Still smells like you (pt.2)
pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader
summary: after a vulnerable night on patrol with Joel, you both try to pretend nothing happened, but silence is unbearable.
tags: age gap (30's-50's), slow burn, smut lol, virginity loss, emotional sex, grief, messy communication, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (omg who said that), fingering, first time, lightly size kink, self worth issues, unresolved trauma
notes: you can find the first part to this short story here!
He won’t shake that feeling off anytime soon.
Joel’s stuck with that kind of sick ache that comes after spilling your guts. Like he left a piece of himself behind with you, and now he’s scared you’ll hand it out to anyone who asks what went down on patrol.
Maybe he’s being dramatic. But it wasn’t just anything. Hell, he cried like a damn baby. Broke down like a damn kid because your words knocked the wind out of him.
“It’d just mean I got somethin’ good to tell those eyes when I see ’em again”
It wrecked him. Even back home, alone in his bed, curled around that old Polaroid of Sarah under his pillow, crying into the mattress like a fool.
Grief’s a weird thing. Real weird.
He even let himself cry about Ellie, who haven’t spoken to him in months. It’s like the world won’t quit reminding him—nothing is his to keep.
He sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with work-worn hands. Sleep hasn’t come easy. Hasn’t come at all, truth be told. Every time he closes his eyes, it’s you… walking past on the street, nodding like you’re no more than a neighbor.
Sometimes, his chest tightens at the memory. His hands on your hips, boosting you onto that horse. The way your body felt under his fingers. That feeling hasn’t left.
Makes him feel like a fucking creep.
Joel squeezes his eyes shut to erase the feeling. It ain’t just shame. It’s softness, and softness only leads to hurt.
He exhales long, starts moving again, trying to start another day. The coffee pot’s set from last night. Old habit. One of those things he does hoping to make the mornings feel less empty. Coffee’s rare these days. Precious. But today, he needs it.
Out the window, Jackson’s still the same. Frost, snow shoveled by the night patrols, silence hanging heavy. He shuts his eyes again and sees you. Sitting on that cot, knees hugged to your chest. Saying things that make him feel too seen.
“I think if somethin’ happened to me after this, I wouldn’t mind much."
The way you looked at him after he raised his voice. Like you’d already punished yourself a hundred times over. Like the words weren’t even yours to say.
"It was just a patrol," he mutters, gravel in his voice. "Got stranded for a coupla nights. That’s all."
But his mind won’t let it be. Not when he still feels your arms around him, your fingers in his hair, your scent in his neck. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions. You held him.
And on your end, that night hasn’t left you either.
You haven’t taken another patrol since. María never brought it up again, seemed to get the message. Maybe she saw it as a test you failed. You didn’t mind. Your comfort lives inside: The infirmary, the clean routine, the things that are yours.
You saw Joel sometimes. With Tommy. Working construction on the new expansion. Turns out the Miller boys used to be contractors or something like that is what you heard María say. Explains a lot.
Some weekends, you’d spot him at Tipsy Bison bar. Sitting with Tommy and María, nursing whiskey or beer. He’d barely say a word. Just a nod across the room. Sometimes he nodded back. Sometimes that little gesture fucked up your whole night. Keeping you waiting for him to approach or do something.
Something that never happens.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. What happened, what he tried to pretend didn’t. You remembered it with shame—not because of the moment itself, but because of how it still makes your stomach twist.
How he held you. Sought shelter in you.
You don’t get undone that easy. And no one ever looks at you that way. No one wants what you are. That’s just not your place. You’ve made peace with it. But Joel cracked something in you. Without meaning to.
You told yourself it was circumstance. One night. Cold, fear, death talk—shit like that happens to anyone. But your body remembers. It remembers his touch. His weight. His breath. And before you even realize it, your hands are under the sheets, your hips rolling slow, chasing your own fingers. Chasing a ghost.
You imagine him. What’s he like? Big? Long? Thick? Does he know what he’s doin’? Could he ever… make love? And then the guilt. Hot and fast.
He ain’t thinkin’ of you. He saw you ‘cause he knows you.
Because of a weird night on patrol.
He don’t want you. You’re thirty-three. He’s pushing what—fifty-six?
You barely know each other.
He can’t want you. He can’t want you.
