk its claws into his eye sockets. Hell, it makes more sense for you to be a hallucination.
Itâs not until Tommy asks, âGot an eye for Hot Wheels?â that he realizes he hadnât just been making shit up.
He didnât think there were any of⊠your type⊠left around after the end of the world. Itâs hard enough for men like him to survive when thereâs always a clicker snapping just shy of his neck or raiders whaling bullets on his tailbone.
âWhat now?â Joel gives Tommy a narrow look.
âSheâs real sweet, yâknow. Works at the library, always tryna get the teenyboppers to read.â Joel makes a noncommittal noise.
âOughta get to know her. Sheâs a new arrival like you.â New arrival? How the fuck were you living out there before this? âItâd do you some good. Maria worries, the townsfolk talkââ
âIâm doing my part,â Joel says as if itâll change a thing.
Tommyâs always spinning his tires with him. Just last week he was on about Refacing the General Store as if they hadnât just finished refurbishing Tommyâs patio. Joelâd rather acquaint himself with a hammer, God forbid Tommy suggest setting him up again.
âRight,â Tommy says. They watch you brace your hands on the wheels of your wheelchair, rolling along the porch of the bookstore. You straighten displays and get chatty with a customer. You talk with your hands, Joel notices. âMatter âa fact, I do have a project for you.â
Joel asks, âYeah?â
âWe put her up in Winnieâs old house, God rest her soul. Problem is, it ainât⊠shit, whatâs the wordâŠâ Tommy snaps his fingers.
âWheelchair friendly?â Joel asks.
âWheelchair friendly. Sheâs been sleepinâ on that raggedy ass old couch âa hers âcause the bedroom doorâs too small. Not exactly comfortable for her⊠condition. Iâm thinkinâ you put in some grab bars in the bathroom, maybe a walk-in tub. A better ramp than what weâve propped up outside. Widen that doorway for her.â
Joel chews at the inside of his cheek. âThatâs a big job. You sure we got the equipment for that? Couldnât we throw her in with Janet?â
âJanetâs only got one bedroom, and sheâs stubborn as a mule. Doesnât like havinâ her cheese moved. Supplies, though, weâve got those in abundance.â
He looks at you again. Youâve woven little dandelions into the spokes of your wheels and thereâs a knit bag hung from the back. You flash a winning smile at the customer youâre talking to and flip through a book, pointing out a specific line. Youâre young â too young to be in a wheelchair. He has to wonder what horrors youâve seen. Did someone do this to you, or were you always like this? You must be miserable. He knows what itâs like to be off of your own reins.
âFine,â Joel says. âIâll handle it.â
You wake up with your switchblade in your hand.
Itâs dark, clouds having spread like butter over the gunmetal sky. Rain pitter-patters against the roof of this house youâve inherited from a dead woman. You blink the sleep from your eyes as your front door death-rattles on its hinges. Someoneâs knocking. You crane your neck to the analog clock on your coffee table â 7:03. Who the fuck comes over at 7:03.
âIâm coming,â you shout when the door clatters again. Finally, the knocking stops.
Agitated, you ruffle your clothes into something semi-presentable and rub the sleep from your eyes. You get up, legs protesting with each step. Pain spurts like a live wire up your muscles; 7:04 AM and you already know itâll be one of those days.
You slump into your wheelchair (the best thing about Jackson by far, surpassing running water of a shower you have to sit on the cold floor of, or food from the canteen that Maria has to hand deliver to you) and wheel your way to the front door. Itâs slow going. You never had the privilege of one of these things before finding the cozy town. Itâd been just you and your switchblade and your pistol, gritting your teeth and fighting back tears between each runner youâd stabbed in the eye.
You keep the same switchblade in your hand, just in case, but the most likely scenario is that Tommy Millerâs come to bug you again. Maria puts him up to it, youâre sure.
You have to move up to the left side of your door since it opens inwards, fumbling with the creaky gold handle. The door squeaks as the wind pushes it inward. You lean forward, eyes traveling up to the man in your doorway.
Heâs a Miller alright â just not Tommy Miller.
âOh. Joel, right?â you ask, a small pucker between your brows.
He invites himself in.
âHey now, what the hell do you think youâre doinââ You look down to the dented red toolbox in his grip. Metal clangs around inside with each step he takes. âYou know, most people ask for permission before they barge in.â Where Tommy is open and gentle, Joel is standoffish and scowling.
âIâm renovatinâ your house,â Joel says, voice firm and nonnegotiable.
âAnd Tommy didnât tell me this why?â
âSpur âa the moment thing. Wanted to come and grab some measurements, figure out what supplies I need, how much suppliesââ
âYou donât need to fix the backsplash,â you say. âReally, itâs fine. Thereâs just some mild chipping, no big deal.â
Joel slows and looks over his shoulder at you. His lips pinch together. âYou think I walked out here at seven in the morning in pissinâ rain to fix your fucking backsplash?â
âI dunno. You kinda walked in without saying anything, so.â
âTommy said youâve been sleeping on the couch.â You nod stiffly. âIâm gonna fix that.â
âWhat?â you blurt out.
At his side, he starts unraveling a measuring tape. âYou ainât stupid, Tommy said youâre some kinda librarian. Iâm fixinâ your house up. Makinâ it more suitable for yourâŠâ he waves a hand in your general direction.
âYou donât need to take pity on me,â you say. âYou clearly donât wanna be here. You can just go home. No skin off my back.â
âWell, Tommy wonât quit bitchinâ in my ear until itâs done. So itâd be skin off my back, kid.â Joel walks further into your house, boots thunking against the hardwood. He squats and measures out your door. His notepad has a sticker on it that says NASA, whatever that means. He wets his thumb with his tongue and thumbs through the notepad to mark down the measurements. You sit silently next to him, glaring.
