Joel Miller x F!reader | No Outbreak AU | 18+ MDNI
༺──────────────༻
Summary : joel takes care of you after you’ve been overworking yourself for far too long.
w/c : 2,6k
Warnings : no use of y/n. sarah & ellie exist ( ellie is reader’s bio daughter ). oral & fingering ( f!receiving ). hand job. humping. dirty talk. praise. pet names. established relationship. soft dom! joel. small, unstated age gap (~9-10 years ). reader is a lawyer. domestic fluff. slight descriptions of reader not taking care of herself. reader has hair.
a/n : this one is just a personal indulgence, I hope all of you hard working angels out there enjoy and remember to take care of yourselves ♡.
masterlist | ao3
༺──────────────༻
The dull hum of the refrigerator is all that has been droning in your ears for the past two hours.
The words on your screen have begun to blur, but you told yourself you need to finish reading this case. So, therefore, it has to be done.
The microwave flashed 02:04 innocently, reminding you of the little hours of sleep you’ll manage to get tonight.
Why can’t people just stick to their contracts? You wonder petulantly. A part of you hopes to never see the word ‘obligation’ again, still knowing you’ll have to stare at it tomorrow and have the same thoughts.
Banjo’s leg kicks softly in his sleep, the Border Collie sighing where he’s resting against your foot. You groan and try to adjust yourself — comfortable as it is, your backside still aches.
You begin typing again softly, cursing your asshole of a boss for dumping a load of files on your desk five minutes to seven this evening. Fuck you, David. I hope karma gets your ass.
You keep at it for another thirty minutes, Banjo has retreated to his bed in the living room around the time you got to the thirteenth page of the document. Ellie sent you a text an hour ago saying she and Dina got back from the movies, and you set a reminder on your phone to say thank you to Dina’s older sister for having Ellie over tonight. You feel guilty you haven’t managed to spend much time with her this week, with anyone for that matter.
The candle next to you flickers with a gust of air, prompting you to turn your attention to the slowly opening door of your bedroom.
Joel shuffles out, looking sleepy and warm as he quietly makes his way to the kitchen — rubbing his eye with his knuckle just like Sarah does. Your eyes land on the framed photo he’s standing next to: Sarah on one shoulder, Ellie on the other, and your smiling face in the corner as the sun sets over the Seattle beaches. It was your first trip as a family, you still remember how you thought Sarah’s eyes were going to pop out at the size of the aquarium.
Joel pours two glasses of water before he says anything.
“Ellie get back to Dina’s alright?” He rumbles, voice heavy with sleep. He comes to stand next to you at the dining room table, close enough that you feel the warmth of him before he touches you. He places both glasses on the coasters before looking at you tiredly. When you hum in affirmation, he nods gently, “Come to bed, angel.”
He looks impossibly cozy, like a hug embodied. His sleep shirt is rumpled, the navy fabric hanging over his plaid pyjama pants — the Paddington socks Sarah got him keeping his feet warm. Internally, you smile at the way his hair sticks up in five directions. He runs a hand through his scruffy beard. It’s amusing to see such a large man look like a teddy bear.
“I’m almost done with this case.” You murmur, voice weak from misuse.
You sigh tiredly as he kisses the crown of your head.
“You can finish it in the morning, baby. C’mon, it’s late.” He whispers, his hand running over the back of your head before settling gently on your shoulder.
You contemplate his words.
On one hand, you only have two more pages to read over — but he’s warm, and you’re just so tired. You shake your head.
“I’ll just be awake thinking about it if I don’t finish now.”
He squeezes your shoulder gently, picking up his glass of water.
“I’ll help you sleep, now c’mon.” He repeats in that soft voice of his that you can’t argue with. You’ve been going to sleep past three every night for the past few days, and Joel is putting his Paddington-adorned-foot down gently.
You relent, because you love him, and because he’s right.
What you have with him is perfect. Committed and devoted in a way that doesn’t need a label, even though you know he’s been thinking about slipping a pretty ring over your finger — it seems a bit juvenile, a bit unnecessary, but it’s sweet, and if he asks you’ll say yes without a doubt.
He hums his approval as you close your laptop, and he puts it on charge for you when you stand to stretch.
He guides you to the bedroom with his presence at your back, shutting off the few lights that were on.
You stand at the bathroom sink for a moment, only feeling the weight of your tiredness once you left your work behind. You blink at yourself in the mirror tiredly, bringing a hand up to feel the dark circles under your eyes. You look like a mess, and a wave of anxiousness passes through you.
Joel’s standing behind you a moment later, his large, warm hands on your hips. He buries his face against your shoulder, the light of the bathroom hurting his eyes. You lean your head towards his, and he kisses your shoulder before straightening once more.
You don’t say much as he grabs your toothbrush, putting the toothpaste on for you. It makes your heart squeeze.
You’ve missed him. Late hours at the office have taken away from your time with him, leaving you tired and busy when you eventually get home. He’s been patient with you, understanding you’re so close to becoming a partner — how badly you want this, not just for yourself but for the entire family. It’ll take pressure off of Joel’s business, especially because he’s been paying for Ellie’s school fees while you work. It’ll let all three of you fly out to visit Sarah in Massachusetts where she’s studying to become a doctor at Harvard itself.
You still remember Joel breaking down in tears when she got her acceptance letter last year, so damn proud. Years of single fatherhood weighing on his shoulders, wondering if he’d done anything right by her. It’s something you two related over, you also wonder if you’d been a good mom to Ellie.
The memory of Joel meeting her seven years ago, when she was eight years old and feisty as all hell, makes you smile. She’d immediately jumped up and hung onto his arm like a monkey, grilling him over how much he really liked dinosaurs, trying to investigate him: protecting her heart. He won her over easily, the second he showed her he’d brought Curtis and Viper II for movie night.
The trip down memory lane has your heart warming so much it immediately makes you feel sleepy, and you look around for what Joel has been doing.
He’s currently fussing around in the bathroom, and you wonder what he’s doing as you brush your teeth. Your questions are answered when you see he’s grabbed everything that’s a part of your night time routine, laying it out on the counter for when you get out of the shower. He really is your biggest supporter: stable, present, able to understand you without you having to teach him.
You make a sad little face at him, pouting. “I love you,” you say, it’s garbled around the toothbrush in your mouth but he presses a kiss to your forehead regardless.
“I love you too, angel.” He whispers, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head. “My hard-workin’ woman.” It’s murmured, like an afterthought, but you smile at him regardless. His eyes soften at the sight, letting out an amused hum at the foam that lines your teeth.
The heat of the shower relaxes your sore muscles, and by the time you’re patting yourself dry, yawns are flowing out of you by the minute. It doesn’t quiet your mind.
Will you have enough time to finish the work by tomorrow? The final copy needs to be handed in by eight tomorrow morning…that’s in less than six hours, you still have to plan for the meeting. If you sleep for three then, no that’s not enough, maybe you can—
Your thoughts are interrupted by a grunt Joel lets out. “Stop worryin’ and come rest, baby.” He sits up from where he was lying against the headboard, waiting for you to finish showering. “You got more than enough time tomorrow.” Gentler this time, he holds his hand out for you. Naturally, you’re pulled towards his palm, grasping it with your own.
“I’ll get into my pajamas.” You whisper, agreeing with him. His grip on your hand tightens.
“Hold your horses, baby. Gotta make sure that mind ain’t runnin’ a mile a minute the whole night.” His voice drops lower, and you know exactly what he means: goosebumps erupt over your skin.
You let him guide you to lay flat on the duvet, towel left at the foot of the bed as he leans over you, a hand planted next to your head while the other cups your cheek. “Gonna let me take care ‘f you?” He asks, and you’ve never wanted anything more in that moment. The weight of stress and constant anxiousness finally slamming down over you, making you realize just how much you’ve needed this. Needed him to take control just for a minute. Needed him to take care of you.
You nod softly, “Please.” It’s meek, small, and he tuts.
His hand slides down slowly, deliberate, like he’s grounding you back into your body — over your ribs, your waist — until it settles, warm and steady, over your chest. He cups the soft mound before he continues his descent.
He adjusts himself, moving down the mattress so he’s kneeling between your spread legs. His fingers trace over your mound before they pause.
“Haven’t had a chance to taste you in so long, sweet girl.” He whispers, parting your sex with two fingers as he glances up at you, watching how your breath quickens at his touch.
“I know, I’m sorry,” You murmur, your head tilting back just slightly. You feel heavy, a tiredness settling deep in your bones the more his touch forces you to relax.
“No need to apologise, angel,” he hums softly as he feels the trickle of your wetness on his fingers, bringing his fingers to his mouth before he’s settling against the mattress. His hands slide underneath you to hold on to your ass, squeezing the flesh as he drags you closer to him. The broadness of his shoulders keeps your legs spread, and you stare down at him as he places a soft kiss to the top of your mound. “All that hard work and you’re still drippin’ like this for me.” He murmurs, almost to himself, fully aware that he’s quieting down every thought in your mind that’s not on him.
Your whine makes him shudder.
He waits a moment to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, his warm tongue parts your folds in one long lick: collecting all of your wetness before wrapping his lips around where you need him most. You cry out as he sucks slowly, tongue flicking slightly along the underside of your clit.
He pulls off with a small smacking sound a moment later, burying his face against you as his tongue drives over your leaking entrance, nose pressed against your clit sinfully.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling at the strands gently while he moves his tongue over you, dragging over your clit again and again before taking it back into his mouth. Your legs are already trembling, having not felt this for days.
“Joel,” you moan, arching into his touch as his strong hands pull you even closer to his face, the sounds of him eating at you causing another wave of arousal to flood through your body.
“I know baby, I know,” he groans, a line of his spit connecting his bottom lip to your pussy. “Been workin’ so hard, providin’ for all of us. Gon’ take care ‘f my stubborn, beautiful girl.” He whispers the words against you, before tilting his head to bury himself between your thighs: tongue pushing slowly at your entrance. You watch his brows furrow in arousal, feel his shaky exhale against your sex. The sight quietens the remaining thoughts in your mind, giving way to nothing but overwhelming pleasure.
You repeat his name in a desperate whine, it’s all you can do. His tongue slowly breaches you, and your back arches enough to push it deeper. He groans against you, and the vibrations run up your spine.
“I’m not going to last.” You whisper, broken and shaky in its exit. Hips grinding in little circles against his face, the scratch of his beard deliciously sinful.
He already knows what to do.
His lips wrap around your clit once more, free arm skirting up to hold your breast as he keeps sucking, surrounding you with the pure heat of his mouth and tongue.
Your orgasm hits you at a blinding speed when you see he’s grinding his aching hardness against the mattress.
“Good girl,” he groans against you, tongue lapping up your release, “So fuckin’ good for me. So gorgeous.‘M so proud ‘f you.”
Your hips twitch against his face, delirious pleasure pulsing through you as he works you through your orgasm. Your hands reach for him blindly, pulling him up until your lips meet his in a filthy kiss. His tongue pushing into your mouth as his body blankets over yours, so warm and large. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan.
He’s clearly not done with you yet as two of his thick fingers press inside of you, curling up while spasms still rock through you.
“You’re gon’ give me another, then you’re goin’ to sleep.” He murmurs against your ear, nipping your lobe gently. His fingers are slow and thorough, pressing just right against your front wall as his thumb massages your pulsing clit.
He tuts at you when you fumble with his boxers, pulling them down just enough to free his aching cock. He wants to take care of you, but you want to take care of him too.
He hisses when you rub your thumb over his tip, gathering the wetness to spread down his length. He kisses you again, and you moan into each other’s mouths as you work one another to completion.
It doesn’t take very long.
“Fuck, angel. Just like that,” he moans, his fingers working faster as his hips twitch up towards your palm. You can feel he’s right there. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a deep groan leaving him as his balls draw up.
At your breathless moan, his come splatters over your palm, triggering your second orgasm of the night that knocks you: blinding heat wracks through you, leaving your legs shaking as you work each other through. It’s pure bliss, every last bit of tension leaving you.
At the last spasm of your pussy, he pulls his fingers out, licking them as you do the same to your own.
He kisses your forehead softly, before he’s picking you up, bringing you to the bathroom to clean up for only a moment.
The sound of the toilet flushing dulls when he closes the bathroom door, herding you back into bed. Your mind is blissfully empty, eyelids heavy with tiredness.
He pulls you close once you’re under the sheets, a kiss pressed to the back of your neck.
“I love you, angel.”
“I love you more, Joel.”
“Never.”
“Always.”
He huffs his disagreement, and your eyes finally close.
Yeah, you think, David can go fuck himself.
༺──────────────༻
hope you enjoyed this little fic, if you did please reblog and comment. ♡
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
thinking about calling husband joel daddy for the first time.
he’s deep inside of you, fucking into you missionary style, your legs tightly wrapped around his hips as his cock constantly strokes that sensitive spot inside of you.
You’re whining, writhing on the bed beneath him, soft sobs breaking through you with every overwhelming thrust. It just feels so fucking good. How is he so perfect at this?
His face is settled into the crook of your neck, his voice a distant rumble in your ear as he talks you through each movement of his cock. His back is slick with sweat, his biceps large and thick either side of your head. And the word just.. slips out.
“Oh, daddy,” you whine, your voice raw and broken when his pubic bone ruts against your clit just right.
Joel pauses. Stills inside of you. And you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. Fuck, you shouldn’t have said that. You didn’t even know whether he was into it or not. You straighten beneath him so his face is out of your neck, your eyes alarmed and face heated in embarrassment. “I’m sorry I— I don’t know why I said that.”
But the look on his face..
You couldn’t tell whether he loved it or whether he was disgusted with you. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and you could have sworn you felt his cock twitch within you.
“Daddy, huh?” He asks, his face unreadable. His tone was testing. Like as if he were unsure whether you were serious or not.
Your heart rate picks up, your stomach twisting in anticipation to what he would do. You nod silently, your face still burning and hot to the touch.
Joel rocks his hips forward, angling his cock to drive right into your g-spot. God, he was so fucking good at that. You head tips back as an involuntary moan comes tumbling from your lips at the sensation.
“You want me to be your daddy, angel?” He asks you, his brow starting to bead with sweat. And then, all of a sudden, he has your legs pushed against your chest. The positioning is slightly uncomfortable, but the sensation? God, he felt incredible from this angle. That thick, heavy cock dragging through your most sensitive parts as he fucked you slow and deep.
Your eyes roll back, your mouth working before your brain. “Yes. Yes, Daddy.” You whimper breathlessly. The sound of that word on your lips again has joel groaning low in his throat, his eyes conflicted between looking down at your beautiful pussy or looking up at your gorgeous face.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he praises, leaning down to claim your lips with his own mouth. “Daddy’s here.” He mumbles against them.
.⋆♱ summary: It is no secret that many men don’t particularly enjoy their wives having a group of friends to go out with, unwind with, laugh with, and come home late from.
Joel Miller has never understood that.
He likes watching you get ready. Likes the music drifting from the bathroom, the dresses laid across the bed, the way you turn in front of the mirror and ask him what he thinks as if he is not already half in love with every version of you. He likes knowing you have a night that belongs to you.
Because when it is over, when you are warm with cocktails and laughter and ready to come home, you always call him.
And Joel always answers.
He shows up with your playlist already playing, cold juice waiting in the cupholder, and enough snacks to prove he knows you better than anyone.
He thinks he has planned for everything.
But he has not prepared for what you decide to do with the peach rings.
.⋆♱ a/n: Since I can’t get husband!Joel out of my head, I had no choice but to write a second part to Mirror, mirror on the wall... Hope you enjoy it!!!🦋
.⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the end, Domestic Fluff, Tipsy Reader, Drunk Flirting, Light Dom/sub Elements, Switch Dynamics, Sub Joel Miller, Use of “Good Boy”, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Food Play, Candy, Light Cum Play, Aftercare, Gas Station Snacks As Foreplay.
.⋆♱ wc: 8.962 k
.⋆♱ Request for Joel and Tommy Miller are always open <3
Joel managed to get the front door open without dropping you or the snack bag, which he considered a decent accomplishment, given that you had apparently decided the safest way to be carried was to make yourself as distracting as possible.
You had one arm looped around his neck, your cheek tucked warm against the side of his throat, the other hand half heartedly trying to reach the juice bottle he had trapped against his ribs. Your shoes dangled from your feet, the little heels knocking softly together every time he took a step, and every few seconds your mouth brushed his skin in a way you were absolutely going to pretend was accidental if he called you on it.
Joel kicked the door shut behind him. “You gonna let me get you upstairs in one piece?”
“I’m helping.”
“You are actively not.”
You lifted your head, eyes bright in the dim entryway. “I’m just appreciating you—again.”
“That what we’re callin’ it?”
“Mhm.” Your fingers pressed into his shoulder with drunken solemnity. “Veeery strong. Veeery handsome. Excellent husband carrying service.”
Despite himself, Joel huffed a laugh. “Glad to know I’m meetin’ standards.”
“You exceed them.”
“That so?”
“You picked me up, bought me snacks, played my songs, let me sing, and didn’t complain once.”
“I complained internally.”
“You don’t get points for that.”
“I should. Took discipline.”
You gasped softly, scandalized. “Were you judging my singing?”
Joel started toward the stairs. “I was admirin’ your confidence.”
“That means bad.”
“That means loud.”
“I gave you a private concert.”
“Baby, half the street got that concert.”
Your laughter broke open against him, and Joel felt it through his chest, through the arm he had wrapped beneath your thighs, through the hand steadying your back. He loved you like this in a way that still caught him off guard sometimes: bright from a good night, loose with affection, made softer by laughter and alcohol and the certainty that he would always show up when you called. There was something almost dangerous about how happy you were in his arms, not because he feared it, but because happiness had a way of making him careless. Making him forget that he had spent most of his life bracing against things disappearing.
Halfway up the stairs, your lips pressed to the side of his neck.
Joel stopped on one step.
You went very still against him.
“Darlin’.”
“What?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “That your mouth teasin’ again?”
You smiled into his skin. “Maybe.”
He closed his eyes for one long second and kept climbing. The house was dark except for the stair light and the warm glow spilling out from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Everything smelled faintly of your perfume from earlier, softer now, clinging to the rooms the way it clung to his shirt, mixed with cold night air, salt from the chips, and the sweetness of juice from the bottle in the bag. Joel adjusted his grip and told himself that stopping on the stairs with you whispering nonsense against his throat was a bad idea.
A spectacularly bad idea.
“You’re awful pleased with yourself tonight,” he muttered.
“You like me this way.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You love me.”
“Also unfortunately.”
You lifted your head, offended but smiling. “That was mean.”
“That was honest.”
“No.” You tapped his chest with one finger. “You love loving me.”
Joel reached the landing and looked down at you.
The teasing eased between one breath and the next. The hallway light caught the side of your face, the faint smudge beneath one eye, the last worn trace of gloss at the corner of your mouth. You looked tired and bright at the same time, held together by the afterglow of the night and by a trust so complete it made his ribs feel too tight.
His voice changed before he could stop it. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Your smile softened.
Then, because neither of you knew how to let tenderness stand unprotected for too long, you kissed his cheek and murmured, “Good answer.”
Joel shook his head and carried you into the bedroom.
The room still held the remains of the version of you that had left earlier. One dress lay folded badly over the chair. Another had slipped halfway from its hanger. A makeup brush waited near the vanity beside the gloss you had reapplied before leaving, and the perfume bottle stood uncapped as if you had abandoned it mid thought. It was messy in the way only a loved room could be messy, full of choices and softness and evidence that you had been there becoming yourself.
Joel set the snack bag on the bed first, then lowered you carefully to your feet.
The second your toes touched the floor, your fingers caught the front of his shirt.
“No,” he said.
You froze, eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You were fixin’ to.”
“Maybe I just missed my husband.”
“You had me in the truck.”
“That was supervised.”
“By what?”
“Traffic laws.”
Joel laughed despite himself and let you tug him down just enough for one kiss. It was warm, sweet, almost innocent at first, until you tried to follow when he pulled back and your hand tightened in his shirt.
He caught your wrist gently. “Bathroom first.”
Your face fell like he had ruined Christmas. “Joel.”
“Makeup off.”
“But I’m home now.”
“I noticed.”
“And you’re here.”
“Also noticed.”
“So why are we discussing skincare when all I need is you?”
“Because you’ll wake up mad at yourself if I let you fall asleep like this.”
“I’m not going to fall asleep.”
Joel gave you a look.
You considered. “Not on purpose.”
“Bathroom.”
You sighed with your whole body. “You’re being extra bossy.”
“Somebody’s gotta keep you alive after midnight.”
“I am thriving.”
He crouched before you before you could build a stronger defense, one hand circling your ankle as he lifted your foot. Your laughter faded while he worked at the tiny strap of your heel, his fingers careful despite their size, brows drawn in concentration. Joel could handle lumber, wire, concrete, stubborn doors, stripped screws, and men twice as loud as they were useful. But with anything delicate that belonged to you, he slowed down like patience itself was part of the touch.
For all the heat that had been simmering since the truck, this was what made you quiet.
He noticed.
Joel slipped the first shoe off and set it by the dresser. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
He glanced up from where he was kneeling at your feet. “Baby.”
Your mouth softened. “I just like when you do that.”
“Take your shoes off?”
“Take care of me like it’s normal.”
His expression shifted. Something gentled around his eyes.
“It is normal.”
“For you.”
“For us,” he corrected.
The words landed softly enough to make your eyes shine, and Joel felt the answering ache of it somewhere under his breastbone. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol making you tender, or the night settling in, or the fact that being cared for without having to earn it could still surprise you sometimes. Whatever it was, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee before undoing the second strap.
“Don’t start cryin’ over footwear,” he murmured.
You laughed immediately, swiping carefully beneath one eye. “Shut up.”
“Makeup.”
“Oh my God.” You snatched your hand away from your face. “See? Supervision.”
“Been sayin’ that.”
He stood, gathered your heels, and took them to the closet while you wandered toward the bathroom with less wobble now, though enough that he stayed close without making a point of it. On the way, you found the juice and took another long drink, eyes half closing with satisfaction.
Joel leaned against the bathroom doorframe, arms folded. “Water after that.”
“This is technically fruit.”
“Water.”
“Fruit has water.”
“Not enough.”
You lowered the bottle and gave him a look through the mirror. “You know you get very bossy after midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Hot.”
His jaw shifted. “Wash your face.”
You grinned because you knew exactly where the word had landed, but you turned to the sink anyway.
Watching you get ready had felt intimate. Watching you undo it was something else entirely. Earlier, there had been music, choices, performance, anticipation. Now there was the quieter version: you tying your hair back badly, missing a few strands by your cheek; Joel stepping in without a word to smooth them behind your ear; your eyes finding his in the mirror and staying there a beat too long while water ran in the sink.
“You know,” you said, reaching for cleanser, “I could have done this alone.”
“Never said you couldn’t.”
“You followed me.”
“You asked me to.”
“Did I?.” You rubbed the cleanser between your palms, then paused, looking at him through the mirror with a little smile. “I guess that I like that you come when I ask.”
Joel’s eyes lifted to yours.
The sentence could have been innocent but with you, specially tonight, it absolutely was not.
“What?” Your smile hid behind your hands as you started washing your face. “I’m cleaning.”
“You’re startin’ somethin’.”
“I can multitask.”
He exhaled through his nose, half laugh, half warning, and reached into the cabinet for a clean towel. By the time you rinsed, the night had started coming off in soft streaks: mascara, blush, the last traces of gloss. The water carried it down the sink in faint colors, leaving your face bare and flushed, your eyes still bright but softer now, no longer dressed for the room outside but for him.
Joel handed you the towel.
You patted your face dry and lowered it.
He looked at you for a second too long.
“What?” you asked.
His voice went quiet. “Just like seein’ you.”
Your expression softened, and he reached past you for the moisturizer because he knew the small jar now, knew you would forget it if he let you rush. You watched him unscrew the lid and hold it out without comment.
Your eyes widened. “You remembered.”
“Course I did.”
“That’s cute.”
“It’s just moisturizer, baby.”
“You are cute.”
“I am not.”
“You are when you’re pretending you aren’t.”
Joel gave you a look in the mirror. “Put it on.”
You did, still smiling.
Once your face was clean and your skin taken care of to his satisfaction, he handed you the bottle of water from the nightstand. You drank under protest, then drank more when he kept staring, and finally handed it back with a muttered, “Tyrant.”
“Livin’ with me is hard.”
“Sooo hard,” you agreed, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth.
He let you have that one.
Back in the bedroom, Joel sat you on the edge of the bed and brought the snack bag into your lap as if presenting tribute to some small, demanding queen. Your whole face lit up again.
“My chips.”
“Your chips.”
“My juice.”
“Also yours.”
“My water, apparently.”
“Definitely yours.”
You opened the barbecue chips first and offered him one. Joel shook his head.
“You bought them,” you frowned.
“For you.”
“Take one.”
“Darlin’.”
“Take. One.”
He took the chip because marriage was mostly knowing which battles weren’t worth the energy, and you looked deeply satisfied when he ate it.
“Good boy.”
Joel’s eyes flicked to yours. “Watch that mouth.”
You smiled like that was exactly the reaction you had hoped for.
He sat beside you and started taking the rest of the night off you piece by piece. First the bracelet, his thumb steadying your wrist while he worked the clasp. Then the necklace, your hair lifting as he moved behind you, the chain slipping cool into his palm. Then the earrings, which required more patience because you kept turning your head to talk just as he was trying not to stab you.
“Hold still.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re talkin’.”
“I can talk still.”
“No, you can’t.”
You put another chip in your mouth and tried not to laugh while he removed the second earring.
“There,” he said, setting both carefully on the vanity tray. “Still got both ears.”
“You’re very skilled.”
“I know.”
“That was arrogant.”
“That was earned.”
You leaned back on your hands, bare feet swinging slightly above the floor, face clean, jewelry gone, dress still on, chips in your lap. The contrast of you almost made him smile: all that beauty softened into comfort, all that heat folded beneath domestic ridiculousness. Joel had always liked thresholds. Doorways. Porches. The last hour before sleep. Moments where one thing became another. Here you were, halfway between the woman who had walked into a bar glowing and the woman who would crawl into bed beside him later, steal his warmth, and deny it in the morning.
He liked every version.
You reached into the snack bag again. “What else did you get?”
Joel glanced back. “Vinegar chips.”