He doesn't know if you snore, or if you drink coffee. If you dream. If you ever loved anyone.
But he wants to. And that pisses him off.
Some nights, after enough rum, Joel lies there in the dark, hands flat by his sides. Like if he moves, it’ll all come crashing down.
"You alright, man?" Tommy claps a hand on Joel’s shoulder, leaving a beer on the long table. Tipsy Bison’s done up for Christmas, the tables pushed together, kids running around, country music drifting from the speakers.
Joel’s eyes are stuck on you. Sitting across the room by the dance floor, drink in hand, not joining the party.
Tommy squints. "Fine’s the name? The new nurse that’s got you actin’ like you seen a ghost?"
Joel downs the whiskey in one go.
"She ain’t fifteen. Looks thirty to me."
"Sayin’ it like you broke a law."
"If you start with that whole 'I’m a monster, I hurt everyone I love' speech, I swear—" Tommy leans in. "There’s folks in this town with more blood on their hands than you, and they still found someone to hold ‘em."
"I loved again, Joel. Had a kid when I thought I’d never feel nothin’ again. Thought I was done for. But I wasn’t. And you ain’t either."
"I ain’t tryin’ to be the guy who lost his daughter, and whose adopted kid don’t speak to him no more." Joel says with his gaze on Tommy’s, eyes getting glassy.
"That ain’t gonna happen. And I think she’ll understand."
He nods toward the door. You’re slippin’ on your coat, trying to duck out before midnight.
"Go on. Before you lose your Cinderella."
You step into the cold just as folks inside start counting down. The wind bites. You smile faintly. Memories.
You turn. He’s holdin’ the door open. No jacket. No gloves.
"You’re gonna freeze" you say, answering a question he didn’t ask.
He jogs down the steps, rubbing his hands together. "I’ll walk you."
You don’t say much. Just walk. The silence stretches out, thick.
"Saw you with Tommy’s fam" you finally say.
"I saw you the second you walked in."
You stop. He keeps walkin’ till he realizes you’re not beside him. Turns back.
"I thought you didn’t wanna see me" you say. Voice tight.
"Thought I fucked it all up." He shoves his hands out of his pockets, like honesty needs bare fingers.
"You didn’t say nothing, Joel. I spent day– fuck, weeks—wondering what the hell happened. If it even meant anything."
"I did too." He presses his lips together. "Didn’t know what to say. Felt like a fool."
"I been thinkin’ ‘bout you every damn day. The way you held me. The way you didn’t ask shit. The way you talk. The way you—" He stops. Swallows. "You think about me?"
You stare at him. Then your door. Then back. You nod toward the house. He follows you inside without a word. You hang your coat. He’s rubbin’ his arms, cold sinkin’ in.
"Shoulda grabbed a coat" you say. Walking to the kitchen.
"Didn’t wanna lose sight of you…" he mutters.
You turn. He’s leanin’ against the island, eyes on the counter, thumb drawing lazy shapes on the surface. Then he looks up. Slow. Over your body, to your face.
"Yeah. I thought about you" you say, answering finally. "I touched myself thinking abbout you ‘cause I’m a fucking idiot who’s never even been touched before. You had me biting my damn pillow ‘cause of one fucking hug."
"If you let me, I’ll make sure it ain’t just a pillow next time."
His hands slide up your hips. Rough, steady.
"Joel… I don’t know anything ‘bout this…"
"We ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do" he says gently. One hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes your lips.
"But I do. I want to" you whisper, looking away.
Joel studies you. Then leans in. Presses his thumb to your bottom lip as he kisses the corner of your mouth. Your fingers tremble where they rest on his arms. Then he really kisses you. Slow. Solid. He doesn't move until you open your mouth, and then it’s his tongue, his breath, his heat.
"Mmh" he murmurs. Voice soft, needy.
He presses you to the island, lips movin’ to your neck. Licks a line up your throat that makes your knees shake. Then, kissing, gasping, tripping, he walks you back to the bedroom.
"Right side. I built this damn row myself" he mutters into your mouth.
He opens the door. Leads you to the bed. He pulls your sweater over your head slow, taking his time.
When he’s shirtless, you freeze. Your eyes drag over his broad chest, the dusting of gray hair, the hard lines of muscle mixed with softness. Scar beside the navel, bush peeking out his waistband.
