description: in which you take care of each other in different ways
pairing: rhett abbott x f!reader
warnings: 18+ only, slight angst, very brief mention of religious trauma, rhett's childhood trauma, smut, dom/sub undertones, rhett is a switch, mention of kink play, oral (m receiving), deep throating, cum swallowing
notes: just a self-indulgent little somethin'-somethin' with some holiday vibes to go along with it. hope y'all enjoy
You were barely holding it together.
The rain that poured from the dreary sky seemed to encapsulate your mood as you made your way home from work that evening. It was mid-November, and the weather was just beginning to make its shift into winter.
On your little homestead, you and your husband had been battening down the hatches, preparing the house and the surrounding property for the onslaught of frigid temperatures and snow storms that were sure to blow in over the next few weeks.
Wyoming winters were long and hard. But somehow, you didn’t mind them that much. Not when you had your little farmhouse to snuggle into on days when the weather got bad. You’d moved into the house when you and Rhett had first gotten married. Although it was a house that had been in your family for years, it was a fixer-upper, and everyone had told you that you were wasting your money. But the two of you were determined to make a home out of it. And you had. It was a safe haven for both of you.
And now, you were running to it, seeking refuge in its warmth, and in the comfort of your husband’s arms, because he was what made it a home.
They say home is where the heart is. He was your heart.
He was so much steadier than you were. At the moment, you felt incredibly fragile. As if a gust of cold wind would shatter you into millions of tiny pieces and leave Rhett to have to pick up those pieces and painstakingly glue you back together.
You’d been trying, but failing, to hold in your tears the entire thirty-minute drive home. You couldn’t even bring yourself to turn on your driving playlist to occupy the silence, you were simply too overwhelmed and needed the peace and quiet.
All you could think about was how deeply you longed to be in Rhett’s comforting embrace. He was the only one who could console you when you were like this. And he loved being that for you. Knowing he was your source of comfort above all others made him feel special. It made him feel needed.
It was him you depended on. Him you allowed to see you at your most vulnerable. He cherished those moments. Even though it pained him to see you suffering, it brought him some semblance of peace to know that he was providing you comfort.
He knew that things had been difficult for you as of late. You were at a crossroads in your life, forced to make some hard decisions that had been weighing heavily on you. You’d spent countless hours agonizing over them.
Sometimes, it felt as if your only easy choice in life had been choosing to marry Rhett. You’d known beyond a shadow of a doubt that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him. He was good. He was kind. And he loved you. Did he come with his fair share of struggles? Absolutely. But that was what made him human. All the things he had been through had shaped him into the perfect man for you.
You had both gone through hell to get to each other. Your souls were bonded together, forged in the fires of great tribulation. But you were stronger together because of it.
You had built a life together. One of peace and security, far away from those who had wronged you. Rhett had distanced himself from his family. He only kept in contact with his mother and his niece.
Gone were the days of walking on eggshells, trying to avoid knock-down drag-out arguments with his brother. He didn’t have to use that sort of caution with you, because you never treated him that way. He’d learned how to communicate his feelings, rather than fight about them. There were never screaming matches within the walls of your home. Never a raised voice. Never a harmful hand laid upon the other.
It was a place of solace. And that was why you were running to it.
As you pulled into the driveway, the rain gave way as the first flakes of November snow began to swirl from the sky. Normally, you would stop to admire them, but you hardly even noticed the white flurries as you pulled into the carport next to the house.
Your eyes were blurring with hot tears, and all you wanted was to get inside, to find Rhett and fall into his arms. But as you climbed out of the car, the strap of your bag got caught on the gearshift. You didn’t notice until it was too late, and in a very dramatic turn of events, the force of the catch was enough to send you stumbling. On the way down, your ribs clashed with the bottom edge of your car, sending sharp pain blossoming through your torso.
You yelped, squeezing your eyes shut as you breathed through the ache. Meanwhile, Rhett was inside the house, having just seen the flash of your headlights in the window, signaling that you’d arrived home. Eagerly, he headed to the kitchen, with the intent of making dinner, because it was his night to do so. He was making grilled cheese, the one thing he had finally mastered in the kitchen, and he wanted it to be nice and hot for you, so he’d waited until that moment to begin preparing dinner.
But as he set to work, he noticed that it was taking you a while to come inside. Curious, he glanced out the window that overlooked the carport, and to his surprise, he saw you on the ground next to your car.
His jovial mood dissipated, replaced with concern. Without hesitation, he hurried to the door, where he shoved his feet into his worn, old boots and then wrenched the door open.
“Darlin’?” He called out, as he stepped outside, boots crunching on gravel. Quickly, he rounded your car, which gave him a full view of you crumpled on the ground, crying. Immediately, he was rushing to your aid. “What happened?! Are y’alright?”
He knelt beside you, wide-eyed, searching your body for any signs of outward harm. His protective instincts had kicked in.
“I-I fell,” you managed to whimper out. Honestly, it wasn’t even the fact that you’d fallen that kept you on the ground. It was the fact that you were entirely depleted of physical and emotional strength, and once you’d hit the ground, you couldn’t bring yourself to stand back up.
“Are ya hurt?” That was his biggest concern. He’d drive you to the hospital if he had to.
Your bottom lip wobbled as a fresh wave of tears poured down your weather-cooled cheeks. “A-a little,” came your response. You knew that your ribs were going to bruise.
“Hospital hurt?”
“No.”
Rhett nodded, relaxing a little. “Alright. I’ll help ya up. Let’s get inside where it’s warm.”
Lovingly, he helped you to your feet, securing his arm around your waist, and grabbing your bag from the car before he led you into the house. The warmth washed over you immediately. You hadn’t realized how cold you were, but the slight tingle in your fingertips told you that you had certainly gotten a chill from outside.
Rhett closed the door behind you, effectively shutting out the cold. You stood there in the entryway, unmoving as you felt another wave of tears overcome you. Your husband hadn’t noticed yet, as he was taking off his boots, but when he stood up, he saw you frozen in place.
“What’s the matter, pun’kin?” He asked. His pronunciation of pumpkin, the sweet nickname he’d given you years ago when you were still dating.
His gentle concern was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Immediately, you turned, surging forward into his arms. It caught him by surprise, but he quickly recovered, wrapping you up in his embrace. You melted into a fit of sobs, burying your face against his broad chest.
“Hey now, I’ve got’ya. Ain’t never gonna let you go.”
His assurance only made you cry harder. You loved him so much. He was so good to you.
His hand, large and warm, came up to cradle the back of your head, and he slowly rocked from side to side, soothing you with a quiet “shh” as he let you cry. He didn’t inundate you with questions, although he did want to know what had you weeping so brokenly in his arms. It made his heart ache.
You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the entryway. It could’ve been a few minutes. It could’ve been a whole hour. But the comfort his embrace brought you was welcome. It calmed you down considerably.
After a while, you finally pulled back, lifting your face from his now tear-soaked shirt. His expression was soft, his lashes fluttering as he lifted his hand to dry what was left of your tears.
“Somebody make you cry?” He asked. He’d give them what-for if they had.
“I-it’s just…oh, it’s everything,” you whimpered. “Work sucked today, I felt like I was in fuckin’ purgatory. I don’t…I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”
Rhett sighed softly. Seeing you in pain made him feel so powerless. While he knew that he was providing you comfort, he still wished he could take all the hurt away. You didn’t deserve any of it. “I’m sorry.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead.
And then, “Let me take care of ya. ‘ve already got dinner started. How does a bath sound? I’ll get ya set up and then finish dinner so you can eat.”
“Good,” you whispered, as if you couldn’t find the strength to speak louder.
With a nod, Rhett set to work. “C’mon, let’s get you out of all these layers.”
He began carefully undoing your coat, which he removed from your body and promptly hung on the little coat rack by the door. Then he pulled your hat off your head and placed it on the pegboard that also housed different sets of keys.
He guided you to sit down on the bench near the shoe organizer, and there, he knelt before you, unlacing your boots. You watched him so tenderly, so reverently, care for you, and again, you felt yourself welling up with tears.
You hadn’t retained much from the time you’d spent growing up in church, aside from some trauma and a distaste for religion. But one Bible verse in particular popped into your head as you watched your husband remove your shoes. Most men will proclaim every one his own goodness: But a faithful man who can find?
