Ribbon 'round my neck, cherry coloured
joel miller x f!reader
summary: joel has sworn to protect you and keep you safe—but when the line between care and desire blurs, both of you are forced to confront what you really want. based on this request
cw: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, unprotected p in v, use of nicknames (kiddo ‘cause I like it icky, sweet girl, baby, pretty girl, darlin’, sweetpea), oral (f rec), breathplay (not previously talked about, heat of the moment, be better in real life), implied legal age difference, girly!reader, but the girl can shoot, too
wc: 5k
a/n: if lana releases a new song, I write a joel fic! that’s just how it works
now playing: White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter – Lana Del Rey
It’s the bow in your hair that gets Joel thinking. Dark red satin adorns the crown of your head, beckoning him in.
He watches as you read your book, the sun warming your skin. It’s the first truly nice day of the year—warm enough that you can sit on the porch of Joel’s cabin, only wearing one of his flannels over your cotton dress. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and a slight crease forms between your brows as your eyes scan the pages. The sight alone is enough to send Joel’s blood further south than it should be.
He knows it’s wrong—all of it is. The two of you, tucked away in a cabin just a few miles west of Jackson, together from dusk until dawn and dusk again. Joel tells himself it’s to keep you safe. Right by his side, where nothing can happen to you. The only bad man that might get you is himself, and he’s sworn to God that he’d never let it get that far.
But then you started sleeping in his bed. Nightmares used to plague your rest, causing you to wake up with sweat drenching your hairline and tears staining your cheeks. You didn’t find peace again until his arms held you tight against his chest, his soft mutters reaching your ears.
I’ll take care of you, kiddo. Don’t you worry. Go back to sleep, I got you.
And he took care of you. Kept you fed, clothed, and safe. Made sure you were happy, eager, and bright-eyed.
You were no fool either. A smart girl, more than willing to learn. He taught you to shoot, even though it made his heart race when he saw you holding a shotgun for the first time. The longer you stayed with him, the more he realized that you were far from helpless. While you hesitated to even point your gun at a deer, you were more than capable of shooting an infected from a good fifty yards away.
The more sunrises you saw together, the more Joel grew to think of you as an equal. He didn’t keep you like a miniature housewife, destined to press his shirts and keep his shoes by the fire—no, you were every bit as tough as he was.
Still, seeing you sitting in the sun reminds him of your innocence and how much he hates that you had to sacrifice it at times for your survival. He would do anything to keep the light in your eyes lit for as long as possible. Even treat you like a kid from time to time when you’re so much more.
By the time the moon had taken the sun’s spot, Joel had been left with his own thoughts for too long. You’re sitting opposite him at the dinner table, picking up four peas with your fork, one on each prong, and telling him about the ladybugs you found today.
“They were much more orange than red,” you recall eagerly, “And I don’t think they were the seven-spot kind—I counted at least nine.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles some kind of acknowledgement while his eyes find the ribbon in your hair again.
“Like, I mean, of course they were still ladybugs,” you go on, oblivious to his feeble attention, “But, like, they looked real different than the ones we had last summer.”
He’s noticed before that his way of speaking has bled into your vocabulary. You never used to say those kinds of things back when the walls of Jackson still surrounded you. It makes his teeth hurt to see the influence he has over you.
“They were pretty, right?” he grumbles.
You roll your eyes, a half-grin tugging at your mouth corners.
“’Course they were,” you reply.
“Then it don’t matter, kiddo.”
Dismay turns your face sour, and you huff softly. “Guess it don’t.”
“Doesn’t,” he corrects.
“You just said ‘don’t!”
He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he does anyway. “Yeah, well, I’m grown, I can say whatever I want.”
Your eyebrows furrow angrily. “What’s with you today?” you mutter.
His eyes snap to yours. “Nothin’,” he replies gruffly, “Now, eat your peas. And quit playin’ with ‘em.”
You stare at him for a few seconds before you grab your fork and go back to piercing your peas one by one.