A man. An actual man. And you’ve never seen one like this.
Your breath hitches. He kisses your sternum, undoes your jeans, pulls them down with your socks.
"You’ll tell me if somethin’ don’t feel right, yeah?"
You nod. His mouth attaches to your nipples, sucking, then gives soft licks after your body gives a hard jolt. He notices you’re sensitive, and he wants to know more, to discover more of every inch that makes you, you.
"We’re alright" he murmurs. Hands slipping down to your panties. He slides them off.
You press your thighs together. He chuckles soft. He’s feeling it too.
"Open up for me, baby…" He kisses your inner thighs. Runs his nose up the sensitive skin. Hands caress your ass, coaxing you to open yourself to him.
Then, his mouth finds you.
"Fuck, Joel" you cry, fists clenching the sheets.
He licks like he’s starving. Filthy, wet, slow. He draws circles with his tongue on your clit, moaning low like he can’t help it. He feels you push yourself up on your elbows to watch him eat you out. His eyes, dark, filled with hunger, make your stomach melt. His lips wrap around your clit, suckling it, rolling it on his tongue, licking directly on it with the tip of his tongue.
His movements are encouraged by your sounds. Gasps. Breathless. He chuckles a low rumble while he nuzzles his nose against your pussy like he haven’t had anything like this in long.
"That’s it… Let me hear what feels good…" He pulls back. Slips one thick finger inside. Then another. He curls them. Press into that spot that makes your hips jump. His pads massage your walls and make you pinch your brows.
Then he stands. Opens his jeans. Pushes them down.
You look down and freeze.
Not freakishly so. But big. And you’ve never seen one in real life. Just those weird magazines you once found around while exploring before arriving Jackson.
You shift up the bed on instinct.
"Easy" he says. One hand on your thigh. His thumb strokes your clit, gentle. Feels you relax a tad bit.
"It’ll hurt a sec. But I got you."
He covers you with his body. Heavy and warm. You reach for his ribs. Wide and solid. Your eyes want to go again between you but he tilts your chin to kiss you deep again, his large hand holding your jaw and guiding you to open your mouth, letting him roll his tongue against yours. His nose pushes yours a bit, soft smiles escape him when he feels you gasp.
He slicks his cock in your wetness, dragging the head across your clit.
"Gonna go slow" he murmurs.
He pushes in. Inches. Your body tenses. Your hand presses his chest. It’s a whole lot different than your fingers. It stings and feels as if he’s about to tear the tender skin.
“Breathe… That’s it… You’re doin’ good, sweetheart…” He whispers against your mouth gently while his hand cup the back of your head.
"I got you." He freezes. Way before you ask him to. "Wanna stop?"
"No. Don’t you dare. Just… slow."
He nods and moves. Deeper. No pleasure yet—just stretch, burn, pressure. Then he’s all the way in. Still. Breathing hard.
You nod, barely. His hand slips between you. Circles your clit and it helps with pleasure to blur the pain.
You smile melted, arching slow, closing your eyes. Your hands fall on his gut, legs open on his sides.
He starts moving. Slow. Deep. The pain spasms are there every now and then, but you feel it. You understand why there’s people that love this. You understand why there’s people addict to this. You understand why there’s people who can’t live without fucking.
The ache fades, replaced by something new. Something sweet. Your legs wrap around him. He groans, dips and to kiss your throat. His whole body covers you, warm and broad, hunched over like a damn animal.
Each thrust is steady. Focused.
Your lips are swollen. Your nails claw his back. Your thighs shake.
"W-wait—Joel—I’m—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna pee—"
He hits that spot again. And again. His pelvis brushing directly against your clit, his cock filling you completely as if you were made for him, his sounds. It’s like a sudden bomb ticking about to blow, the pot about to whistle, the thunder after the lightning, the wave crashing on the back.
You come. Hard. Clutching him. Soaking him. He pulls out fast, groaning and jerking his cock until he spills across your belly. Painting your stomach with his art.
Both of you panting, wide-eyed while staring at each other.
Yours first. Loose, breathless, relieved.
Then his. Low, real, comfortable.
You both know that you want each other.
here it is!!! thanks for reading! i really love fools in love, if you liked it, reblog, comment and like!
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