Rhett never asked for anything. He never bragged about himself or his accomplishments. He was good and kind. A little rough around the edges, but he treated you like royalty, and respected you deeply. He was faithful to you, and to the homestead you had built together. He didn’t wander. He didn’t seek intimacy in the arms of another. He was anchored to you, for better or worse.
And now he was guiding you up the stairs and to the bedroom, his arm secure around your waist, part of him always touching you. Grounding you. He guided you to sit on the bed, leaving a kiss against the top of your head before he sauntered over to the dresser to choose some pajamas for you.
You were in a haze, brought on by the rush of emotions you had experienced. Sleepy from crying, frazzled from your stress. You were lucky that Rhett was there to help you, because you felt so pathetic and incapable of caring for yourself in this state. You could manage alone if you had to, but you didn’t have to. As long as your husband was around, you’d never have to worry about being alone.
“You want to wear these, or these?” He asked, holding up a set of Christmas pajamas that were your own, and a pair of sweatpants and one of his Henleys.
Of course, you chose the sweats and his shirt, because you wanted to be entirely surrounded by everything that was him.
With your pajamas picked out, he guided you to the bathroom, where he had you sit upon the closed toilet seat while he began filling the tub, making sure the water was the perfect temperature. In the process, he grabbed the little space heater you kept in the bedroom, and he set it up in the corner of the bathroom, to warm up the cold tiles so you wouldn’t catch a chill.
You smiled fondly at his attentiveness. “I love you,” you spoke.
He paused, his face softening, his eyes fluttering. “And I love you, pun’kin.” He kissed the top of your head before he motioned for you to stand. There, he began undressing you, and you allowed him to, because you didn’t have the energy to do it yourself.
After the bath was filled, and the bubbles were in, he guided you into the water. “I’m gonna’ go finish makin’ us dinner, alright?”
But you frowned at that. “No, wan’ you to get in with me.”
“And I’d love to get in with ya, but you haven’t eaten anything since your lunch break, right?”
Sheepishly, you nodded. “Since 11:30 actually.”
“Uh-huh, exactly. That’s why I’m feedin’ you dinner. Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ my baby starve.” Another kiss was left upon your head. “Just relax and enjoy your bath. I’ll be back in a few to help ya get dressed. Then we can eat.”
That piqued your interest. “Can we watch a holiday movie?” You asked.
He hummed, a twinkle in his eye. “‘course we can, sweet thing.”
As he turned to leave, you spoke up. “Hey, Rhett?”
In the doorway, he turned. “Hm?”
“Thank you for takin’ care of me.”
He shook his head. “That ain’t somethin’ you need to thank me for. Carin’ for you is my job, and I’m always gonna do it.”
What a man he was. Once he left the room, you found yourself reflecting upon how blessed you were to have him. When you’d first met him, he was a broken man with so much love to give, but no one to bestow it upon, except for his niece. But she wasn’t his child, so he found himself holding back, because even though he didn’t agree with the way his brother parented her, he didn’t want to overstep.
Of course, he would’ve made a better father to Amy than Perry ever could. But that was neither here nor there. Now, Rhett barely spoke to his brother. For his own well-being, he’d cut ties with Royal and Perry. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he was better now because of it.
There were behaviors he’d worked hard to unlearn after he entered into a relationship with you. Trouble communicating and processing his emotions was the most glaring issue. Those first few years together were no picnic. You had argued often. All you asked for was for him to be open and honest with you. He bucked against it like an untamed horse. The thought of being exposed and vulnerable in that way terrified him.
He didn’t want you to see the wounded, ugly parts of him. Didn’t want you to see him cry, because his father had drilled into his head that showing emotion was feminine. Men don’t cry, he’d tell his son. It was simply because he didn’t want to deal with Rhett’s emotional nature.
Rhett, who had always been a sensitive soul, learned to hide that sensitivity early on. Don’t cry, for fear of being told “I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.”
In recent years, since Amy was born, Royal had softened a bit. But he was still just as hard on his youngest son. Rhett was the workhorse. The dependable one. The one who would grit his teeth and get the job done without complaining.
And God forbid if he tried to complain. Royal wasn’t one for physical violence, it just wasn’t in his nature. But when Rhett was seventeen years old, he’d gotten fed up with the verbal lashing from his father. It was the first time he’d really tried to stand up for himself and tell Royal to shove it, in not-so-delicate terms. But it hadn’t ended well. Royal had backhanded Rhett so hard he saw stars, and ended up with a bloody lip.
The man had felt bad about his reaction, but the thing about Royal Abbott was, he didn’t apologize. It wasn’t in his nature. Rhett couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever heard ‘I’m sorry’ come out of his father’s mouth.
That moment was what made Rhett realize he couldn’t stay in such a toxic environment. He longed to leave the confines of the Abbott Ranch behind and pave his own way. But that was easier said than done. A sense of responsibility to his family kept him chained down to Wabang. He seemed to be destined to spend the rest of his days as a bull rider, living in his father’s shadow, busting his ass and receiving nothing in return.
And then he met you.
You made him believe there was more to life. You made him believe he could chase his dreams and achieve them. You made him believe in himself.
He had learned so much from you. And through you, he had found freedom. You were the first person, aside from Amy, who’d ever truly believed in him. And here he’d spend the better part of ten years pining after a girl named Maria, who had never and would never return his affection
He remembered being so glad when she returned to town after being at college for the last few years. He thought maybe things would be different. Maybe she would see him for who he was and finally reciprocate his feelings.
But all she’d done was string him along and make him feel like shit for never leaving Wabang. In the end, she lost any interest she might’ve had in Rhett, leaving him dejected.
And then you showed up. You were new in town. Your grandparents had just bought a new house in Florida, but still had yet to successfully sell their ranch. While they transitioned to a new house in a new state, they asked you if you would be willing to stay at their place until it sold. Dissatisfied with your current job and living situation, you agreed.
Soon, you found yourself in an unfamiliar town in Wyoming, the last place you ever thought you’d be. You got a job through Amelia Elementary School, teaching piano. One of your students was Amy Abbott, and this was how you met her uncle, Rhett.
You should have known it from the second you saw him. He appeared rough and tumble, but when he introduced himself to you, his eyes, bright and blue, were soft, and you swore you saw the hint of a blush in the apples of his cheeks.
That was what did you in. There was a softness to him that tugged on your heartstrings. You had Amy twice a week for lessons. Rhett picked her up each time, and you found yourself looking forward to seeing him.
Over the course of the next few months, he swallowed his fear of rejection and worked up the courage to ask you to go for coffee. Rhett wasn’t a fan of the fancy lattes and whatnot that Two Horns Coffee sold in downtown Wabang, but he’d noticed you often had a coffee cup from the place in hand, and he wanted to take you somewhere you liked.
That was how he found himself seated in a quaint little cafe that totally wasn’t his style, in favor of getting to know you. That day, you talked for hours, until the coffee shop employees were shooing you out because it was closing time. And after that, you walked through the town and continued talking.
Rhett wasn’t loud or boisterous or pompous. He was quiet and gentle. He was shy, which surprised you. He seemed so confident, but really, it was all a front. Everyone perceived him a certain way. He was the promiscuous bull rider with a new buckle bunny in his bed every night.
But that couldn’t be further from the truth. He admitted to you that he hadn’t slept with anyone since Maria a few months ago, and before her, the last time anyone had been in his bed was the night of his 21st birthday. Some girl he barely knew.
His family’s perception of his promiscuity stemmed from that instance, where Royal had caught the girl sneaking off early in the morning. Since then, Rhett hadn’t been able to live it down. In the minds of his family, he was the man-whoring problem child.
Rhett never bothered to correct them, because what was the use?
But when you looked at him, you saw him. The real him. Shy and slightly awkward. Fidgety, unable to sit still. Kind and loving. Determined.
He liked that. He felt seen and heard with you. He never felt like a burden. And because of this, he found himself drawn to you more and more. Soon enough, a romance blossomed between you. While it had its ups and downs, there was no doubt in each other’s minds that this was it. You were bonded for the rest of your lives.
Your wedding came not long after. An intimate occasion with your closest friends and family. A beautiful ceremony in the mountains. After that, you moved into the home you’d been staying in since you moved to Wabang. As it turned out, your grandparents’ little ranch never sold, which left you and Rhett to move into it.