âLookinâ at me like I shot your dog. Iâm doinâ you a solid here.â
âYou could be a really shitty renovator,â you say. âAnd then bam. My whole house falls down and my arms get fucked up too.â
âAinât gonna happen.â Joel rolls the tape measure back up. âWhereâs your bathroom?â
You point down the hall and follow him there, parking yourself outside while you watch him take the measurements of your toilet and bath. You cross your arms, trying not to mock his scowl.
âAre you gonna be waking me up at the asscrack of dawn every time you get inspired to play demolition?â
âNot demolishing anything. You got a rudimentary idea of this, donât you?â
âItâs almost like Iâve never seen carpenters before.â
He gives you a look that tells you he thinks youâre full of shit. You return that look in confidence. âWell, your doorways have a more cosmetic frame. Just gotta shave some inches off and pretty it up a bit. Might take a while to find a door, but you could hang a curtain if youâre worried or anything. Your chair ainât that much bigger, though. Shouldnât be a problem.â
âRight,â you say. âWell, if thatâs all you need.â
âIâll be back to âdemolishâ stuff tomorrow. Two oâclock instead. Got patrol, and clearly Sleepinâ Beauty needs her shut-eye.â
âYeah, yeah,â you grumble, already wheeling back towards your couch. Your eyelids are sinking as if draped with dumbbells.
He watches you as you strain to push your weight into your forearms, dragging yourself onto the couch. You fluff up the flat pillow youâve been sleeping on and flick your quilt over your lap. Heâs thinking about it â obviously he is. Everyone in the entire town thinks about it. They look at you, too, as if they can understand where the invisible shards of glass in your legs come from and where exactly they pierce. Sometimes, if youâre especially unlucky, theyâll fondle the handles of your wheelchair as if theyâre some bastardized nurse.
Joel doesnât do any of that.
Just gives you a jerk of his head and walks out of the door.
You think you like it better that way.
The next time he comes over, youâre ready. You unlock the door beforehand and tidy up whatâs become your belongings. A basket of yarn and knitting needles from the previous resident of this house, a stack of books youâd found during your travels to get here, and⊠not much else. Youâd found some postcards of Jackson in what used to be the visitorâs center and hung them up on the corkboard. Anything to make it feel more like home.
You settle in on your couch under your quilt â also the handiwork of the previous owner â and crack open one of the novels youâd found. Youâre halfway through your reread of it. The cover and pages are coarse like sandpaper, but soothe the rattling in your head.
âCome in!â you call when Joel comes knocking at your door.
He grunts a greeting to you as he heads towards your bedroom door. You donât pay much mind to him as he begins to etch into your wall with tools you donât recognize.
You flip the page.
âYouâre the quiet type, ainât ya?â Joel asks.
âSo are you.â
A beat, punctuated by a pry bar meeting your wall. âGot me there.â
You skim through a couple more pages, scribbling an annotation down onto a sticky note. You wouldnât dare take ink to the pages of this already beaten and busted book. Youâre pulled out of the atmosphere by Joelâs panting, and the wiping of sweat from his brow.
âIâd offer to bring you a glass of water,â you say. âBut itâd probably be quicker if you get it yourself.â
âUh huh,â he says. âIâd put my book down if I were you.â
âWhââ
A shrill whirring noise fills the air as he begins to saw into your doorframe. With a groan, you flop onto the couch on your stomach and cover your ears. Your cheek is smushed into the spine of your book.
After what feels like forever but is more like five minutes, the sawing cuts, and he tosses ripped up slabs of wood on your floor. He nods between you and them as if to tell you âThatâs whyâ.
This is going to be a long few weeks.
/
Most days, Joel Miller is easy to ignore. Youâre quiet â heâs quiet. You stay busy â he stays busy. Itâs an easy ebb and flow that you two fall into. Three days into the process, he opens up your bedroom door for you entirely. Itâs nice being able to lift yourself into a real bed, a luxury you havenât had in over a decade. You spend most of your time in your bed, across the hallway from the bathroom.
The bathroom fixes, he says, will take longer. Complications with the plumbing and the like.
About a week into renovations, he knocks his tool box shut and lugs it out. He leans against your newly widened doorway and nods at you. âYouâve read that book three times since I first talked to you.â
âYouâre observant,â you say, eyeing him over the creases in the pages.
ââS your favorite or somethinâ?â
You nod and hold up the cover. âThe Secret History.â A small grin hitches on your lips.
âI was never a big reader,â Joel says, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand.
âThis doesnât seem like your speed. You seem like youâd prefer⊠I dunno. Hatchet, probably.â
Joel nods, and your gut tells you itâs more of a courtesy. He doesnât know a damn thing about what youâre talking about. âWhy do you like that one so much?â
âIt feels like what my life wouldâve been,â you say. You stare at the ribbing of the pages, the blur and bend of ink. Thereâs a water stain in the southeastern corner of the bottom hundred page, bleeding into the page numbers. âTheyâre Greek students, but they read the literature. I wouldâve liked to be a classics student, I think. Maybe teach at some schmoozy top university, give lectures, whatever. Except in the book⊠all of it goes wrong. They wanted too much, and for a moment, they had it. But it could never last. I guess it's as sobering as it is what I yearn for.â
Joelâs face softens. âYeah. You never got to live in the real world, didja?â
âThis is the real world, Joel. There was just a before, and then the after. Us poor bastards are in the after.â
âYeah,â he says, backing away from your room. âI guess we are.â
You seal another faded sticky note onto a page with another observation you had when you hear the knock on your door. Maria must be over with your food. You inch across the bed and plop down into your chair before rolling yourself to your doorstep.