“Christ,” he mumbles to himself, then rubs a hand across his face. The dinner continues in silence, lingering uncomfortably thick. When he’s in a bad mood, you can usually cheer him up, but once you start sulking, the day might as well be over. He knows it’s his fault—he approached the whole thing wrong.
It takes you forever to finish your plate—you’re too busy frowning—so Joel is half tempted to send you to bed to sleep it off. Knowing that it would only make things worse, and frankly, it’s not his place, he holds off on that.
Your chair squeaks loudly as you push it back, empty plate in hand, and make your way to the sink. Your footsteps fall heavily when you walk to your room without saying goodnight.
Joel knows you want him to follow you—you’re waiting for an apology, one that you deserve but won’t get. Instead of indulging you, he starts rinsing the dishes, then wipes the counters clean. He hears the sink in the bathroom run, then two doors shut within seconds of each other. At least, you’re not slamming them. He takes that as a good sign.
Once there’s nothing left for him to clean, he sighs to himself, then leaves the kitchen. He stands in front of your door longer than he likes. You painted it a couple of weeks ago, colorful flowers and berries decorating the frame. He had worked his ass off to find you paint that was still somewhat usable, then even managed to find some thinner so that the acrylic wouldn’t be so thick.
He traces one of the flowers for a few seconds, following the delicate line that you had drawn, before he rolls his hand into a fist and knocks. There’s a soft shuffle behind the door, then your voice follows. “What?”
Sometimes, Joel has to admit to himself that he misses the shy you. The one that didn’t talk back.
“It’s me,” he calls out.
“Yeah, I figured.” You and your sass.
He rubs his eye once, twice, then sighs. “Can I come in?”
Silence stretches for a few moments, and his heart drops. You couldn’t be that mad. Could you? But then your reply echoes through the oak wood. “Yeah.”
His fingers press against the door handle, and it swings open with ease. You’re sitting on your bed, bedsheets pulled up to your navel. The shirt you’re sporting belongs to him—old and worn, but soft to the touch. Its neckline is so stretched that he catches a glimpse of your collarbones. It’s a comfort to him that you’re at least still wearing that, despite the disgruntled expression etched into your face as you look at him. The red piece of silk is still tied in your hair, sitting there like a warning sign. He ignores it.
Joel flicks his hand, signaling you to scoot over, and you do. When he sinks down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaks softly. It’s quiet as neither one of you speaks for a moment. Then Joel clears his throat.
“So…” he mumbles, “Ladybugs, hm?”
He can tell that you don’t want to smile, but the corners of your mouth twitch.
“Tell me ‘bout ‘em,” he encourages quietly.
“Thought it don’t—doesn’t matter,” you argue. The disappointment in your voice makes his old heart ache.
“It does,” he murmurs. His hand rests on your knee, the blanket disconnecting you. “If it matters to you, it matters to me.” He tilts his head to catch your eyes and sees them softening in real time.
“A whole bunch of ‘em were down by the creek,” you say, “On that one tree stump, you know?”
He nods. You continue.
“Do ladybugs have families?”
The question is so tender—so you—he has to close his eyes for a few seconds.
“Mhm,” he muses, “Dunno much about bugs, but I figure they do. They all gotta come from somewhere, and where you come from, that’s your family, right?”
You shrug softly. “Then I guess I don’t have one,” you say blankly. Joel shakes his head instantly.
“That ain’t true, darlin’,” he disagrees, then rubs his jaw.
“Guess I didn’t explain that one right,” he mutters to himself, then goes on, “There ain’t just one type of family. Sometimes, it’s the place and people where ya come from, and then other times, it’s the people who wish ya came from the same place as them, you know? The ones who wish they had known ya all your life.”
“So you wish you’d known me all my life?” you ask tentatively.
He winces.
“Sometimes,” he replies cautiously, “But it’s good that I didn’t.”
“Why?”
He should’ve expected this. This is why he never explained the heavy stuff.
“You know, sweetpea, it’s real late, don’t you think?” he states, looking out the window. His joints groan as he stands up, but he doesn’t get far. Your hand finds his biceps and holds him back.
“Wait,” you plead, “You can’t just… please, what do you mean? Why only sometimes?”