You offered to pay in full for it, but your grandparents wouldn’t hear of it, insisting it was your wedding gift. The house did, however, need a lot of renovations, and that was where a lot of your money went.
Since then, you had turned the house into everything you’d always dreamed of, and you’d started a wholesome life within its walls.
Here Rhett was, thinking he needed to leave Wabang. But in reality, it wasn’t his hometown that he needed to distance himself from. Miraculously, his mental well-being increased tenfold when he escaped from beneath Royal’s thumb and started living his own life.
And that was the thing of it, too. Rhett had a purpose here, on your little ranch. He could cultivate that intrinsic need to take care of things. He could take care of the land. He could take care of the animals. The only animals you had were your horse, Marabel, and Rhett’s horse, Esmeralda. But he had hopes of one day opening a horse sanctuary on your land.
That was his dream. Not professional bull riding, like he’d spent so long trying to convince himself of. He loved horses, and wanted to do everything he could to help the animals that had always meant so much to him.
He was working toward making that dream a reality. And someday soon, it would be.
It was amazing to see the difference in him, since he’d started chasing after what he loved. He was no longer a man chained down to a life he didn’t want. He’d found a sense of freedom, and now, he was happier than he’d ever been.
Yes, he had you to thank for it. But really, the determination to live a better life came from him. You were simply the one that lit the fire beneath him. Now he was a roaring flame, burning brighter than the sun.
You were so proud of how far he’d come. And he was proud of himself, too. He had every right to be.
He’d taken his ranch expertise and found a job at a horse ranch just outside of town. This allowed him to continuously be around the animals that he loved, while also making money. The owner was quite well off, and was paying Rhett handsomely.
For the first time in his life, he was making a steady income, and he could provide for not only himself, but for you as well. You had your own job, and could hold your own, of course. But Rhett liked knowing he could take care of you. And you appreciated it. Coming from a family who’d never uttered so much as a thank you for all he did, it was refreshing to have someone express their unending gratitude for his care.
Something as simple as making you grilled cheese for dinner made his heart soar, because after a difficult day, you were depending on him to care and provide for you. And he’d be damned if he was going to let you fend for yourself.
Watching you struggle had been hard for him. He hated seeing you in such a state of unrest. The changing of the seasons didn’t help, either. You were always hit with a bad wave of seasonal depression as soon as the clocks fell back. The early darkness made you sad.
So Rhett did all he could to help you bear that burden. And tonight, he was determined to help you feel better. While you enjoyed your bath, he set to work finishing up dinner preparations. A little while later, with sandwiches at the ready and the living room set up with blankets and pillows, he rejoined you in the bathroom.
“Hey, pun’kin. Y’ready?” He asked.
You smiled sleepily at him. “Mhm.”
So, he began the process of helping you out of the tub. He toweled you off, and then reverently smoothed your favorite lotion onto your skin. You were in a state of bliss as his large, but gentle, hands traveled over your body. He aided you in changing into your pajamas, and then he pulled a pair of cozy socks onto your feet.
“C’mon now, let’s go eat ‘fore it gets cold.”
With that, he bent to shut off the space heater before he guided you out of the bathroom and down the stairs. When you walked into the living room, you couldn’t help but smile. He’d spread multiple blankets and pillows across the couch, creating a soft, cozy resting place. The fireplace was roaring, the low lights were on, and when you glanced at the window, you saw the snow was now falling in white sheets, making you feel as if you were inside a snow globe.
“Oh, this is perfect,” you whispered.
Rhett beamed. “Go on, have a seat. I’ll get ya a drink. What do you want? Coke Zero? Some sweet tea?”
“Tea, please!” You quickly replied. One of the things Rhett could make besides grilled cheese was a mean sweet tea. Not too sweet, with just enough tea flavor that it wasn’t overpowering. It was your favorite.
“Comin’ right up, chickadee.”
As you settled into the soft blankets on the couch, Rhett hurried to grab drinks for both of you. Soon, he was rejoining you, presenting you with a glass of tea, complete with a straw. You thanked him, and he smiled before he set about selecting a holiday movie. The 1947 version of Miracle on 34th Street was his choice, and soon, you were cuddled up together as the opening credits rolled, enjoying your dinner of grilled cheese.
And just for a little while, things didn’t seem so bad. The harsh reality of life was dulled if only for a time, softened by the sweet delicateness of this moment shared between you.
After you finished your food, you curled into Rhett’s side, your head on his shoulder. Content, he rested his cheek atop your head. You knew it was inevitable that he’d fall asleep. With a full tummy, and a cozy couch beneath him, he was sure to doze off. Rhett liked to stay busy, so during moments when he wasn’t, such as sitting down to watch a movie, he would almost always fall asleep. Years of being a workin’ man will do that to a body.
He expected you to fall asleep, too. You’d had such a difficult day, and he was fully prepared to spend the rest of the night asleep on the couch with you.
However, you were still wide awake as the movie neared the ending. Instead of drowsiness, you were filled with immense gratefulness. Rhett had come home from a long day of working in the cold, and had prepared you dinner and ran you a bath, simply because you’d had a bad day. He didn’t have to do such things, but he wanted to.
He didn’t expect you to turn cartwheels and thank him in some dramatic way, but as you lay curled against him, you were struck with an idea. Albeit a mischievous one.
You shifted, moving to glance at him. He was barely awake, his big, round eyes droopy. But then you began to nuzzle against him, kissing his jaw lightly. At first, he didn’t think anything of it. But then, one of your hands worked its way beneath the hem of his shirt, rubbing at the skin there.
“Your hands are wanderin’,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
“I know,” you replied with a smile.
“What’re you doin’, girl?” He continued as your hand went toward his chest.
“Can’t I touch my man?”
“Sure y’can. But with you there’s always some ulterior motive. Little tease.”
He let out the softest of surprised squeaks when you tweaked his nipples, feeling them harden beneath your touch. “Not teasing. Just exploring.” Your lips attached to his jaw again, where you kissed and nipped at the scruffy skin.
He began to melt beneath you, always a sucker for your loving touch. Your wandering hand trailed down his abdomen, and stopped just above the waistband of his plaid lounge pants.
“Darlin’…” he warned, as your fingers swirled through the light dusting of hair that led down into his pants.
“What?” Deft fingers traveled beneath the band of elastic. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath, which pleased you greatly, and gave you easy access. You brushed against the base of his cock, gripping onto it purposefully. He sucked in a breath, his hips jolting.
“Just wanted to thank you,” you hummed against his neck. “Always take such good care of me. Thought I’d take care of you.”
You stroked him once. Twice. Palm running over silky skin. You longed to feel him grow in your hand. It was so erotic to you. Holding that thick, beautiful cock of his while it swelled to full hardness.
“Wanna see it,” you spoke again.
Rhett lifted his hips off the couch and haphazardly pushed his pants down toward his thighs. That was all you needed. His lower half was exposed, just enough for you to free him from the confines. Your mouth watered at the sight, and you languidly ran your hand up and down, resting your head on his chest as you watched him harden.
God, you wanted to worship him. So that was what you did.
You turned, moving to trail kisses down his smooth chest, stopping to leave a kiss against the raised scar that sat upon his shoulder. An unfortunate accident with a bull some years back.
Then you went lower, lower, lower. Hands exploring, lips traveling. Soon, you were kneeling between his strong thighs, gazing up at him. You tugged his pants the rest of the way down, discarding them entirely so you could have uninhibited access.
“S’pretty,” you hummed, as you admired him. It took him a moment to realize you were talking about his cock. His cheeks turned a shade of pink. But his bashfulness was soon forgotten when you leaned forward and began kissing along the underside of his shaft, from base to tip, offering tentative kitten licks as you went.
He watched as you rubbed your cheek against him, nuzzling him as you kissed at his sensitive balls. You wanted to take a moment to truly appreciate what was before you. Standing tall and proud, something Rhett had every right to boast about if he wanted.
But he didn’t. And that was where you came in, talking him up because you loved the way it rendered him speechless and blushing.