You open the door and blink in surprise when you see Joel standing above you with two plates in-hand. âHey, uh,â he says, face red from the sweeping cold. âMaria was busy, so⊠thought Iâd take over. Mind if Iââ
âYeah, sure.â You scoot out of the way and he kicks your door shut. Your dinner table only has one chair at it, since thereâs no need for you to swap between two seats. You slot yourself in across from Joel and pick up the spoon heâd brought over, inhaling mouthfuls of stew.
âSlow down,â he says with a half-glimmer in his eyes. âGonna get a bellyache.â
Through a mouthful of carrots and potatoes, you say, ââM hungry.â When you finally slow yourself down, you look at him. He blows gently on his stew and scratches at his scruff. âThanks. This is⊠nice. Usually nobody eats with me.â
âWhat?â He puts down his spoon. âSeriously?â
âWell, I really only know Maria and Tommy, so they alternate days to wheel me over to the library. Itâs hard with all the snow and ice to get myself over there. They also take turns bringing me food.â
âThatâs⊠a damn shame,â he says.
âI donât hate it.â You donât. Itâs worse anywhere else â hell, you mightâve found the last safe haven left in the world. But that doesnât mean itâs easy to look out of your window and see people your age hanging out or heading off on patrols.
Joel looks at you as if he doesnât believe you.
âReally. Itâs⊠itâs not that bad â and, I have all these books to keep me company, so really, whatâs the problem?â
âThere isnât one,â he says as he goes in for another bite of soup.
Thereâs a problem, not that Joel would ever admit it aloud or to himself.
The problem is you â of course itâs you. He shouldâve known youâd be a goddamn thorn in his side the moment Tommy proffered the job to him instead of just doing it himself. There was a problem when you sassed him on day one, a problem when you appeared completely indifferent to his presence in your home, and a problem when he realized just how alone you were. He finds himself looking at you while heâs chiseling out parts of your bath. Watching the curve of your shoulder or the sprawl of your legs while you lay face down reading your books. Not because heâs ogling you, either â thatâs a long-dead version of himself that respects you too much and disrespects himself too much to even consider eyeing you up. Heâs more enamored with how you got here. Did you claw and tear your way through hordes of infected? Were you the final member standing of a group? How much blood had you drawn? Did you fire pistols, rifles, shotguns? Outrun raiders on your bad legs?
Youâre a survivor. Too much like him. And now you have a chance to fix all of this â just like him.
Tommy was right. He should get to know you.
So for the second night in a row, he shows up at your doorstep with hot food and a performatively detached expression.
And when the third night in a row comes around, when he still smells like sawdust from working in your house until six in the evening, he walks inside to find the tableâs already been set.
âThinkinâ Iâll widen this doorframe, too,â Joel says, slapping at the curvature of it from where heâs sat on the bathroom tiles. Youâre curled up in your wheelchair, chin cupped in palm. âDonât need ya crawlingâ everywhere.â He nods definitively.
âIâd appreciate that,â you say.
âYou should read to me.â He rummages around in his toolbox. âWhile I work.â Heâs about three fourths done with your bath, from what heâd told you this morning. Today, heâs installing a compact shower bench. He shifts over to it, working with metal bits and bobs you canât quite identify.
âJoel Miller,â you jest. âliterature aficionado.â
âCould be,â he shrugs. âYou can be the next person in line to try teachinâ and old dog some new tricks.â
You do. You thumb and read through the pages until your voice goes scratchy and he runs you some tap water to soften it up. You occasionally ask Joel to tell you the parts youâd never been able to understand. (âJoel, whatâs an SAT?â âJoel, tell me about Disneyland.â)
âJoel, did you go to college?â
âNah. Not my blood. Went to trade school. Was blue collar.â He senses the question before you can ask it. âI worked with my hands. Contracting stuff, like what Iâm doinâ now.â
âLucrative?â you ask.
He snorts. âFuck no.â He drills at the wall some. âI planned to start up a business. Me ân Tommy, just workinâ jobs. Got pretty close to havinâ the savings to do it, too. ThenâŠâ
âThis,â you fill in for him.
âThis,â he nods. He slumps against your bath and dabs at his brow.
âLike I said,â you say. âYou want too much, and for a moment, you will have it.â
Sun slices in through the rectangular window at the top of your bathroom. You can see dust buoyant in the air as Joel tidies up the window sill, dust mites floating on nothing. His sleeves are rolled up, arms tensing as he shifts to tug at the bench now secured to your wall. Your mouth feels a little dry as you begin to read from the sunlight, eyes skidding across words.
Your voice is breathy, undercut by a little shiver of raspiness on your tongue as you wade through the first fifty or so pages of your copy. Heâd relented to you reading it to him, interspersed with small commentary on lines he doesnât quite get, references you would never understand without him to underline them.Â
ââCubitum eamus,ââ you read, a tiny grin needling at your lips. ââWhat?â âNothing.ââ
âHellâs that mean?â Joel asks, drawing out a little measurement on your bath.
âWill you go to bed with me,â you say, voice airy. Joel looks over his shoulder at you, a pucker between his brows.
âDoesnât sound that sexy,â he says. You only shrug.
The next few pages are uneventful, apart from the sandpaper noise of Joelâs work. You fall into the melodic nature of reading. Itâs nice to read something aloud that isnât some picture book that Maria approved for the littles.