“I saw those.”
“Well, you like options, don't you?.”
“And surprises.”
His mouth twitched. “That too.”
The your hand found the gummies.
You pulled out the bag of peach rings and went completely still.
For one second, there was only silence.
Then your face changed with such delighted disbelief that Joel felt both proud of himself and immediately concerned.
“You bought me peach rings.”
“You said chocolate made you sick last time. So I got somethin’ else.”
You looked down at the bag again, and this time your smile turned smaller, sweeter, as if the ridiculous bag of gummies had become something weightier in your hands. Maybe it had. Maybe marriage was not always in the grand declarations, but in remembering what hurt someone’s stomach last time and choosing differently under fluorescent gas station lights.
You opened the bag and took one out, holding it between two fingers. “They’re cute.”
Joel sat back beside you. “Gummies are cute now?”
“This one is.”
“It’s shaped like a tire.”
“It is not shaped like a tire.”
“Tiny sugar tire.”
“It’s a peach ring.”
“That’s what they’re callin’ it.”
You laughed, then slipped the soft gummy onto the tip of your finger like jewelry and held your hand out with great ceremony. “Look. You brought me another ring.”
Joel looked at your hand.
Then at your face.
The joke was obvious. Silly. Even sweet.
And then he saw your eyes.
There it was.
The shift.
A brightening at the edge of your smile, a pause that lasted half a second too long, an idea arriving and making itself comfortable before he had a chance to object. Joel knew that look. He had seen it in the truck when your hand moved on his thigh. He saw it now, with a peach ring balanced on your finger and the snack bag rustling in your lap.
“Wathever you're going to ask, the answer is no.”
Your smile widened.
Joel pointed one finger at the gummy. “That is a snack.”
“But it can be two things.”
“It is not gonna be two things.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I know exactly what you were thinkin’.”
“Oh,” You tilted your head, all innocence and danger. “Do you?”
He stared at you for a second, then looked away toward the ceiling like a man asking for strength from a God who had clearly abandoned him hours ago. “Jesus.”
You laughed softly and crawled closer on the bed, the snack bag sliding to the side. Joel stayed where he was, but every line of him sharpened with attention.
“You bought me juice,” you said.
“I did.”
“And chips.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And gummies.”
“Regrettin’ that part.”
“You took my shoes off.”
“Somebody had to.”
“You helped me wash my face.”
“You were gonna skip moisturizer.”
“You took off my jewelry.”
Joel’s eyes came back to yours. “Where you goin’ with this?”
You lifted your peach ringed finger between you both, studying it with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I’m just saying you’ve been very good to me tonight.”
His jaw tightened faintly.
There it was again. That little thread pulled taut.
“Baby,” he said, warning wrapped around the word, though not nearly enough of it.
“What?” you asked softly.
“You ate two chips and half a bottle of juice. Don’t start makin’ plans on an empty stomach.”
Your expression warmed at the care in that, even as the mischief stayed. “Then feed me with something else.”
Joel went still.
You seemed to realize what you had said at the same moment he did.
The room quieted.
And the air between you grew thick enough to feel.
Joel’s eyes dropped to the peach ring on your finger.
Then lifted back to your face.
You smiled slowly.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
“You keep saying that like it’s going to help.”
“It usually does.”
“Maybe.” You shifted closer, your knees brushing his thigh. “Or maybe you like the part where I don’t listen.”
Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You are pushin’ your luck.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
You held the peach ring near his mouth, not touching him with it, not yet. Just letting the offer hover there, soft, sweet, absurd, and suddenly far less innocent than anything bought under fluorescent lights had a right to be.
Joel looked at it.
Then at you.
“You think this is funny.”
“I think you’re handsome.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I think you’re very handsome when you’re trying to decide whether to be responsible or let me have my way.”
His mouth curved despite himself, but his eyes had darkened. “You always think you’re gettin’ your way.”
“I usually do.”
“Because I let you.”
You leaned closer, voice dropping. “Then let me.”
Joel held your gaze, and for a moment he did not look like the man who had carried you upstairs and made you wash your face and drink water. He looked like that man’s restraint pulled thin, like every careful thing in him had heard your tone and gone quiet to listen.
Then his hand came up, wrapping gently around your wrist.
Your breath caught.
He did not pull the gummy closer. Did not push it away either. He only held you there, your hand suspended between his mouth and yours, the peach ring bright and ridiculous around your finger.
“You sure?” he asked softly.
Your smile steadied into something clearer. Less tipsy now. More deliberate. “Yes, Joel.”
He studied you for a long second, looking for anything he would not like. Uncertainty. Fogginess. The kind of looseness that meant you were playing because the night had made decisions easier than they should be. But what he found was familiar. Your mischief, yes. Your warmth. Your want. But also your trust. Your awareness. Your eyes fixed on his because you knew exactly what it did to him when you asked sweetly and meant trouble.
Joel swallowed once.
Your thumb moved against his fingers. “You took such good care of me tonight.”
His grip tightened slightly.
You lifted your other hand and set it on his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “Let me be sweet to you now.”
Joel’s eyes closed for half a second.
When he opened them, the decision was already there.
He released your wrist, leaned back against the headboard, and looked at you with a kind of quiet danger that made your whole body go still.
“Alright,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
Joel’s voice dropped lower.
“Show me.”
You smiled like you had been waiting for exactly that.
Not permission, not that. Joel knew better than to think you needed permission to be trouble in your own bedroom. It was something else; an opening, a door left unlocked, a shift in him so subtle anyone else might have missed it and so obvious to you that your whole face changed around it.
The bedside lamp softened the lines of him: broad shoulders, tired eyes, mouth threatening a smile even as his gaze darkened with every inch you crawled closer. The bag of peach rings sat open beside your thigh, bright and ridiculous against the sheets, and Joel kept glancing at it like it had personally betrayed him.
You slipped another soft gummy over your index finger and held it up.
“With the peach ring?” you asked, before he could say anything.
“With whatever thought just went through your head.”
The humor sharpened, warmed, slid into something heavier. You could feel it in the way his grip settled more firmly at your side, in the way his breathing slowed like he was trying to control it, in the way his gaze kept returning to the peach ring on your finger as if the idea had already occurred to him and he hated that you’d been the one to put it there first.
You lifted your hand between you both, studying the gummy with exaggerated innocence. “You know…”
Joel exhaled once. “I ain’t gonna like this.”
“You might.”
“I know that tone.”
“This is a perfectly reasonable observation.”
“Baby, nothin’ about you has been reasonable since you got in my truck.”
“That’s not true.”
“You tried to seduce me while I was drivin’.”
You laughed softly and inched closer. “And you liked it.”
His jaw shifted.
You saw it.
Joel saw you see it.
His voice dropped. “That ain’t the point.”
“It feels like the point.”
You held up the peach ring again, letting it rest at the tip of your finger. “I was only going to say that something bigger than a finger could fit through this.”
Joel stared at you.
For one long second, he didn’t even blink.
Then his gaze moved very slowly from your face to the gummy, then back again, his expression flattening into such deep, exhausted skepticism that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
“Baby.”
“What?”
“That is a damn gummy.”
“Yes.”
“A very soft little gummy.”
“Exactly.”
“That I bought for you to eat.”
“And I’m very grateful.”
“You are not actin’ grateful. You are actin’ like a menace.”
You leaned in, lowering your voice. “I’m just saying. It’s soft. If you squeeze it a little…”
Joel’s eyebrows rose.
You smiled sweetly.
“…it might work.”
Something passed across his face then; amusement first, sharp and disbelieving, then heat so sudden it made your stomach dip.
He sat up a fraction. “My cock is not gonna fit through a peach ring.”
You blinked at him with perfect innocence. “That remains to be seen.”
Joel dragged a hand down his face. “Christ almighty.”
“What?”
“You hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I sound creative.”
“You sound dangerous.”
“You like me dangerous.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “I like you.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“No,” he said, voice rougher now, “it ain’t.”
The answer landed with more weight than you expected. For a second, the teasing softened around the edges, not disappearing, only making room for the thing beneath it; the trust, the fact that Joel could look at you sitting there with a gummy on your finger and heat in your eyes and still be measuring you with care. How much you’d had to drink. Whether you were sure. Whether the game was still a game because you wanted it, not because the night had carried you farther than you meant to go.
You knew him well enough to know exactly what he was doing.
So you took his hand from your waist, guided it up, and placed his palm over the center of your chest, where your heart was beating fast beneath the denim fabric of your dress.
“I know what I’m asking for, Joel” you said.
Joel’s face changed.
His fingers spread slightly, not possessive, not yet, but heavy enough that your breath caught under them.
“You’re not just feelin’ bold because of the cocktails?”
You smiled, softer now. “I’m feeling bold because you brought me home, took care of me, and now you’re looking at me like you want me to ruin your life.”
Joel went very still.
Then he laughed once, low and almost breathless. “That what I look like?”
You nodded. “A little.”
His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your collarbone. “And what do you look like?”
You leaned closer, your mouth hovering near his. “Like I’m about to.”
That did it.
Something in his expression gave, something patient and controlled slipping into something darker, hungrier, more willing to be led if only because he knew he could still end the game whenever he needed to.
You brought the peach ring to his mouth.
He caught your wrist before it touched him.
The motion was quick enough to make your breath catch, but his grip was gentle, thumb resting over your pulse.
“You think you’re runnin’ this?” he murmured.
You held his gaze. “I know I am.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Then why’re you shakin’?”
Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers.
“I’m not shaking.”
Joel’s thumb moved over your wrist. “Liar.”
You swallowed.
He looked down at the gummy again, and his voice went lower. “You got a filthy mouth tonight for somebody who needed help gettin’ her shoes off.”
Heat rushed to your face.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t be smug.”
“I ain’t smug.”
“You are.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re avoiding the point.”
“The point bein’ you think you can get that around me?”
You smiled slowly. “I think you want to find out.”
Joel’s jaw tightened.
His silence was answer enough.
You slipped your wrist from his hold this time, not because he couldn’t have stopped you, but because he let you. That was the dangerous part. The part that made your stomach twist. Joel Miller, broad and and stubborn as stone, sitting back against the headboard with his hands slowly lowering to the sheets, letting you take the space between you like he trusted you with every inch of it.
You touched the peach ring to his lower lip.
“Open.”
His stare held yours.
For one breath, two, he did nothing.
Then his lips parted.
The obedience of it hit you harder than you expected.
Joel took the gummy from your fingers without looking away, his mouth closing around it slowly, deliberately, like he knew exactly what the sight would do to you and had decided to punish you with your own idea. His teeth caught against the sugar. His tongue swept briefly over his lower lip afterward.
Your smile faltered but his came back.
“Problem?”
You hated how steady he sounded.
“No.”
“Looked like one.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“I’m sittin’ here doin’ what I’m told.”
“Barely.”
His eyes moved over you, from your bare face to your mouth to the neckline of your dress and back up again. “Then tell me better.”
The words settled low in the room.
You went still.
Joel saw the reaction and softened his voice by half an inch, not enough to lessen the heat, only enough to remind you he was still there underneath it. “C’mon, baby. You said you were in charge.”
You lifted your chin, refusing to let him take the ground back that easily. “I am.”
“Then act like it.”
Your breath caught.
He smiled faintly, but his hands stayed on the sheets, open and waiting.
You reached for another peach ring from the bag, slower this time, and Joel watched every movement with an attention so absolute it felt like touch. You held it up between you both, then lowered it just enough for his eyes to follow.
“You’re going to sit there,” you said softly.
Joel’s gaze returned to your face.
“And you’re going to be good.”
His expression sharpened.
“Good,” he repeated.
You nodded. “For me.”
The room went silent.
There were certain words that did things to Joel. Not because he lacked control, but because he had too much of it, always had. Because surrender, even playful surrender, was something he only gave where he felt safe enough to set it down. And there you were, warm from your night out, bare faced because he had washed the evening off you, fed and watered because he had made sure of it, looking at him like you knew exactly what he was and loved him enough to ask for something ridiculous anyway.
“Bossy little thing,” he murmured.
“You married me.”
“Startin’ to remember that.”
You moved closer until your knees settled on either side of his thigh, not sitting on him, not yet, just close enough for the pressure of him to become impossible to ignore. Joel’s breath changed again, and this time he did not hide it quickly enough.
You smiled.
“You brought me gummies,” you whispered. “So you don’t get to complain when I play with them.”
Joel’s hands flexed against the sheets.
“I can complain all I want.”
“Not tonight.”
“No?”
You shook your head. “Tonight, I say what happens.”
His eyes held yours for one long, heated second.
Then he leaned back a little farther, deliberately giving you room, his mouth curving like he was already thinking of all the ways this could go wrong and all the reasons he wanted to let it.
“Alright,” he said, voice rough. “You wanna play?”
You swallowed, excitement slipping through your confidence for just a second.
Joel saw it.
His smile deepened.
“Then play,” he murmured. “But don’t start somethin’ you ain’t ready to finish.”
You leaned in until your mouth brushed his ear.
“Oh, Miller,” you whispered. “I’m not the one who should be worried about finishing.”
Joel went completely still.
And that was the moment his restraint finally started to look like surrender.
You smiled like you had been waiting for exactly that.
Then you leaned in and kissed him.
It started soft, almost sweet, your lips brushing his like you were still thanking him for the peach rings and the ride home. But the second Joel’s mouth opened under yours you deepened it, tasting the faint sugar still clinging to his tongue from the gummy he’d taken earlier. Your hands slid up his chest, over the fabric of his shirt, until your fingers closed gently around his wrists.
You guided them upward.
Joel let you.
You pressed his palms flat against the top edge of the headboard, right where the wood curved. His long fingers curled over it instinctively.
“Keep them there,” you whispered against his mouth.
Joel’s brow lifted, but his voice came out low and already a little rough. “That an order?”
“Mhm.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his bottom lip, teasing. “Hands stay right there until I say otherwise.”
He huffed a quiet laugh that you felt more than heard. “Trouble and bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I like all of you,” he corrected, but he didn’t move his hands. His knuckles stayed white against the dark wood, arms stretched just enough to make the muscles in his shoulders shift under his shirt.
You reached into the open bag of peach rings, pulled out a fresh one, and held it up between you two like a prize.
“I want you to suck on this,” you said softly, voice sweet as the sugar itself, “until there’s not a single grain of sugar left on it.”
Joel looked at the bright orange ring, then at you. One eyebrow rose slow and skeptical.
“What the hell’s wrong with a little sugar, darlin’?”
You smiled at that.
“Because I don’t want it scratching that pretty cock of yours when I slide it down every inch.”
The words landed heavy between you.
Joel’s jaw flexed. His eyes darkened instantly, pupils blowing wide. For a second he just stared at you, like he was trying to decide whether to laugh, curse, or drag you into his lap and end this game right now.
Instead he let out a low, rough breath.
“Jesus Christ, darlin’…”
You brought the peach ring closer to his mouth, brushing the soft sugar against his lower lip.
“Open up your mouth for me, baby.”
Joel held your gaze the entire time he parted his lips. The second the gummy touched his tongue he closed his mouth around it and your finger, sucking slowly. His tongue moved over the soft ring, licking every bit of sugar, warm and wet against your skin. He didn’t look away from you once.
You let out a shaky little breath.
“That’s it… just like that,” you murmured, voice dropping. “Get it nice and clean for me, Joel.”
He hummed around your finger, the vibration going straight between your legs. His tongue curled, licked between your fingers, sucked the gummy until it started to lose its sharp sugar edge and turn glossy with his spit. The wet sounds filled the quiet bedroom.
When the peach ring was slick and mostly sugar free, you finally pulled it from his mouth with a soft pop. A thin string of saliva connected his lip to your finger for a second before it broke.
You looked at the gummy, then at him, and smiled.
“Very good,” you praised, voice warm and a little breathless.
Joel let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound rough and genuine. His eyes were dark but sparkling with that mix of amusement and pure want that always made your stomach flip.
“Yeah? That earn me a gold star?”
You leaned in and kissed him again, deep and filthy, tasting the peach on his tongue. While you kissed him your free hand moved to the buttons of his shirt, slowly working them open one by one.
“You earned a lot more than that,” you whispered against his mouth.
You kissed along his jaw, slow open mouthed kisses that made his head tilt back against the headboard. Your lips moved down to his neck, tongue tracing the tendon there, sucking lightly just below his ear until he let out a low growl.
“Baby…”
You smiled against his skin. “Shh. Hands stay up there.”
You kept unbuttoning his shirt until it fell open completely, revealing the broad, solid plane of his chest and the soft dark hair scattered across it. You dragged your tongue down the center of his sternum, tasting salt and skin and the faint trace of soap from his shower earlier. Lower, following the trail of hair that disappeared beneath his belt; his happy trail.
You pressed a wet kiss right below his belly button and looked up at him through your lashes.
“Love this,” you murmured, dragging your tongue along the line of hair. “Love how it leads exactly where I want to go.”
Joel’s breath hitched. His arms flexed against the headboard but he kept them exactly where you’d put them.
“Fuckin’ menace,” he muttered, voice gravel rough.
You grinned and nipped lightly at his lower stomach before your hands moved to his belt. You undid the buckle with practiced ease, popped the button of his jeans, and dragged the zipper down slow enough to make him feel every tooth.
When you freed his cock it was already hard and heavy, flushed dark at the tip and curving up toward his stomach. You wrapped your hand around the base and gave one slow, firm stroke.
Joel groaned low in his throat.
You leaned down and pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to the head, then dragged your tongue over the slit, tasting the bead of precum already there. You coated him thoroughly, licking long, wet stripes up and down his length until he glistened with your saliva.
Then you picked up the slick peach ring.
You looked up at him again, eyes shining with mischief and heat.
“Ready?”
Joel’s voice was wrecked. “You’re really gonna do this.”
“Mmm-hmm.” You slid the soft, warm gummy slowly down over the head of his cock, careful, watching his face the entire time. It stretched a little, snug but smooth now that the sugar was mostly gone. You eased it down a couple of inches, then back up, letting the soft ring drag along his sensitive skin.
Joel’s hips twitched. A deep, guttural sound left his chest.
“Jesus… fuck, baby.”
“Feel good?” you asked sweetly, still sliding the gummy up and down his shaft in slow, torturous strokes.
“Too damn good,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You laughed softly and finally set the gummy aside. Then you lowered your mouth over him.
You took him deep in one smooth glide, lips stretching around his thickness, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Joel’s head fell back against the headboard with a thud, a broken groan tearing out of him.
You worked him slowly at first with long, wet pulls, hollowing your cheeks, taking him as far as you could until your nose brushed the dark hair at his base. Then you pulled back up, swirling your tongue around the head, sucking lightly on the sensitive spot just beneath it before sliding down again.
“Goddamn, sweetheart… that mouth,” Joel panted. His hands were still gripping the headboard so hard the wood creaked. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”
You hummed around him, the vibration making his cock twitch hard against your tongue. You picked up the pace gradually, bobbing your head faster, one hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, the other gently cupping his balls, rolling them softly.
The wet, filthy sounds of your mouth working him filled the room. Every time you took him especially deep you let out a little moan that made Joel curse under his breath.
You felt him start to tense, his thighs going tight, his cock swelling even harder against your tongue.
You pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him, lips shiny and swollen.
“You close, handsome?”
Joel’s chest was heaving. His voice was raw. “Yeah… fuck, yes, I’m right there—”
You sat up abruptly, wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand like it was nothing, and scooted up the bed to sit beside him. You leaned back against the headboard with a satisfied little sigh, legs stretched out, looking perfectly casual.
Joel’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide with disbelief and pure frustration.
You smiled sweetly at him.
“Well?” you said, voice light and innocent. “If you want to come, you’re already late eating my pussy, baby.”
Joel stared at you for a long second, chest still rising and falling hard, cock glistening and throbbing against his stomach, hands still obediently on the headboard.
Then he let out a low, dangerous laugh that sent heat rushing straight between your legs.
Joel’s gaze dragged down your body like he was already planning exactly how he was going to ruin you.
“Look at you… sittin’ there all sweet and wicked after what you just did to me. You got me achin’ so bad I can barely think straight.” he said, voice rough and thick with hunger.
You bit your lip, heat flooding your cheeks, but you didn’t close your legs. Instead you held his stare and slowly dragged the hem of your denim dress higher up your thighs, bunching the fabric at your hips until you were fully exposed to him. Then you spread your legs wider, showing him exactly what he did to you.
The cool air hit the soaked lace of your panties and you shivered. The dark wet spot was obvious. Embarrassingly, but beautifully obvious.
Joel’s breath caught hard in his chest. His eyes locked between your thighs like he couldn’t look away even if the world was ending.
“Jesus Christ, baby…” he breathed, almost reverent. “That all for me? You’re fuckin’ drippin’.”
You nodded, voice soft and a little shy but full of honest want.
“All for you, Joel. I’ve been like this since the truck. You were so good to me tonight… carrying me, buying me snacks, letting me tease you, keeping your hands right where I told you… You make me this wet just by being you. Just by loving me the way you do.”
He made a low, broken sound deep in his throat, almost pained. His cock gave a heavy twitch, the stretched peach ring around the base making the ache sharper and tighter. For a long second his hands flexed like he wanted to reach for you, but he kept them exactly where you’d placed them earlier; gripping the top of the headboard.
“My sweet, filthy little wife…” he muttered, but his eyes were soft and dark and so full of love it made your chest feel tight.
He finally moved, crawling between your spread thighs with deliberate slowness. His big hands wrapped gently around your ankles first, thumbs stroking the delicate bone there. He lifted one foot and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your ankle, then another higher up your calf. Every kiss was warm and wet, lingering, like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second of it.
He took his time.
Kissing. Sucking. Nipping lightly at the soft skin of your inner thighs until faint pink marks bloomed under his mouth. You felt each one like a brand.
“Joel…” you whispered, already breathless.
He hummed against your thigh, the vibration traveling straight to your core. When he reached the edge of your soaked panties he didn’t pull them aside. He simply leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue in one long, slow stripe right up the center of your pussy through the lace.
Your hips jerked.
He did it again, slower, pressing harder, letting the rough texture of the wet fabric drag over your swollen clit. The sensation was maddening.
“Fuck, Joel… please…”
He looked up at you from between your legs, beard already shiny with your arousal, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction.
“Please what, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Thought you were the one runnin’ the show tonight. Ain’t that what you told me?”
You let out a frustrated little whine, but you were smiling too, cheeks flushed.
He chuckled darkly and went back to torturing you, sucking gently on your clit through the lace, tongue flicking in tight little circles. Every slow, deliberate lick made the fabric cling even more obscenely to you. The wet sounds of his mouth against the soaked lace filled the bedroom.
You squirmed, fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Joel… baby, please take them off. I need your mouth on me properly… I can’t—”
He pulled back just enough to grin up at you, lips glistening.
“Well now… ain’t that interestin’. My bossy little wife is beggin’ already.”
You laughed breathlessly and reached down, threading your fingers into his thick hair. You gave it a gentle but firm tug.
“I’m the one still in charge,” you whispered sweetly, voice dripping with playful threat. “And you’re not coming until I say so. Don’t forget that, handsome.”
The reminder hit him hard. Joel’s cock throbbed painfully inside the gummy ring. He groaned low against your thigh, the sound raw.
“You’re trouble,” he muttered, but there was nothing but pure desperate affection in it. “Nothin’ but trouble.”
He hooked two thick fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly dragged them down your legs, letting the soaked lace kiss every inch of skin on the way off. He tossed them aside and settled back between your thighs like a man coming home.
This time there was nothing between his mouth and you.
Joel licked a long, slow stripe up your bare pussy and groaned deep, like the taste of you was everything he’d ever wanted. Then the teasing stopped completely.
He devoured you.
His mouth was hot, hungry and relentless. He sucked your clit between his lips, tongue flicking fast and firm, then slowed down to lick broad and lazy, savoring every drop. Two thick fingers slid inside you without warning, curling perfectly against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
“Fuck— Joel— yes, right there, baby…”
He moaned into your pussy, the vibration shooting through you. Every low, filthy grunt and wet sound he made told you exactly how much he loved eating you like this.
“You taste so fuckin’ good, darlin’,” he rasped against you, voice muffled and wrecked. “So sweet. So wet. Could stay right here between your legs all night.”
You kept praising him between broken moans, words spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold them back.
“You’re so good… God, your mouth— I love how you eat my pussy… No one has ever made me feel like this… Fuck, Joel, you’re perfect— so perfect for me…”
Every compliment made him groan louder, his hips unconsciously grinding against the mattress, chasing any kind of relief for his aching cock. The peach ring was still tight around him, making every throb feel sharper, more intense.
You threw one leg over his broad shoulder, then the other, heels digging into his back as you rocked against his face without any shame, riding his tongue.
“That’s it— right there— don’t stop, baby—”
Joel’s hips kept moving, desperate little thrusts against the bed. You noticed immediately.
“You’re cheating,” you panted, half-laughing, half-moaning. “Grinding on the bed like that…”
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, beard shiny and dripping with your slick, eyes glassy and dark.
“Cheating?” His voice was completely wrecked. “Darlin’, you got me drippin’ like a goddamn teenager. I’m doin’ everything I can to behave and you’re still sittin’ there lookin’ like that, tastin’ like that… You’re killin’ me here.”
The raw honesty in his voice made you melt.
You reached down and cupped his wet cheek tenderly, thumb brushing through his soaked beard. Then you brought those same slick fingers to his mouth. Joel opened without hesitation, sucking them clean with a deep, grateful groan.
“I know you’re being so good for me,” you whispered, voice soft and full of love. “But you know what would make me even wetter? Watching you eat my pussy while you stroke that pretty cock for me. I want to see you touch yourself while you make me come.”
Joel didn’t hesitate for even a second.
He rose up on his knees, helped you stand on shaky legs, and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. While he kissed you he peeled the rest of your dress off, then your bra. You helped him shove his open shirt off his shoulders and pushed his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down until both of you were completely naked.
Then Joel dropped to his knees again; right there in front of you.
One big hand settled possessively on your lower back, holding you steady. The other wrapped around his aching cock, the peach ring still snug at the base, and he started stroking himself slow and tight, eyes never leaving yours.
He looked up at you the entire time as he leaned in and licked back into your pussy with pure devotion.