“So big, I don’t know how it even fits inside me,” you mused. And it was the truth. But he was careful when he fucked you, never wanting to hurt you. Of course, that didn’t mean he was gentle. He had his gentle moments when you needed them, but he also had his moments where he fucked you within an inch of your life. You loved the balance. And you loved that he was mindful of what your body could handle. He’d never push you past your limits. Getting you to safeword was not the end goal. He wanted you to be able to enjoy intense scenes, without being pushed too far to the point where it took you out of the moment.
Together, you had built a steady trust in each other, with boundaries put in place. Even in the midst of those scenes, you felt safe with Rhett. Protected. Even in the throes of intense passion, he was still looking out for you.
But sometimes, something simple was all you needed. Like now, for instance. Lazily mouthing at his dick, relishing in the sharp saltiness on your tongue, and the deep muskiness that could only be described as Rhett. There was something so manly about it, and it sent a needy ache thrumming through your core.
Meanwhile, Rhett was blissed out above you, torn between admiring you between his legs, and letting his head fall back against the couch as he relished in the feeling of your warm, wet mouth. Sinful and heavenly all at once.
After spending time kissing and licking at him, you finally moved to focus on his tip, blushed and glimmering in the low light. Eyes flickering up to meet his hooded gaze, you parted your lips and very slowly began to swirl your tongue around him. Making a show of it, you focused your attention on the slit, tongue flicking back and forth until you were rewarded with a bead of precum, which you eagerly lapped up.
“Oh, oh darlin’,” he breathed, hands gripping at the blankets beneath him. “You an’ that mouth of yours.”
You hummed around him, closing your lips around the tip and suckling softly before you began inching your way down. Being able to deep-throat him had taken practice. You remembered the way he reacted when you first took all of him. Unbeknownst to him, you’d been using a toy that was roughly the same size as him, training your throat to be able to take him.
Now you could take him like a champ, and it drove him wild.
Slowly, slowly, you took more of him, relaxing your throat, until your nose was pressed against the gathering of dark hair around the base. He kept himself neatly groomed, but left just enough behind because he knew how much you loved it.
“‘at’s it, atta girl,” he graveled, fighting the urge to place his hand atop your head and hold you in place. But he would soon quickly lose that air of dominance to you.
You swallowed around him, which stole the air from his lungs, before you pulled back, kissing at the tip, wet with your spit. As you took a moment to catch your breath, you brought a hand up to toy with his heavy balls.
“Ha!” He gasped, and you couldn’t help but grin.
“Sensitive?” You asked.
“Uh-huh,” he answered. “Ain’t had ‘em played with in a while.”
“Oh, honey,” you cooed, mouth still against the soft skin of his cock. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I? Haven’t played with these big sensitive balls. Haven’t milked the cum out of them in so long.”
“F-fuck!” You’d taken him all the way to the hilt again without warning.
It was true. It had been a while. It had been a crazy few weeks for both of you, and you hadn’t had time to really enjoy each other in the way that you wanted. A few quickies here and there hadn’t satisfied that burning desire you held for one another.
Rhett didn’t like getting off without you. Sometimes, he would, if he was ever out of town or vice versa. But he much preferred being with you. He craved you. Fantasized about you. Wanted only you. His hand didn’t cut it. Your mouth and pussy were what he wanted.
And oh, how good your mouth was. You knew exactly how to pleasure him. Knew he loved when you swirled your tongue against the underside of his tip, where he was most sensitive. Knew he couldn’t get enough of your hands on his balls while you took him down your throat. Knew he loved when you rubbed your face all over his dick.
When you pulled your mouth off of him again, you rubbed the tip all over your lips, kissing softly, humming against him. Then you went back to tonguing the underside, and he gasped sharply, hips jolting.
You took that opportunity to close your mouth around him and let him slide naturally to the back of your throat again. You used your other hand to massage down his shaft as you pulled back up, never leaving him without a moment of stimulation.
“Y’ keep doin’ that and I won’t last,” he warned.
“That’s the idea,” you replied with a smile.
He moaned softly, letting his head fall back as you swallowed around him. This time, you stayed down longer, gulping as you did, and the sound drove him wild. You were drooling all over him, pulling out all the stops to bring him to the edge.
And it was working. He was so pent up, and you both knew he wasn’t going to last. He’d begun to tremble, his thighs shaking at either side of your head. His hands clenched and unclenched around the blankets he held. His hips had begun to move of their own volition.
“You’re squirming,” you teased.
“Ca-can’t help it,” he stammered. “Your—fuck—your mouth is so g— ah!”
He couldn’t even get the words out. You kept pressing your tongue against that damn spot, knowing it would get him all worked up. He was losing his coherence the longer it went on. Mumbled half phrases, with gasps and whines mixed in. It was so easy to work him up like this. He was always so responsive.
Interestingly enough, he hadn’t always been like this. In the beginning, he’d been more reserved. He was shy about the sounds he made. Ashamed of his whines and whimpers. He was holding back, and you could tell. So, little by little, you encouraged him to be more vocal.
“Wanna hear you. Wanna know it feels good for you,” you’d told him, and he hadn’t really thought of it that way. As much as he loved hearing you and knowing he was making you feel good, he realized you also wanted the same thing from him.
It took him a little while to feel confident enough to freely make those sounds of pleasure, but once he finally got past that hurdle, you couldn’t shut him up if you tried. Not that you wanted to, either.
There was something about this man of few words being unable to remain silent that really got to you. You’d expected him to be all gravelly grunts and groans. And he was. But he whimpered, too. A lot. Especially when you got him feeling really good.
He was so easy to rile up. Whether he was assuming the dominant or submissive role, or just simply making love to you with no kinky games involved. Get him close to orgasm, and sounds would pour from his throat uncontrollably.
Like now, for instance. He was so beautiful this way. His whole body trembling, his eyes rolling back, his mouth open to let out unsteady gasps. You loved how you could reduce him to such a state. This strong, steady man, who’d just so tenderly taken care of you, was now trying to hold it together so he wouldn’t come too soon.
But you wanted it. “Nuh-uh, don’t you hold back,” you told him.
He took a shuddering breath. “Honey…”
“C’mon,” you coaxed, wrapping your fingers around him and stroking quickly. “Know you wanna come in my mouth, wanna watch me swallow all of it.”
And oh, he did. One thing about Rhett was that he loved watching you take his cum. Whether it be smeared across your pretty face, painted onto your chest, dripping out of your pussy, or in your mouth.
Right now, you wanted it in your mouth. And you were determined to get it. Keeping your tongue right against his tip, you tightened your grip on him only slightly, moving your hand with purpose. Your other hand was at his balls again, massaging in time with the hand on his shaft.
His eyes swam with unshed tears, and he gritted his teeth, breathing harshly through his nose. Warmth was beginning to crackle to life at the base of his spine, as if you’d just lit a fuse.
You pulled out all the stops, taking him to the hilt again before you resumed that pleasurable torture against his tip. Alternating back and forth, bringing him closer and closer and closer to the edge, watching through hooded eyes as he lost himself, chest heaving, body trembling.
“C-close,” he gasped.
“Come down my throat,” you urged, before you placed his cock against your tongue, stroking hard and fast as you brought him toward his end.
Rhett gazed down at you, and you caught his eye, your face pleading as you eagerly awaited his load. He could barely take the sight, and he threw his head back, groaning deeply. “F-fuck, darlin’, I’m—”
And then he whined. Keening high in his chest, his hips shunted forward. You could feel him pulse beneath your touch, and in an instant, you closed your mouth around him, creating a seal so that nothing would escape. You took all he had to give, swallowing every last drop of his seed like the good girl you were, all while he gasped and whined and softly sobbed above you.
As he came down, he twitched in your mouth, the sensitivity mounting. He hissed as you pulled off his cock, sucking any remnants of cum from his skin before you released the softening shaft. You pressed a gently kiss to the tip before you innocently looked up at him.
Breathlessly, he swore. “Get up here,” he murmured, and you smiled, climbing up into his lap. He searched for your lips, and you kissed him, letting him taste himself on your tongue. “Mm, nearly sucked m’ soul outta me,” he teased.
“That was the idea,” you said with a giggle.
He leaned in to kiss you again. His eyes were droopy, sleepiness evident in his features. “Should return the favor,” he continued when he broke the kiss, but you shook your head.