You read, ââAnd if beauty is terror,â said Julian, âthen what is desire? We think we have many desires, but in fact we only have one. What is it?â âTo live,â said Camilla. âTo live forever,â said Buââ
âThatâs bullshit,â Joel says. âWho wants to live forever?â
âSome people, I guess.â You weigh the book in your hand. âDonât read too far into it. Camilla is heavily alluded to fucking Charles. Theyâre not really part of the exterior world, theyâre all too trapped in their own morbidities to realize how strange they are.â
âSheâ what? Ainât he her fuckinâ brother?â
âBrother sheâs fucking, unfortunately. Hey, I never said it was a book about good people! Just that it was a good book.â
âJesus.â
âThe Greeks were obsessed with immortality. In a way, all of us are. We donât know when we will die. In another way, our lives are indefinite until they arenât.â
âYou wouldâve made a good classics student, thatâs for damn sure.â
You cock your head. âHow come?â
âYou think too much.â You pull a face. âNot in a bad way. Itâs⊠endearing, kinda.â
âOh yeah? Well, Iâm endeared by how little you think.â
He rolls his eyes. âCute.â
You pick up where you left off at the same time Joel does. A drill spinning in time with each word spooled out of your lips. You carry on with that until sunset, when the light in the bathroom is fraying and he works by flashlight. Not wanting to strain your eyes, you resign yourself to watching him work.Â
You watch his thick fingers traipse around the bath, his broad muscles tensing beneath his taut white tee. How his hands hitch across plaster. Itâs impossible not to let your mind wander, to envision the drag of his hands under the hem of your shirt, up to your tits. Heâd be so doting, how he always is, a caretaker at heart. Maybe heâd muster the vulnerability to nuzzle into your neck, or you into his. You donât notice your drifting thoughts or your sifting thighs until he taps against the rim of the bath.Â
Joel turns around. You go shock still. âThink thatâll be enough for tonight.â He takes a second, absorbs the sight of your panting breaths. âYou alright?â
âUh huh,â you say. âPerfect.â
You try to explain it to yourself. It doesnât work.
Heâs practically in your house from sunup to sundown, and you only ever see others if youâre working a shift down at the library. Of course youâre antsy. Besides, when youâre out in the woods with only a gun and your own, traitorous body for survival, thereâs no time to slip your fingertips into your panties. No time to chase any pleasure besides that of seeing another sunrise.
You blame it on the fatigue because thatâs easier. Except can you really blame something thatâs always there? A hardened, concrete exhaustion that suctions around your bones. Your body doesnât seem too tired to react to Joel. Itâd been too tired to react to the people you used to travel with, even though they were all you had. And now, with so much more in armâs reach, your body still ravages you spitefully dormant despite what you want.Â
When youâre on the verge of sleep, you feel Joel at the base of your spine, hand slipping between your legs while he grinds himself against your ass. You crook your legs, fingers wiggling down to your clit, but â
Nothing. Your legs spasm with shooting, weblike pain, and you collapse in frustration and agony. Every. Single. Time. Whenever you try to do something even as banal as self pleasure, it rusts within your grasp.
You want something or somebody or maybe you just want him. Maybe you want your own touch, too. Maybe you want to feel like a person because right now you feel like nothing. A nobody who came out of nowhere with no real use to the community because anyone could take your place. Anyone could know more about books than you and be able to work harder than you and then what use do you have apart from filling up this big, big house that wasnât made for you? Mooching off of Joel Miller himself. You wonder if he calls you a lazy ass behind your back because thatâs what you are, a lazy fucking bitch who probably feels the same as anyone else in this goddamn town. But they donât mope around in wheelchairs. Donât mope around in bed. Donât have to crawl to get places. Hell, itâs the apocalypse, everyone has their thing, youâre just being a fucking drama queen. You are fine. You survived outside the fence for long enough, you should be just as capable as everyone else here.
But you arenât.
Your arousal turns to tears and your face tilts to bury itself in your pillow. You taste saline. You wish you were normal wish you could walk wish you could just fucking move for once. Youâll never be what you want to be. That version of you, if it existed at all, is buried somewhere outside of Jackson.
You have a chance here. At life, at being something. And you are wasting it.Â
Leaking at the slit, chomping at the bit for someone who is never going to want you. That much is certain. Heâs got several decades on you and is still more active and spry than you. Youâd tried to pass him his hammer once on the job and had dropped it, leaving a warped dent into one of your floorboards. Heâd soothed the ache with an understanding gaze, hand rounded out over your wrist, soft little, âItâs alright, ainât hurtinâ anyone.â But you saw it, then, that glaze of pity that you get from everyone.Â
You donât want him to pity you, you want him to want you.
But the illusion will be broken soon, youâre sure. When heâs done fixing up your house, has had enough of you and all of your fucking baggage, youâll only see him in passing. Youâll go back to eating alone. Those waterworks in your eyes and between your legs will re enter a drought. Youâll reread every book in the library again. Read The Secret History to the walls. Wait for them to respond, and sit in the silence.
He doesnât come over the next day.
Of course. He saw you fidgeting and now he knows youâre a pervert. Just your luck. Squander what little you have here. Would Tommy and Maria kick you out for this? No. Not for the crime of being hot under the collar for Joel. âŠRight?
You set the table anyway, and it sits frighteningly bare as the shadows of noon stretch through the windows then stretch into darkness after dusk. You lay on the couch, waiting for him, eyeing where youâd stuffed the bookmark into the preloved pages.
You canât bring yourself to hop back into your wheelchair and wiggle through the doorway heâd widened for you, so you curl into your couch and quilt like a snail wrapped up in its shell. Then, a ratchety cough bursts through the still, quiet air, followed by the jiggling of a doorknob. Your hand lurches behind you onto the side table. You knock over a ceramic coaster, hear it shatter as your hand locks around your gun.