No more games. Just Joel on his knees, worshipping you with his mouth while he fucked his own fist for you. The eye contact was unbroken, intense. Every moan he let out vibrated against your clit. Every wet sound of his hand moving on his cock mixed with the obscene noises of him eating you like a starving man.
You looked down at him and let out a shaky, awed breath.
“Oh my God, Joel… look at you,” you whispered, voice full of wonder and heat. “On your knees for me… stroking that pretty cock while you eat my pussy. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
Joel groaned loudly against you, the sound vibrating straight into your core. His eyes fluttered but he kept them locked on yours, sucking harder on your clit like your words had lit a fire under him.
You threaded both hands into his hair, holding him right where you needed him.
“That’s it… good boy,” you murmured, voice sweet and filthy at the same time. “Good fucking boy, baby. You’re doing so good for me.”
His hips jerked forward into his own fist at the praise. A broken moan tore out of him, muffled against your soaked folds.
You smiled down at him, breathing hard.
“You like that, huh? You like being my good boy?” You stroked his hair gently, almost tenderly. “Look at you… so desperate, so hungry. I can feel how much you love this. You’re making such pretty sounds for me, Joel.”
He pulled back just enough to gasp against your thigh, voice wrecked and hoarse.
“Fuck, sweetheart… keep talkin’ like that and I ain’t gonna last…”
You tugged his hair lightly, guiding his mouth back to you.
“You still don’t get to come until I do. You hear me, baby? Be good for me a little longer.” you said softly.
Joel whimpered —actually whimpered— and dove back in, licking and sucking with renewed hunger. His hand moved faster on his cock, the wet sounds growing louder, more frantic.
You kept praising him, voice getting breathier as your own pleasure built higher.
“Yes… just like that. You’re so good with your tongue, Joel. So perfect. God, look at you on your knees… touching yourself for me while you make me feel this good. My handsome husband… my good, good boy…”
His shoulders trembled. His strokes became tighter, almost desperate, but he never looked away from your eyes. The eye contact was devastating.
Your thighs started to shake around his head.
It was too much.
You threaded both hands into his hair, holding him against you as your thighs started to tremble.
“Joel—baby— I’m so close…”
He pulled back just enough to murmur against your slick, puffy folds, voice hoarse and full of love.
“I got you, baby. You can let it go. Come for me. Let me feel you.”
The orgasm crashed into you hard. You cried out his name, hips jerking against his mouth as pleasure tore through you in long, overwhelming waves. Your walls clenched around his fingers, thighs shaking around his head.
Joel kept licking you through it, gentler now, soothing every aftershock… but his own hand never stopped moving on his cock. His strokes grew faster, tighter, more desperate as he felt you coming undone on his tongue.
The moment your orgasm started to crest and then slowly ebb, Joel groaned loudly against your pussy, the sound desperate and broken. His eyes locked on yours again, dark and glassy, almost pleading.
“Fuck—darlin’— I can’t hold it anymore…” His voice cracked. “Please… can I come? Let me come, baby… please—”
You kept your eyes fixed on him, watching every single detail: the way his hand flew over his cock, the way his hips stuttered, the way his chest heaved. You stroked his hair tenderly while you watched him fall apart.
“Yes, baby,” you panted, voice sweet. “You can come. Come for me, Joel. Let me see you.”
The permission hit him like a trigger.
Joel groaned loudly against your oversensitive clit, the sound vibrating through you as he finally let go. His hips jerked hard, his hand stroking himself through it, and he came with a deep, guttural moan. Thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto the floor while he kept licking you softly, riding out the last waves of your pleasure as he emptied himself completely for you.
Only when you were both trembling and breathless did he finally slow down.
He stayed on his knees between your legs for a long moment, forehead resting against your thigh, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. His hand was still loosely wrapped around his softening cock.
You looked down at him and let out a soft, breathless laugh, still coming down from your high.
“Baby… you still have the gummy on.”
“Fuckin’ thing.”
He reached down to slide it off carefully. The moment it came free he hissed through his teeth; oversensitive and aching.
You grabbed his arm quickly, still giggling softly.
“You’re not throwing it away, right?”
Joel looked up at you, one eyebrow raised, that crooked, fond smile on his shiny lips.
“You serious, darlin’?”
You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, eyes sparkling with playful challenge.
He stared at you for a second, then shook his head, laughing low and warm and so full of love it made your heart squeeze.
“You are actually insane,” he muttered, but he stood up, stepped close, and carefully placed the slick, cum covered peach ring onto your waiting tongue.
The second you closed your mouth around it, Joel leaned down and kissed you; deep, slow, and filthy. He tasted himself, the sweet artificial peach, and the lingering taste of you all at once.
In the middle of the kiss he laughed softly against your lips, the sound warm and full of love.
“I love you,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “Goddamn, I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
For a moment, Joel didn’t move. He only held you there, forehead pressed to yours, one hand cupping the side of your face while both of you tried to remember how to breathe like normal people again. The room was warm and wrecked around you, the sheets twisted, your dress on the floor, the open bag of peach rings sitting near the pillows like evidence of a crime neither of you regretted.
Then Joel let out a quiet, breathless laugh and kissed your cheek, softer now, careful in the way he always became after.
“Alright, trouble,” he murmured, voice rough but tender, already reaching for the water on the nightstand. “Before you get any more ideas, you’re drinkin’ this, and then I’m cleanin’ you up.”
You smiled against his shoulder, boneless and happy. “Still bossy.”
He pressed another kiss to your temple. “Still married to me.”
⋆♱ Beautiful dividers from @saradika-graphics and @thecutestgrotto
.⋆♱ summary: It is no secret that many men don’t particularly enjoy their wives having a group of friends to go out with, unwind with, laugh with, and come home late from.
Joel Miller has never understood that.
He likes watching you get ready. Likes the music drifting from the bathroom, the dresses laid across the bed, the way you turn in front of the mirror and ask him what he thinks as if he is not already half in love with every version of you. He likes knowing you have a night that belongs to you.
Because when it is over, when you are warm with cocktails and laughter and ready to come home, you always call him.
And Joel always answers.
He shows up with your playlist already playing, cold juice waiting in the cupholder, and enough snacks to prove he knows you better than anyone.
He thinks he has planned for everything.
But he has not prepared for what you decide to do with the peach rings.
.⋆♱ a/n: Since I can’t get husband!Joel out of my head, I had no choice but to write a second part to Mirror, mirror on the wall... Hope you enjoy it!!!🦋
.⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the end, Domestic Fluff, Tipsy Reader, Drunk Flirting, Light Dom/sub Elements, Switch Dynamics, Sub Joel Miller, Use of “Good Boy”, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Food Play, Candy, Light Cum Play, Aftercare, Gas Station Snacks As Foreplay.
.⋆♱ wc: 11.615 k
.⋆♱ Request for Joel and Tommy Miller are always open <3
Saturday night started with Fleetwood Mac drifting out of the bathroom and Joel pretending he had not been listening to the same soft, hypnotic rhythm of Dreams for the past twenty minutes.
He was on the bed with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out and the other bent lazily at the knee, a book open in one hand that he had not actually read beyond the same two paragraphs since you’d disappeared into the bathroom with your makeup bag, your curling iron, half your perfume collection, and the kind of determined expression that usually meant the bedroom was about to become a staging area for decisions he did not fully understand but always enjoyed witnessing. The door stood half open, and light spilled through the gap in a warm stripe across the floorboards, carrying with it the faint hiss of running water and your voice rising every now and then over the music when a lyric caught you in just the right place.
Joel didn’t smile much when he was alone. It had never come naturally to him, not even in peace. But the corner of his mouth had been sitting in that almost smile for a while now, stubborn and helpless, because there were some things marriage had taught him no amount of age or bad habit could defend against. The sound of you singing too loudly in the bathroom was one of them. Not perfectly. Not even close, sometimes. You had a dangerous faith in high notes after two glasses of wine and a worse one when you were sober, but there was something about that song that made you softer instead of louder, your voice warm and careless as it slipped through the half open door. You sang like you were living inside the song instead of performing it, like the words belonged to you for as long as they passed through your mouth, and Joel had discovered early on that there was a kind of happiness in hearing someone you loved be unselfconscious in the next room.
That was the word for it, maybe. Unselfconscious. Safe enough to be noisy. Safe enough to take up space. Safe enough to scatter clothes across his side of the bed and shout, “Don’t look yet,” as though he had not seen every inch of you in states far less organized than this.
He looked at the open book again and absorbed none of it.
From the bathroom, you called, “Joel?”
“Hm?”
“Are you listening?”
He lifted his eyes toward the door. “To what?”
“To Stevie Nicks.”
“Been hard not to, darlin’.”
Your laugh came out bright and immediate. “Rude.”
“Didn’t say it was bad.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you got enthusiasm.”
“Enthusiasm is a compliment.”
“In some contexts.”
“Joel.”
He turned the page only to keep up appearances. “Sorry, ma’am.”
There was a pause, and then something small hit the bathroom door from the inside. A makeup brush, maybe. Or a hair clip. He didn’t know. You owned enough tiny objects to arm yourself for a siege.
He shook his head and looked back down, still smiling despite himself.
He liked this part more than he had ever thought he would. That was the honest truth of it. Years ago, before you, Joel might have thought this kind of waiting would annoy him; the music, the clothes, the questions that did not have one correct answer no matter how many times you insisted they did, the slow transformation of the bedroom into a disaster of fabric, jewelry, perfume, and half zipped handbags. He might have mistaken all of it for fuss. For delay. For complication.
Now he understood it as anticipation.
There was something almost ceremonious about the way you prepared for a night out with your girls. It was not simply putting on clothes and leaving the house. It was the choosing. The trying. The little rituals of becoming the version of yourself the night required. You did your makeup with a concentration that made him go quiet, then ruined your own seriousness by turning a mascara tube into a microphone the second Bad Romance came on. You held earrings against your neck and turned your head in the mirror as if consulting some invisible jury. You sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it with your eyes closed. You changed your mind three times, sometimes four, and every version of you that stepped out for his judgment looked so good to him that he was, admittedly, useless as a critic.
Joel had learned not to say that too early.
If he said “that one” right away, you accused him of not looking closely enough. If he hesitated, you accused him of hating it. If he said he liked all of them, you told him that was sweet but unhelpful. Marriage, as far as he could tell, was a long and humbling education in answering questions for which the truth was not always the point.
The bathroom door opened a little wider.
“Okay,” you said from behind it. “First option.”
Joel closed the book around one finger and looked up.
You stepped out barefoot, still in the soft robe you wore while getting ready, but holding a dress against the front of your body by its hanger. It was black, short enough that Joel’s eyes gave it careful attention before he remembered he was supposed to be evaluating rather than reacting. You stood at the foot of the bed with your lips pressed together, trying to read his face before he’d said a word.
He knew better than to speak too fast.
“Well?” you asked.
Joel looked at the dress, then at you. “That the one you wore to Pat’s birthday dinner?”
“No. That one had sleeves.”
“Right.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Do you actually remember that?”
He gave you a look over the top of the book. “You wore it with those little gold earrings that look like knots.”
Your mouth parted just a little, pleased despite yourself. “Hoops, Joel. They’re hoops.”
“They got knots in ’em.”
“They’re twisted hoops.”
“That’s what I said.”
You laughed and looked down at the dress again, your thumb smoothing over the fabric. “So?”
He took a second, more because he wanted to watch the way you waited than because he needed one. “It’s pretty.”
“Pretty good or pretty pretty?”
“Pretty dangerous.”
Your face changed, and he felt the satisfaction of it low in his chest.
“Dangerous,” you repeated.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“That sounds like a… husband answer.”
“Ain’t I your husband?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you get to be lazy.”
Joel’s brow lifted. “You ask me what I think, I say you look dangerous, and somehow I’m lazy.”
“You didn’t specify why.”
He set the book aside at last because pretending had become insulting to both of you. “Alright. It’s got that neckline you like, the one that makes you stand different.”
You blinked.
He continued, because now you had asked for it. “The skirt hits high enough that you’ll keep tugging at it when you sit, but not because you don’t like it. Because you know it looks good and you’ll want to act like you don’t know.”
Your expression softened into surprise.
“And,” he added, eyes moving back up to yours, “if you wear it with those black heels that make you mean, you’ll spend all night pretendin’ you’re not enjoyin’ everybody lookin’ at you.”
You stared at him.
Joel waited.
Then you said, quieter, “The black heels make me… mean?”
“They do.”
“How?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You walk differently in ’em.”
Your smile started small. “Different how?”
“Like you’re about to ruin somebody’s life.”
You laughed then, delighted and embarrassed all at once, and the sound went through him with a warmth so clean it almost hurt. You turned on your heel and disappeared back into the bathroom, calling over your shoulder, “That one goes in the maybe pile.”
Joel watched the empty doorway for a moment.
Then he reached for the book, opened it, and did not read.
The music changed then, the first low, gritty pull of Sex on Fire slipping through the bathroom door, and you made a pleased little sound from inside, the kind he could picture without seeing it: your head tipping back, your shoulders moving, your hand finding a brush or lipstick or bottle of something as though the song had made the decision for you. He heard drawers slide open, hangers scrape, the soft thump of clothing landing somewhere it probably shouldn’t. Every now and then your reflection crossed the thin vertical slice of the bathroom mirror visible from where he sat, and Joel caught fragments: your bare shoulder, the line of your neck, your hand lifting to your mouth, the flash of an earring.
Joel looked down at the book again and pretended not to hear the way you sang that one lower, less pretty and more amused, like you knew exactly what the song did to the air between the bedroom and the bathroom.
It was not that he needed to watch.
It was that he liked being allowed to.
There was a difference he did not think most men understood. Watching you get ready was not about possession, though there was some quiet, old fashioned part of him that took a dangerous kind of pride in knowing you would come back to him at the end of the night. It was about being the person who saw the before and after, the decisions no one else would know had taken place, the little anxieties that passed through you before you stepped out looking like nothing in the world could touch you. Your friends would see the final version. The bar would see the smile, the dress, the gloss, the confidence. Joel saw the bobby pins between your teeth and the mascara face and the way you frowned at one shoe because it had betrayed you once on a sidewalk crack two summers ago.
He loved the finished thing but he loved the making of it even more.
You appeared again with the second option, this time actually wearing it.
Joel’s spine straightened before he could help it.
It was not as obviously dangerous as the black dress. That was the trouble. This one did not announce itself. It was softer, the color warm against your skin, the fabric skimming rather than clinging, the straps delicate enough to make his hands feel suddenly aware of themselves. You came out smoothing your palms down the front of it, looking at him with uncertainty he immediately disliked.
“I don’t know,” you said.
Joel’s eyes lifted to your face. “Why not?”
You glanced down. “Maybe it’s too simple.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” he said again, firmer.
Your gaze flickered to his. “You like this one?”
“I do.”
“You said the other one was dangerous.”
“This one is too.”
You let out a little disbelieving laugh. “Joel, you cannot call every outfit dangerous.”
“I can if they are.”
“That’s not helpful, baby.”
He sat forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and looked at you properly. “That one’s quieter.”
You went still.
He chose his words with more care, because he could see now that this mattered differently. “Not plain. Not simple. Quiet. Like… it doesn’t need to try so hard.”
Your face shifted with that, some of the doubt giving way to something more tender.
“It looks like you, that's why.” he said.
The room changed.
Just a little. Just enough.
You looked down again, but this time not because you were unsure. Because you were trying to hide the effect of him.
You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile. “You’re supposed to be helping me choose, not making it harder.”
“Didn’t say I was good at the job.”
“You’re terrible at it.”
“I’m honest.”
“That might be worse.”
He huffed a laugh. “Probably.”
You walked to the full length mirror near the dresser and turned sideways, studying yourself. Joel watched you with a concentration that did not feel casual anymore. There were things he could have said and didn’t. That he liked the way the dress made your shoulders look delicate when he knew perfectly well you were not fragile. That the soft color made him think of summer evenings and your mouth after wine. That he liked how comfortable you seemed inside it, how much less you performed when you forgot he was watching and assessed yourself with those quiet, devoted eyes.
Instead he said, “Can you dance in it?”
You glanced back. “That’s your deciding factor?”
“If you’re goin’ out with the girls, yeah.”
That made you smile properly. “I can dance in it.”
“Can you sit in it without complainin’?”
“Yes.”
“Can you eat fries in it?”
You laughed. “What kind of question is that?”
“A practical one.”
“I can eat fries in anything.”
“Not true. Green dress from New Year’s.”
Your mouth dropped open. “That dress was tight.”
“I remember.”
You tried to glare at him, but your smile ruined it. “Maybe pile?”
“Maybe pile.”
You turned back toward the bathroom, then paused at the doorway. “You really like it?”
Joel’s expression settled, the humor easing into something steadier. “Yeah, darlin’. I really like it.”
You disappeared before he could say more, but he saw the way your shoulders lifted, lighter than before.
That was another thing he liked. Not the insecurity, never that, but the privilege of being trusted with it. You did not hand those little uncertainties to everyone. You did not ask just anyone, Is this too much? Is this enough? Do I look like myself? You asked him. Only him. And every time, something inside Joel answered before he did: I see you. I’ve got you. Come here, let me look.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced toward the window, where the last of the evening light was thinning into blue. You had been excited about tonight all week. Girls’ night, you kept calling it, though there was always a touch of ceremony in the way you said it, like it meant more than drinks and dinner and too many shared appetizers. It meant being someone besides wife for a few hours, not because being his wife trapped you, but because Joel knew love was healthiest when it left the door open. He liked that you had women who made you laugh loud enough to lose your breath. He liked that you came home with stories, with lipstick half gone, with your feet aching, with that loose, tipsy warmth that made you affectionate and bossy and far too honest.
He especially liked the part where you came home to him.
That thought was enough to make him look back down at his hands and smile secretly to himself.
The bathroom door opened again.
“Okay,” you announced. “Final option.”
Joel looked up.
And forgot, briefly, that he was supposed to be civilized.
You had chosen a dark denim dress he had not seen before, something different and fitted with a neckline that was not indecent but still made him sit very still. You had added jewelry this time. Not all of it, not yet, but enough: small earrings catching the light, a bracelet at your wrist, a necklace resting just above your collarbone. Your makeup was half done, your hair still not quite finished, and somehow that made it worse. Not polished yet. Not complete. Still in the middle of becoming. Still his to see before the world got the final version.
“Well?” you asked, more quietly this time.
Joel’s gaze traveled down and back up with deliberate restraint. “That’s the one.”
Your brows rose. “You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“Didn’t need to.”
You looked down at yourself. “Why?”
Because I want to cancel your night and keep you here, he thought, and immediately decided not to say that because he was, contrary to some evidence beneath his pants, a decent man.
Out loud, he said, “You’re comfortable in it.”
You softened. “That’s your reason?”
“One of ’em.”
“What’s the other?”
He leaned back against the headboard again, eyes on you. “You keep lookin’ at yourself like you already chose it and you’re waitin’ for me to agree.”
Your lips parted, then closed. You glanced toward the mirror, caught, and laughed under your breath. “That is extremely annoying.”
“Being right?”
“Yes.”
You walked closer, stopping between his knees at the edge of the bed. Joel tipped his head back to keep looking at you, and for a moment the music from the bathroom seemed to move farther away, softened by the doorway and the warm air and the fact of you standing so close that he could smell the coconut lotion on your skin. You reached down and took the book from beside him, glanced at the cover, then at his face.
“Space for idiots,” you read aloud. “What page are you on, baby?”
Joel did not blink. “Page I’m on.”
“You haven’t moved in half an hour.”
“Book’s dense.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
He looked up at you, and the truth sat in his face before he bothered with words. “You were more interestin’.”
Your expression changed in a way he felt more than saw. Softer at first, then pleased, then something else underneath it, something playful sharpening around the edges.
“You like watching me get ready.”
He could have denied it. He had enough pride left to try, maybe. But you were smiling at him like you already knew, and Joel had reached an age where lying badly in front of a beautiful woman was more trouble than it was worth.
“Yeah,” he said.
Your smile widened. “Why?”
He slipped his hands to your hips, not pulling, just settling there because you were close enough and he wanted to. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You don’t answer enough of them.”
“That ain’t true.”
“It is.”
He studied you for a moment, thumb moving once against the fabric at your side. “I like seein’ you happy.”
The playfulness in your face dimmed into something tender.
Joel kept his voice low, almost plain, because that was the only way he knew how to say things that mattered. “Like watchin’ you choose things for yourself. Like watchin’ you get excited. Like knowin’ you’re goin’ out and gonna have a good time, and then you’re comin’ back here after.”
Your hand came to rest lightly against his shoulder. “To you.”
His eyes held yours. “To me.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then your phone buzzed somewhere in the bathroom, and the moment broke gently instead of shattering. You looked toward the sound, then back at him with reluctant duty.
“That’s probably them.”
“Then you better finish gettin’ ready.”
You sighed dramatically. “You’re kicking me out?”
Joel’s hands tightened slightly at your hips before he released you. “If I was kickin’ you out, you’d know it.”
You leaned down and kissed him, quick at first, then not quick at all when his hand came up to the back of your neck and kept you there a moment longer. You tasted faintly of cherry lip gloss and smelled like perfume he knew would linger on his shirt after you left. When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your mouth.
“You’re going to mess up my gloss,” you whispered.
He huffed a laugh. “Consider me warned.”
You straightened, but before you could leave, he caught your wrist and turned it gently, his thumb brushing beneath the bracelet you had half fastened. “You want this one?”
You looked down. “Yes, please.”
He stood, taking the two ends carefully between his fingers. For a man who spent his days handling lumber, concrete, and power tools, Joel could be surprisingly patient with delicate things when they belonged to you. He bent his head, brows drawn in concentration, and fastened the clasp with more care than the tiny piece of jewelry probably deserved. You watched him do it in silence, your wrist resting in his hand, and he felt your gaze on the top of his head like warmth.
“There,” he murmured.
You turned your wrist, making the bracelet catch the light. “Thank you.”
He didn’t let go right away. His thumb slid once over your pulse. “Text me when you need me.”
“I will.”
“Not when you think you might need me. When you need me.”
Your smile was immediate, but you didn’t tease him for it. You knew the difference by now between control and care, between Joel trying to hold you back and Joel needing to know there was a line of safety between your night and his hands.
“I promise,” you said.
He nodded once. “And drink water.”
“There he is.”
“What?”
“My old man.”
Joel’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek. “My handsome old man.”
“That ain’t better.”
“It’s a little better.”
“It is not.”
You laughed as you slipped out of his hold and back toward the bathroom, leaving him standing by the bed with your perfume on his shirt and your bracelet’s warmth still ghosting across his fingers. He watched through the open door as you leaned close to the mirror again, reapplying gloss with precise little movements, then stepping back to check the whole effect.
The song changed once more, and the first dramatic beat of Bad Romance filled the bathroom. You gasped softly in recognition before turning it up, already reaching for your mascara tube like it had been waiting all night to become a microphone.
“Oh, I love this one.”
“I know,” Joel called.
You poked your head out, eyes bright. “Yeah?”
He sat back on the bed, reaching for the abandoned book out of habit rather than interest. “You play it every time you’re gettin’ ready.”
Your smile went strangely soft. “You really do pay attention.”
Joel looked at you over the book, the answer too obvious to dress up. “Told you I did.”
For once, you didn’t make a joke.
You just stood there for a second in the warm bathroom light, half finished and already beautiful, looking at him like you had found something precious in the middle of an ordinary evening. Then you disappeared again, singing along under your breath at first, until the French part came and you gave up on pretending to be subtle altogether. Joel heard the sudden lift in your voice, the ridiculous confidence of it, the way you leaned into every syllable as if the bathroom mirror were a stage and the mascara tube in your hand had been made for exactly this.
Joel lowered the book a fraction, watched the flash of your hand in the mirror, and decided there were worse things in life than being married to a woman who performed Lady Gaga to an audience of one.
And then he let his head fall back against the headboard as the house filled with music, perfume, and the living proof of you.
By the time Joel made it to the bar, he still had the ghost of your perfume on his shirt.
He noticed it when he stepped out of the truck and the evening air shifted around him, cool enough now that the heat of the house seemed to fall away in pieces. It was faint, almost gone beneath sawdust, soap, and the clean cotton of the shirt he had changed into before leaving, but it was there all the same. Something soft. Something yours. It followed him across the small parking lot like a hand at the back of his neck, and by the time he pushed open the bar door, Joel had already made the private mistake of wondering if you were singing already in the car with your friends, laughing too loud and checking your gloss in the passenger mirror.
The bar was warm, dim, and familiar, full of the kind of Saturday night noise that didn’t ask much of a man. A game played on the television above the counter with the volume low. Country music hummed somewhere under the voices. The place smelled of beer, fried food and old wood. Joel liked bars like this. Nothing polished. Nothing trying to impress anybody. Just a room where working men could sit down, drink something cold, and pretend their knees did not hurt when they stood back up.
Tommy was already at a table near the back with a couple of the crew and one electrician they used often enough that he had become less subcontractor and more permanent nuisance.
Tommy lifted his chin when he saw Joel. “There he is.”
Joel pulled out the chair beside him. “Y’all start without me?”
“Hell, I was born startin’ without you,” Tommy said, sliding a beer toward him. “You’re the one who likes showin’ up after everybody’s settled.”
Joel sat and reached for the bottle. “Had things to do.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
That was all Tommy said at first, which was how Joel knew his brother had decided to behave for at least three minutes. Maybe four, if God was feeling generous.
Eugene nodded at Joel over the basket of wings. “Miller.”
“Eugene.”
“You missed Tommy explainin’ why he could fix the Cowboys if Jerry Jones would just take his calls.”
Joel took a drink. “Ain’t sure the Cowboys deserve that.”
Tommy pointed at him. “See, that right there is why I don’t talk football with you. No vision.”
“I got vision. I can see you’d make it worse.”
The table laughed, Tommy included, though he gave Joel a look like he was storing the insult for later. It was easy at first. Easier than Joel had expected. The beer was cold, the chair was comfortable enough, and the men around the table were talking the way men talked when nobody’s wife was close enough to tell them they were all repeating the same argument they had every other week. Work bled into football, football into truck problems, truck problems into Eugene insisting he knew a mechanic who could “hear a bad alternator from across a damn county,” which nobody believed and everyone encouraged.
Joel listened. Mostly.