Joel feels himself growing grayer by the second. As the words get stuck in his throat, he gestures vaguely between him and you.
“This whole thing… it’d be—it’d be bad if I’d known ya since you were a little girl.”
“Because…?” you prompt quietly.
“’Cause I’d be—people would think…,” he drifts off, muttering under his breath, “Goddammit.”
Joel struggles to meet your eyes; he grabs your hands, both of them, and slowly brings them up to his lips. The kiss on your knuckles is soft as a feather, like a butterfly’s wings. He doesn’t look up as he continues, “Knowin’ you back then would mean I wouldn’t be allowed to like ya the way I do now.”
The sweet look of confusion on your face makes space for realization.
“Oh,” you say softly.
He nods, still not reciprocating your gaze. “Yeah.”
“Well, then I’m glad you didn’t know me then. ‘Cause I like that you like me that way now.”
Finally, he drags his eyes up to meet yours. Honesty twists your expression into one he’d love to bottle up and keep for bad days—tenderness.
“What am I doin’ here?” Joel asks quietly, then brushes his knuckles across your cheek. You can’t help but melt into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. It’s always like this. One of you pushes, the other pulls away, then you find your way back into the shadows of that grey area neither one of you wants to leave. No one’s done anything wrong yet.
Joel’s hand moves to smooth down your headband.
“Shouldn’t be wearin’ that when ya go to sleep,” he mumbles, “Don’t want ya chokin’ on it if it slips down.”
“I’d wake up before that,” you reason. He disagrees quietly, then undoes the bow and knot until it slips from your hair. The flimsy material stands out against his sun-kissed hands—his skin freckled and wrinkled, the silk smooth.
“You don’t know anything,” he says. It’s not intended as critique, so you don’t take it that way.
“I know enough.”
Joel wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand just how wrong you are. Instead, he lets the piece of fabric dance around his fingers, wrapping and unravelling it consistently.
“You should be runnin’ for the hills,” he remarks, “And I should be cuttin’ my hands off for thinkin’ ‘bout the things I wanna do to ya with ‘em.”
There it is—your breath hitches, and Joel is left to wonder whether that was one step too far, the one that just secured his place in hell. But you’re moving before he has time to take it back. You push away your blanket, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs, before you sit back on your heels in front of him. He forces himself to look you in the eye.
“Is it that bad that I want you to do whatever you’re imagining?” you ask.
“Yes.” His voice trembles with restraint. He knows he should leave before he does something he can’t undo. But he stays—frozen in place, your knee almost touching his.
Your bottom lip quivers. “Then I don’t care about being good,” you reply.
Joel has been holding back the flood for months now—and you just cracked the dam with one sentence. The ribbon slips from his fingers and falls to the floor.
His hands cup your face and pull you in before his lips crash against yours. The soft give of your lips beneath his own draws him in deeper, chasing your tongue with his own. He tastes the remnants of toothpaste on your teeth, then something that is just you. The guilt lingers deep in his chest as he kisses you, but something about the way your breath changes drowns out his doubts long enough.
He’s the one to pull away first. With his chest heaving and his pupils blown, his gaze finds yours. He expects to see regret, or worse, disgust on your face. Instead, he sees pure, quiet, unfiltered adoration.
“Goddammit,” he grumbles.
A flustered grin lights up your face.
“Again?” you whisper.
“God, no,” he mutters, “You kiss me like that again, and I ain’t stoppin’.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you to stop.”
Before he knows it, your mouth finds his again. The vibration of your giggle against his lips sends shivers down his spine, and he should know better—but he doesn’t—when his hands come to rest on your waist.
It starts with the slip of his fingers—brushing against your knee, then higher. Joel curses himself for continuing until you rock your hips, just a couple of inches, but it’s enough to snap away the last of his restraint.
He leans forward, slowly guiding you back until your head hits the pillows, without your lips ever leaving his. Situated between your thighs, he peppers soft pecks down your neck, then drops his forehead against your collarbone.
“Tell me to stop,” he pleads, “Now.”
You shake your head. “I want to keep going.”