You heft it, aiming it at the door, and â
âWoah, woah, Jesus, kid, put that damn thing down nowââ
You exhale, slowly lowering it onto the coffee table. âJoel? Jesus, itâsâŠâ You crane your neck. âTwo in the fucking morning.â
âSorry, patrol⊠ran into some marauders. Dealt with some marauders. Why you ainât in bed? And you know you oughta be locking your door. I know itâs safer here, but I donât like that boy down the street. Never been fond âa him.â
âWas⊠waiting for you,â you mumble. Jesus, you even sound pathetic.
âShit. Did you eat? Sorry, kid, I can run back and find somethinâ canned, heat it up for youâŠâ Kid. Another blasĂ© reminder of exactly how he perceives you. Young, but lacking any light in your eyes that might indicate it.
âNo, Iâm alright,â you say, jaw clenching as you scoot up against the couch. âThought you werenât coming.â
âAlways gonna come,â he says. âDonât want you goinâ hungry.â
You swallow, saliva swishing between your teeth. âRight.â You pat the spot next to you. âCâmon. We have another chapter, if you arenât too tired.â
âSo long as you donât mind me smellinâ like the woods.â
âThere are worse things to smell like,â you tease, and then the couch is slugging down with his weight as you tug the chain of your lamp. It takes forty-five minutes to get through this chapter, and youâre halfway to bed by the time you close the book. You yawn, stretching out with a grimace.
âWant some help?â Joel asks.
âHuh?â you ask groggily.
âGettinâ tucked in,â he says.
âOh, no,â you say. âI quite like it here. Just⊠turn out the lamp before you head out.â
ââCubitum eamus,ââ you read, a tiny grin needling at your lips. ââWhat?â âNothing.ââ
âHellâs that mean?â Joel asks, drawing out a little measurement on your bath.
âWill you go to bed with me,â you say, voice airy. Joel looks over his shoulder at you, a pucker between his brows.
âDoesnât sound that sexy,â he says. This time, you donât shrug.
This version of you is airbrushed. There are no bruises from trips and falls she has taken. She is confident and sure within herself, that vain swing of her hips. The push of her breasts together by shoulders hunched forward, but not too far forward. She hefts a leg over the lip of the bath, straddles Joel upon the shower bench. A shaky breath guttered out of his nose, chest rising.
She presses the warm mound of her cunt against his cock, already half-hard through his stained work jeans. âDo you want it to be, Joel?â she breathes. Rocks her hips, enough to make his head fall back against the hard wall with a sharp thud. âCubitum eamus,â she whispers as she thumbs the zipper of his pants down. âCubitum eamus,â she exhales into his ear as she works him with a twisting, wanting fist. âCubitum eamus,â as she spreads her legs wider and sinks upon his lap, rocks her hiâ
You wake up drenched in sweat. âFuck. Fuck.â Youâre still curled up like a roly poly on the couch, except this time, you can feel the slick beading the insides of your thighs. You can feel the phantom tickle of Joelâs warmth at your side. Just trying to adjust mashes your thighs closer together jerks your swollen clit between your legs. âMmph,â you muffle your noise into your pillow.
The pain is further away now, like a fan the next room over. The longer youâre awake, the closer itâll get until it rises to the sharpness of a siren in your ear. If youâre quick, you might be able to get off. Even if youâre clumsy, even if you havenât done this in forever, you want it bad enough to try.
You prop one bent leg up against the back cushion of the couch. Your other leg drapes off the edge. Thereâs no exquisite buildup to this. Your body is far too topsy turvy for that. If you were to work from your neck to your cunt, pain may strangle you by the time you hit your midriff.
Your hand slithers beneath the seal of your shortsâ waistband. Hips cant up into the radiating heat of your fingertips.
This is pathetic. Youâre pathetic. Waxing poetic to Joel about the life you wish you had when heâs probably seen the same amount of shit as you. Nobody wears a broken watch without a reason, just how nobody knows how to find a gun in their sleep without a reason. Getting off to the man whoâs shown you nothing but kindness when youâve done nothing to earn it. Rubbing your clit as you are now to the man who has done you boundless favors. Itâs too saccharine to resist, though. That treacle drip between your thighs, the mash of your fingertips against your nub.Â
You reach down to your hole â which has never felt so empty before â and gather enough slick to smear along your mound. A feathery whimper splays out of your lips as you toss your hips into your hand. Ecstasy sutures whatever pain rises in your joints, muscles, organs. Itâs been years since youâve felt this good, been able to let your walls down enough to do so. Sweat leaks from your pores; you feel your body slick and slippery within your blankets. You canât make yourself care.
You surrender fully to pleasure with a little whine. Your fingers rub quickly, harshly, needily against your bundle of nerves. Your hips meet each upward stroke. It doesnât take much, not when youâve been deprived for so long. Face burning hot, you feel blood rush within your ears. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Your limbs shake, wanting, wanting, wanting. Youâre right there, finally, on that razor-thin precipiceâ
âOh good lord!â
You squeal, yanking your soaked hand out of your panties. Your fingers have pruned from the moisture, and your wetness stretches in drapes from your nail beds.
You blink away the pleasure-blurred film over your eyes, vision going from spotty to clear. You hurriedly wipe your fingers on your shorts and crane your neck.
Joel stands, facing the now-shut door. His hands cover his eyes even though heâs noticeably looking away from you. His shoulders are hunched, posture slumped. âI t-told you you needa start lockinâ your damn door!â he says.