He answered when spoken to, laughed once when Tommy told a story about a homeowner who had tried to explain load bearing walls after watching three videos online, and corrected Caleb when he started blaming the wrong supplier for the late windows on the Henderson job. For a while, he was present enough to pass. Present enough that no one had reason to look too closely.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was nothing, just a notification from the weather app, but his hand was halfway there before he stopped himself.
But Tommy saw.
Joel knew he saw because Tommy did not say anything.
And that was worse.
His brother only took a slow drink from his beer, eyes forward, mouth doing that almost smile that had gotten him into trouble since they were boys. Joel ignored it. He was good at ignoring Tommy when he had to be. Had decades of practice. He folded his arms, leaned back, and focused on Eugene arguing with the electrician about whether the bar’s fries had changed.
“They’re thinner,” Eugene said, offended down to his soul.
“They ain’t thinner,” the electrician said. “You’re drunker.”
“I’ve had two beers.”
“Exactly.”
Eugene pointed at the basket. “A man knows when a fry’s been disrespected.”
Tommy shook his head. “Lord help whoever marries you.”
“Too late,” Eugene said. “My wife married me for my standards.”
Joel glanced at the television, then, without meaning to, toward the phone he had set face down near his elbow.
Still nothing.
He had told himself he would not sit at home waiting, and he hadn’t. Technically. He was at the bar. He had a beer in front of him and Tommy beside him and enough noise around him to count as social participation. But there was a part of him that had never left the bedroom, never left the sight of you standing between his knees in that dark denim dress, asking whether he liked watching you get ready as if the answer had not been sitting all over his face.
He wondered if the bracelet had stayed clasped.
He could picture you too clearly: your head bent toward one of your friends across a table, your drink held between both hands, the necklace catching low light at your throat. He could hear, in his mind, the way you laughed when something truly caught you off guard, not the pretty laugh you gave strangers but the full one, the one that made you lean into the nearest person and lose the thread of your own sentence.
Joel took another drink.
Tommy leaned sideways. “You hear a word I just said?”
Joel looked at him. “What?”
Tommy smiled slowly. Not too wide. Just enough to let Joel know the trial had begun.
“I said,” Tommy repeated, “that Ricky’s cousin backed his boat into his own garage door last summer.”
Joel stared at him.
The table went quiet for half a beat.
Then Caleb snorted into his beer.
Joel frowned. “What?”
Tommy’s smile widened. “Nothin’. Just checkin’.”
Joel set his bottle down. “You’re full of shit.”
“I am,” Tommy said easily. “But you still didn’t know.”
Eugene leaned forward, delighted. “Uh-oh.”
“No uh-oh,” Joel said.
“Oh, there is definitely an uh-oh,” Eugene said. “Man’s body is here, soul’s elsewhere.”
Joel gave him a flat look. “My soul’s mindin’ its business.”
Tommy rested an elbow on the table and turned more fully toward him. “Where’d you go, big brother?”
“Nowhere.”
“Mm. That why you’ve looked at your phone four times since sittin’ down?”
“I have not.”
“You have,” Caleb said, earning himself Joel’s stare and immediately lowering his eyes to his drink. “I mean… maybe three.”
Eugene shook his head gravely. “No, four. I respect accuracy.”
Joel sighed through his nose. “Y’all got nothin’ better to do?”
“We did,” Tommy said. “Then you started actin’ suspicious.”
“I’m not actin’ suspicious.”
“Joel,” Tommy said, voice dry as dust, “you just missed an entire made up story about a boat.”
“I was thinkin’.”
“About?”
Joel did not answer fast enough.
That was his second mistake.
Tommy’s expression changed in the exact way Joel hated: softer first, because he knew, then amused, because he was Tommy and mercy had never been his strongest quality.
“Ah,” Tommy said. “There she is.”
Joel picked up his beer. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say her name yet.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Tommy leaned back in his chair, now fully enjoying himself. “She’s out with the girls tonight.”
Eugene’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. That explains it.”
“Explains what?” Joel asked.
“The watchfulness,” Eugene said, like he was diagnosing a condition. “The haunted look. The sad little phone glances.”
Joel pointed at him with the neck of his beer. “Ain’t nothin’ sad about me.”
Tommy laughed. “Brother, you look like a dog tryin’ to pretend he ain’t heard the treat bag.”
The whole table broke.
Joel stared at his brother for a long second. “You been waitin’ all night to say that?”
“Came to me just now.”
“Should’ve let it pass.”
“Couldn’t. Gift from God.”
“You and God need better hobbies.”
Tommy’s grin turned sharp. “So how long before she texts?”
Joel looked back to the television. “Don’t know.”
“But you got a guess.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.” Tommy tipped his beer toward the phone. “You’ve been watchin’ that thing like it owes you money.”
Joel jaw shifted. “She’s havin’ fun.”
“Didn’t say she wasn’t.”
“She don’t need me hoverin’.”
“Nope.”
Joel glanced at him, suspicious now. Tommy’s voice had changed just slightly. Less bite. More brother.
Tommy shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t hoverin’ if you’re waitin’ to be called.”
Joel looked down at the beer bottle in his hand, thumb worrying at the damp label. That was the trouble with Tommy. He could be an ass for twenty straight minutes and then say something too close to true with no warning at all.
“She looked happy when she left,” Joel said, before he could stop himself.
The table went quieter, not silent, but softened at the edges.
Tommy nodded. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
“Good.”
Joel kept his eyes on the bottle. “She gets excited about this stuff. The gettin’ ready. The music. Showin’ me half her closet like I know a damn thing.”
“You know more than you pretend,” Tommy said.
Joel glanced over.
Eugene leaned in. “Oh.”
Joel turned his head slowly. “Tommy.”
“What? I’m celebratin’ your growth.”
“You’re about to celebrate eatin’ through a straw.”
Caleb laughed too hard and tried to hide it behind his bottle.
Tommy only smiled, entirely unafraid. “See? That right there. That’s my brother’s love right there.”
Joel took a drink because it was either that or smile, and he wasn’t giving Tommy the satisfaction.
Eugene, unfortunately, had found blood in the water. “So she tried on outfits before?”
Joel looked at the ceiling.
Tommy answered for him. “Oh, absolutely.”
“You weren’t there,” Joel said.
“Didn’t have to be. You got that face.”
“What face?”
“The face of a man who’s been asked whether two dresses are different and knows his life depends on the answer.”
The table laughed again, and this time Joel let himself huff the smallest breath of amusement because, damn it, it wasn’t entirely wrong.
“They were different,” he muttered.
Tommy snapped his fingers. “Hear that? Expert witness.”
Eugene leaned forward, solemn. “How different?”
Joel looked at him. “One had sleeves.”
The laughter came louder this time.
“Hell,” Eugene said, wiping at his eye. “That’s marriage right there.”
Joel shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Y’all are idiots.”
Tommy’s grin softened. “Maybe. But you like watchin’ her get ready, don’t you?”
Joel didn’t answer right away.
That was a question he could have dodged with something gruff. He could have told Tommy to mind his business, could have insulted Eugene’s wings, could have stood up and gone to the bar for another beer he didn’t need. But the night had been built around that exact truth, and maybe it was still sitting too close to the surface because your perfume was on his shirt and your bracelet’s clasp had warmed beneath his fingers before he left.
“Yeah,” Joel said finally. “I do.”
No one laughed.
Tommy watched him, expression quieter now.
Joel cleared his throat and kept his eyes somewhere past the table. “She gets all worked up about it. Not nervous exactly. Just… alive, I guess. Music playin’, clothes everywhere, talkin’ to herself in the mirror like she’s negotiatin’ with a hostile witness.”
Eugene smiled into his beer.
“She asks me things she already knows the answer to,” Joel went on. “Then gets mad when I don’t answer right. Changes her mind six times. Sings too loud. Throws somethin’ at the door if I get smart.”
Tommy’s mouth moved with fond amusement. “Sounds awful.”
Joel glanced at him. “It ain’t.”
“I know.”
Joel looked back down at the table. “I like that she’s got that. Her friends. Her night. Somethin’ that’s hers.”
“And you like that she comes back,” Tommy said.
Joel’s thumb stilled on the bottle.
There it was again. Tommy cutting through all the noise because he had known Joel too long not to.
“Yeah,” Joel said, voice lower. “I like that part too.”
The silence that followed was brief but real. Even Eugene managed not to ruin it immediately, which Joel supposed counted as growth.
Then Tommy, because he was still Tommy, lifted his bottle and said, “To Joel, then. Patron saint of marriage.”
Joel pointed at him. “Do not toast me.”
Too late. The table raised their bottles.
Eugene added, “May his phone buzz soon and his dignity survive.”
“It won’t,” Caleb said.
“My dignity’s fine,” Joel muttered.
Tommy clinked his bottle gently against Joel’s. “Sure it is.”
The conversation moved on after that, but the teasing stayed alive now, circling back whenever Joel lost focus. They talked about the Henderson job, about a supplier who kept sending warped lumber and pretending not to understand the problem, about whether Tommy’s truck was making a new noise or the same old noise with more confidence. Joel answered, argued, listened.
Mostly.
Then his phone buzzed.
Every head at the table turned at once.
Joel froze with his beer halfway to his mouth.
Tommy grinned. “Well?”
“Could be anybody.”
Eugene pointed at the phone. “A man says that when it ain’t anybody.”
Joel picked it up with as much dignity as he could manage while five grown men watched him like he was about to open a verdict.
Spam.
A damn package delivery scam.
Eugene groaned. “Cruel.”
Caleb slapped the table. “That shouldn’t count.”
“Count for what?” Joel asked.
Everyone got too quiet.
Joel looked from one face to the next. “Y’all bettin’?”
Tommy took a drink.
Joel stared at him. “Thomas.”
“Don’t Thomas me in public.”
“Are y’all bettin’ on when my wife texts me?”
Eugene lifted one hand. “Not officially.”
“That mean yes?”
“That means there’s no written record.”
Joel leaned back in his chair and stared at the lot of them. “Grown men.”
Tommy nodded. “Barely.”
“You’re all pathetic.”
“And yet,” Tommy said, “you’re the one who checked a spam text with hope in his eyes.”
Joel turned the phone face down on the table. “I hate every one of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Tommy said. “You’re in love and inconvenienced. Different thing.”
For the next twenty minutes, he did better. Or tried to. He kept his eyes off the phone, though leaving it face down on the table made it somehow louder in his awareness. Tommy told a story about Maria talking him into buying overpriced candles because apparently “she loves a house that smells like a pie nobody had to bake,” and Joel laughed in spite of himself.
Then Joel’s phone lit up again.
This time, the screen showed your name.
Joel picked it up before anyone said a word.
you awake handsome? 💕
His face changed before he could stop it. He felt it happen, which made it worse.
Tommy did not miss it.
“That’s her.”
Joel turned slightly away. “Mind your business.”
“Look at him,” Eugene said, voice full of wonder. “Man just got ten years younger.”
Joel typed with one thumb.
Always.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
He waited, the bar fading around the edges.
your wife misses you
Something in his chest softened so sharply he had to look down to hide it.
Good thing your husband’s close.
Your response came almost immediately.
good because i might need him soon
Then another one:
not yet tho don’t rush me i’m having fun!!!
Joel laughed under his breath.
Tommy’s face softened before he covered it with a grin. “She good?”
Joel nodded. “She’s good.”
“Need you?”
“Soon.”
Eugene raised his beer. “Countdown resumes.”
Joel sent one more message.
Have fun. Text me when you’re ready. Drink some water.
Your reply came fast.
yes daddy
Then:
sorry
yes handsome
Joel shook his head, smiling down at the screen.
“Disgustin’,” Eugene said. “Absolutely no shame.”
Joel set the phone down, but this time he left it face up. “Eugene.”
“What?”
“Eat your fuckin’ wings.”
“I am busy witnessin’ romance.”
“You’re witnessin’ me losin’ patience.”
Tommy laughed. “Nah. If you were losin’ patience, he’d know.”
Eugene looked at Tommy. “Would I?”
Tommy nodded. “You’d be bleedin’.”
“Fair.”
The next stretch passed easier. Hearing from you settled something in Joel he had not wanted to admit needed settling. You were happy. You missed him. You would call when you were ready. It gave his attention a place to rest, and for a little while he managed to stay with the men around the table, even if Tommy occasionally glanced at the phone and smirked like a man enjoying a long, slow sunrise.
When the message finally came, Joel saw it the moment the screen lit.
you can come get me now handsome
A second later:
pls 💕
He was already standing.
The table erupted before his chair finished scraping back.
Tommy pointed at him. “There he goes.”
Joel grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Shut up, Tommy.”
“You didn’t even finish your beer.”
“Bill me.”
Eugene slapped the table. “He actually said the thing.”
Caleb laughed. “Man didn’t even pretend to think about it.”
Joel slid his phone into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Y’all done?”
Tommy leaned back, grinning, but there was affection beneath it now, clean and unmistakable. “Go get your girl.”
Joel looked at him.
For once, he didn’t have a smart answer ready.
Because that was exactly what he was doing.
Not rescuing. Not retrieving. Not obeying, though he knew plenty of men would call it that and think themselves clever. He was going to get his wife because she had asked for him. Because the night had brought you to that loose, shining place where you wanted his hand on your back and his truck waiting at the curb. Because he had promised that wherever you went, he would be there when you wanted to come home.
So he nodded once.
“Tell Maria I said hi,” Joel said.
Tommy lifted his beer. “Tell your wife she owes me ten bucks.”
Joel paused. “For what?”
“For bein’ exactly as predictable as I said you were.”
Joel’s eyes narrowed. “You bet on me leavin’ before eleven thirty?”
“I bet on you leavin’ the second she said please.”
Eugene raised a finger. “Which he did.”
Joel shook his head and started toward the door. “Y’all can go to hell.”
“Drive safe, lover boy,” Eugene called.
Joel didn’t turn around.
He lifted one hand, middle finger raised with calm precision, and the laughter followed him all the way out into the night.
Outside, the air had cooled further, and the street shone faintly beneath the parking lot lights. Joel climbed into the truck, shut the door, and let the quiet close around him. For a second, he sat there with both hands on the wheel, smiling despite himself like a fool in the dark.
Then he started the engine.
He did not drive straight to you.
Not yet.
Because he knew you. Because he knew the shape of the next hour before it happened. Because girls’ night always left you thirsty in a very specific way, craving something cold and sweet that was never soda.
Joel turned toward the gas station two blocks over, already making a mental list.
Fruit juice. Cold.
Something salty.
Something sweet that was not chocolate.
Water too, even if you rolled your eyes at him.
He pulled into the empty pump lane, parked, and went inside with his keys in one hand and purpose in every step. The fluorescent lights were too bright after the bar, the aisles too narrow, the cashier too bored to care about the man who walked in looking like he was preparing for a very small, very specific emergency.
Joel headed straight for the refrigerated section.
You liked orange juice sometimes, apple if you were tired, but after a night out you always wanted something sharper. He chose a cold mango juice, then grabbed a bottle of water because he knew better than to trust your relationship with hydration. In the snack aisle, he paused longer. Barbecue chips were safe. Vinegar chips were riskier but had a better chance if you were in the mood for something strong, which after drinks and dancing you usually were so he grabbed both.
Then he stood in front of the candy.
Chocolate was out. He remembered that too clearly. The way you had curled into yourself in the passenger seat last time, one hand on your stomach, looking wounded by your own choices. You had insisted you were fine. Then accused the chocolate of betrayal. Then fallen asleep against the window with your hand still tucked in his.
Joel scanned the shelves.
Gummies. Sour belts. Licorice. Hard candy. Things bright enough to look poisonous.
Then he saw them.
Peach rings.
He reached for the bag without thinking too hard about it. They looked like something you’d laugh at, which was reason enough.
At the counter, the cashier looked at the collection of items and then at Joel.
Joel met his eyes.
The cashier wisely said nothing.
Joel paid, gathered the bag, and headed back to the truck. Once inside, he set the juice in the cup holder, tucked the snacks on the passenger seat, and took out his phone to text you.
On my way.
Your reply came a few seconds later.
YAY
Then:
put my songs on please
Joel shook his head.
Already did, he typed, even though he had not yet.
Then he opened your playlist, the one you used when you were getting ready, when you were cleaning, when you were happy enough to sing without shame. The first song spilled through the speakers as he pulled back onto the street, and for a second he heard you in the bathroom again, voice too loud, bracelet catching the light, turning in front of the mirror while asking him which version of yourself the night wanted.
He had never understood men who complained about waiting.
Not when this was what waited at the end.
The first thing Joel saw was your smile.
Not the dress, not the heels, not the little purse hanging from your shoulder or the way your friends clustered around you beneath the yellow glow of the bar sign. The smile reached him before the rest of you did, bright and loose and impossibly open, the kind of smile you wore only when the night had been good to you. It hit him through the windshield with such force that he eased his foot off the brake a little too slowly and had to remind himself he was still in the middle of the street with another car waiting behind him.
He pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking softly, and there you were.
You turned at the sound of his truck like your whole body knew it before your eyes confirmed it. One of your friends said something, probably teasing you, because you laughed and swatted at her arm without looking away from him. Joel saw the moment you decided not to play it cool. You never played it cool very well after a girls’ night, and he had long ago stopped pretending he didn’t love that. You came toward the truck with a little too much enthusiasm and not quite enough caution, heels clicking unevenly on the pavement, one hand raised in greeting as though he were much farther away than ten feet.
Joel put the truck in park and got out before you reached the passenger door.
“Hi,” you said, breathless and delighted, like you hadn’t been the one to summon him.
Joel shut the door behind him and let himself look at you properly.
You were still in the dark denim dress he had chosen without needing to think about it, but the night had softened you around the edges. Your gloss was worn down at the center from drinks and laughter. Your hair had loosened a little at your temples. The bracelet he’d fastened earlier still circled your wrist, catching light when you lifted your hand toward him. Your eyes were bright, not dangerously drunk, not gone from yourself, just warm with the kind of tipsiness that made you affectionate and honest and entirely without patience for distance.
“Hi, darlin’,” he said.
You stepped into him without hesitation.
Joel caught you with one arm around your waist, steadying you before you could pretend you didn’t need it. Your hands landed on his chest, fingers curling into his jacket, and you tipped your face up with such immediate expectation that he bent and kissed you because there was no other reasonable thing to do. It was meant to be quick. A greeting. A soft thing. But you made a small pleased sound against his mouth, and Joel had to pull back before the curb, your friends, and the driver behind him all became problems he was expected to care about.
“You came,” you murmured.
His thumb brushed once against your side. “You asked.”
“That’s sooo romantic.”
“That’s transportation.”
“It can be both.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself. “You have a good night?”
“The best.” You turned halfway toward your friends, still holding onto his jacket like you intended to keep him anchored there. “Tell him I had the best night.”
Pat lifted her hand with the solemnity of a witness in court. “She had the best night.”
Nat added, “She also stole half my fries.”
“I shared my dip,” you protested.
“You licked the spoon.”
“It was my spoon.”
Joel looked down at you. “Was it?”
You blinked up at him, considering. “Not really.”
That made your friends laugh, and Joel felt his mouth move before he could stop it. He liked seeing you like this with them: silly, adored, unguarded. There was something generous in the way women gave each other permission to be loud. The whole group seemed warm from it, eyes bright, coats half buttoned, conversations still overlapping even as they said goodbye.
“You got her?” Pat asked Joel, smiling.
Joel tightened his arm around your waist. “I got her.”
“You always say that like I’m luggage,” you complained.
He looked down at you, deadpan. “Luggage usually walks straighter.”
Your mouth fell open at his words then you turned to your friends with great dignity. “My husband is bullying me.”
“Your husband got here in under ten minutes,” Nat said. “I’d let him.”
Joel pointed toward the truck. “C’mon, baby. Before your friends start makin’ too much sense.”
You accepted a final round of hugs, promises to text when everyone got home, and one whispered comment that made your eyes widen and your cheeks warm. Joel pretended not to hear it, partly because he hadn’t caught the words, mostly because he understood from your face that it was not intended for him and would likely have made him grip the steering wheel too hard.
He opened the passenger door for you.
You stopped and looked at the seat.
Then at him.
Then back at the seat.
The gas station bag sat there, carefully placed beside the cold juice in the cup holder.
Your face changed completely.
“You got me snacks.”
Joel reached past you, picked up the bag, and held it until you climbed in. “Move your feet in.”
“You got me snacks,” you repeated, softer this time, like this was not a practical arrangement but a marriage vow renewed beneath fluorescent streetlight.
“Seatbelt.”
“I know.”
“Do it.”
“I am doing it.”
“You’re lookin’ at the chips.”
“Because you got me chips.”
“I also got you water.”
You wrinkled your nose. “That was less romantic.”
“That was necessary.”
You finally clicked the seatbelt into place, then looked up at him with such open affection that his chest did something inconvenient. “Thank you, handsome.”
Joel paused with one hand on the door.
There were versions of that word he could handle. Teasing. Casual. But this one came warm and tipsy and sincere, wrapped around the sound of his name without using it, and for a second he had to look away toward the street just to keep his face in order.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher. “You’re welcome.”
He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed in.
You were already digging through the bag.
Joel put the truck in drive. “At least wait till we’re movin’.”
“I’m assessing.”
“You’re rummagin’.”
“I’m a woman with needs.”
“I’m aware.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Joel Miller.”
He did not look at you, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He pulled away from the curb while your friends waved from the sidewalk. You waved back so enthusiastically that your bracelet slid down your wrist, and then you immediately returned to the bag with the focused determination of a treasure hunter.
“Oh my God,” you said.
Joel glanced over briefly. “What?”
“You got barbecue chips.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And vinegar.”
“Wasn’t sure which version of you I was pickin’ up.”
You clutched the bag to your chest. “You know me so well.”
“I try.”
“No, you do.” Your voice turned soft enough that he looked at you again. “You really do.”
The light ahead turned red, and Joel stopped. The truck idled quietly beneath you both, music playing low through the speakers; your playlist, the one you had asked for, the one he had put on before he left the gas station. You noticed it then, properly, your eyes going wide as the opening notes of a familiar song rose in the cab.
“You put my music on.”
“Asked me to.”
You stared at him for a second, and he could feel the look even without meeting it.
Then you leaned across the center console as far as your seatbelt allowed and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”
His hand tightened briefly around the wheel.
“Love you too,” he said.
The light turned green.
You settled back only because the belt gave you no other choice, unscrewed the cap on the juice, and took a long drink. Joel watched from the corner of his eye as your shoulders relaxed in immediate satisfaction.
“That’s the good one,” you said.
“Mango.”
“Mmm.”
“You always want somethin’ cold after.”
“I know.”
“You say that like you’re the one who bought it.”
“I manifested it.”
Joel let out a low laugh. “That what we’re callin’ it?”
“Yes.” You took another drink, then pointed the bottle at him. “I thought about it, and then my husband appeared with juice. That's Magic”
“That’s not manifestation. That’s me stoppin’ at a gas station.”
“My husband is my manifestation.”
Joel gave you a quick, dry look. “You been drinkin’.”
“Yes,” you said happily. “That’s why I’m so insightful.”
He shook his head, but there was no hiding the smile now.
The city moved past in streaks of late night light, shop windows dimmed, traffic thin, sidewalks carrying the last loose clusters of people spilling from restaurants and bars. Inside the truck, the world felt smaller. Warmer. Your playlist filled the spaces between you, one song sliding into the next while you alternated between sipping juice, opening the barbecue chips, and telling Joel a story about your friend’s coworker that began with “you remember the one with the weird boyfriend?” and offered him absolutely no names he could use to place anyone.
“Which weird boyfriend?” he asked.
“The weird boyfriend.”
“That narrows it down.”
“You know. The one who brought his own fork to the wedding.”
Joel frowned. “What wedding?”
“You remember.”
“I do not.”
“You do. I told you.”
“Darlin’, you tell me a lotta things.”
You gasped and pressed a hand to your chest. “You don’t listen to me.”
“I listen plenty. I just need characters introduced before chapter five.”
You laughed, nearly dropping a chip, and Joel reached out without looking to steady the bag before it could spill into your lap.
“There,” you said, pointing at him. “That. That’s why I married you.”
“Because I saved the chips?”
“Because you support women.”
“That too.”
You leaned back against the seat, pleased. “Anyway, the weird boyfriend was there tonight.”
“At girls’ night?”
“No, at the place.”
“Existing?”
“Suspiciously.”
Joel nodded with all the gravity the story apparently required. “Can’t have that.”
“And he saw her, and he acted like he didn’t see her, which is so much worse than seeing her.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t say sure like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re lost.”
“I am lost.”
You laughed again, brighter this time, and the sound filled the cab so completely that Joel missed half the next turn in his own head and had to refocus before he drove past it. He liked your stories even when he couldn’t follow them. Maybe especially then. The point was not always content. Sometimes the point was the way you came alive telling him, hands moving, eyes bright, outrage and delight trading places across your face. Sometimes love was listening to a plot with no structure because the person telling it was the only part that mattered.
Then the song changed and you froze.
Joel saw it happen in real time: the first dark, pulsing notes, your instant recognition, the gasp you gave like the universe had personally handed you a gift.
“Oh my God, Joel.”
He braced himself. “What.”
“This one.”
“I know.”
“No, no, this is my favorite.”
“You got about forty favorites.”
“Not like this one.” You reached for the volume before he could stop you. “This one is sacred.”
Then Enjoy the Silence filled the truck, low and hypnotic, turning the cab into something smaller and darker and warmer than before. You started singing almost immediately, not loudly at first, but with that pleased, dreamy confidence you got when a song caught you exactly right. One hand wrapped around the juice bottle like a microphone, your shoulders moving with the beat, your face lit by passing streetlights and pure, ridiculous joy.
When the line you loved came around, you pointed at him with the bottle and sang only the first few words before letting the rest dissolve into a dramatic hum, because even tipsy, even glowing, you knew Joel would pretend not to like it if you gave him too much of the performance at once.
“Sing,” you ordered.
Joel’s eyes stayed on the road. “Absolutely not.”
“Joel.”
“Song’s called Enjoy the Silence, baby. I’m just respectin’ the title.”
You burst out laughing. “That is such a dad answer.”
“That is a correct answer.”
“You know the words.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then sing.”
“Ain’t happenin’.”
“For me?”
His jaw tightened just slightly.
“That ain’t fair.”