“Uh-uh, that was my way of thanking you for taking care of me. We’re even.”
“But I wan’...” he paused to yawn, “wan’ make you feel good, too.”
“Tomorrow,” you promised. “For now, let’s just rest.” Another kiss was pressed to his lips before you reluctantly slid off him to retrieve his pants from the floor. You had just enough time to pull them onto his body before he had fallen asleep.
Lovingly, you brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead before you settled down beside him, pulling the blanket over you both. “I love you, cowboy,” you whispered, as you nestled yourself against his side. How grateful you were for him. This good and kind man was all yours. You silently thanked the universe for giving him to you.
And sure enough, the next morning, you woke to his head between your thighs, sending you to a place of absolute, unadulterated bliss.
summary: Joel wants you to come live in Jackson. With him, maybe. But you are stubborn.
warnings: reader's eyesight it failing, two people sickeningly in love, argument and conflict, miscommunication but only very slightly, mentions of canon typical violence, isolation and loneliness, anxiety, fear of being trapped, referenced past torture, reader's age is ambiguous
a/n: this is partially based around the abandoned plot thread from tlou2 where Joel has a partner outside Jackson. thank you for reading! let me know what you think!
There’s a storm coming.
It’s something you feel in your bones, a particular stirring in the air, the smell of ozone electric and pressing on the breeze.
You had always been able to tell when a storm was coming, though the signs you looked for used to echo differently. The smell and caress of the air always, but the shift of the trees too, the underside of leaves thrown to the sky, their veined bellies like the flash of a warning signal.
When the air goes still and soft and silent, there are mere minutes, moments, to take shelter.
Pressing at your memory is like pressing on a bruise, it yields nothing but pain. You’d like to believe someone crouched beside you as a child and pointed the trimmings of the world and its secrets out to you, but you very much doubt it.
The other signs would come later of course, the more obvious ones, great purple clouds blackened at their edges, like a great wave that sought to swallow the world down the long column of its throat.
The sky isn’t clouded yet, just a few dark gray, fuzzed, puffs, but there’s a stirring in the wind, the shuffle of leaves that you sense might be turning over, might be offering themselves to the rain.
You aren’t sure, the horizon is a mass of furred emerald green and brightest blue, suggestions of color and shape and nothing more to your failing eyesight.
Most of the world is a tempestuous blur, blocking and light, shapes and the vague notions of objects, shambling figures, but nothing more, not unless whatever you’re trying to look at is right beneath your nose.
It’s impossible to know why your eyesight started to go, though you can pinpoint when it started to get really bad. Maybe it's just the genetic lottery at play, something passed down through a family tree. You can only trace it back one person, your mother who died before she ever had the chance to lose her vision. Or, maybe, because of the gunpowder once thrown in your face back in the QZ, back when you still thought there was a better world worth fighting for, the black caress of it in your nose and lungs, the burn in your eyes.
When you could still get a good look at yourself in the mirror, you swore the whites of your eyes were gray with the stuff, even all these years later.
You hadn’t thought there was a better world to fight for so much as you needed something to hope for, something to fill the slow, crawling hours, the day by day, piece by piece devastation of the reality of everyday life. Not the Fireflies as Tommy Miller once had been, something revealed to you over tea in your kitchen after you almost blew his head off with a shotgun for creeping around on your porch, but a different group, one that had long ago fallen apart in a QZ that no longer existed.
The air doesn’t smell of rain yet, that morning, just the whisper of the leaves, only a promise of what might come.
For the moment, the sky appears a bright blue, rain clouds only a suggestion on the horizon, morning sun peeking through to burn away the fog left by the night’s cold humidity. \
Rifle in hand, you sit down on the top step of your front porch and breathe in the still chilled air. Fingers of dawn turn the horizon a milky pink. The pistol holstered at your side digs into your hip, so you lie it at your side.
It rained through the night, the world is still a little damp for it, the overgrown grass most likely covered in a dew you aren’t able to see.
The world is still partially caught in the web of night, those sore hours just after the sun has risen and shadows still lie thick between the trees, close to the ground at the bottom of the earth.
You set about taking apart the gun in your hands, cleaning the parts as you go, examining them for signs of wear, of red spotted rust by holding them close to your face.
The day lightens as you work, waiting, spine aching where you’re hunched over, as the clouds gather and the air grows warm and thick with the scent of too familiar rain.
The clouds had cleared through the night just to return and dump on you again, muddying trails, downing branches.
It makes a nerve twinge in your chest, a fluttery anxious feeling that you bat down.
The chatter of insects, the thready trails of thousands of animals suddenly fall silent, noise that hums in the background unnoticed until it suddenly stops. You rely on it, to warn you of someone, something approaching. You listen carefully, fingers shifting to the pistol, quietly pulling back the hammer. Eventually the sound of a horse drawing near reaches your ears, the slight jangle of the rider adjusting in the saddle.
Whispering through the overgrown weeds that choke the back beneath the copse of trees.
A moment later, the horse and rider appear from between the trees. Your eyesight is so poor it should be impossible to tell who is approaching, but you recognize the shape of the man, the blurry outline of him somehow more clear than anything else.
“Quit pointin’ that thing at me,” he grouses, though you have already lowered the gun and though there is affection shelved in his voice.
“You’d be dead if I meant you any harm.”
“Don’t doubt it, sweetheart.”
You stand and shoulder the rifle, shove the pistol into the holster at your thigh, and descend the porch steps into the yard.
The wind is picking up, rustling the world, warmth stroked air stirring around you, scented with pine and rain, the soft, leather, wood oil smell of Joel.
“Hi Joel,” You greet, reaching out to stroke his horse, nosing at the grass at the base of one tree. She makes a soft grunting noise, the vibration of it echoing against your fingers.
“Mornin’,” he answers. “You smell like coffee.”
“I brewed some for you. It’s inside.”
“Didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, you gave it to me, it's only right I share.”
He steps closer and plucks at the shoulder strap of your rifle. You can just feel the pressure of his fingers through your jacket as he takes it from you and slings it over his own. There’s something gravitational about him, the pull of the earth against the moon, tugging you in until you’re close enough to see his features clearly.
Anyone else would find the proximity uncomfortable, but not him, not with you. He knows you like to see, and doesn’t begrudge you his face, though he has insisted it's nothing to look at anyway.
His breath fans over your cheek as he looks you over, gaze a careful assessment of your wellbeing that isn’t entirely necessary.
You reach out and tug the strap of the rifle as he’d done to you. “Come inside,” you murmur, tipping your head toward the house. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Now hold on a minute,” he says, curling his hand around yours, keeping it pressed around the rough cotton rifle strap.
“What?”
He cups your face in his palms, his skin warm against your jaw, looks you over again before tilting your chin toward him gently. Joel kisses you like it means something to be able to. His beard scrapes against your cheeks, fingers tightening against your jaw for just a moment. You choke on the nearness of him, bracing your hand against his chest. The fabric of his coat beneath your fingertips, the silver curl of hair that you stroke behind his ear, the smell of pine and cedar and warm gun oil, is familiar now and so comforting.
Overwhelming, too, in a way that you adore.
It’s possible that your infatuation with him is because you’ve been isolated for so long, but you don’t think so.
There’s too much about him that you like, things you have never noticed about other people.
You like the way he talks, his deep tug of his accent, the bottomless well of his voice and occasional regionalisms he spouts off. Dagum, being your favorite so far. You like the way back of his hands look and the age spots near his temples; the gray hair in his beard, and the way the skin at the small of his back looks when his shirt rides up; the way he smells and grits his teeth and shakes his head when he’s angry, but really just worried and not good at saying so.
You really like how he worries about you, even if you wish he wouldn’t.
It’s been such a long time since anyone cared about you.
You’d forgotten this need, to be looked over and cared for and touched, in the intervening years.
“All right,” you whisper when he pulls back, eyes still closed just to have the sensation last a bit longer, his lips still brushing yours, just a little. His hair feathers against your forehead, face tilted towards yours like the north point of a star. With some pain, you open your eyes, blinking until the map of his face comes into focus again, a highway of scars and weather lines. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”
Joel snorts and releases you, crow’s feet deepening at the corners of his eyes with mirth, nudging you back toward the house. “I reckon you’re right.”