âYou need to start knocking!â you say. With a grimace, you cross your arms over your chest. You wish the couch cushions could expand and swallow you whole. Tears glisten at the corners of your eyes. This is the worst case scenario. Heâs never, ever going to speak to you again and youâll eventually die alone in Jackson the same way you were going to die alone out there, except this will be a far more merciful and prolonged way to die out, like the final burn of a wick in a nearly empty candle instead of an explosion. The rumors, God, you can hear them now, slithering through the cracks in your windows. âIâm sorry, Joel,â you choke out, throat grating from the words. âFuck, Iâm really sorry, you didnât deserve to see thatââ
ââS fine. We all got needs, but Jesus fucking Christ, girl. In broad goddamn daylight? With the blinds open? I donât know what you were gettinâ up to out there, but here, we got people. Coulda been anyone else walkinâ by and getting an eyeful.â
âI donât usuallyââ you start before shutting yourself up.
âDonât usually get off with the blinds open and your front door unlocked? Iâd sure fuckinâ hope not.â
You cringe. âDonât usually get off at all.â Itâs a hoarse, muttered thing under your breath.
He stills and then shakes his head. âDonât needa be hearinâ this.â
âSorry. My body, it just⊠it⊠itâs not⊠it doesnât work right, okay? When it comes to anything. Was just trying to take advantage.â You can already feel it surging up from your ankles up, concrete hardening in your calves.Â
âPoor thing,â he says, and his low timbre shouldnât make your clit jerk, at attention all over again. âJusâ wanted to feel good. Now I feel like a dick for walkinâ in on ya. Iâll leave you be.â He turns back towards the door, reaching for the knob. The angle exposes the curve of his body to you, how his abdomen slopes into his bulge down the thickness of his thigâ wait.
His bulge.
Heâs hard. Why the fuck is he hard?
That flush of warmth in your groin returns, burning all the hotter.Â
âJoel,â you rasp. From the way he tenses up, you know he can tell that youâve noticed. He dips his head. He scrubs a hand along his textured, grizzled face. âIâm sorry, kid, I just â like I said, Iâll get outta your hairââ
He wants you. Or maybe heâs just as pent up as you are. You arenât the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. âJoelââ
âDonât,â he says. His voice leaves no room for argument.
You being you, you argue anyway. âIt doesnât have to mean anything.â
âBullshit,â he grouses. âYouâre too young for me, Iâm too old for you, and thatâs that. You hear me?â
If the evidence of his need werenât pressed against his thigh, now strategically angled away from you, maybe youâd have given up by now. âItâs biological, Joel. Come on, when was the last time you got laid?â His silence punctuated by the tick of his jaw is an answer enough.
âWhen was the last time you got laid?â he shoots back.
Your silence is far more deafening than his. You roll over with a groan, burying your face into the same pillow youâd been drooling into. Footsteps crunch along the creaking floorboards of your living room. Joel taps at your shoulder with the backs of his knuckles.
âKid.â There it is again. âCâmon. Talk tâ me.â
Your eyes flick up. You watch him through your brow bone and lash line. âItâs hell, you know? Except you donât. Before the outbreak you were probably some sort of sex magnet heartthrob or something. I mean, look at you,â you say with a vague gesture at him. The face he pulls tells you that might not be entirely true, but thatâs not a wound youâre interested in poking right now. Not when youâre flayed open beneath him.
âIâve never had that. That⊠the old group I was with before they all died and before I got here, there were a couple of eligible bachelors, I guess you could say. All my energy went into surviving. But I was limping back into the compound. Not many of them were interested in a girl who couldnât put out. One of them even told me they werenât interested because I âwalked like Iâd already been run throughâ.â You wince at reciting the memory. âAnd⊠eventually, I gave up on ever being wanted. I felt too goddamn shitty to even think about putting my hand in my panties. Couldnât even spread my legs at the time. So, yeah, Joel. Iâm a goddamn virgin and you donât need to rub it in. You donât need to be a dick about it because Iâm enough of a dick to myself about i-â
âHey,â he says. âItâs okay. I knew plenty âa people at your age who werenât havinâ sex.â
âFor this reason?â you ask. âIt fucking sucks, Joel. Not having any control at all whatsoever over my body, being demeaned whenever I try to. I⊠I just wantââ
âWanna feel good?â he asks, voice low and scrappy.
You swallow. Nod at him.
He takes you in. Your curled up, wretched form that has betrayed you ten times over. Those legs of yours that never work, the arms you struggle to weave through your shirts. His pupils consume his irises, and his jaw is clenched tight. Eventually, he says, âOn your back, sweetheart.â
Your heart stutters. You freeze, looking up at him. Youâd asked for it, wouldâve even begged for it, but Joel, as stoic and straightforward as he always is, says, âDonât make me repeat it. Already crossinâ too many lines with you than whatâs good for either âa us. So turn your ass over and letâs get this over with.â
You swallow, throat tight and constricting. âJeez. Guess romance isnât dead.â Joel rolls his eyes. âThat ainât what this is.â
âRight, I know.â
You roll over for him, body stiffer than a board and not for the usual reasons. You have no idea what he intends to do with you. No idea how to position your limbs. This couch is already cramped enough for you alone. You canât imagine how heâs planning to fit himself up here with you. You stare at the popcorn ceiling, trying to stop your vision from swimming. Itâs hard when you could take a dip in your panties.
âAre you sure you want this?â he asks, hand landing upon your thigh. âDonât have to go through with it.â
âI want it,â you say in a rush. Youâve wanted Joel for longer than youâve been consciously aware of, you think. And now heâs offering to touch you, to make you come, to make you come at someone elseâs hands for the first time. âI just⊠I dunno. What if Iâm⊠bad?â you cringe.
Joel snorts.
âItâs a real concern!â
He rolls his eyes. âI donât know what smut youâve been readinâ at the library, but let me tell you this. Sex ainât perfect. Itâs gonna be gross ân messy ân kinda awkward. Itâs about mutual trust and respect. You donât need to be arching like a Playboy bunny, you just needa relax. Let me take care âa you.â
âThatâs the hard part, dude,â you say, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets.