You kept singing anyway, leaning into the rhythm as if the truck were a stage built for an audience of one. Joel lasted longer than you expected. Almost impressively long. Then, right when you glanced at him with that wide, shameless smile he had no defense against, a few low words slipped out under his breath, more spoken than sung.
You stopped instantly.
He regretted everything.
“You sang.”
“I did not.”
“You sang part of the chorus with me.”
“I breathed near the melody.”
“That’s singing.”
“That’s just me, survivin’ you.”
You twisted toward him, delighted. “You like this song.”
“I like quiet.”
“The song is literally about that.”
“Then let’s honor it.”
“No. Now you have to sing more.”
He looked at you once, quick and helplessly fond. “You gonna finish the song or not?”
Your smile turned enormous, and then you did finish it, but this time softer, looking at him more than the road, like the fact that he had given you even that reluctant little piece of the song had meant something far bigger than it should have.
It probably did.
By the time the song ended, you were flushed from laughter and effort, your hair falling a little more out of place, your gloss almost gone. You took another drink of juice, then reached across the console and rested your hand on his thigh.
Joel glanced down.
Then at the road.
Then back down, briefly.
Your hand was warm and careless, fingers spreading over denim with no real agenda at first. Just contact. Just I’m here, you’re here, I missed you, isn’t that enough? But you had a way, especially like this, of turning tenderness into trouble without changing much at all. Your thumb moved once. Slowly.
Joel inhaled through his nose. “Baby.”
“What?”
“That hand got a plan?”
You looked out the windshield with exaggerated innocence. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m just… appreciating you.”
“Appreciate higher up.”
Your gaze dropped to your hand. “This is your thigh.”
“I know where it is.”
“So it’s fine.”
“It’s gettin’ less fine.”
You laughed softly and leaned closer, the seatbelt catching you again. “You’re very handsome when you’re trying to be responsible.”
“I am responsible.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Your fingers squeezed gently. “Veeery.”
Joel’s jaw ticked once, though the rest of his face stayed calm. “You’re gonna sit back and eat your chips.”
You made a small sound, thoughtful and dangerous. “Yes, sir.”
He glanced at you then, and the look on your face was enough to make him regret the entire conversation.
“No,” he said.
You blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Your smile came slowly. “Joel.”
“Not in the truck.”
“I’m not doing anything yet.”
“No, but you’re thinkin’ about doin’ somethin’.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that.”
You leaned closer, as close as the belt allowed, and lowered your voice near his shoulder. “What if I just missed you?”
Joel’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “Then you can miss me from your seat.”
“That’s mean.”
“That’s drivin’.”
You giggled, soft and delighted, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder again. Then another, higher, near the seam of his jacket. Joel kept his eyes on the road with the grim concentration of a man navigating far more than traffic.
“Darlin’.”
“What?”
“You are gonna make me pull over.”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
“It is if we wanna get home.”
You hummed near his ear, and the sound slid straight down his spine. “Do we?”
Joel exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“I am tryin’ to keep us alive.”
That made you laugh properly, and the warmth of it broke some of the tension before it could sharpen too far. You sat back at last, mercifully, and shoved a chip into your mouth with the offended dignity of a woman denied mischief.
“Fine.”
Joel glanced at you. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You’re crunchin’ aggressively.”
“These chips deserve passion.”
“They’re normal chips, baby.”
“They’re barbecue chips you bought me because you’re in love with me.”
He couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t.
For a few minutes, the ride softened again. You ate chips, drank juice, and narrated fragments of the night in a rhythm that made more emotional sense than literal sense. He learned that someone named Beth had cried in the bathroom but “in a healing way,” that your friend Pat had declared war on a man named Oscar, that the cocktails were “too expensive but aesthetically correct,” and that at some point all of you had danced to a song of Bad Bunny that Joel definitely would have hated and you definitely expected him to hear later.
“You’ll like it,” you insisted.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know myself.”
“You like my music.”
“I like you.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
Joel smiled despite himself. “Dangerous logic, darlin’.”
“Well, I’m very smart tonight.”
“You’re very somethin’.”
You looked at him, delighted. “Say pretty.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Pretty.”
Your face softened at once, the teasing dropping away so quickly it almost hurt to watch. “You think so?”
Joel’s chest tightened.
He hated that there were still moments when you asked it like a real question. Not as play. Not fishing. Just some small old doubt slipping through the alcohol warmed looseness of you. He reached across without thinking, took your hand from the chip bag, and brought it to his mouth. His kiss landed against your knuckles, slow and certain.
“I know so,” he said.
You went quiet.
The truck moved through the dark with the music low now, the sweetness of juice and salt of chips in the air, your hand still caught in his. Joel kept driving one handed longer than he needed to.
After a while, you said, “I like when you pick me up.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Why’s that?”
You looked out the windshield, thinking about it with an earnestness that told him the answer mattered to you even if the words came slowly. “Because everyone else is still loud, and then I get in here and it’s quiet. But not boringly quiet.” Your fingers shifted around his. “You quiet.”
Joel swallowed.
You continued, softer, “Feels like getting tucked into bed.”
He stared at the road because looking at you just then would have been too much.
“Baby,” he said, and the word came out rough.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“No, what?”
He shook his head once. “Just love you.”
You smiled down at your joined hands, almost shy now. “I know. I love you too”
He squeezed your fingers.
Then you ruined the tenderness, because of course you did, by lifting his hand and kissing the back of it before saying, with solemn tipsy sincerity, “And you have very hot hands.”
Joel barked a laugh.
“What?”
“Hot hands?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you’re goin’ with?”
“They’re big and competent.”
“Competent.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do.”
You turned his hand palm up and examined it like evidence. “They can build houses.”
“Sometimes.”
“They can fix things.”
“On occasion.”
“They can open jars.”
“High praise.”
“And they can finger—”
“Finish that sentence carefully.”
You grinned, wicked and sweet at once, and Joel felt his pulse kick even before you said anything.
But you didn’t finish.
You only kissed his palm and placed his hand back on the wheel with exaggerated politeness.
“There,” you said. “Safe.”
He shook his head, but the smile stayed.
Home came into view a few minutes later, porch light glowing where he had left it on, the driveway empty. Joel pulled in, put the truck in park, and shut off the engine. For a moment neither of you moved. The sudden quiet after the music felt intimate, almost too close. You looked at the house, then at him, then down at the snack bag in your lap as though remembering you had been entrusted with treasure.
“We’re home,” you said.
“We are.”
You turned toward him with bright, affectionate seriousness. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
Joel’s expression softened. “Always.”
“No, I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
You leaned across the console, slower now, and kissed him. This one was different from the curb. More warmth. More wanting tucked beneath the gratitude. Joel let you set the pace for a few seconds, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where the last of your gloss had faded. You sighed into him, sweet and tired and still electric with the night.
Then your hand found the front of his jacket and tugged.
Joel broke the kiss with effort. “House first.”
You made a disappointed sound. “Joel.”
“House. Water. Shoes off.”
“You have so many rules.”
“Somebody’s gotta.”
“I’m not that drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then why are you using the voice?”
“What voice?”
“The grumpy husband voice.”
Joel tilted his head. “That the voice that got you home in one piece, baby.”
You considered this. “Maybe.”
“Then listen to it.”
You stared at him for a beat, then smiled in a way that made him instantly suspicious.
“Okay,” you said sweetly.
Joel narrowed his eyes. “That was too easy.”
“I’m being good.”
“Now I’m worried.”
You opened the passenger door before he could come around, which made him swear under his breath and get out faster. By the time he reached you, you had one foot on the pavement and one still in the truck, clutching the snack bag like a prize.
“I can walk,” you announced.
Joel looked down at your heels, then at the driveway. “Can you?”
“Yes.”
You stood.
Then your ankle wobbled once.
Joel caught you immediately with a hand at your waist.
You looked up at him. “The ground moved.”
“Sure it did.”
“It did.”
“Mean old driveway.”
“Exactly.”
He took the bag from your hand despite your protest, tucked it under one arm, and bent slightly. “C’mere.”
Your eyes lit. “Are you carrying me?”
“Looks like it.”
“I told you I can walk.”
“You also accused concrete of movin’.”
“It was!”
Joel shook his head, but he was smiling when he lifted you, one arm under your thighs and the other secure around your back. You went easily, immediately looping your arms around his neck, your face tucking into the warm place beneath his jaw as he kicked the truck door shut with his boot.
“You like carrying me,” you murmured.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
“You’re light.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re gettin’.”
You kissed his neck.
Joel stopped walking for half a second.
Then he kept going toward the porch with a slower breath and a firmer grip.
“Darlin’,” he warned.
You smiled against his skin. “What?”
“We are very close to makin’ it inside without incident.”
“That sounds boooring.”
“That sounds successful.”
You hummed, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I missed you.”
His face changed in the dark where you couldn’t see it.
“I missed you too,” he said.
And then, because you were you and the night had clearly not finished testing him, you lifted your head and whispered against his ear, “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Joel closed his eyes for one brief second on the porch step.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
You laughed softly, victorious and warm in his arms, while he carried you inside with the snacks, the juice, and the certain knowledge that the hard part of his night had only just begun.
Apparently, Tumblr won’t let me post everything in one single post? So here’s the second part!
⋆♱ Beautiful dividers from @saradika-graphics and @thecutestgrotto
based on this prompt! anon, i hope you see this and enjoy it. thank you for the inspo <3
summary: You and Joel are friends with benefits. There's obviously no feelings involved. Not one bit.
rating: 18+, MDNI
word count: 8.3k, one-shot
chapter tags: Age Gap (reader is late 20s/early 30s although it's not specified and Joel is 60), Reader is AFAB with no overt descriptions except for having hair long enough to braid, Joel's insecure about being older, Smut (but with feelings), Dirty Talk, Fingering, Unprotected p-in-v, Resolved Tension, Angst with a happy ending, Jackson!Joel
a/n: this was a nice break from grad school stuff which is actually making me lose my mind so that's how life has been going. as always, please let me know what you think! not super edited so sorry for any mistakes!
credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider!
The first time you had sex with Joel Miller, it had been borne out of one too many whiskeys and a Christmas party that the town of Jackson was hosting. You had worn your best and only dress and had even shaved your legs. Somewhere in the night, Maria had convinced you to take to the dance floor and somehow Joel was there. His hand had been hot and large on your waist, and before you knew it, the two of you had been tangled together in a storage closet, tucked away from everything and everyone else. He had held your hips down as he had entered you, hot and throbbing and oh so good that you had to muffle your moans against his shoulder, mouth pressed open against the soft material of his flannel. There had been a wet spot on the collar of his dark shirt when you had pulled away, after you had come so hard your legs had trembled with it. If you hadn't been tipsy, you might have felt shy. And you had thought it was a one time thing. Something that stemmed from the remnants of the before the world had gone to shit, when people could get tipsy and hook up and then never see each other again. But this was Jackson. There was no avoiding anyone, even if you had wanted to and although you suspected it might be awkward afterwards, surprisingly it hadn’t been. For as serious and silent as Joel had always been around others, he hadn’t shied away from you after that.
And to your surprise, it had happened again. And again. And again. And so somewhere along the way, you and Joel became acquaintances with benefits. Patrol partners with perks. Which is why you’re currently lowering yourself onto him in a shoddy cabin a few miles away from a patrol path.
“Fuck,” Joel grunts as you slowly sink your way down. Even now, after countless times together, he’s still so thick. It always feels like a lot, like he’s reaching a place inside of you that you didn’t know existed.
“Joel,” you whimper, looking down at where he spears you open. You’re glistening, coating him in your own wetness and when you look up, you meet his dark eyes. His pupils are so blown you can barely see the hazel brown of his irises. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and you don’t think it’s from the warm spring day. He gives you some time to adjust, and you shift your hips, adjusting your knees so you can move. You can feel the callouses of his fingers against the soft flesh of your hips, and he squeezes gently as you begin to move.
“Attagirl,” he says when you begin moving your hips with more vigour. It feels so good. He leans forward, pressing his plush mouth to your sweaty collarbone, licking at the saltiness there before he cranes his neck lower. You flutter around him when he takes your nipple into his mouth and he groans against your hot skin.
“Joel,” you say again, unable to say anything else. This is how it mostly goes. Sometimes you’re more talkative, telling him about all the ways you like how he makes you feel, watching as his eyes become lidded and heavy. But for the most part, you’re pliant in his hands. As surly as you thought he was, Joel Miller has a surprisingly filthy mouth when it comes to sex. He pulls away from your sensitive nipples, wrapping a big arm around the small of your back and pulling you closer so your stomach is pressed against his. You can feel the hair on his chest against your sensitive skin and it makes you whine.
“You always get like this,” Joel says, mouth against your ear. “So desperate for me, ain’t ya, sweetheart?”
You nod against him, feeling your cheek brush against the side of his face. His hands anchor you, guiding your movements. His hips move as well, thrusting up into you in a steady rhythm. Your hips move faster, chasing the hot feeling of pleasure building in your stomach. You feel dizzy with it, flushed and needy. This time, it was your idea. Joel had said something about taking a break in the cabin to cool down and that had been your intention, truly. But then you had seen the flex of his arm and the now greying curls of his hair, messy against his tanned skin. You had followed the line of his strong shoulders, the crook of his nose and you had felt ravenous. So you had pushed him onto the rickety old couch, and he had let you gaze heavy as he watched you step out of your jeans and pull your underwear down. He had continued to watch as you unbuttoned his pants and pulled him out of his boxers, half hard already. And only when you had aligned the flushed tip of him against your wet folds, had he cracked, his hands coming up to grip you.
“I’m close,” you say, voice breathy. Joel hums, pulling you even closer now. You tuck your head against his neck, allowing the waves of pleasure to consume you. The tightness in your stomach releases and you shudder. Your walls flutter around him and you hear Joel curse. He grips you tighter, his hips speeding up as you swivel your own. You move back so you can look at him. It’s when your eyes meet his own that you feel his hips stutter, and then he’s pulling you up and off of him. Your thighs grow wet as he comes between them and you feel yourself pulse again.
The two of you take a minute, catching your breath. The heat feels even more stifling now, Jackson far too warm for so early in the spring. Eventually, you stand up on shaky legs and shuffle away, looking for something to wipe yourself with. You rifle through your pack, eventually finding some toilet paper. Joel clears his throat and you look at him.
“Here,” he says, holding out a checkered handkerchief. It looks soft and worn. “It’s softer.”
Something warm cracks open in your chest, and you tamp it down quickly.
“Thank you,” you say instead, reaching out for it. Your fingers brush and you turn away, wiping between your legs. You can hear Joel shuffling around, zipping up his pants grabbing his pack. You slip into your clothes as well, the material feeling too thick for the weather. When you’re ready, you turn back around to find Joel near the door. He’s pushed his hair back from his weathered face which is still slightly flushed. His navy t-shirt stretches over the muscles of his shoulders and chest. Even at sixty, he’s one of the strongest men you know.
“Ready?” Joel asks and you nod. The two of you make your way back towards the main path. It shouldn’t be more than an hour back to Jackson but it’s definitely going to feel longer with the sun beating down on you.
“Are you going to the karaoke thing on Friday?” you ask him.
“Ellie wants me to,” he says, sounding defeated.
“Oh come on,” you say. “It could be fun. Jesse got the machine working and everything.”
A scouting trip earlier in the week at an electronics store hadn’t yielded much but a few batteries and a karaoke machine. When the news had spread that it worked, The Tipsy Bison decided to host a twenty-one and over event which, after the insistence of Ellie and Dina who had argued that the legal age in the rest of the world was lower, had become a nineteen and over event, instead.
You watch his mouth pull into a frown and it makes you chuckle. He glances at you and then shakes his head, still unamused.
“I don’t wanna hear a bunch of teenagers get drunk and sing. When you’re my age, you’ll understand,” Joel says and you scoff.
“You’re not that old, Joel,” you say and this time the scoff comes from him.
“I’m twice your age,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice. You would’ve missed it five months ago but now, you know him well enough to hear it. It’s not that you and Joel are close friends or anything, but having sex at least once a week for five months lets you know a person, even if that isn’t the intention of it.
Knowing you can’t win this argument, you change tactics.
“I heard Seth found some fancy whiskey,” you say. “Glen-something. And he said it was really old too. Twenty one years or something like that.”
And just like that you watch Joel’s interest suddenly pique. You’re not even sure why you want him to come so bad, really. Or at least, that’s the lie you tell yourself even though it’s unconvincing. Somewhere along the way, you’ve grown to enjoy Joel’s company and it’s not even because of the mindblowing sex. You’ve started looking for him in crowds and wanting to speak to him more and you know it’s bad. The one rule of all this, although unspoken, is that it’s casual. No strings attached and just for a release. Somewhere along the way, you lost sight of that and now you’re nursing a crush on the man you’re sleeping with who’s given you no inclination of the same feelings.
“Glenfiddich?” Joel says, voice drawling.
You hum. “That’s the one.”
“Well damn,” Joel says, sounding impressed. “I never had that even before the world went to shit.”
It’s rare for him to bring up his life from before. You understand. You had been far too young when the world had ended, and even then, the idea of thinking about your life from that time is too heavy. There’s no one left who knows you from when you were just a pre-teen and you’re most definitely not the same girl who had posters on her wall and loved cheap jewellery from Claire’s. And you doubt Joel is the same man he was back then too. So you get it and you never press for too much information, and neither does he. Some wounds split open at the gentlest suggestion of pressure and both you and Joel have your fair share of them.
“Was it expensive?” you ask and he nods.
“Went for around three hundred a bottle, back then,” he says. “Didn’t have that kind of money.”
“All the more reason for you to come,” you say, hoping you don't sound too eager.
“That so?” Joel says, looking at you more directly now. His dark eyes trace over your face, as if he can read you and you look away.
“If you want,” you say. You look past the trees, now covered in green leaves, hoping you’re playing it cool. The air smells rich with spring, wild jasmine and hyacinths invading your senses. When you glance back at him, Joel is still watching you.
“Alright,” he agrees. “Maybe I’ll stop by.”
You say nothing but you do look away so that he doesn’t catch the small smile that you can’t seem to hide.
Tommy Miller is singing a song you’ve never heard before and frankly, hope you won’t ever hear again. He doesn’t sound bad per se, but it’s some old country song with strummy banjos and a crooning tune. You watch him point at Maria, who laughs in delight, as he sings about his girl on the ranch and how he’d die for her. When the song ends, he walks towards her and she pulls him into a kiss. The next song starts up and now it’s Jesse and a friend of his you’ve seen a few times but whose name you don’t know, singing into the mic. The evening’s been progressing into something a bit more rowdy now that almost everyone here is tipsy, at the least. It’s a pleasantly cool evening thankfully, but even then, the inside of The Tipsy Bison is hot from all the bodies and liquor.
“Don’t think the whiskey was worth listenin’ to my brother butcher that song,” a voice says, and suddenly, Joel is standing next to you. He looks good, hair slick as if he just showered. The apples of his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glossy in the dim light of the bar.
“I dunno,” you say. “I kinda enjoyed it. I liked the part where the banjo sounded like a screeching cat.”
To your delight, Joel grins. His cheeks bunch up, dimples denting the side of his face and his crows feet become even more prominent.
“Country music don’t do it for you then?” he asks and you crinkle your nose. You hear him chuckle. Before you can say anything, a voice interrupts you.
“Are y’all gonna go up and sing then?” Tommy asks, looking between you and Joel. His cheeks are flushed, likely from the whiskey. Maria’s standing next to him, a big smile on her face. Her eyes are glassy too.
“No way,” you say, too quickly. The idea of standing in front of half of Jackson let alone singing in front of them leaves you feeling queasy. Maria chuckles, shaking her head.
“What about you, big brother?” Tommy asks, voice teasing. He looks at you again, a twinkle in his eye. “Did you know he wanted to be a singer?”
Now this, you didn’t know. The news delights you and your face breaks into a smile before you can stop it. You look up at Joel to find him glaring at Tommy, the apples of his cheeks red.
“Shut your mouth,” Joel grumbles, although he doesn’t sound too annoyed. It’s the tone he always has when Tommy pulls his leg and you imagine it’s what he always sounded like, even when they were younger and Tommy was his annoying kid brother.
Tommy chortles, shaking his head. Maria says your name, and your attention shifts.
“So there’s someone I thought you might like to meet,” Maria says, cryptic as ever. You know why. She’s been trying to set you up with eligible bachelors for the last few months and so far, you’ve managed to evade her but now, there’s no getting away. You know she doesn’t mean anything bad by it. Really, she’s doing it because you had grumbled to her a while ago about how lonely you felt sometimes but after your thing with Joel had started, those feelings had disappeared. Of course, you hadn’t told her that, since this thing between you and Joel was purely physical.
“Maria,” you say but she keeps going.
“His name is Adam,” Maria says. “Came to Jackson a few weeks ago. He’s kind and smart, and honestly, pretty easy on the eyes. I think you’d get along.”
It’s only after she finishes speaking do you realize that Tommy and Joel have gone quiet too. You glance at Joel through the corner of the eye and he’s already watching you.
“He’s doin’ shifts at the clinic, pretty good medic from what I’ve heard,” Tommy chimes in, and Maria nods.
“I really think you’d like him,” she says and you can feel your face growing hotter. The three sets of eyes on you suddenly feel like too much and you don’t want Joel to hear this. You don’t want him to think of you with a man unless it’s himself.
“Maybe,” you say, quickly. “I’ll think about it.”
Maria nods, looking satisfied. “Just let me know, and I can introduce you two.”
You nod, giving her a weak smile. Needing to change topic, you ask her about the new craft centre and some of the tension in your shoulders ease as she tells you about how helpful the supply run you were on last week was, when you had stumbled upon art supplies. It had been a good haul. There were bags of crayons that, shockingly, hadn’t broken down yet, and even some acrylic and gouache paints that had somehow stood the test of time. You had also found watercolour paper and sketching pencils. When you had brought them back into town, Maria and the rest of the council had been elated. They had been pushing for a creative outlet for the children and teenagers in Jackson, wanting them to have some semblance of creative outlets and freedom, even in this version of the world, as unwelcoming as it was.
“I could keep an eye out for beads and stuff,” you say once Maria’s done telling you about the set up. “Used to love making jewellery when I was younger. Could be fun for some of the boys and girls.”
“You shouldn’t be puttin’ yourself in harm's way for things like that,” Joel says, voice low.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” you say and it’s clearly the wrong thing to say, given the way his teeth clench, the sharp line of his jaw bone becoming prominent.
“I know,” Joel says, sounding less than pleased. You bristle at his tone, almost condescending. Looking back at Maria and Tommy, you find that they’re watching you and Joel curiously.
“Well,” Tommy says, cutting through the sudden tension. “I’m goin’ to dance with my girl.”
“Have fun,” you say, giving him and Maria a real smile. Your annoyance at Joel’s mood swing still simmers but it’s no fault of Tommy and Maria that he’s so crabby all of the sudden. Once they’ve rejoined the crowd, who are now doing some sort of line dance, you turn to Joel.
“I’ll see you,” you say, rather shortly. You’re suddenly tired from the long day, and the evening has felt even longer. The alcohol now feels sluggish in your system and all you want to do is sleep. You stand up, shrugging on your flannel before stepping past Joel’s broad frame. A warm hand snares your wrist, stopping you from walking towards the door. You glance down to find Joel’s big palm on you.
“Wait,” he says. You meet his eye and he still looks tense but there’s something else on his face. You cock your eyebrow at him and his shoulders grow rigid.
“M’sorry,” he says, words rumbling. “Shouldn’t have gotten like that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” you say. “I’m not a kid, Joel.”
“I know,” he says, quickly. “Didn’t mean to be condescendin’ or anythin’.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you say under your breath and you watch as Joel’s mouth twitches.
“I just don’t want you gettin’ hurt for somethin’ as silly as beads,” he says, the confession tumbling out almost like he doesn’t mean for it to. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re unsure of what. You feel the annoyance you had bleed out, replaced by something else entirely. Before you can think of anything, he speaks again.
“If you’re still headin’ out, I’ll walk you home. S’late,” he says and before you can think, you’re nodding.
“Alright,” you agree. You lead the way, pushing past giggling couples and around the rowdier bunch of crowd, Joel’s presence like a wall behind you. You’re not touching but you can feel the heat of him, hot on your heels. Outside, the coolness of the air is a fresh relief. The chilled wind is pleasant against your hot face and you shiver at the sensation.
“Did you have fun?” Joel asks, once the two of you are on the side street that leads to your house, sitting nestled among similar one story townhomes.
“It was alright,” you say. “It was nice watching everyone let loose. Not so sure I enjoyed the singing as much though.”
Joel lets out a huff, an almost laugh.
“Was the whiskey everything you dreamed it would be?” you ask and this time, he does let out a laugh.
“Surprisingly, yes,” he says. “Tasted damn good. I get why it was three hundred a bottle. Did you have any?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I think I might’ve had the wrong one though, because it tasted awful. Burned my throat.”
This time, he does chuckle. You look at him, taking in the dimple in his cheek.
“Just don’t think you like whiskey much,” he says and you hum.
“Beer’s better,” you say and Joel shakes his head, scoffing.
“Beer’s basically a loaf of bread,” he says and you snort.
“Aren’t they made from the exact same things?” you ask and Joel shrugs, a smile still playing on his plush mouth.
“Whiskey’s stronger,” Joel says.
“And it tastes like ass,” you say, just to see him grin again. When he does, you look away, your own smile threatening to break across your face.
“We’ll agree to disagree then,” he says.
“Seems fair,” you say, just as you reach the walkway that leads to your porch. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“I’ll walk you to your door,” Joel says in answer and you want the extra time with him so you let him. It seems silly, walking the few steps to your porch together, as if something bad could happen in the short distance, but you’ll take the extra couple of seconds it gives you in his presence. You like knowing he’s nearby, like hearing the low drawl of his voice and the huff of his laughter. You like it even more when it’s directed at you. At your door, you face him. His eyes are so dark in the dim porch lighting, as they trace over your face.
“You thinkin’ of going’ out with that guy?” Joel asks and the question throws you off. Your brows furrow, momentarily confused as to why he’s even bringing it up.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Probably not. Maria’s been trying to set me up for a while now but I’m not really interested.”
Joel nods, mouth pursed. Suddenly, you feel the warmth of his palms against your face.