A sliver of awareness spreads across Joel’s face. “Sweetheart,” he starts, “This is a big thing. Like… a really big thing. And we’re—I’m already doin’ enough damage just by kissin’ ya.”
Joel has spent more than enough time thinking about it: you undressed in his sheets, him kneeling between your thighs—the slow ruin of the thing either one of you called familiarity. Everything feels as wrong as it feels right.
“I want this, Joel,” you insist quietly. His frown lines deepen.
“You shouldn’t—”
“But I do.”
Joel wonders if this is a test from God Himself—he hadn’t paid that much attention to the man in the sky in the last few years.
“You don’t understand how hard you’re making it f’me, darlin’.”
You sit up slightly, then reach for him. Your fingers interlock on the back of his neck, your grip tight and determined.
“Do you want me?” you ask.
“You know that’s not the issue,” he responds.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you want me.”
He takes a deep breath, then nods. “You know I do.”
“Then trust me when I say you can have me.”
“You’ll be the death of me.” Joel curses himself before he kisses you again. This time, he lets his hands dip under your shirt. His calloused fingers trace your smooth skin until they reach your ribcage, settling there. The kiss is clumsy; you grin as your teeth hit his, wild fervor evaporating from your every pore.
Goosebumps spread across your body when Joel pulls away to meet your eyes.
“I’ll do it right,” he declares, “I promise.”
Then his fingers find the hem of your shirt and pull it off of you. He discards the piece of clothing carelessly, too hypnotized by the sight in front of him. You hold your breath as his eyes wander, taking in every inch of skin laid bare.
“Got the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen beggin’ for some old man right in front of me,” he murmurs. The nerves in your chest ease a little, and you shake your head at him.
“Not just some old man,” you correct, then cup his cheek. His weathered skin is rough against your touch.
He doesn’t reply, and you know he disagrees; instead, he presses his lips to your forehead before they wander further down. As he trails kisses from your breasts down to your belly button, his fingers find your nipples. He tugs and twists gently, eliciting gasps from you as warmth spreads through your body.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle the noises, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Joel notices and kisses your stiffened bud, then looks up at you.
“Don’t hide those sounds, sweet girl,” he rumbles, “Wanna hear ya. If ya want me to fuck you, ya gotta meet my demands. First one is: You don’t get to hide.”
“What are the others?” Your voice grows more breathless as Joel’s fingers dig into the waistband of your panties.
“Second one,” he begins, simultaneously tugging at the fabric that covers your core, “You tell me what you want me to do. And that’s all I’ll do.”
As soon as your panties meet the floor, he sits back on his heels. His eyes wander, taking in every bit of you. You look away, trying to escape his stare.
“And the third one,” he says, then catches your chin to tilt your face upwards, “Your eyes stay on me.”
With that, he settles between your legs, breathing in the scent of your arousal. His lips brush against your inner thigh, slowly inching towards where you want him. You grip the sheets like your life depends on it and force yourself to watch. When he kisses the space where your thigh meets your hips, it makes you shiver.
Your hands find their way into his curls, just tugging softly, hoping that it will lead him right where you want him. But Joel takes his time—his tongue drags over your sensitive skin, kissing one lip, then the other. He looks up at you and nods in approval when he finds your gaze already on him.
“Don’t look away,” he reminds you before he spreads your legs even further and licks a broad stripe across your clit. Your grip on his hair tightens as pleasure sparks throughout your body.
He is gentle at first, spending time exploring your body. Joel listens to the kind of movements that make your breath hitch, watches for the ones that make your thighs shake. When his lips encircle your clit, sucking slightly, and your entire body jerks, he chuckles in satisfaction. The vibration travels up your spine, causing you to tilt your hips. Joel’s hands rest on your hips, encouraging you to lock him in between your legs.
Soft gasps tumble from you, growing more and more desperate as he laps at your core, his spit and your slick mixing. You feel your chest heaving as his tongue draws figure eights on your throbbing clit.
Lost in pleasure and the promise of him, you dip your head back into the pillows, moaning freely. You pull a little harder on his hair until he groans into your cunt.