âWeâll take it easy,â he says, hand slipping tenderly up to your waist. âCan I hop up there with ya?â
You nod. With a groan, he hefts himself over the lip of the couch to get between your legs. The sight of him between your thighs is nothing short of erotic. You squirm. âNeedy,â he chides, sending electricity skimming up your spine.
âSo⊠you donât touch yourself often. Ever give yourself an orgasm, honey?â You bite on your lower lip and nod hesitantly. âGood, âs good.â He nuzzles into your thigh, lips tracing over the gooseflesh there. âWhat do you usually think about?â
âI⊠stuff, I guess,â you mumble, tucking your chin to your chest. Itâs not exactly polite to say oh, yeah, I was jerking off to you before you interrupted my solo session! Sorry! At least⊠you think itâs impolite. You arenât quite familiar with the etiquette. âHow do you usually make women come?â
âKissinâ,â he murmurs. âRubbinâ. Lickinâ. Talkinâ.â
âReally painting me a picture there, Miller.â
In response, he pastes an open-mouthed kiss above your knee. Your free leg kicks out, nearly nailing him in the jaw. Joel chuckles. âOkay, maybe you are bad at this.â
âOh, fuck you, too.â
âJust playinâ, kid. But câmon, you gotta cooperate with me on this if you want it to work. Alright?â
You nod, releasing a shaky breath. âOkay. Itâs mechanical, mostly. Just⊠trying to release some tension, I guess?â
âMmm, you poor thing. Gonna let me make it all better?â He croons, cupping the back of one of your knees. You nod, scarcely even knowing what youâre asking for anymore. âGonna kiss that sloppy âlil slit âa yours. Fuck, can smell ya through your shorts.â
You shiver, hips jerking instinctively towards him. He hums as he starts peppering kisses up the insides of both of your legs. âJ-Joel,â you whine. He glances up at you. âWhat if it tastesââ
âWhat if it sounds a whole lot like I donât give a shit. What I wanna do is kiss that pretty fuckinâ clit. Bet itâs twitching, all swollen⊠poor thing.â Your back bows at that, which draws a pained grunt through the grids of your teeth.
His eyes flick up to yours. âShh. Donât gotta wiggle. Let me take care âa ya, yeah? Thatâs what this is about, sweetheart. Can I take these pretty things off?â His thumbs tweak the hem of your shorts.
They definitely arenât pretty. Theyâre boxy and hang loose on your hips, held up only by a double-knotted drawstring thatâs fraying at the edges. Still, he regards you as if all of you, even your worn clothes, are pretty. It makes your heart flutter against your ribcage, a frantic thing. He tugs them down your legs and shimmies them away from your calves, discarding them somewhere over the couchâs armrest.Â
He continues leaving lazy, open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thighs. It takes everything in you not to flail out and kick him again. Itâs such a foreign sensation, such a foreign situation, that you donât know what to do with your hands. When he looks up at you, he seems to pick up on this much, puzzled facial expression falling into something laced with understanding.
He kisses the fold of your thigh into your pelvis. âWhatâs got you worried, sugar?â
âIâŠâ Iâm scared that Iâll end up in pain. Bedridden for days just because I let myself feel something good. Because I donât have a body worth feeling anything except for pain. This busted, messed-up vessel Iâm trapped in.
He seems to read your mind, eyes silently searching yours until the furrow in his brow becomes less pronounced. âAlright,â he says. âWhatâs comfiest for you?â
You shuffle until your legs bracket his neck, ankles splayed out somewhere along his spine. âIs that â I donât want to choke youââ
âYou can,â he says, and he sounds serious. You sputter out a laugh that doesnât seem to land. âTryâŠ. But you ainât gonna. No offense, butââ
âYeah, yeah, no core strength, worse leg strength, I know.â
He smiles wryly at you. âNow gimme your hands.â You hold them out, palms up. He cradles them both in one hand and guides them to his fluffy, full head of hair. You sigh as you sink your hands into the curls that naturally sprawl out at his ears. Your thumb strokes his temple, and he hums at the touch, a whirring noise in his throat. âThere ya go. Pull as hard as you need to. Gotta know what feels good for ya.â
Your knees almost lock at the sight of him, the beautiful, debauched vision that he is between your legs, the arch of his nose nearly cradled between your clothed folds. He goes the rest of the way, nuzzling his nose against your clit. Your hips jerk, accompanied by a faint whine. âFuck,â he groans. âSensitive âlil thing.â
You expect him to tug the gusset of your panties out of the way and bury his face between your thighs â but he doesnât. He licks a long, slippery stripe up the center of your clothed slide. You whimper, head sliding back against the pillow. Your toes curl a tad, fingers tightening in his hair already. He lets out a breathless laugh into your core. He spits on your center and smears it with spiralling twists and turns of his tongue. You feel yourself gush in your panties.
You know what your clit is. Youâve heard the former members of your group talk about how the guys around you were useless at finding it, youâve slid your own hand in your panties not too often, but enough times to be able to clumsily mash your finger pads against what you think is it. That swollen, twitchy nub between your folds. Joel finds it as if itâs a mere extension of his tongue. His lips latch around it and suck through the soaked cloth of your panties. You buck against his mouth.