“Can I?” he murmurs, so much closer than he was a moment ago. The suddenness of it all leaves you dizzy. You nod, eyes wide. You can feel your heart beating against your ribcage, pulse quickening. His mouth presses to yours hotly. Once, twice and then he’s prodding at your lips with his tongue. You let him in. It’s a reflex now, after so many times. His broad frame traps you against your door, his tongue hot in your mouth. You moan, arching into his chest and pushing your hand into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. You tug just to hear him groan against your mouth, his hips bucking into your stomach. He’s hard beneath the denim of his jeans.
Joel pulls back, his hands still framing your face. He rubs his thumb across the soft skin below your eye and you lean into it, like a cat. His hand moves lower, down your chest and towards the button of your pants. You watch in a daze as he undoes them, slipping his hand so that it cups your mound. Even through the fabric of your underwear you know he can feel how wet you are. He pets you through the soft cotton, his eyes trained on your face. You can’t seem to look away from him either, hypnotized by his dark stare.
“Let me make you feel good,” he murmurs, breath hot against your mouth and you nod. You like being so close to him, like breathing the same air as him. He pushes the gusset of your underwear aside, plunging fingers into where your cunt and you whimper, bucking into his touch. He’s slow, as he curls his fingers, gently petting the spongy part inside of you that has a pressure building between your thighs. His palm is still almost entirely covering you and you move your hips, brushing your clit against the rough skin of his hand.
“Joel,” you say, moving your hips. You’re not sure what you’re asking for but he seems to know, given the gentle smile he gives you.
“It’s okay baby,” he says. “Fuck my fingers, just like that. You’re doin’ so good for me.”
You nod, your forehead brushing against his mouth. He moves his fingers faster now, and you shift your hips in tandem, the pressure of his hand perfect against you. You’re so wet that you can hear the squelch of it as he moves, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Everything feels too good and you can feel yourself slipping closer to release.
“C’mon sweetheart,” Joel urges, now circling your clit with his thumb. He curls his fingers just right and you buck up, your orgasm crashing into you. Your moan is muffled against his mouth, as he kisses you frantically. His fingers keep moving, petting inside of you until it’s too much. Your thighs are trembling as you reach for his wrist, holding him in place so he doesn’t move anymore. He listens, stilling his fingers.
“Wow,” you say and you can feel more than hear his laugh, against the side of your face.
“Okay?” he asks and you nod.
Gently, he pulls his fingers out of you and you watch with a lidded gaze as he brings his fingers up to his mouth and sucks them clean. Your cunt throbs and you shiver. You glance down to where he’s hard before reaching for his belt buckle. His hand moves, stopping you.
“That’s alright,” he says. Your brows furrow in confusion.
“Is something wrong?” you ask, but Joel shakes his head. He doesn’t seem upset or anything, and you know he’s turned on so you wonder why he’s stopping you.
“You’re tired,” Joel says.
“I want to,” you say, even though he’s right. Your eyes feel heavy with sleep, and so does your body. Joel hums.
“S’alright,” he says, voice gentle. “I just wanted to make you feel good.”
“Joel,” you start but he shakes his head again. He reaches back into your pants and for a second you’re confused until you feel him fix your underwear, pulling it back so it covers you. Your cheeks burn but Joel seems unphased, button your pants.
“Go to bed, sweetheart,” he says, his hand still resting on your hip. He rubs your hipbone once, twice, and then steps back. Something cracks open in your chest.
“Okay,” you say. “Goodnight Joel.”
He nods and watches as you unlock your door. It’s only when you’re inside your house do you watch as he heads back down your porch and towards the direction of his own home.
Once you lie down, sleep takes you almost instantly. Your last thought is of Joel’s eyes.
There’s a frantic knock on your door. It’s so sudden that you jolt, dropping the book you’re reading with a thump. It’s almost midnight and the only noise that fills the air is the hum of the grasshoppers and the occasional rustle of the window. You stand up slowly, making your way to your door. You glance through the peephole and your heart stutters. You swing the door open, greeted to the sight of Joel. He looks rough. His hair is wet from a shower and his face is tired. There’s a bruise on his cheekbone, harsh and purple.
“Joel?” you say, stepping aside. He comes in. His hands are clenched into fists as his side. “Is everything okay?”
“Had a rough patrol,” Joel says, voice tired. It’s all he says. You say nothing, instead taking his hand and leading him towards the kitchen.
“Sit down,” you instruct and Joel acquiesces, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. You put the kettle on, pulling out two chipped mugs. You know what it’s like. To almost see death and then to come back and have to act as if you were unperturbed. To have to seem strong all the time because that’s the way the world is now. It’s odd how quickly humans can learn to live with the new, and so now there’s no space to be scared when you have run-ins with death. It’s the norm. So you get it. The kitchen is silent except for the slow build of the kettle whistle. When you suspect that it’s sufficiently hot, you pour the water into the cups, now holding chamomile tea bags that you had made yourself.
“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, as you hand Joel a cup. He looks up at you, as if your voice has broken some train of thought. He holds himself stiffly, shoulders rigid and tense.
“Not much to say,” Joel says, sounding defeated. “Was supposed to be a regular patrol. Me and a few others. A new kid named Kai, just turned eighteen and it was his second patrol. Clicker came outta nowhere, got him before I could even draw my gun.”
“Oh Joel,” you say. The grief settles over both of you heavily. You reach towards him, and to your surprise, he doesn’t flinch when you cup his face. Instead, he leans into it, a shudder running through his body.
“I didn’t hear it,” he says. “Because of my ear. I didn’t hear the goddamn clicker because I’m half deaf.”
You shake your head, moving closer.
“It’s not your fault,” you say. “Even if you had heard it, clickers are fast, Joel. And you weren’t the only one there. If the others couldn't get it in time, then it had nothing to do with your hearing.”
Joel scoffs, turning his face away from you with a clenched jaw. You don’t let him go too far, gently tugging his head so that he’s facing you. When he meets your eyes, they’re glossy.
“I mean it,” you murmur. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. It’s like it breaks something in him because suddenly, he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you closer so that you’re between his thighs. He presses his face to the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply. You feel him shudder when you run your nails against his scalp. The two of you stay like that for what could be hours. He’s so warm against you, so human. You hold him until you feel his shoulders relax, the tension slowly bleeding out of him. Eventually, he pulls back, his hands still tight around your waist. Your hand is still in his hair, gently raking through the greyish brown curls.
“M’sorry for showin’ up and mopin’,” Joel murmurs, voice rough. You shake your head almost immediately. Your hand moves so that it cups his jaw again.
“You don’t have to apologize,” you say softly, not wanting to break the quietness between the two of you. You’re not sure which one of you moves first but the kiss isn’t frantic, not like the times before. This kiss is soft and wanting. You prod at his mouth with your tongue and he yields for you, groaning against your mouth. You’re not sure how long you stay like that. Eventually, Joel stands up, hands now moving to your hips. You kiss him once more before you pull back. Tugging on his arm, you lead him to the couch. Along the way, you lose your soft sleep pants and Joel his sweats. When he pushes you against the worn cushions, you’re naked except for your baggy t-shirt and Joel is in his boxers.
You pull them down, wrapping your hand around where he’s hot and throbbing. You tug and his hips twitch with it. He pushes your shirt so that it bunches up against your armpits. He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. You shudder, arching into the wet heat of sensation. He stays like that for a bit, lavishing your breasts with attention. When he pulls back, his mouth is red and wet.
Joel’s hand joins you, covering the base of him. The two of you look down as he swipes the head of his cock through your wet folds, and you let out a noise. Your legs widen even more, suddenly needing him to be as close to you as he can. He’s here and alive and okay. You push your hips up so that his tip breaches you and you both groan. You’re both still looking down at where you’re connected, speared open for him. You shift your hips even more, wanting to take him further in and when he realizes what you’re doing, he pushes in, so slow that you can almost feel every ridge and vein of him. When he bottoms out, he grunts.
“I needed to see you,” he says, slowly moving his hips back. “When I was out there, all I was thinkin’ of was how I had to get back and see you.”
The confession spills out of him, unbidden. It makes you clench around him, your walls fluttering.
“I’m glad you did,” you say, moving your hips. “I’m glad you came to me.”
His grip on your waist tightens, and he holds you firmly as he begins thrusting more frantically. This time feels different. You reach for his face, meeting his gaze. Suddenly, he’s lifting up, so he’s on his knees and your hips are resting against his strong thighs. A curly lock of hair falls against his forehead, and the new angle has him reaching a place so deep inside of you that you see stars.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his hips pushing in and out. He’s looking down at where you take him and so are you. His cock glistens with your wetness and you’re split open, leaking and flushed.
“You’re so good, Joel,” you say. “You make me feel so good.”
He moans, pressing your hips down and thrusting into you again.
“Just me,” he says and you nod. He leans forward so his mouth is against yours. It’s a hairsbreadth away from being a kiss, his breath hot against your own. “I’m the only one who gets you like this.”
You nod, your hips moving frantically against his own. One of his hands snakes down to your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts.
“Say it, darlin’” Joel says, voice commanding. He moves his thumb away from your clit and you whine, arching towards his touch. He tuts but doesn’t make a move.
“Just you,” you agree because it’s true. There’s no one else. There won’t be anyone else. No one has had you like this and no one will. Surely, Joel must know that. “It’s always been just you, Joel.”
He circles your clit once more, moving faster now. You can feel yourself crashing towards your orgasm as his thrusts pick up the pace. He leans down, biting at your chin and that’s when you snap, feeling something wet between your thighs. For a second, you think he’s come but when you look down, he’s still hard and moving inside of you. The wetness is from you. It’s never happened before and you can feel your ears burn.
“Attagirl,” Joel says, looking down at the mess you’ve made. You flush, suddenly feeling shy. As if sensing it, Joel shifts, pushing a finger under your chin so that you’re forced to look at him.
“You’re perfect,” he says, almost reverently. His eyes are so full of something – devotion maybe? You can’t be certain and your mind is still clouded by your orgasm. You only come back to yourself when you remember that Joel’s still hard and wanting. You clench around him, watching as he shudders.
“C’mon Joel,” you murmur, pulling him down to kiss him. It’s filthy and frantic, and so are his thrusts. He presses down so that his stomach is against yours, and you flutter your walls, just to hear him groan again.
“You’re gonna be the end of me,” he says against the corner of your mouth and you smile, pressing a kiss to the side of his face. He pulls out just in time to come on your stomach, his face pressed to the crook of your neck. The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, catching your breath.
Eventually, he sits up and tucks himself back into his boxers. You watch him head towards the kitchen and when he comes back, there’s a damp paper towel in his hand. You reach for it but he shakes his head, instead wiping your stomach down himself. When you’re clean, you pull your shirt down and slip back into your underwear. Joel’s already dressed by the time you’re done tying the drawstring of your sleep pants.
The air feels heavy now, with a new sort of tension. You’re not sure where it came from but it doesn’t feel good.
“Feeling better?” you ask Joel, but it sounds off. Your voice catches and he looks torn when you meet his gaze.
“You should go out with that guy Maria was tellin’ you about,” he says instead, and he might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on you with how shocked you feel. It must show on your face, because he continues.
“I think we should stop this,” he says. You feel sick all of the sudden, like you might just throw up.
“What?” you say, unable to think of anything else. Had you just imagined the last hour? Had you not just had sex?
“He’s your age, seems decent,” Joel explains like that’s what you’re asking. You feel anger ignite in you, something bitter and sharp.
“Right, and you’re a matchmaker now, are you?” you ask, and the words are heavy in your mouth. They come out sharp and angry. Joel runs a hand through his hair.
“I just mean, he seems like he’d be good for you. Like the kind of man you deserve,” Joel says, voice gentle. You scoff, feeling your nose tingle in a telltale sign that you’re going to cry pretty fucking soon.
“Get out, Joel,” you say, but there’s no firmness in your tone. You sound as hurt as you feel and he must see it. Surely he can tell that he’s breaking your heart. You want him to fight, to say that he’s sorry and that he didn’t mean any of it. So when he nods, shoulders slumped and eyes tired, it hurts even worse. You hear the door shut behind him and it’s only then that you allow the tears to fall.
Joel Miller might be a masochist. It’s the only reason why he’s sitting at The Tipsy Bison, tucked in a corner booth away from the rest of the crowd, and watching you on your date with the new medic. He hadn’t planned to be here, not really. But it’s been a long week and patrol was tiresome today. Whiskey sounded like a good idea when he had returned from patrol but now he’s not so sure. He watches as you nod along to something that man says, a small smile on your face. You look as beautiful as always, your hair pulled into a braid and your face bright in the golden light of the bar. He doesn’t think you’ve seen him and he hopes you don’t.
God, what was he thinking? Starting this thing with you all those months ago knowing damn well how strongly he felt about you. But he was a weak man after all, and when you had looked at him that night, with glossy eyes and a gentle smile, he knew he had to taste it. Had to have you, however you’d let him. And then he had gone and fucked it all up.
“You’re an idiot,” Maria cuts through his thoughts, sliding into the booth. She nudges another glass of whiskey towards him.
“Evenin’,” Joel greets, ignoring her words.
“What were you thinking, Joel? Really? What was the game plan, the big idea. Because to me, it seems like you’re dumber than a bag of rocks,” Maria says and he can’t even argue because he knows she’s right.
“She tell you anythin’?” he asks instead, and Maria scoffs.
“She didn’t have to,” she says. “Anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell that there was something up between you two and I’ve seen the two of you come out of supply closets. You’re not as covert as you think, you know. I had to beg Tommy not to get involved because I was hopeful you would tell her how you feel.”
Joel slumps against the booth, taking a sip of his drink. When he meets Maria’s eyes, her glare softens into something gentler.
“Why didn’t you?” she asks, voice softer now. Joel looks down at his worn palms, full of scars and callouses. He thinks of your soft hands, gentle and seemingly untouched by violence.
“She deserves better than a weathered old man. I can’t give her what she deserves,” Joel finally says and Maria sighs.
“You can’t just decide things for people, Joel,” she says. “And you can’t just write yourself off because you think something that isn’t even true.”
This time, it’s Joel who scoffs.
“If you’re implyin’ that I’m not old then that’s mighty kind of you, Maria,” he says, but the joke falls flat.
“I know how you care for people,” Maria says. “I know what she deserves too.”
“I might have messed it up too much already,” Joel says. When he looks back to where you are, something curdles inside of him. You’re no longer there and neither is your date. Maria follows his line of sight.
“You have to try,” Maria says. “You have to try or else you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”
The sharp knock on your door brings a terrible sense of deja-vu. You think of that night a week ago and how Joel had shown up. And then of how he had left. You had found Maria the next day and told her you were open to the date with Adam, fueled by rage and something sadder. And the date had been fine, really. Adam was sweet and nice and smart and all the things that Maria had said he was. But you had felt nothing but a vague interest in friendship. Your cheeks had hurt by the end of the night, from all the put-on smiling you had done. It had been a relief when he had mentioned that he had an early shift the next morning and so he had to head home. You had nodded in understanding and gently refused his offer to walk you home.
When you swing the door open this time, the deja-vu is even worse. Joel stands there, in a dark t-shirt and faded jeans. It’s like you’re dreaming. Or maybe it’s a nightmare and what happened last week is going to replay again and again until you wake up.
“Howdy,” Joel greets and any other time, the greeting and the drawl of his accent would make you smile. Now it settles like a heavy weight in your stomach.
“What do you want?” you ask, voice sharp. Joel looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumb against the meat of his palm.
“I was hopin’ we could talk,” he says.
“I think you’ve said everything you wanted to,” you say even though your heart stutters in your chest. Joel shakes his head, stepping forward.
“If you want me to leave after this, I swear I will. Just please let me explain, sweetheart,” he says. The term of endearment softens something in you and you contemplate for a few seconds, before you nod. You step aside to allow him to come in, his boots heavy against the wooden floors. You make your way towards the living room, sitting on your armchair so that you’re far enough away from him not to do something stupid like crawl into his lap.
“I owe you an apology,” Joel says once he’s seated on the couch. “I should have never said those things about endin’ things or about that kid you went out with.”
“Adam,” you supply and enjoy the way Joel clenches his jaw at the mention of his name. But he nods.
“Adam,” he echoes. “Did you enjoy your date with him?”
He sounds genuinely curious, even if his jaw is still clenched.
“It was fine,” you say.
“Would you go out with him again?” Joel asks and you snap.
“What is this, Joel? You came over because you want a review of my date? What do you want me to say? That it sucked because all I could think about is you? That you broke my heart? What do you want?” you say, voice raised. You can feel your ears heat up and your vision blurs with unshed tears. You look away, swiping at your eyes.
“Sweetheart,” Joel says, suddenly sounding closer. When you open your eyes, he’s in front of you, kneeling. His eyes are wide with concern.
“Don’t say things if you don’t mean them,” you say, voice catching on the last word.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Joel says. “I messed this whole thing up.”
“Why did you end things?” you ask, suddenly feeling small. “Did I do something wrong that night?”
And really, that’s the thought that’s been plaguing you. Was it how you had confessed that it was only ever him? Was it how you had clung to him?
“No,” Joel says quickly. “You did nothin’ wrong, darlin’. It was me. I got in my head about this. Thought I was too old for you, that I’d be holdin’ you back.”
“So you just ended things,” you say. “You didn’t even give me a chance to say how I felt. What I wanted.”
Joel nods, mouth pulled into a frown. “I know.”
“You hurt me, Joel,” you say, a tender admission. You’re not the type to ever say things like this. You know how much strength is valued in the world you live in. But your heart feels tender and raw.
“I know,” Joel agrees, again. “I hate that I did. I should’ve talked to you instead of runnin’ off.”
“Why’d you change your mind then?” you ask and Joel looks sheepish now. You watch a light blush form across the tops of his cheekbones.
“Maria said I was bein’ mighty foolish,” he says. “Said she knew the whole time. Saw us, uh, comin’ out of supply closets.”
“Oh,” you say, feeling yourself grow warm. You had thought you and Joel had been rather stealthy, really.
“I really am sorry, darlin’,” Joel says. “I was bein’ a coward. I like you. Hell, I more than like you and it scared me because I haven’t felt like this in so long.”
The confession blooms inside of you like a flower in spring, and the grief in your heart seems to dissolve into nothingness.
“You were being a coward,” you agree. “I don’t care that you’re old, Joel. Really. I don’t like you in spite of it or anything like that. I just like you.”
A gentle smile graces his face and he shifts so he’s closer. You spread your knees to make room for him, sitting up straighter.
“I can’t promise I’m goin’ to be perfect, but I’m going to try. If you’d let me and only if you want this,” Joel says.
You let his words sink into you and finally, you nod. You watch his soft smile turn into a grin. You tug him forward, pressing your forehead to his own. The two of you stay like that for minutes, eyes closed and listening to the soft sound of each other's breathing. Eventually, you yawn and Joel chuckles.
“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” he says and you nod. He stands up, his knees creaking and you smile. He helps you up.
“You can stay, if you’d like,” you offer. Joel nods, wrapping an arm around your waist and leading you towards your bedroom. You find a shirt for him to sleep in and take turns brushing your teeth. You let him use your toothbrush and the whole thing feels so domestic. It settles warmly in your chest. He pulls you towards him once you both lay down, pressing a gentle kiss to your mouth. When you pull back, he follows, giving you another slow kiss. You curl around him, giving him access to your mouth. There’s no intent to these kisses, no build up for a quick hook up or to let off some steam. You’re kissing just to kiss. Like lovers do. You smile against his mouth and he pulls back, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I wanna take you out tomorrow,” Joel says, murmuring into your mouth.
“Like a date?” you ask and he hums in affirmative.
“Okay,” you agree. He gives you a soft kiss. And then another. You feel him press his mouth against your chin, and then your cheekbone. The soft skin under your eye. The tip of your nose. It’s the feeling of Joel’s mouth, gently mapping your face, that lulls you to sleep.
Your boyfriend catches everyone’s eyes. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice but you know better: They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away.
click here to join the TAGLIST. / click here for my MAIN MASTERLIST.
warnings: no outbreak, reader is afab, smut, established relationship, hickeys/biting (lots), sub!joel, he's kinda bratty though, no use of y/n & no physical description of reader, posessive!reader, dirty talk, cowgirl, creampie, a little bit of edging/teasing, petnames, a little bit of cockwarming/stuffing, brief nipple play (m receiving), idk how old joel is in this i pictured him like late 30s but there is a brief viagra mention oops.
rating: 18+.
word count: 2k. (i think this might be my shortest work yet??)
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! this is based off of this request by @corderamuerta! i sort of went a little beyond what the request mentioned and added a little bit (a lot) of subby!joel bc it just.... kind of worked out that way idk but i hope this still fits well for the request!! pictures are for aesthetics only, there's no mention of reader's physical appearance or anything!! as always pls let me know how we feel.
also available on archiveofourown.
You’ve never been particularly possessive of others before— Most of your boyfriends never caught much attention apart from yours and, in all honesty, you never loved them enough to feel threatened by anyone else. With Joel, however, you always find yourself sticking a little closer to his side, your hands roaming his shoulders a little bit more obviously whenever the two of you are out. He’s never given you a reason to feel intimidated, but you’ve never been with a man as attractive as Joel Miller.
He catches everyone’s eyes. The cashier at your favorite food truck, the teller at the bank, the security guard at the mall; everyone stares with varying degrees of want and need. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice: He thinks the cashier is staring because he orders way too many olives on his fish taco, and the teller because she’s trying to figure out if he’s going to rob the place, the security guard is just doing his job at keeping the weird man in check at Victoria’s Secret.
But you know better. They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away.
The first time you give him a hickey, Joel laughs it off. He says something about being too damned old for that but you notice the way his fingers tighten on your hips, the way his breath stutters and how he doesn’t ever try to pull away— The mark is on his chest, hidden away with any t-shirt, but every time you see it brings a thrill that you’ve never felt before, the little ‘O’ shaped bruise going from deep purple to a soft blue to green to finally fading entirely. You actually miss it when it’s gone, your fingers tracing the pattern you’ve memorized over his chest as the two of you lie in the afterglow one evening.
“What’re ya doin’?” Joel asks when you lean over him, his chest still shiny with sweat. You poke your tongue out, running over his nipple, tasting and testing. His breath stutters, a hand coming up to the back of your neck. “Not sure I can go again so quick, sugar.”
You chuckle against his skin, climbing over him as you nose his pecks, your mouth going from one nipple to the other.
“You don’t have to.” You tell him, your naked body molding against his as you move upwards, your teeth dragging across his chest until you reach the hollow of his throat.
Joel whimpers when your mouth latches onto his skin, biting and suckling until his hips are buckling up into yours, his fingers digging into your love handles as if he’s unsure whether he wants to pull you close or push you away.
“Goddamnit, woman.” There’s no real heat to his voice, and you grin when he tilts his head backwards, giving you better access to the column of his throat. “Everyone’s gon’ see it.”
“Good.” You say, your tongue running over his Adam’s apple before you bite down onto the side of his neck. “Let them all know you’re mine.”
Joel chuckles. “ ‘S that what I am?”
You pull back just enough to stare at him, one eyebrow raised, both of your hands sprawled on his chest. “Are you not, Miller?”
“Of course I am.” He says and, this time, his voice doesn’t carry any of the teasing it did before. Joel’s hands run up your sides, his callouses catching on the soft skin above your ribcage. “ ‘M all yours.”
His whispered words make you shiver, the weight and truth of them settling somewhere deep inside your core. You shift, fully straddling him now, Joel’s soft cock brushing against your ass when he grips you.
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours.” Joel tells you, his brown eyes locked into yours. “Just yours, sugar.”
The kiss you share is bruising, teeth clacking against each other, your nose pushing against his as his hands dig into you, pulling your naked body as close as it’s physically possible. Joel whines when you bite down onto his bottom lip just on the side of too hard, his hips bucking against you; you’re still so wet from your slick and his come that you slide against his navel, your clit catching on his pelvic bone. Your mouth goes from his lips to his jawline, sucking hard on the little patch next to his chin where his beard doesn’t really grow.
“Baby—” Joel says, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth scrape against his jaw when you turn your face to the side, latching onto his pulse point.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” He says it quicker this time, unthinking, his head thrown back against the pillow. You leave another mark behind, the redness already deepening by the time you bite down on the soft of his collarbone. “Let me— I need to be inside’a you.”
Joel turns a little, reaching for the bedside table where you know he keeps the blue little pills he swears are for ‘emergencies only’ but you swat his hand away.
“Leave it.” You say, leaning back so grab a hold of Joel’s half hard cock and he raises an eyebrow at you, hesitating for a moment before he finally leans back. “I want you hard because of me, not because of the pills.”
Joel opens his mouth, but you shush him with a kiss. You know his desire for you isn’t at stake here. You know that it happens and that his refractory period is going to get longer with age and stress and that it’s not a you problem or a him problem but you don’t want to hear it at that moment. Instead, you kiss him until Joel is writhing underneath you, panting into your mouth.
It’s not easy, or sexy, when you finally push Joel’s only half hard cock inside of you. You’re still wet and open enough that you’re able to sit somewhat comfortable on him but it’s not exactly easy to do so, and Joel needs to help you at one point, hissing through his teeth as you sink little by little. You run your hands over his chest once Joel is fully sheathed inside of you, your nails dragging over the dark hairs there, thumbing his nipples in the way you know he likes.
The power you feel when you watch him from above, a trail of purple bruises down his neck and chest contrasting even more with how furiously his skin is blushing, isn’t something you can quite explain. You wish you could reach for your phone, take a picture or a thousand of him like this, hairs standing on ends, panting even though neither of you are moving, his eyes hazy from desire.
“I love you.” He says, the words stuttering and mending together when you start to move your hips back and forth, just a little bit. “I love you.”
“I know.” You smile, leaning down so you can latch your mouth to his shoulder, the muscles rippling under you. “And everyone’s gonna know too.”
You can feel him hardening inside of you, thickening and pulsing as you speed up the movements a little— Not yet bouncing, just teasing, circling your hips the best you can as you press your chest down onto his. Joel’s hands knead your asscheeks and you know bite down hard when he tries to use it as leverage to dictate the pace.
“Nuh-uh.” You soothe the bite with your tongue, tracing the indents of your teeth before you pull back. You peck him on the lips, lightly, restraining yourself from biting his bottom lip again— You don’t want to hurt him, not really, just enough to leave traces of your presence behind. “You take what I give you.”