You feel yourself stumbling closer to the edge, a second heartbeat coming to life between your legs. Warmth pools in your lower belly, and you almost taste the sweetness of relief until Joel pulls away suddenly.
“Hey—” his voice echoes through the room, “Where are those eyes, darlin’?”
You almost complain—your entire body is on fire when you force your gaze to snap back to him. The corners of his mouth twitch, and his tongue parts your folds again.
“Joel,” you moan, so close to tasting the letters that make up his name. His grip on your hips tighten, firm enough that it’ll surely leave you a reminder in the morning.
“I got you, baby,” he whispers before he goes back to circling your clit with the tip of his tongue. The sounds that filled the room were downright sacrilegious—his deep growls and your breathless whines mixing.
Stars explode behind your eyes as you come on his lips, your arousal slickening his chin. He laps relentlessly, working you through your release until he’s drawn out every aftershock he can get.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praises softly, “Lookin’ so pretty f’me when you cum.” Every part of you still pulses, oxytocin traveling through your bloodstream, as Joel pulls away.
His hands travel up to your stomach, holding you down gently before he leans in to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips, the sweetly tangy flavor blooming across your tongue.
Joel lets you catch your breath and tenderly kneads the flesh on your hip as you come down. Seeing you rendered speechless, Joel prompts, “How’re ya feelin’, sweetpea?”
You look for words to describe the cocktail of emotions coursing through your mind and end up with the weak recollection, “Great.”
He chuckles, rather smug about himself. “Yeah?”
You nod, then blink through the heavy haze of release still clouding your mind. “Yeah,” you reply.
“Good,” he mumbles.
The mattress squeaks underneath you as he shifts his weight, and this time around, it’s your turn to stare. The bulge in Joel’s pants causes the saliva to collect in your mouth. You reach blindly, fingers finding the edge of his jeans, but he stops you before you can pop the button.
“Hey, easy does it,” he says, “We don’t gotta do any more today if you don’t want to.”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t be trying to get your pants off if I didn’t want to keep going, would I?”
“Smartass.”
“Rule number two, I tell you what I want, and you do it, right?” you tease, looking up at him hopefully.
“Well, I haven’t heard you say what you want yet,” he counters.
You bite your bottom lip.
“I… I want you,” you stammer.
Joel raises his eyebrows, then cups your face between his rough hands. “You got me, don’t you?”
You glance at him pleadingly, but he shakes his head. “Words, sweetpea. If you can’t say it, you don’t want it enough.”
You swallow your embarrassment and sit up. Slowly, your eyes find his before you say, “I want you to- to fuck me.”
He chuckles self-contentedly, then nods. “There you go, darlin’. If that’s what you truly want, I’ll do it.”
Then he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one. You feel the nerves prickling in your stomach, and you grow more restless with every sliver of skin he exposes. His jeans follow his shirt to the floor. Your mouth goes dry when his boxers drop—Joel is more than well-endowed.
He feels your stare and meets your eyes, the cockiness on his face making space for a much gentler expression. “You’ll be fine,” he promises, “We’ll go slow.”
When your back hits the mattress, and you spread your legs to make space for Joel, he doesn’t immediately follow. Instead, his eyes drift to the cherry-colored ribbon on the floor. A mischievous sparkle in his eyes, so unlike Joel, makes the butterflies in your stomach jump.
He reaches for it, then holds it up for you to see.
“You got any idea how pretty this looked in your hair today?” he asks. “Drove me damn near insane.”
A bashful smile steals itself onto your face. “I found it in the sewing kit.”
“You don’t say,” he mutters. His eyes dart between you and the ribbon until his face grows almost apologetic. “Would ya wanna wear it? Now? It’s been like a damn light signal, calling me in all day. Might as well have it with ya at the finish line.”
You nod slowly. As you lean forward, you expect Joel to fasten it at your hairline, but instead, he threads the headband under the lengths of your hair and then ties it around your neck. Not too tight—you can breathe easily. You almost feel like a present wrapped to be unpacked.
Joel nods approvingly, his fingers resting at your collarbone, while he admires his handiwork. “Real pretty,” he murmurs.