Hands nestling into his hair, you drag his face against your cunt, whining. Joel groans, shaking his head side to side. It tugs your clit, sucked raw between his lips, side to side. You shudder, tugging even harder at his hair. âJesus- fuck, Joel, Godââ
He pulls up and gives you a loopy grin. âJusâ me, honey.â
âIf I had tomatoes,â you say. âIâd be throwing them at you.â He gives a halfhearted nip at your clit, hardly enough to even feel it.Â
âNo you wouldnât.â He kisses the inside of your thighs again, drags his tongue along the crease between your thigh and your groin. âBe outta a goddamn good orgasm if you did.â He tugs at the seam of your panties, snapping them against your leg. âGonna let me take these off? Make ya really see God?â
âYes,â you say, winded. âYes, Joelâ anything you want.â
âAnything you want,â he reminds you, palm open above your knee. His thumb rubs circles against you.Â
You nod vigorously. âWell, I want. So get to it.â He pins you with a cocky look. âPlease?â
âCanât deny ya,â he murmurs into your skin. He shuffles your panties down. Takes a deep, trembling breath of your musky-sweet scent. Nudges the tip of his nose into your clit. Itâs enough to make you keen. Then, his tongue plunges inside of you without wavering. He curls it upwards, nudging it against that spot you never have been able to reach on your own (only if you bend your legs like rolled dough under a pin, only if you reach around yourself hard enough to make your bones crack). The pressure skims across your body, making you quiver. You jerk at his curls even more, driving him against your cunt. His jaw is opened wide as he eats you, almost as if he intends to swallow your cunt whole and then some. The salacious slurp and suck of his lips catching on your folds is enough to make your fingertips tremble in his curls.
âAh- fuck. Joel â Joel,â you whine, hips twitching against his mouth. He explores your cunt with a fervor youâve never been able to exact upon yourself. Youâre careening towards an orgasm faster than youâd like to, calves tightening, arms shaking. Blood roars in your ears. Your vision goes spotty. Joel moans into your pussy and youâre done for.
You come harder than you ever have in your life. Thrashing as much as your muscles will let you. Grinding yourself against Joelâs face, his stubble scraping against your bare skin. His lips rise to suction against your clit, giving you a wave to ride along the course of your orgasm. You whine and moan and make sounds you hadnât thought yourself capable of making. The comedown is just as hard, smacking into wet concrete and trying not to sink. You clutch at Joelâs curls, yanking him out of your cunt when it crosses the line from pleasurably overwhelming to miserably overwhelming. He looks just as wrecked as yours, taking heaving pants. His hair is swept out of his eyes by your grip, pupils dilated, skin slick with sweat, beard webbed by your cum.
âFuck,â you exhale.
âYouâre telling me,â he says. He gently pries your hands out of his locks and presses tiny little kisses along your thigh, up your clothed stomach, along your shoulder blades. He may be straddling you, but he holds himself so tenderly that itâs as if he isnât there at all. For a moment that leaves your stomach riddled with yearning, you feel nothing but pleasure ribboning through your limbs. Thereâs no glass-shattering of pain between your bones. Itâs just you and him, wrapped up in each other.
His eyes meet yours, pupils slowly shrinking. Your eyes widen as you survey him again. âWaitââ He squints at you. âGotta be equitable.â With a clumsy hand, you start snaking your way down to his waistband. Before you get there, he snatches your wrist.
âNope,â he says. âDonât âgottaâ do anything. Didnât do that so I could âget mineâ. Did that so I could taste your sweet cunt when it comes.â
âButââ You know how excruciating it is when youâre needy and canât get yourself off. âI want to.â
ââFraid my refractory period ainât what it used to be.â He scratches the back of his neck, face pulled into a taut grimace. ââS been a long time for me, too, yâknow. Busted in my fuckinâ pants like a goddamn teenager.â His cheeks are apple red, rounded out below his eye bags.
âOh,â you say.
âProlly for the best,â he says, hand falling to cup your cheek. âLike I said â canât say no to ya. And if you started begginâ me to give that pretty, needy âlil pussy my cock? Iâd fold in a heartbeat, sugar. And that ainât good for either âa us.â
You toy with the curl around his ear, now moist with sweat. âWhat if I said I wanted it to be you, Joel?â Joelâs face tightens with a self-loathing that is all too familiar to you. You see it every morning in the mirror.
But Joel, who you feel safe with, Joel. Joel, always at your house at the ass crack of dawn all the way to when the dinner bell rings. Whether he be cracking at your door frames or sliding a poorly-arranged plate across the table to you. Joel, dozing off on your shoulder while you read him Tartt. Joel, who likely against his better judgment, had just given you your first orgasm at the hands of someone else, all because youâd asked. âI trust you,â you say.
âYou shouldnât,â he says. He nuzzles his head into your neck. Your hand goes up to cradle the back of his head, scratching at it. âAinât done anything to earn it.â
âIn your eyes, maybe. IâŠâ You hesitate.  âenjoy your company.â
Joel takes a deep breath. You feel his exhale fan out on the arch of your neck. He smells like you. Like your cunt. It makes your stomach twirl. âYou ain't so bad yourself,â he says.
Itâs a while that you both lay there. The sun has gone from a sliver in the window to a beam across your living room, warming both of you as much as you warm each other. His hands play with the hem of your shirt, all the loose, spindly seams that have unraveled over the years. Itâs this basking in the afterglow as much as it is basking in the budding heat of something new.Â
âWhat do you want with me?â he asks.
You falter at that, tongue sealed to the roof of your mouth.
Everything, you want to say. But thatâd be foolhardy and wrong and stupid. Youâve known him for a few weeks, but it feels like itâs been a few years. He sees you â not as the youngest cripple in town, not as a sexless posable doll, not as the librarian who almost fell out of her chair trying to do a wheelie in the snow. He just sees you.
You want to see him, too.
You settle on, âAnything you feel like giving me.â
He looks up at you through his lashes, pupils gone back to normal. Eyes still soft. Face still rough and smooth at the same time. âAnything, huh?â You nod. âThink I can do that.â


