Joel’s chest rumbles underneath you, somewhere between a laugh and a moan— That’s a sentence you’ve stolen straight from his books, the sort of taunting you’ve heard time and time again when Joel is in a teasing mood.
“Is this payback?” He asks, but he’s grinning ear to ear.
“Maybe.” You lift yourself just slightly before sinking down onto him again. “Or maybe I’m just figuring out why you like bossing me around so much.”
“You’re a real menace, ain’t ya?”
“Oh, am I?” You raise your hips a little, hands pressing down onto Joel’s chest as you hold the position. “Want me to stop?”
“Please don’t.” The tendons on Joel’s neck strain as he holds himself back and your stomach flutters at the knowledge that he could easily flip the two of you over but, no matter how many seconds pass before you sink back onto him, Joel remains still. “I’ll be good— Just please don’t stop, sugar, c’mon.”
You’re uncertain if you’re taking pity on him or on yourself but you finally allow your body to move at a pace that has you moaning above him, fingernails digging into Joel’s chest as you chase your pleasure; Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his fingers grasping whatever part of you that he can reach, his big hands roaming from your ass to your hips to your chest and then back to your ass— He plants his feet on the mattress, hips bucking upwards into yours.
“Fuck, Joel—” You lose rythm but he’s right there, pistoning his hips up while he pulls you down onto him, your clit grinding against him with every thrust. “Joel.”
“That’s right, baby.” He grunts, fingers bruising your hips with how much he grips you. “Say my name— Tell me who’s the only one that makes you feel like this.”
That snaps you back to reality. You dig the heels of your palms onto his chest, and Joel groans when you push into a particularly sore bruise— A groan of pain, this time, and he frowns up at you.
“No!” You whine, taking the hands that are gripping your hips and pinning them above his head; Joel interlocks his fingers with yours so fast you think he might not even be aware that he’s done it. “I’m in charge here. You don’t get to make me feel anything.”
Joel gives you a small, toothy grin. He looks boyish like that, smiling up at you, his curls a mess where they sprawl over his forehead and pillow.
“Yes, ma’am.” He says, but his hips still ondulate one last time before he finally lets his weight fall back onto the mattress.
This time, when you move, you’re not thinking about Joel’s pleasure. With your hands in his, both still pinned above Joel’s head, you move for yourself, hips circling and bucking until you find the right position, the tilt of your hips that has the head of his cock brushing up on just the right spot inside of you.
Joel comes inside of you with a strangled cry, his fingers squeezing yours as he holds onto you just as much as you hold onto him, the tendons on his neck straining as he struggles to stay still. It makes for the prettiest picture, you think, having Joel like this— Teeth clenched, chest flushed, his neck and torso littered with red and purple shapes that you put there; the man that is always such a fortress, big and strong and capable, turned into a bruised, whining mess underneath you.
You ride him all through your own orgasm until your legs and lungs are burning, your slick and his come slipping out of you as Joel’s cock softens. You let yourself topple over him, your nose bumping against his jawline as you rest on the crook of his shoulder. Joel finally lets your hands go, his arms wrapping around you, both of you clammy with sweat and spit. You poke your tongue out, circling a particularly nasty bruise on his pulse point.
“I’m goin’ to get ripped to fuckin’ shreds at work tomorrow.” Joel says but you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Poor Joelie.” You coo. “Got fucked for an inch of his life and now everyone will know.”
“Fuckin’ menace.” Joel barks out a laugh, tilting his head enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to your lips. “You’re lucky I love you, pretty girl.”
Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.
Altruism by @slowdivinqs
joel takes care of you after you’ve been overworking yourself for far too long.
Reverence by @peepawmiller
After a string of mishaps at work keeps Joel away for far too long, you come up with the perfect way to help him unwind.
Snooze by @unrefinedmusings
after a few blissful weeks of dating, you meet the most important people in Joel's life in the worst way. part 1: sweet, sweet sugar (can be read as standalone)
I’m empty without you, so come grow within me by @chronically-ghosted
with winter approaching, joel takes stock of what he wants and what he has in his life. he wants you, but he's not quite sure he has you, not in a way that only a life in Jackson can afford. joel's an old-fashioned guy, so he's looking for an old-fashioned love . . . if he can only remember how to do it right.
Overachiever by @hanahleah
you want to give Joel a birthday gift he won't forget, but desperate to prove you can, you almost hurt yourself in the process. Joel has to remind you of some ground rules.
Feeding Your Heart by @upintheclouds95
Joel attempts to make you heart shaped pancakes for breakfast.
The Days of You and I Series by @stylesispunk
After Abby's brutal attack, the aftermath leaves Joel, Ellie, and you forever changed. Joel wakes haunted by the man he used to be and the shadow he’s become. Wracked with guilt and convinced he no longer will be the same, he pushes you away, even as it breaks him to let you go.
She’s a Gun by @cowgurrrl
Somebody didn’t give the new guy a heads up about talking about Joel Miller’s family
We Shouldn’t Have Done That by @thatcorporategirlie
It's been a while since you've seen Joel, not since that 'moment' that happened between you two. Now, you have to face him when Sarah calls you in a panic, asking for a ride from a party because her friends are too drunk to
Interrupted by @/thatcorporategirlie
You and Joel think you are sneaking in some alone time, but your steamy session is interrupted by your daughters barging in at the worst possible moment.
Sugar Talking by @pearlessance
After three years of separation, Sarah's birthday offers you and Joel a second chance. But finding trust isn't easy once it's been broken. Luckily, Joel knows exactly what to say to get you to open up your heart to him again. And it certainly helps when he's begging on his knees.
a brief moment of dubious consent due to..., accidental creampie, bareback sex, p in v, somewhat subby!joel, size kink, breeding kink, humiliation kink, edging/ruined orgasm
a/n: i wrote this with the intention of posting it on my birthday last week, but life sucks sometimes. anyways, there needs to be more sub!p men fic. am i right, @time-for-my-weekly-spanking? not beta read, so don't yell at me.
The way Joel fucks you can never be labeled as anything other than exquisite. His breath is hot against the sensitive skin of your neck, his mouth closing over the pulse point just below your ear so as to taste the salt of your sweat. The coarse scratch of his chest hair drags across your breasts as he leans in close, the low rumble of his groan vibrating through your ribcage. The muscles in his back shift and flex under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. A large hand pins your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his thick fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that makes your stomach flutter.
Despite being lost in the throes of pleasure, you can tell how dangerously close Joel is to coming. His thrusts are no longer the steady, rolling grind that he started with, but desperate and choppy. The thick head of his cock grazes against your cervix with every sloppy snap of his hips. The veins along his shaft throb against your stretched rim, his balls slapping against your ass with each stuttered movement. “Joel…” you warn.
He shakes his head fast, jaw tight and teeth clenched as he fights his impending orgasm. “I know, baby. I know. M’pullin’ out, I promise.”
That had always been the deal between the two of you – he could fuck you bare like he wanted, but he had to pull out – and until tonight, Joel had always been overly cautious. He’d pull out earlier than he needed to, stroking himself those last few seconds before spilling across the backs of your thighs.
Tonight though, Joel seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the bargain. He rises onto his knees and hooks one of your legs over his broad shoulders. The new angle lets him sink into you further, grinding against that spongy spot inside you with merciless precision. Your body clenches around him, squeezing his cock in a way that makes him break with a choked sound. “Fuck, baby. M’gonna come–”
He rips out of you at the very last second, cock throbbing in the cool summer air. His hand wraps around the thick, slick shaft as he jerks himself with fast, desperate strokes. With an exasperated groan, the first hot rope of come shoots out of him, landing exactly where he wants it - splattered perfectly over your swollen clit. Before you can even react, a second spurt follows dripping down your folds in a sticky, pearly streak.
The sight of his release painting your pussy flips a switch in him instantly. That primal urge in him that is usually kept locked down roars to the surface. Joel’s chest heaves, his entire body going rigid as every civilized thought gets wiped clean and is replaced with the need to be inside you. “Fuck. Fuck, baby–” He drives into you in one brutal, instinctive thrust, thrusting every thick inch of his cock back into the heat of your cunt. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming despite him pulling out only moments earlier.
“Joel–” you manage to breathlessly exclaim as he turns his head and groans against your ankle. His orgasm hits him harder now that he’s buried where he knows he shouldn’t be, the guilt and wrongness only seeming to intensify everything as he continues to spill inside you.
His whole body shakes with the force of it, completely lost in the rush of filling you when he promised he wouldn’t. “Oh fuck–” he chokes out, gasping and moaning as he grinds himself impossibly deeper, pushing his spend as far inside you as he can.
Your leg slips from his shoulder and Joel’s body collapses forward with a groan, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He trembles above you, arms braced on either side of your head, too weak to hold himself up fully as he attempts to catch his breath. Even after the last powerful aftershocks ripple through him, Joel stays buried to the hilt, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary roll, unable to stop chasing the euphoric feeling. His cock twitches inside your come-filled pussy, his body refusing to accept that it’s over.
The room falls silent, the gravity of what just happened settling over you until it’s almost suffocating. Joel finally slumps over you, his forehead nudging into your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your middle like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His breath is shaky as he burrows his face into your neck and you sense the tension and unease radiating off of him. “...baby. I–I fucked up,” he admits, voice wrecked from both exhaustion and nerves.
You can feel the warmth of his release slowly leaking out around his softening cock and you try to lift your head to see, but Joel is heavy over top of you. You tap the side of his ass, urging him to get up and thankfully he understands the gesture. He eases himself out of you, his cock slipping out of you with a wet noise, and falls back onto the mattress, covering his face with his forearm. “Jesus…” you breathe, having propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at the mess he made. The sheen of your slick is smeared glossy across your inner thighs. Joel’s come is everywhere – seeping out of your hole in thick, pearly white streaks and dripping onto the bedsheets beneath you.
Joel sits up, leaning back on one hand as he takes in the sight of your spread thighs, watching as his come slowly trickles from your entrance. The guilt of breaking his promise to you starts to eat at him; but, alongside the shame is a dark, hungry satisfaction that he can’t push away. The conflicting feelings weave together into some fucked up shame spiral and he lets out a heavy sigh, flopping back onto the mattress.
He hears you say his name, but the sound barely registers. He’s too lost in his own head, trapped somewhere between regret and disgust. You call out again, this time a little louder, and he rolls onto his side to face you. Without a word, he leans in, one hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you. It’s not rushed or desperate, but rather sweet, as if his lips were trying to say everything he was having difficulty putting into words. There’s an apology in the way that his thumb gently strokes the side of your face. There’s hunger in the way his tongue slides against yours. And, there’s relief in the quiet sigh he breathes into the kiss, like touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. “M’sorry, baby…” he murmurs against your lips.
His eyes flick back down to the mess between your thighs, brows furrowing together. “Fuck…look at what I did to you,” he whispers. “As soon as I can feel my damn legs, “we’re gonna get in the car, okay? I’ll drive you to the pharmacy and we’ll see about gettin’ you the mornin’ after pill.” Joel shakes his head, disappointed in himself, but even more so at his cock which twitches with interest. “I promised. I fuckin’ promised and I just…” his voice cracks, “the second I came, I lost it. Buried myself right back in like some goddamn animal.” There’s a short pause, Joel swallowing down a dangerous thought, “Jesus Christ, baby…what the hell did I do?”
You grab Joel’s face with both hands before he can spiral any further, pulling him into a kiss that shuts him up and steals whatever apology was about to tumble out. His lips quiver against yours, unsure if he should even be allowed this kind of forgiveness. It isn’t until the tip of your tongue slides slowly over the seam of his lips that he melts. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and the tension in his jaw finally eases. His hand comes to rest on your waist and he kisses you back, trying to convey his gratitude for not pushing him away.
When you break apart, you rest your forehead against him and brush your thumbs over his stubbled cheekbones. “Should make you go by yourself,” you mumble against his lips, no malice in your voice. “Explain to the pharmacist what you did.”
Joel looks at you with wide, pleading eyes, knowing he deserves every bit of shame and reproach that would come from confessing it aloud. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his face starting to heat up. “Baby…” he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper.
You smile softly, eyes locked on his, “She’s going to take one look at this guilty face and just know that you couldn’t keep your cock where it belonged.” Joel makes a ragged sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’ll make you say it too,” you add, dragging your thumb over his bottom lip. “What you did. Out loud.”
Joel’s eyes flutter shut, cheeks burning hotter under your gaze, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. You’re not exactly sure what prompts you, but you find yourself sliding your fingers into Joel’s hair, gently tugging his head back up so you can see his face. “Tell me what you’d say to her,” you whisper. “Tell me like you’re standing at the counter.”
Joel shakes his head weakly, attempting to resist your request, but his pupils are blown wide, lust swallowing his irises. His cock twitches with interest, blood rushing to where he’s already growing half-hard between his thighs.
You let your gaze drop, catching the sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Joel lets out a small, miserable whine and tries to bury his face in your neck again, but you keep your grip firm in his hair. “Joel,” you say, slightly amused but with a strangely cruel undertone to it. “Are you getting hard while apologizing?”
Your question lingers in the air, and the real shock of it hits you, because Joel is not the type to be brought down to his metaphorical knees. He is always the one in control – bigger, stronger, unmistakably male – and seeing him like this almost feels surreal. You can’t help but think that it looks good on him for a change.
Joel’s breath stutters, his cock betraying him as it twitches under your gaze. His blush deepens until he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He feels exposed, ridiculous and so fucking turned on that it’s making his head spin. “Baby, I–I’m trying not to.”
You tilt your head and let out a disbelieving laugh, glancing down at his cock steadily thickening between you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you’re getting big and hard just from thinking about having to talk to the pharmacist later.”
A shiver zips up Joel’s spine and he barely restrains the groan that wants to escape. He fucking loves it when you call him big. Not just because of the way it strokes his ego – though he loves when you admire his dick – but because the way you say it makes him feel powerful. Hearing you use that word against him, teasing him while he’s exposed like this, makes his stomach tighten. The contradiction of being called ‘big’ while feeling so small and humiliated fucks with his head in the best way. Because no matter how big he is – how easily he could pin you down and take control – here he is, rock hard and almost submissive for you. His cock throbs, heavy and flushed dark, curving up towards his stomach as the tip glistens with a fresh bead of precome.
“Answer me,” you say, voice low and commanding as you give his hair another firm tug until his eyes are trained on you.
“...fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, unable to keep himself in check as you stare down at him. “Yes…okay? Yes, I’m gettin’ hard. I hate it and I can’t fuckin’ help it.”
Joel looks completely mortified, but his hips twitch upward anyway, like his body is begging for attention. His big, guilty brown eyes stay locked on yours, glassy and desperate. A long moment stretches between you while you watch him squirm, shame and arousal practically eating him alive. You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That’s because you liked it,” you whisper. “You liked filling me up when you weren’t supposed to. You liked fucking up.”
His whole body tenses, his cock jerking with another helpless twitch. “Fuck…baby,” he whispers. “So fucking much.”
You let the silence sit for another beat, just to watch him sit with his admission. His hand flexes at his side like he’s dying to reach out and touch you – to grab your hips, pull you closer, bury his face between your thighs, and eat you out until you’re shaking and pushing him away. Anything to distract from the embarrassment of telling someone else how much he enjoyed coming inside you.
When you’re satisfied that you had made him wait long enough, you loosen your grip on his hair and slide your hand down to cup his jaw. “Joel,” you say softly. He responds with a hum, leaning into your touch. “Say it.”
Joel blinks, his breath shallow. “Say what?”
You lean in until your lips are barely an inch from his, “What you’re going to tell the pharmacist.”
Joel’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his lips parting slightly as he half-expects you to lean in and kiss him. When you don’t, he lets out a huff. After a moment, he relents, “Sorry ma’am,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Can I bother you for Plan B? I…I accidentally…” His sentence tapers off, embarrassment and arousal tying his tongue while you look at him expectantly. “She–she told me to pull out, but I couldn’t help myself.”
You tsk at him, a low, disappointed sound that makes his shoulder tense. You trail your fingers from where it cups his cheek, down the side of his neck, over the rapid thud of his heartbeat in his chest, until you reach his navel. You trace his happy trail with the pad of your pointer finger, purposefully keeping away from his more than interested cock. “Keep going,” you state, more demand than request. “You weren’t finished."
Joel looks at you wrecked, completely at your mercy as you continue teasing him with featherlight touches. “Baby…I–”
You cut him off mid-sentence, wrapping your fingers firmly around the thick base of his cock. He goes stock still, his eyes flying wide open as he lets out a sharp gasp, “Fuck–”. You hold him there, tight and possessive, feeling his cock throb hot and heavy in your palm, but refusing to stroke him.
“Keep going,” you say calmly, your thumb brushing lightly over the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. “Don’t stop just because I have your cock in my hand.”
Joel licks his lips, eyes glued to yours, his thighs trembling as he fights the overwhelming urge to thrust up into your fist. “She told me to pull out,” he starts, your grip tightening. “…but I saw how pretty she looked on my cock and I–” He groans softly, enraptured by the way you’re looking at him. “I couldn’t help myself, baby. I–I just needed to feel you feel you full of me.”
You lean in close, nose brushing against the shell of his ear, and whisper, “Pathetic.”
A broken groan tears out of Joel’s chest, shame flooding his face. He jerks his hips involuntarily, eagerly chasing the heat of your palm. His body shakes – the big, strong man who’s always in control, trembling from a single whispered insult.
“Go on,” you purr in his ear. “Repeat what you’d say to the pharmacist. Word for word.”
Joel’s eyes squeeze shut, his voice is wrecked, cracking with every humiliating word. “...Sorry, ma’am. Can I get a Plan B? I accidentally came inside my girl. She told me to pull out but I…I couldn’t help but fill her up anyway.” His hips twitch helplessly, precome drooling from the tip and leaking over your fist.
“And why not,” you ask softly, adjusting your grip, your thumb swiping over the flushed, sensitive head.
Joel keens, his back arching off the bed. “Because–” he starts, swallowing down a shaky breath, “because she was squeezin’ me so good that I lost control.”
“I told you to pull out,” you remind him, thumb continuing to move.
He nods quickly, shame tightening in his throat. “I know, baby. I know. I did at first but…” Joel lets out a strangled whine, only furthering his embarrassment, “...fuck.”
“But what, Joel?” you ask, lips still brushing his ear in a tease. “Finish your sentence.” Your hand slides up his length in one smooth stroke, then back down to the base. He’s so fucking big in your grip, your fingers barely meeting around his shaft due to the sheer size of him. His cock is a complete mess, glistening and still slick with his earlier load.
Joel’s hands fist the sheets, needing to hold onto something, the fabric pulling away from the edge of the mattress as he fights for control. “I didn’t listen,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Stuffed myself right back inside.”
You pull back just enough to see his face, his pupils blown with lust, his lips parted as he pants, desperate for more – desperate for something. “Good boy,” you praise. Joel’s entire body seizes up, his cock surging with want, as he attempts to push himself deeper into your grasp. You keep stroking him, the pace excruciating, letting your thumb swirl over the messy come-slick head on every upstroke. “Now tell her why you’re there,” you murmur.
Joel lets out a broken whine, hips jerking helplessly. His voice cracks as he forces the words out, shame and arousal twisting together so tightly he can barely speak. “ ‘Cause she needs the morning after pill,” he breathes out. “And it’s all my fault.” Joel shoves his hips up, spearing his cock into your grip as he starts fucking your fist in short, needy strokes. “All my fucking fault.”
The big, dominant Joel Miller is officially gone. In place is this desperate, leaking, shame-drenched version of him who can’t stop confessing how badly he fucked up – how badly he needed to come inside you – and how much he loved it.
“Greedy boy. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He doesn’t answer you. You let him use your hand to get off, watching his face go slack with pleasure before urging his hips down and slowing your hand. Your fingers tighten around him, just enough to control the pace, forcing his thrusts to become shallow and frustratingly restricted. Every time he tries to move, you ease off, keeping him right on the agonizing edge without letting him tip over.
“That’s it,” you croon softly, “Tell her exactly why you need it.”
Joel’s hands fist the sheets tighter, knuckles white as he bunches the fabric at his sides. “‘Cause–fuck…’cause I came inside you, baby,” he groans. “Pussy looked so good covered in my come that I just had to get back inside.”
You feel him swell impossibly bigger in your hand, the thick shaft pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as he teeters dangerously close to the edge. His balls draw up tight, the first warning of his impending orgasm.
Joel’s breath catches, his eyes starting to roll back, inches away from satisfaction. You let go, your hand pulling away completely, leaving his cock twitching and bobbing angrily in the air. He lets out a broken sound as his orgasm crests and then crashes without release. His cock kicks hard, pulsing uselessly, a thick bead of precome dribbling pathetically from the tip and sliding down his shaft. His hips buck in the air, every muscle straining as everything fades into a cruel, aching denial. He collapses towards you, his body practically shaking as he presses his forehead to your shoulder. “Fuck…baby…please…” he begs.
You let him ache, his chest heaving with quick, uneven breaths, his denied cock twitching and leaking against his stomach. Every heavy throb is visible as he attempts to gather himself. He tries to tamp down his arousal, but underneath is something deeper – raw, aching need.
You press a hand gently to his chest, urging him to lie flat and Joel obeys instantly, falling back onto the mattress fully and without protest. You swing a leg over him, straddling his hips, your slick folds parting around him. His head falls back with a guttural groan as you start to rock against him, the fat head of his cock dragging hot and slippery over your swollen clit making you both moan. You feel him shudder underneath you, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he curses silently, “...fuck, baby. Just like that.”
Joel’s hands fly to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s barely holding himself together. His breathing is ragged, eyes half-lidded and desperate as he watches you use him. You tease him like that for a few more torturous seconds without giving him what he really needs, a needy whine slipping out before he can stop it.
Without hesitation, you take his cock in hand, lining him up with your entrance and sinking down all the way to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, your walls squeezing tight around him, greedy for more. A broken moan escapes both of you at the same time as Joel springs up, sitting up beneath you in a rush, one arm wrapping around your back as he pulls you into a messy, desperate kiss. Joel licks into your mouth like he’s starving for you. One hand slides up your back, while the other stays wrapped around your middle as he guides you harder onto his cock.
“Fuck, baby…” he pants between kisses, “you feel so goddamn good.” Joel’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he lets you take complete control, utterly lost in the feeling of being buried inside you again.
“Keep going,” you say, pulling off of him until only the tip of him remains inside you, then slamming back down until he’s fully sheathed again. “Tell the pharmacist what you did.”
Joel’s brain is barely coherent. “Fuck–I–” His hands dig into your skin, almost like he’s afraid you’ll leave him ruined and desperate again. “M’sorry, ma’am,” he begins, his words somewhat slurred as you continue to mercilessly ride him, the wet heat of your cunt enveloping him over and over again. “Need a plan B for my–fuck– girl.” His voice cracks as you grind your clit against his pelvis, the coarse hair on his groin prickling into your skin. “I’m sorry,” he groans, starting to babble, the confession spilling out in desperate, shattered pieces. “So fucking sorry. Felt so good. Fuck, baby…you feel so good. Needed to fill you up.”
Joel is embarrassingly close already, his hips stuttering up to meet your rhythm. “Fuck, baby. Hop off–fuck, I’m gonna–” he gasps, starting to panic. His hands scramble frantically at your hips, trying to lift you off him to avoid further incident.
But you don’t let him. You slam down onto him one last time, taking him as deep as you can, rolling your hips in tight circles that eke him closer to the finish line. Your walls clench around him like a vice and Joel’s eyes widen in shock. “No–baby, wait–I can’t–fuck!”
His panicked warning dissolves into a guttural groan as his cock pulses violently inside you, his eyes rolling back into his head, vision going white, as thick, hot ropes of come flood you for the second time that afternoon. His entire body trembles beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to Earth.
The wet warmth of his spend spills from your cunt and drips down his shaft, coating him in his own mess. Joel’s face is slack, experiencing what one can only assume to be pure bliss – like nothing in the world exists except the tight, slick heat of your cunt milking him dry.
You ride the high right alongside him, your bodies in a perfect, filthy sync until your own orgasm crashes into you without warning. Your thighs lock tight around his hips as white-hot pleasure rips up your spine. You cry out, your head lolling back, his name slipping from your lips as every muscle shakes with wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure.
Joel starts to slowly soften inside of you but doesn’t dare look down at the mess. “Still gotta go to the pharmacy, baby.”
The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy feel way too bright as Joel stands at the counter, posture rigid like he’s waiting on his own execution. The pharmacist, a no-nonsense type of woman in her fifties, offers him a polite smile. “How can I help you today?”
Joel’s face immediately burns red, his blush crawling all the way up to his ears. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at you like maybe you’ll save him from utter embarrassment, but you don’t. He clears his throat, an attempt at keeping himself from stuttering which immediately backfires as soon as he opens his mouth to speak. “Uh–I–I–uh…I need the, uh…the Plan B pill.”
The pharmacist doesn’t even blink, she just nods calmly and types something into the computer, “One moment, sir. I’ll grab that for you.”
Joel lets out an apprehensive breath, muttering under his breath while his fingers tap nervously on the counter. He prays the ground will just swallow him whole. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself.
The pharmacist returns with the small blue box and sets it on the counter, scanning the barcode. “Alright, if that’s it for today, that’ll be–”
“It’s my fault,” Joel blurts out, far too loud, before realizing his blunder. “I–I messed up.”
You watch the pharmacist’s eyebrows slowly lift. In truth, your hand reaches for him like you’re going to stop him, but the words tumble out of him quicker than expected. “She told me to pull out but I just lost my head.”
You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing, your face heating with a mix of second-hand embarrassment and delight. The pharmacist blinks, completely unfazed. “Oh. Well…it happens. That’ll be $54.11.”
Joel looks like he’s two seconds away from melting into the floor. His neck and ears are bright red, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid he’s going to pop a vein in his forehead. He fumbles for his wallet, dropping his debit card with a loud clatter, cursing quietly under his breath. You place a steady hand on his bicep and he manages to swipe the card with shaking fingers, refusing to look at you.