You caught him at a good time, Tommy once said to you. My brother ain’t always been so easy.
“I have somethin’ for you,” Joel says, hand against the small of your back, guiding but only lightly. He pauses briefly to hitch the horse in the open air stable, dilapidated but still useful.
With Joel there, you don’t have to pay attention as much. You can let your strained eyes unfocus. The world takes on a softened, wavered quality, like undulating sunshine through stained glass.
The gathering of rapidly purpling clouds gather at the edge of your vision. For the moment, the breeze caressing your face remains soft instead of cutting, the deep green of the furred boughs of ancient pine trees dancing with it. A rabbit darts into the undergrowth around the house ahead of you, a white-gray blur.
You only know which animal the ball of color amounted to because it is so often what you find in your traps.
You think Joel probably knows you give your eyes a rest when he’s around because he offers his hand up the steps, even though you don’t need the assistance, muscle memory and the feel of the railing beneath your palm enough to guide you even in the total dark of night. It’s a good excuse to touch him again, feel the bones of his fingers between your own.
“You do?” You ask. “More whiskey, I hope.”
He chuckles and pushes the ragged screen door open. “Watch yourself here,” he directs and pulls you in front of him, squeezing your fingers again but not letting go until you’ve cleared the raised frame of the door.
“I got it.”
“I know.”
The cabin is warm, the spiral of wind from the front of the house to the back, turning more violent as the storm brewing moves ever closer. Joel hangs his backpack from the back of a kitchen chair, leans your rifle against the door jamb and unholsters his own pistol. The safety is clicked on and the gun laid on the sideboard by the door.
You like watching him, even if his outline is fuzzy at the edges. You hop up onto the counter and swing your legs, watching him.
Every movement of his body is fit with purpose, intentional and lethal. He pays attention to things, even when it seems like he might not be. He’s handsome, too, of course. Beautiful in a way that you will pencil down on paper later, laden with interesting lines that move with each expression.
“You’re outta firewood,” he says when he sits down to tug his shoes off one at a time.
“We’re heading into summer in case you forgot.”
“Still gets cold at night,” he says, unraveling the laces of his left boot, not looking at you.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says, rising from the table with a grunt to place his boots neatly by the front door.
You roll your eyes, “I can do it.”
“I know it. I want to.”
He dusts his hands off on the thighs of his jeans and approaches you slowly. You reach out and tug him closer by the collar of his jacket, pulling the zipper down before glancing into his face again when its descent reaches the middle of his chest. “I mean,” you meet his eyes, click your tongue in sympathy, “unless it’s too cold for you in here—” you murmur and start to drag it back up again.
“Cute,” he snips, unholstering your gun to place on the counter, hands on your hips.
“Well, I’m being serious, Joel. I’m just thinking of you—” You slide your hand to the back of his neck and pull him that much closer. “I might be feeling a little warm but if you’re—”
He rolls his eyes in such an annoyed and familiar way it makes your chest ache. He returns your hand to the zipper of his jacket and you happily indulge him by pulling it back down, razor teeth coming apart in your hands.
There’s a shush of fabric as the jacket falls away from his body and hits the floor, your hands already occupied with other things, touching the bare skin of his wrists, tracing the thick veins that run beneath his skin to his elbows, feeling the flex of his forearms. He is thankfully only wearing a t-shirt beneath to contend with the warmth that, with luck, will be driven away by the rain drawing closer.
It’s practical of him, to cover his skin. Protection from the sun and the elements and the looming possibility of life ending teeth digging into the soft flesh, but you like him like this better.
His palms are warm and dry in yours, the heat familiar and comforting against your own.
“A storm is coming,” you say.
“That it is.”
“Were the leaves turned over when you rode up?”
“Yep.”
“Your hands are dry. Have you been using that ointment I gave you?”
“Nope.”
“Joel,” you chide. “That hurts my feelings.” You had hunted for herbs, sought out and meticulously cleaned a little tin. And he—
“I gave it to Ellie. She went on patrol when it was real windy. Face and hands was all red. Helped her a lot.”
“Oh.”
It’s a bigger compliment, maybe, that he had given it to Ellie. You have no proof that he isn’t lying, but you don’t think he is.
“Uh-huh,” his eyes are amused. “Besides, how else am I supposed to get you to fuss over me?”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I fuss plenty,” you murmur, sweeping your thumb over the rough skin. You nudge your knees against his hips, tucking him in closer to the cradle of your hips. “Let me help you.”
Joel kisses you instead of answering, hand cupped against the side of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You draw your knees in tighter, urging him as close as he can get. His hand slips beneath your shirt, palm flat against your back, tracing the ridges and hills of spine and muscle and fat.
His fingertips skim the hem of your jeans, grip your hips and move you forward to the very edge of the counter. You gasp against his mouth and then laugh when he steadies you. You feel his grin against yours, a strange kind of intimacy accompanies that, that you know the shape of his laugh.
It sickens you sometimes, how much you like Joel, how much you might love him, how much you look forward to his visits and these moments. How you worried he might not make it to you because of the impending rain and the accompanying mud.
Your reality is left behind for moments or minutes or hours; it's just you and him in a quiet world. He groans softly when you cup him through his jeans, dragging your nails against the rough denim.
He groans and drags you ever closer, hands slipping higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You arch into him, but when thunder suddenly cracks overhead, you break away with a gasp.
He laughs, the sound hoarse and desperate, caught up in the center of his chest.
You just pant against his mouth, eyes closed, and pull back a fraction. You comb his hair back, feel the strands slip through your fingers, longer than it once was, grayer too, soft under your fingers. You trace his face, aware that it might be your only way of seeing him in the not too distant future. If he continues to visit you, if he still wants you.
“It scared me,” you reproach softly, still cupping his face in your hands, the weight of his head in your palms.
He doesn't move, hands still firm and warm against your spine, thumbs stroking circles into the space beneath your ribs. “I got you.”
“My hero,” you pat his side. “I’ll get you some coffee if you shut the door.”
“That ain’t really a fair trade,” he grouses.
“Sure it is. You love coffee.” He grumbles something under his breath, and you laugh. “What, you’d pick me over coffee?”
“Shit, honey, any day.”
He doesn’t mean it, but it still makes you laugh.
You slide down from the counter and giggle to yourself at the way he walks a little funny. “Problem?”
“You ain’t funny.”
“I’m hilarious. Ask Tommy sometime, or Ellie. I can even get Maria to laugh.”
You don’t see it but you know he rolls his eyes.
“So what’d you bring me?” You ask when he’s settled at your kitchen table with the cup of promised coffee. You lean against Joel’s shoulder, cheek against the side of his head, fingers feathering through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You said you brought me something.”
He digs in his bag instead of answering you, eventually depositing A loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a jar of conserve on the table. There’s something scrawled on the side of the jar but you can’t make out what it says even when you bring it close to your face, the color of the ink too similar to the contents. Instead you unscrew the jar and sniff. The jam is strawberry, a favorite of yours during the spring and summer months.
The bread is still warm and makes a satisfying crunch when you unwrap it and press a thumb into the crust.
“Well,” you murmur and sit down across from him. “Thank you, but what’d I do to deserve all this?”
Joel just shakes his head, his expression hard to read. “Nothin’.”
You raise a brow but let it go for the moment. If Joel had something he really wanted to say, he’d get it out one way or another, in time. “It’s cause you like me, huh?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Still warm,” you murmur, breaking the crust on the bread. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”
“Good, I didn’t bring it to swap for somethin’.”
You slice the bread with a serrated knife from a drawer in the kitchen and spread strawberry jam over it, a first little taste of summer. You try to pass a piece to him but he shakes his head. “It’s yours.”
“Well, thank you, baby.”
“Mm.”
For a moment, there’s only silence, the crunch of fresh baked bread in your mouth. The whistle of the wind through the trees outside, through the still open windows, bringing the scent of rain and petrichor and earth. You inhale the cool air as the humidity dissipates and the room falls to shadows, clouds gathering thickly overhead.
“How’re you, uh, gettin’ on?” He asks suddenly. “With supplies.”
You wish his face were clearer to you, a clue to what the tension in his voice means. “Fine. Winter depletes a lot, you know that.”
“No firewood.”
“It’s summer, Joel.”