With light pressure, he guides you back into the pillows, then chases your lips with his own. The kiss steals the breath right from your lungs, and you barely even notice it when his palm finds its place on your upper thigh. With his other hand, he fists his aching cock and guides himself through your soft folds, collecting your arousal. The pressure makes you squeal slightly, but Joel swallows any sound instantly, his lips never leaving yours. Then his bulbous tip nudges against your hole.
“Deep breath,” he instructs, right against your mouth, “And big stretch.”
You feel as if you’re being impaled—in a good way. The unfamiliar sensation of him splitting you open has your eyes rolling back, your fingers snapping up to wrap around his biceps tightly. Joel feels your breath ghost over his face as you gasp.
“Easy, kid,” he mumbles, “That’s it. You’re okay. Want me to rip off the band-aid?”
You shake your head instantaneously and say, “You said we’d go slow. You said—”
“Mhm, yeah, I know, darlin’, I know.”
His jaw ticks with restraint as he rolls his hips just a little, advancing further into your warmth. You feel every vein decorating his cock; you’re sure he’ll mold your walls to his exact shape in no time. The burn aches and stings, but the pressure underneath makes you want more. Your eyes find Joel’s—yours pleading and needy, his cool and collected. A certain degree of smugness etches itself into his face as the hunger surfaces in your expression.
“Ya ready?” he asks.
“Yes, yes, please, I—”
The first real thrust knocks the air out of your chest. Your fingernails dig into his arms, leaving red, half-moon-shaped marks on his skin as you feel the coarse hairs at Joel’s base meet your pelvis. You’ve never felt so full, stretched, and fed at the same time.
When he pulls back, his cock drags along the gummy spot on your ceiling, making you gasp as pleasure sparks and runs up your spine.
“How’s that, pretty girl?” Joel holds your chin with his free hand, forcing your eyes to meet his own.
You can only nod, feeling the faint pain dissipate and turn into desire as he pushes back into you. He chuckles and eases his grip on your chin.
“How ‘bout some words, sweetheart?” he asks.
“It’s good, Joel, it’s… it’s so good. Please, I need more,” you answer, almost frantic in your desperation. Your hips buck up all on their own, pushing to meet his.
“So you don’t want it slow no longer?” he teases, still keeping still even as you writhe and pout.
“Joel,” you whine, “C’mon, please.”
He snorts softly, then nods. “We’ll work on those manners, darlin’. But for now, you’re gettin’ off easy.”
While Joel finds his rhythm, listening for the spots that make your breath catch and your eyebrows knit together in pleasure, you feel the warmth begin to collect in your lower tummy. Even with your lips clamped together, you can’t help the sounds that make their way out of you—soft moans turn wilder, more eager, more uninhibited.
“That’s it,” Joel praises, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, “Wanna hear you, pretty girl. Don’t you dare hide any of those sweet sounds.”
He fucks you deeper, the wet sounds of your cunt echoing sinfully through the room. Joel’s entire body is tight, running on pure adrenaline and need as his cock kisses your cervix. His deep grunts fill your ears, growing darker and more animalistic with every thrust.
He drags his fingers through your folds and finds your clit. The first circle he draws feels like pure energy, pulsing throughout your entire body from your core to your toes. His other hand surprises you. At first, you think he means to cup the back of your neck with his big palm, but instead, he threads his fingers between the red ribbon and your skin. The added pressure on your throat makes your head swim.
“That okay?” he rasps, his eyes searching yours.
You nod almost instantly, feeling your walls flutter around him as the room grows quieter from the lack of oxygen. Joel’s eyes are glued to you—he makes sure not to overdo it. He takes in every micro-expression as his fingers adjust the pressure on the satin—a little more, then a little less. He decides when you breathe and how much. And you love it.
You’re not sure what pushes you over the edge at the end: maybe it’s the constant pressure on your clit, or the way his cock fills you up until you feel him in your guts. Or maybe it’s the delightful sensation of your airway being controlled by him. Or maybe it’s the praise.
“Look so sweet, baby, lettin’ me ruin you like this,” he groans, “God ain’t forgivin’ me for this, but I bet ya will.”
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