When the transaction is complete, the pharmacist hands him the bag, telling him she hopes he has a good day. He can’t even respond with words. He raises his hand, nodding his head and gently takes you by the arm, leading you out of the pharmacy as quickly as he can. When he reaches the sidewalk, he turns towards you, the bulge evident in his jeans, his voice dropping into a hushed whisper only you can hear. “Baby…I swear I ain’t ever been that embarrassed in all my life.”
The minute the front door clicks shut behind you, Joel lets out a heavy exhale, dropping the keys to his truck on the entryway table. You barely make it two steps before he reaches for you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him, your back flush against his broad chest. His face drops into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin like he needs the contact to steady himself.
He turns you to face him and his eyes are soft, filled with adoration and love. The flush of humiliation hasn’t fully faded, his ears tinted pink as he cocks his head to the side and then leans in to kiss you. The kiss starts slow, as if he’s asking for permission, but the moment you kiss him back, it deepens – slow and hungry in the softest way. His hands slide down your back, palms warm and steady, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. “Baby…”, he whispers, his lips not leaving yours. “...you were real mean to me.”
You smile, humming in agreement, “Yeah, you gonna let me do it again?”
Joel swallows, eyes dropping to your mouth, his response somewhat shy, “Jesus…I–yeah,we’ll talk about it.”
His forehead rests against yours and he breathes you in for a long moment, then kisses you again. His arms tighten around you as the tension starts to bleed out of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath. “For helpin’ me take care of it. For not bein’ mad. For…hell, for everything.”
You feel his body relax fully into yours like he’s finally letting the weight of the day settle. His thumb keeps stroking your cheek in slow, gentle circles as he holds you close, safe in the quiet of your apartment. “Maybe it’s time we start trying,” you suggest. His head whips towards you, eyes wide and curious, trying to gauge if you actually mean it. You nod as if answering his silent question and you swear you’ve never seen him happier.
Summary: You and Arthur find something short of comfort in one another against the desolate backdrop of Annesburg's smog and grime.
Tags: nsfw/18+, sex worker!reader, reader pov, smut, pwp, verbal degradation, sub Arthur, mutual masturbation, Arthur has tuberculosis, dark/bleak themes, cis reader, gendered language
A/N: Dividers are by @/saradika-graphics, and header images are my own. [Ao3 link]
You've never needed a cigarette more in your life.
It's the same complaint as always, just amplified by the unyielding persistence of it—miners who reek of sweat and desolation approaching you with foul breath and even worse manners. Most of them are harmless, and you've learned to avoid the ones who aren't, but every dollar you've earned providing them with the tawdry rush of petty sin has gone straight to paying rent on the small room you share with two other girls. It's barely livable, though only a slight downgrade from the best accommodations in town—one of the pathetic, weather-beaten shacks huddled on the hill with the rest of the poor souls who call Annesburg home.
As you meander down the wooden walkway, past the shuttered saloon and beyond the stacks of crates and pallets shoved against the dingy, stained, once-white stucco of Schultz's guest rooms, you peer up at the sky. It looks like rain. The heavens are as gray as the dreary landscape below, meeting at the horizon and mixing into dismal, unremarkable infinity. When moisture hangs in the atmosphere, it seizes the smoke and smog, until the air is thick with the acrid taste of it. A stew simmering with the worst parts of a cigarette and none of the sweet relief.
The same weary faces pass you on your walk, smeared with grime and empty of joy. You've seen them so many times, they just about fade into the background, dissolving into a pale, lifeless monochrome. It lulls you into a trance until you spot one that's unfamiliar. It belongs to a man who stands alone outside the station. Dressed in all black, he's smoking a cigarette idly, scanning the road before his chin lifts and his eyes settle on the black miasma churned out by the line of chimneys perched at the top of the hill. You've never seen him before, and you've made it your business to be familiar with every man in town. Seeing two opportunities wrapped up in one, you approach him.
He glances your way but doesn't acknowledge you, continuing to smoke and watch the smog choke the sky.
"Can I have a drag?" you ask, nodding to the cigarette.
He looks almost startled to be addressed, but composes himself and arches an eyebrow before he gruffly replies, "No."
You've learned to speak the language of what exists in the empty spaces around words, and as much as it seems like he doesn't want to be bothered, you decide to persist.
"C'mon. Just one, handsome," you purr, taking a closer look at him.
The usual, empty flattery is accurate, for once—he has a strong jaw, just enough scars for character, and dense stubble covering a face that should belong to a gentler man. Instead of the bleary, haunted portals of those who spend their days underground, his aquamarine eyes smolder with the glowing cinders of a life of violence, ruthless and unforgiving. He's lean, but holds himself like a man who used to be much larger, his broad shoulders filling the seams of his raven black overshirt, while the rest of it hangs too loose over his form. The gunbelt wrapped around his narrow hips holds a revolver and a sawed-off shotgun, both well-worn and, evidently, well-used.
"You serious?" He sounds incredulous, but there's an almost imperceptible amusement in the question.
You shrug and offer a wry smile. "Well, I ain't jokin'."
"Christ." With an exasperated sigh, he digs in his pocket for the pack and pulls out a fresh one, handing it to you with a withering and disinterested glare. You take it, feeling like a woman stumbling upon a fresh spring in the desert.
"I didn't need a whole one. Just wanted a drag."
Inhaling deeply, he pinches his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, pulling it away from his face to regard it thoughtfully.
He pushes the smoke from his mouth after a moment and shakes his head. "You don' wanna share, trust me."
You pull the matches from your dress pocket, lighting the cigarette and taking a long, blissful drag. "Well, thank you all the same. You're quite the gentleman."
He scoffs before chuckling derisively. "You should be careful makin' assumptions 'bout strangers."
"I happen to make my livin' makin' assumptions about strangers." Your flirtation is calculated—an offer, an invitation, but nothing more.
"Then maybe you should find another line of work." Tone turned brutish and biting, his words come with a expression of disgust as he looks you up and down. With one last puff, he blows the mephitic cloud in your direction, flicks the butt into the road and ambles away, heavy steps taking him down the walkway and toward the gunsmith, where he disappears inside.
You laugh to yourself, pulling in another exquisite mouthful of smoke. It burns your tongue and heats your lungs, the subtle act of self-destruction the most control you'd felt all day. If all your experience with the appetites of men are worth a damn, you know it won't be the last time you see him.
It's only a few days before you spot him again, leaning against the outside of the sheriff's office, palm planted on a empty barrel at his side. He's studying a bounty poster, with notes written on the back of it, from what you can see. Noticing your approach, he stuffs it back in his satchel before shaking his head at you with a roll of his eyes.
"You lookin for any company tonight?" You sidle up next to him, letting your weight rest on your shoulder blades as they press against the cracked boards covering the outer wall of the lawmen's office.
He chuckles cruelly, again sizing you you up with a disapproving scowl. "I ain’t the kinda man who has to pay for it."
"'Has to' and 'wants to' are very different things."
He straightens himself as if readying to walk away again, but when he takes his weight off his hand and looks down at it, he curses under his breath.
"Goddammit."
You can't help but laugh. A mistake a local would never make.
"The soot?" you ask. "It on everythin' 'round here. A…natural consequence."
Wiping his hand on his trousers, he raises an eyebrow. "Consequence?"
"This whole town is in a dirty business, mister. Was built around it. I'm sure you seen the signs—it covers the buildings, it hangs in the air. Gets in your skin, your hair." Unconsciously, your hand wanders up to your own tresses, twisting a lock around your finger. You can't remember the last time it felt clean. "Filth can only make more filth. Every person, every place that dirties its hands faces consequences, eventually." You shrug, feeling his cautious scrutiny on you, now. "Ours here is just a little more…obvious than others."
He relaxes slightly and leans back against the building. "You talk a lot like someone I know. Someone who's maybe read one too many books. Among other things."
"I don't know about all that. I just seen too much of human nature." You turn, leaning on your arm as you look straight at him. "Maybe your friend has, too."
A sharp shake of his head follows, eyes falling to his boots as he shifts uneasily. "Didn't say he was my friend."
Normally you wouldn't press your luck, but your curiosity has you looking for something besides enough cash to afford a warm meal. The expression on the stranger's face is inscrutable, but in the shadow of the brim of his hat, you can almost glimpse the squall that you've already sensed rages beneath the steeled exterior.
"Seems like he's rather more than that. Or…used to be."
He pushes off the wall again, twisting to face you with a chilling sting in his eyes. One hand drops to hook a thumb into his gunbelt, and the other arm hangs loose at his side, dangling next to his revolver.
"I really don' know where you get off runnin' your mouth like that," he says in a husky snarl and takes a menacing step forward.
"You're still talkin' to me, ain't you?" you observe with an obvious glance down to his gun.
You're both frozen for a few long moments, his palm clearly itching for the comfort of the revolver. But he just lets it go. Walks away without a word. You watch him closely, studying every deliberate step as he crosses the road and the freight tracks that bisect them. In front of the station, he unhitches a bay-colored mare, steps into her saddle, and spurs them out of town, apparently in pursuit of whatever poor soul had their likeness captured in the poster he so hastily put away.
It's been one of the worst weeks you've had. Between the wage strike and the mayhem that followed Leviticus Cornwall's murder, everyone has been shut up inside, afraid to step into the echoes of a crossfire that took so many lives. You haven't had a customer in two days, the miners all home with their wives and the lawmen still occupied with cleaning up the mess from the shootout.
You don't have the luxury of that choice. Not working means not eating, but unsuccessfully pacing the empty walkway, trawling for even a single lonely man grows tiresome, so you wander behind the boarded-up saloon to sit next to the water.
Legs dangling over the mud, you consider the splintered wagon wheels, broken crates, and smashed barrels lodged in the muck below your feet. A visitor would think it debris from the violence that erupted from this very location barely seven days prior. But you know better. You know that the river's edge has always collected the detritus carelessly cast out by Jameson Mining and Coal Company. Even literal trash cannot escape this place.
Evening is closing in, and the river is host to the narrow, gliding canoes of fishermen slicing over the surface as well larger ships chugging determinedly through the muddy depths, their origins and destinations likely beyond your imagination. The water laps at the bank, the familiar iridescent sheen floating on the surface, and it'd almost be beautiful if it didn't carry the pungent stench of fuel.
You hear boots behind you—first, hollow steps over wooden boards, then a grinding crunch through the gravel surrounding the railroad tracks. Shortly after they reach the dock, a hand extends down to offer you a cigarette. Taking it, you crane your neck to see who you already knew was there. You each strike a single match, the warm glow of the lonely flames illuminating your faces in time, and you smoke together in silence.
After a few minutes, you decide to share a thought that had been with you for days. "I seen your picture on them posters, Arthur."
"That a threat?" His question is untroubled, almost playful. It takes a bold man indeed to show his face in a town he's wanted dead or alive and somehow find humor in the circumstance.
"I wouldn’t still be standin' if I was in the habit of threatenin' customers."
He breathes out sharply, but you can hear the smile in his voice as he says, "Oh, you think I’m your customer now?"
"What else would you be? My tobacco benefactor?" Gesturing theatrically with your half-spent cigarette, you look up again to catch his eye.
"Big word for a woman like you," he jabs, meeting your gaze but briefly.
As he goes to take another drag, he's hit with a rattling, hacking cough. It shakes his whole chest as he gasps, nearly doubling over while he tries to pull air back into his lungs. When the fit has finally passed, he spits on the ground, the saliva that makes impact with the dock mixed with just as much blood.
You let the moment settle while he collects himself, knowing the last thing he wants is for you to acknowledge the obvious. Working in a mining town, you're used to the sound of lungs coated in death.
"A 'woman like me.' As if a man like you is in a position to judge." The decision to poke at another tangled nest would be foolish in a different situation, but you know, by now, why he's found you on the dock.
"What kind man am I then?" Voice still raspy from the violence of the cough, he lets his head fall lazily to side, a cool curiosity painted on his face. It's like his daring you to say it.
"A killer, for one. If them posters are tellin' the truth."
"And what if they are?"
You almost snort. "Then it seems you got bigger problems than worryin' about whether or not you’re my customer."
Silence seats itself between you again. The distant foghorn of a boat—some steam ship traveling the waterway to ferry the goods of industry, no doubt—startles the birds in the trees across the river. Driven from their perches, they take off in frantic flight, floating silhouettes black and crisp against the purple sky. You both watch them fly off, tracking their graceful, arcing escape until they disappear downriver to find a safer roost.
"I got a room, next to the gunsmith." With two quick puffs on a cigarette shortly devoured by the burning glow at its tip, Arthur shifts his weight to the opposite leg. "Come after dark."
You turn to look behind you, eyes on the fiery clouds hanging low above the western horizon. "That'll be soon."
"I know." He flicks the glowing butt into the water. "I ain't got time enough to wait longer n'that."
You knock on the door as quietly as you dare. Schultz doesn't like you and the other girls doing business in his establishment. It's part of a uneasy truce with the gentle, peculiar German, an exchange for a discount on baths, when you can afford it.
The sound of Arthur’s boots cross the small room before it swings open. His hat is off, and he's removed the vest that you've always seen over his shirt. Without a word, he steps back to allow you inside. You've been in the room before—despite the gunsmith's protests—but never when its looked so tidy. Anything he'd brought with him is evidently packed away in the trunk next to the bed, with the exception of his gunbelt and his black gambler's hat, which you noticed hanging over the coat rack by the threshold.
At the soft click of the door latching, you turn to face him. He's studying you, eyes dragging over your form, from fingertip to collarbone, across your breasts and falling to your waist. They travel down the skirt of your worn dress, which is as covered in soot and grime as everything else in Annesburg. But that doesn't seem to register to him, the look on his face without judgment or disgust, just curiosity. Like he's allowing himself a good look for the first time.
"You ain’t afraid of me."
"No," you reply. "And I'm surprised you'd ask. Knowin' when to be afraid is what keeps a person alive 'round here."
Bottom lip stretched to the side in something short of a smile, he shakes his head. "I weren't askin'."
With a step back, he nods at you, and you know what it means. Slowly, you start to take off your dress.
Your fingers have slid the scuffed and blemished buttons through their frayed hollows hundreds of times, but under the intense scrutiny of his profound gaze, they falter, struggling with every other one. Eventually, you manage them all, letting your dress slide off your shoulders and fall in a tattered pile around your feet. The corset is next, the hooks and studs cooperating somewhat better, and once you're free of its restrictive embrace, you untie your drawers. They slide down you legs without resistance.
The cotton chemise, threadbare and stained, clings to your naked form underneath. Before you can remove it, Arthur reaches out, his fingers hovering, slowly tracing the air around around the outline of your breast. He lets his hand float down to the hem of the garment. Worn fabric gathered between thumb and fingers, he rubs it with a startling tenderness before releasing it from his grasp. Hastily, you pull it over head, eager to move past the disquieting moment.
A cautious step closes the distance between you, your hands seeking the buttons of his overshirt. Only one is loosed under your touch before his hands close around yours, strong and warm and rough. It's not to hold them, but to take their place, and he quickly unfastens the rest.
Once his shirt is shrugged off his shoulders, your breath catches, as if you're beholding something meant to be kept from sight. It's the body wrought by a hard life, littered with scars, muscle clinging to the ribs just visible beneath.
You press your palm to his chest, his skin clammy and pale behind the dusting of tawny hair that covers it. The sheen of sweat on his sternum matches that on his brow, and just as he shivers beneath the careful path your fingers take down his stomach, he wraps a large hand around each of your arms, gently pushing you away.
"You shouldn't-" he starts, but just breathes out heavily. "I don' want you to…" Gesturing to his chest and allowing you to fill in the rest, he trails off and nods to the bed.
You lay down, as bidden, propped against the brass headboard while he takes a seat in a small wooden chair opposite you. Spreading your knees wide, you let his eyes wander you while he slowly unbuttons his trousers.
"Tell me what I am," he demands, palming himself roughly through the thick fabric of his pants.
Tethered to his gaze, your eyes flit to his erection, then back to his face. "Hard as a rock for one…"
"No." Through the haze of his arousal, you see something else in the sapphire orbs fixed on your body in repose. Not an urgency, but a submission. "What I really am."
You understand what he wants. You'd felt ready to give it to him all along, but you hesitate. A strange desire for comfort knots your stomach. Not just for yourself, but for him. But you sense he's not paying you for comfort. Not directly.
"You're a wanted man," you offer, with a calculated detachment. "Who doesn't seem to care enough for his life to mind that he's already got a noose halfway around his neck."
He frees himself, already thick and flushed with want, and teases the head of his cock with a patient palm before wrapping his broad fist around it. Slow, languid strokes pull a clear bead out of the tip, which he smooths back over the shaft. You can almost feel the glistening velvet of his skin in your own palm as you watch, captive to the pleasure he found in your words. With each careful pump, a throbbing ache blooms between your legs, begging for attention.
"Slow down, cowboy," you breathlessly command. "Let me catch up."
Arthur does as he's told, releasing his grip on his length. Calloused fingers lazily tease the base of it while his eyes drop to your center.
The first tingling kiss of stimulation is enough to liberate a soft moan. It escapes your throat as you delicately caress your swollen folds. Your other hand closes around your breast, and your thumb teases a nipple while you spread yourself wider. In another bed, for another man, it would be all the invitation needed, but Arthur just watches, gaze alternating between your face, your breast, and your cunt. The friction he aches for is plain to see, and his chest heaves with the strain of the control you're forcing him to maintain.
As you part your lips, darkened by the blood pumping through them, you feel how wet you've already become. If your drawers were still on, they'd be soaked through, dripping with a kind of desire unfamiliar and unwelcome in your usual transactions.
Spreading them further, you let your fingers become glazed in the consequence of your own wanting—the foreign desperation to be touched, rather than the resignation to it.
"You're a murderer," you whimper out, and his hand closes back around his cock.
Skin pulled and stretched over the swollen head, it weeps hungrily and slathers his palm, easing the steady motion of his strokes. Diving back for more of your slick, your finger slips inside you, and you suck a sharp breath through your teeth.
A clipped groan erupts from his chest as he watches you. "Go on."
"Heartless." The word is barely audible as it tumbles from your lips, your fingers finding your pearl, swollen and begging for soft pressure and purchase. "Killin' other men just 'cause they're on the wrong side of your gun."
Fervor replaces his steadiness, the rhythm of his arm faltering with a wave of pleasure that pulls his brows together and flexes the muscles in his taut stomach.
"Not so fast…" Your warning is playful, gentle, as you ease into your own trembling desire.
Again, he obeys. He watches your careful, practiced movements, slowing his rhythm, a moan grinding in his throat, catching against the cough that follows it. The recovery is quick this time, his breath back to the steady, shallow respiration of lust with just a few more strokes.
Circling your clit, your hips lift involuntarily, as if meeting the touch of someone else.
And, despite yourself, its his touch you imagine.
You allow yourself to close your eyes for a moment, lost to different reality behind the blissful curtain of your eyelids. Instead your own hands, it's his mouth lapping at you, his tongue swift and firm against the jewel nestled between your legs. Rather than your other hand, which slides down your stomach to meet the demands of your vision, it's his thick finger that curls inside you. The determined rumble you imagine from his throat is swallowed by your throbbing flesh, his breath hot, moist, and needy against your slit.
"Jesus christ…" His muttering curse, dense with both desire and frustration, pulls you back to the room, eyes snapping open to find him motionless except for the insistent twitching of his cock, gripped loosely in his fist. "Don' leave me behind, now."
You pull your finger out of your wet warmth, moving your hand to grip your thigh while the other still plays with your clit.
"A fuckin' thief," you hiss out. "Takin' what you haven't earned. What you don't deserve."
Free hand closed tightly over his knee—like the lonely, clutching grasp you each maintain on your own flesh could be exchanged for the other's touch—he starts again. Long quick strokes from base to tip, he's pumping furiously now, growing as close as you are. A cool heat drips down your legs and spreads to the soles of your feet.
"And I know why you keep comin' back here."
"Why," he growls, the single syllable packed with layers of the self-loathing you'd seen in him from that first day.
"Because you know you're a lost cause, just like the rest of us."
His face twists with pleasure, his pupils blown and eyes glassy while his hand moves faster still.
"Not until I'm done…" you whine, your voice constricted by the unbearable ache of the climax about to find you.
Releasing your leg, you dive back into yourself, two fingers filling your aching void while other hand pushes you closer to the threshold. Again, you lose yourself to another place, an impossible vision of the same encounter in a different version of your life. His life. He's above you, vital and strong, and you're clean of the ash and soot that for so long you've worn as a second skin. Rolling his hips, he drives his thick heat into you again and again, resting his forehead against yours—the touch more intimate than even if your lips were pressed together. You feel him twitch and throb within your tight walls, as you both reach for the rapture on the other side.
"Arthur, I…!" The world bleeds white and your thoughts splinter, shattering through the fantasy that had you calling out his name. Shockwaves of ecstasy tense and shake your body, and through the gasps that attempt to refill your lungs with the air just knocked out of them, you open your eyes.
It was like he was waiting for you see him, witness him, and he cums just as you lock eyes again. Face contorted by the ripples of pleasures, a long shuddering moan falls from his mouth and he spills over his hand, the ribbons of seed slowing as he carries himself through it.
For a moment, as the static fills both your heads, you can almost see a reflection of your fantasy in his weary eyes, as if he was really there with you, after all—bodies moving together and his face hovering above yours with an expression free of pain and preoccupation. As desperate for an escape as you were.
That mirror is brief and ephemeral, not shattered so much as carried away by the quiet tension settling over the room. Arthur breaks away from your gaze, wiping his hand and then his softening length on a handkerchief he'd left on the ground next to him. Reclining again in the chair, he lets his head fall back, heels of his palms pressed to his eye sockets. You don't understand at first, but then you hear the quiet rasp of his lungs.
He's trying to catch his breath.
Of all the things you've witnessed, this is the one that makes you look away. Makes you offer the meager kindness of a moment of privacy. You pull your hands from between your legs, wiping then on the stained bedclothes beneath you.
You sit up on the bed and swing your legs over the side, preparing to dress quickly and leave him to his evening. But he stands up before you, pulling his shirt back on and buttoning it while he walks over to the trunk.
"You can have the room for the night if you want it," he says, without looking your way. "It's paid for." As he gathers his belongings, it becomes obvious he never intended to stay another night in Annesburg.
It's unclear whether he sees your sheepish nod of acknowledgement, but you know he's not a man who wants to be thanked. You watch him finish dressing, his charcoal-colored vest finding it's way back over his shoulders and his gunbelt slung back over his hips before he pulls on a dark, wool coat. A wad of bills is dropped on the dresser, marginally more than your usual rate. You're not ungrateful. The night in a real bed alone is more than you could've expected.
He pauses at the door, with his hand resting heavily on the knob. His hat still hanging on the coat rack, you take the hesitation as an offering. The space to say one last thing.
"I hope you find some kind of peace."
His back, a once-mighty mountain eroded to rocky spines, fills the doorframe, and you hear him swallow and exhale slowly—a wheezing breath from lungs covered in something worse than soot. He lifts his hat from the rack and pulls it down low over his eyes.
"It’s too late for that, darlin’."
And, as you watch the door close behind him and hear the haunting finality of the latch striking its plate, you know that he's right.
just thinking about joel who likes to ask his cocky little questions while deep inside you, mouth hovering over your ear, and you can just picture him smirking at your inability to answer in complete sentences.
you’ve been doing the absolute most all day to get his attention, biting his neck while he was busy with his contractor things, bare legs, no pants inside the house, only an oversized shirt, your ass just barely peeking out, giving him a glimpse of your pretty panties. and after a particularly suggestive comment, he finally lost it, hauled you over his shoulder and took you back to the bedroom (don’t worry y’all he made sure to lock the front door). so now he’s been at it for over an hour, starting with two orgasms while he ate you out. he usually stopped after one and got undressed himself but you just sounded soooo pathetic, whining and crying out as he overstimulated you, so he just held your waist so you couldn’t wiggle away from him.
but now he’s deep inside, pulling out and pushing back in slowly, oh so agonizing. you’re cradled against him, his hands behind your back as your head was safely tucked into the crook of his neck, his nose against your pulse point, murmuring into the damp skin.
“had enough baby? can i come now?” his voice is low and raspy, and it makes you want to stay like this forever, but you’ve also came like four times in the last hour so you just squeak out something inaudible, that sort of sound like “i dunno”
“what was that love? i couldn’t understand.” and that makes you cry a little because oh god it’s so good it feels so good, but he’s so mean as he talks to you in that babying tone.
“i dunno joel… please” you whine, and that promts him to hammer into you faster, arms tightening around you into an almost suffocating but oddly safe bear hug.
“well figure it out babygirl” you moan at the feeling, nails scratching his back, muscles tensing under your touch.
and when he finally deems that you in fact had enough already, when the only sounds coming out of your mouth are quiet little whines and cries, he comes in you, thick ropes of his spend shooting deep inside of you.
(in fiction creampies don’t make babies but in real life they do so wrap it up, be safe :33)
Not only does Joel like to watch his cock go in and out of your pussy as he fucks you, he wants you to watch it too. He'll slow down his thrusts a bit and tell you "look, baby... look at how fucking well you take me... gorgeous gorgeous pussy, taking me so well, got me soaked, baby... look...". Then he pulls out just to tap his heavy cock on your clit a few times before pushing it back in, going back to thrusting into you.
He keeps his rhythm deliberately slow, just so you can both watch every thick inch of him disappear into you. He pulls out almost completely, letting you see how shiny and slick his cock is from you, then slaps the heavy head against your swollen clit... once, twice... making you jolt and whimper. The wet sound of it is obscene.
"See that? That's all you, baby. Dripping all over me like you can't get enough."
Then he sinks back in with one smooth, deep thrust, groaning at how tightly you clench around him.
Joel's the kind to fuck you senseless, pull orgasm after orgasm outta you, devour your cunt like his life depends on it, pound you into the mattress... and then after, as y'all catch your breath, he nods towards your pussy and asks "how's she doin'? she alright?"
Joel is out here running a fullbservice pussy spa. Brutal demolition derby by night, tender customer service survey right after.
He'll have you folded in half, screaming his name like it's the only word you remember, creaming all over his face and cock until your legs are shaking like a newborn deer... then hit you with that low, gravelly "How's she doin'? She alright?" while gently brushing his thumb over your swollen, twitching clit.
Man's a menace and a gentleman in the same breath. Absolute menace. You know he's already planning round two the second you whisper "She’s still breathing... barely."
take a gamble love exists @slowdivinqs - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