His jaw ticks, your eyes tracing the quick movement, but his expression is still unclear. You drag your chair closer. Joel is hard enough to read as it is, and if he has something to say, you need to see his face.
Often his meaning is hidden in his eyes, his voice is untrustworthy, prone to aggression when anxious or passionate.
His brows are tugged together over his eyes, hard and unrelenting, on a mission you can’t begin to guess at. “It drops below freezing at night, darlin’.”
“Joel,” you start gently, “It’s not like I’m starting fires out here. It’s asking for attention. For trouble.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, swiping a hand down his face before he leans toward you. “That’s the goddamn problem.”
Ah. Now you know what this is about, what the bread and jam, two things you can’t get yourself, are about.
“I’ve been doing this for years, Joel.”
“Ain’t just about firewood,” he starts, tilting his head, eyes locked on yours in challenge, like you don’t know its not about the firewood. “Food, clothes, medicine—”
“Is there an abundance of new clothes and medicine lying around somewhere that I don’t know about?”
“Funny.”
“I have what I have,” you shrug. “It’s always been enough.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek and jaw, teeth ground together to avoid saying something he can’t take back. “All right,” he answers eventually. “Have you been huntin’ lately? I can get you something, bring it up from Jackson—”
“You don’t need to worry, Joel,” you reiterate, feeling as though you’re about to be ambushed. “Really. I have enough.”
“Yeah,” he agrees in a defeated sort of way, rubbing one hand against his jaw. You close your eyes, to savor the sound of his fingers against his beard. It’s like a balm, one of the things you like best about him. It’s indescribably attractive, the sound of the rubbed bristles against the bowl of his palm. “But I do,” he admits. “All the time.”
“But I don’t want you to,” you counter. “You don’t need to.”
You mean it in a reassuring way.
There’s no reason for him to worry. You’re okay. You can take care of yourself just fine.
His shoulders tighten, expression pensive and far away, jaw working slowly, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He’s grinding his teeth, keeping something inside. The room grows steadily cooler in the silence as the rain finally bursts from the clouds in a violent torrent.
You lean closer, peering in at his face, watching the lines by his eyes deepen, waiting for him to loosen up.
It’s a minute before he answers, not looking at you. “If you lived in Jackson, neither of us would have to worry.”
The room grows darker. “So that’s what this is about.”
“What?” He asks, too nonchalantly and a little too loud.
“You aren’t subtle, Joel. You don’t know how to be.”
He grinds his teeth. “Why won’t you come live in Jackson?”
Some vast, nameless fear unfurls in your chest at the suggestion.
You don’t answer him for a long time, not sure what to say, how to explain yourself. There’s some part of you that curls up tight, a protective shell reforming around your heart, because maybe Joel won’t come back, if you don’t explain it right. And you don’t want to be trapped in Jackson, but you don’t want to lose him either.
Maybe that’s unfair of you, vilely selfish, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
“I’m sure Tommy has already told you,” you answer eventually, “that they’ve offered before. Tommy has, Maria has, her dad did before he passed — I’ve always said no. I don’t want to, anyway.”
Joel clears his throat, hesitates for only half a second. “Well, now I’m askin’.”
The words are spoken so softly, a gently sung plea.
He’s asking, and so it should be different, because it's him. It is different, it’s—
“No.”
The word rips from your chest, tears from your mouth. Terrible and mean.
He scoffs. “That easy, huh?”
You bristle. “That’s just how it is, Joel.”
“What happens when I come out here one morning and you’re fuckin’ dead—”
“You bury me and get over it.”
“—or infected?”
“You kill me and get over it.”
He doesn’t laugh and you don’t expect him to but a sour thread of irritation ignites in you anyway. “I don’t know, Joel, just stop coming out here then.”
Joel gives a humorless laugh and drags an exhausted hand down his face. “Yeah.”
You wonder how hard it must have been for him to ask in the first place. “Nobody is dragging you out here but you.”
Your words are dismissive of what you mean to each other. Horrible in how short and clipped they are, how little meaning you assign to them, to him.
For a moment he doesn’t answer as you mindlessly sweep the crumbs leftover from the crust of bread into a little pile.
You make the mistake of glancing up to see the expression on his face, hurt and resignation, but not surprise spread over his features. Something about it is unsurprising to him, that you would say no to him about this.
“All right,” he sighs, “not for me then—”
“That isn’t what I meant—” you try to correct and then stop, not sure how to say what you mean.
A long, icy, stubborn and stupid, silence persists for so long you start to wish he’d just storm out, just leave. You expect it, because Joel is like a kicked dog sometimes, mean and avoidant when he’s scared or hurt.
Instead, he says, accusing, voice a harsh slice through the air, “I know your eyes are gettin’ worse.”
You freeze, lightning forks through the sky, thunder shakes the walls of the house as the rain drums down harder.
“You can’t see and it’s gonna get you killed. If it don’t get you killed, somethin’ else will. You won’t be able to hunt if you can’t see. You ain’t gonna last by yourself much longer.”
The words are calm, but bordering on a snarl, the shift of old fear just below the surface of his voice.
“And you’re askin’ me to just ignore it. Pretend like you ain’t sittin’ out here in the goddamn dark, alone, all the time.”
You don’t reply, because that is what you’re asking. You don’t want him to think about it because the notion scares you. Not being able to hunt anymore, losing your vision entirely, feeling like living on your own might be a death sentence you willingly walk toward, terrifies you. You try to avoid thinking about it most days, telling yourself that you would manage somehow, you always have, that finally losing your sight would just be a new challenge.
You have survived much worse after all.
“I don’t need to hunt. I trap—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That ain’t the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
You don’t mind living close to Jackson, having people nearby isn’t such a bad thing. Their patrols help with curbing the hoards of infected that sometimes passed through, help with culling and discouraging raiders in the area.
It’s nice, you suppose, to know you aren’t totally alone in the world.
Jackson is nice enough. The few times you visited felt like stepping onto another planet, or maybe into the past.
Smiling people, folks that helped each other out, a school and a store and food to go in the store. Greenhouses and stables and laughter.
Strange.
But the walls are enough to frighten you.
The walls are suffocating as much as they are protective. They remind you of gunfire and smoke and screaming; of a weapon in your hands and blood on your skin and gunpowder in your eyes, a viselike grip on your arm dragging you down, into a basement where screams bounced off the walls.
It had been hard to shake the feeling of surveillance there, of being watched. Of being trapped, doors and walls closing in on you that could not be opened again. Of being at the mercy of other people.
Maria had offered you a place there a long time ago. Long before Joel, long before Tommy, even. You had always declined, and it wasn’t until Joel arrived one spring that you spent more than an hour there.
Joel has spoken your worst fears aloud. You’re afraid of losing your vision more than you’re willing to admit, terrified and in denial about it. Pressure builds in your ears, the walls squeezing in tight around you, helplessness of learning to navigate without sight and take on a new, strange world, of not being able to see his face again, even close up, a filmy white blur and nothing else.
“You can’t take care of yourself out here alone,” he repeats, gentler this time, evidently thinking he’s broken through to you in the interim of your silence, that you don’t already know and aren’t petrified of it, incapacitated with fear when you think of being blind and alone, maybe not adjusting to it, maybe needing help and being killed over it.
“I can,” you insist. “I always have.”
He huffs, annoyed or maybe scared, and looks away from you, shaking his head. “Can you see the goddamn spores?”
You swallow and answer honestly. “No.”
“Jesus.”
“Spores are usually underground,” you defend, “so I don’t have to worry about them.”
He sits back, one hand braced on his thigh, brows tilted up, watching you with eyes that say he knows you know it’s bullshit. “And infected. . .” He says slowly, not looking away from you. “How close they gotta be before you can tell they ain’t people?”
“Well I can tell from the sound—”
The sound of their shuffling gait, the pounding of runners’ feet against the ground, the clicks and groans.
“If you couldn’t hear ‘em,” he interrupts loudly, “could you tell them apart? Stalkers are quiet.”
You don’t answer because the truth is worrying and doesn’t help your case. It doesn’t matter to him that stalkers are also usually inside, and hide. It doesn’t matter, because he knows the truth. He’s making a point.
You press your lips together and Joel shakes his head, jaw gritted, the tension pooling into his neck.
“You can’t.”
“So go, if it bothers you so much,” you deflect. “It’s not your problem. I’ll manage. I’ve been fine for years. I will keep being fine.”
“That’s not what I—” He sighs.
“Joel.” Your voice raises a panicked octave that you can’t hold back. His name tastes like acid and fear, like the rotting carcase of a dead world closing in on you, just like it always had and always would. “I can’t, okay? I just can’t.”
If he hears the fear in your voice, he doesn’t fold to it. “Why?” He demands, a touch of exasperation in the hard edge of his voice.
You don’t answer for a moment and then remember his hands. It’s a good enough excuse to walk away. You need to walk away from just a moment, to gather yourself.
When you stand, Joel’s fingers closer around your wrist, a soft, pleading hey, sweetheart on his tongue.
“I’m just getting something for your hands.”
He releases you and your hands shake as you navigate the rain darkened hallway to your bedroom, to the oil in your bedside table.
The trees outside appear to be taking a beating, bending in the howling, unrelenting wind. Rain lashes the window panes and the roof in a violent tattoo.
You return to Joel, and let your eyes focus on him. Even if he’s angry with you, you want to see his face. The scar over the bridge of his nose, other little marks against his cheeks, the warmth of his eyes, the lines in the palms of his hands, the patch of gray in his beard.
He doesn’t protest when you pick up his hand and spread lavender oil over his knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
The lines around his eyes soften, just a little. “That’s all right.”
His face could be lost to you someday, only a picture in your memory. Are you willing to lose him sooner over something like this? Would he make you choose? Say he can’t come back to you anymore?
Joel lets you rub the oil into his hands, the joints of his fingers, massaging until your own hurt, warm oil finally soaked into his skin. You sit on the very edge of the chair next to him anxiously, spine stiff. “I’ll give you some, to take with you,” you say instead of what you need to. “It's different to the one you gave to Ellie.”
And enough to last a while, you think, just in case.
You can’t make yourself look up from his hands. Hands that you know better than your own these days. Thick fingered, broad palmed, lined, calloused, spotted, sun roughened. Some of it gleaned from careful examination, the rest from memorization of touch you’d know anywhere.
His hands in yours are a touchstone, a grounding force. You know what they feel like almost everywhere, what sounds they can dredge up out of you, how carefully they treated animals and instruments.
Joel says your name, the sound of it so soft in his mouth, a pleading thing, but you don’t look up. There was a time you wouldn’t have believed him capable of this, but he’s changed, different since you first met him and Tommy introduced you on one of his first patrols, new to Jackson and still half feral, untrusting.
You suspect, though you are sure you’ll never know, that Joel had told Tommy you needed to be dealt with, living so close to their little haven, but not apart of it. And here he is, months and years on, wanting to deal with your outsider status in another way.
“I’m scared,” you admit to his hands, the softened skin beneath your own. “Really scared.”
Joel retracts one of his hands from between yours to tilt your chin up.
Your faces are close together. He’s never particularly minded your need to be close, to see.
He blinks, surprise registering. It reminds you that he’s right. “You ain’t scared out here?” His voice is troubling, supplicating in a way that Joel simply isn’t. He’s needling you, lulling you into complacency, because the surprise belies worry. He’s worried about you. “Infected and raiders and slavers that a whole damn town has trouble fendin’ off sometimes?” Hius voice raises as he speaks, not in volume but agitation, aggression pooling in his tone like poisoned honey.
“That’s nothing,” you murmur. “It’s nothing compared to not being able to take care of myself.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand you.”
“Yes you do, Joel. You understand, and you know you do. You just don’t want to because it's me.”
“‘Course it’s different because it's you,” he snaps.
You balk. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer, shaking his head. Joel takes his hands from yours and stands and walks a few steps away, toward the door.
He stops, one hand scraping over his beard, the other anchored on his hip. You can tell he wants to walk away.
But, he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything either.
“It’s not Jackson that scares me,” you say, finding the gentle voice trapped in your chest. “It’s not you that scares me. It’s losing my sight there and not being able to get out. It’s getting trapped somewhere again. It’s not being able to take care of myself.”
“Honey,” he says and turns back to you.
You meet his gaze as best you can. The edges of him are grainy, blurry, like a dream. “I ain’t done much beggin’ in my life. But I am now. Please. Please, come live in Jackson. I worry—I worry all the goddamn time.” He walks closer again. You know he does it so you can see his face, shame welling up terribly in the back of your throat. “And I don’t like sayin’ it. It don’t have to be with—I just need to know you’re all right.”
“Joel—”
“It’s not like out there,” he gestures vaguely outside, to the still swirling storm. “It ain’t like in the cities.” He takes your hands in his, warm, the scent of the first of summer’s lavender lingering in the air, twinning with Joel’s familiar smell, the fresh scent of rain washing through the open windows. “Whatever happened to you there, it won’t happen in Jackson.”
The way he says it gives you pause, such intense sincerity, so much desperate need. He means it. Not just that it wouldn’t happen, but that he would not let it happen. “You really care about me, Joel Miller.”
“Shit, was I not makin’ it clear before?”
“You have your ways.” You pat the chair. “Can I tell you what happened?”
He takes the chair again, knees pressed together like children sharing secrets.
The rain abates, a little, slowing to a downpour instead of a deluge.
“You tell me anything you want.”
Finding a foothold for your voice is hard. The threads of your like hard to weave together, to pick up where one thing begins and another ends, where it all leads.
But he’s patient, for once, hopeful, maybe.
You tell him.
About the gunpowder, about the many bombs and firefights, about the basement and the walls. The leaving that came later when you were so sure you would die there, ribs bruised, face a mess of wounds and popped blood vessels.
The room feels calmer, after you say it, like not so much is at stake anymore, like he might understand your irrational fear of gates shut behind you, why your vision failing feels like a different kind of wall.
“And then I had to figure out so much on my own. I didn’t know how to trap or hunt or garden, but I couldn’t go back. And I didn’t trust anyone. The first time I had to break down a rabbit, I threw up, and I was so proud of the little trap I’d caught it in. A trap that took days to get right. The first deer I shot. . .half the meat was wasted because I was so squeamish. How could I kill people like nothing and an animal made me sick?”
You look at him, and Joel squeezes your hand but doesn’t answer.
“I went hungry because I didn’t know how to feed myself.” You close your eyes. “It’s no different than what anyone else has been though. But I figured it out and I didn’t have to rely on anyone. I didn’t have to rely on favors or shitty ration cards or—”
You open your eyes again, that careful, steady gaze of his on you, accessing. You already know what he’s going to say.
“But it got better and I was free. Then my sight started to go. And I feel trapped again. I don’t want to owe anyone; I don’t want to rely on anyone. I don’t want walls around me again. So I have to figure it out, like I did before because I can’t go back.”
He shakes his head. “But you don’t gotta now. I know—” he emphasizes before you can interrupt, “I know how it is. I know what you mean. Jesus, I know. But it don’t have to be that way. It ain’t that way.”
You shake your head, not sure he really understands.
The rain continues to slow, pattering to a tiny, insignificant drizzle. He urges you up, into the cradle of his body, arms curled around you. “Can you visit me?” Joel offers, a desperate olive branch. “Ain’t even gotta be overnight.”
You chew on it for a moment, the anxious pulse of your heart slowing as his hands rub the base of your spine. “I’m not saying yes, but maybe I can visit.”
He breathes out. “Well, all right.” There’s such stark relief in his voice, it makes the middle of your chest ache. “That’s a start.”
“I’m not—I can’t promise you anything.”
“I know it.”
You blink. “We’re okay? You’re okay with—”
“For now. Ain’t gonna leave it alone neither.” He pats your hip. “And you’ll let me bring supplies.”
It’s not a question. You smile and duck your head. “I guess I should be flattered. Will you still come hunting with me?”
“‘Course I will. Will you come home with me tonight?”
You hesitate, but only for a moment. “Of course I will.”
It’s not as hard as you think it is, climbing atop the horse with Joel at your back in the evening sunshine that turns the world into a slipshod mullion of orange and yellow peeking through still dripping trees.
His arms branch around you to hold the reins, tucking you close to his chest. He promises to bring you back before nightfall and you believe that he will never become something that might make you feel trapped, even if you never learn to live in Jackson.
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