It’s Okay - Joel Miller/You - E 18+ - idk how many words, warnings: angst, established relationship, smut, unsafe sex, warm fuzzies.
Joel Miller has a bad dream.
—
Joel shivers from the memory of ghost fingertips cool on his brow. He wakes in a sweat, gasping - “Tess.”
Then, the pause. The one where he collects himself - remembers where he is. Who he’s with. He mutters, “Shit.”
“It’s okay,” you murmur back, sighing as you shift on the thin pillow. “I always know when she’s back in your dreams.”
“I’m sorry,” he offers after a moment, his hand heavy on your hip. Sheets still rucked down to your waist from last night. “I-“
“Joel.” You shut him down. “Stop. I already said it’s okay.” You rest your hand over his. “Now relax. You don’t have to talk about it. You can go back to sleep.”
He isn’t sure what he did to deserve you. It’s not the first time he’s woken up like this in the middle of the night. It’s worse when the dreams are of Sarah. But you’ve never blamed him for it, or judged. Offered an ear and a shoulder and, eventually, a bed. It happened with such swift intensity that only Ellie saw it coming, and would laugh at you both.
“Darlin’, I…” He gets extra Texan when he starts feeling things. And his voice gets deeper. He presses the line of his nose against the side of your neck. “Thanks.”
“Night, Joel,” you murmur fondly.
“Night.”
You wake to the feel of his breath on your neck, warm and even and deep. Fast asleep. You’re notched up against him now, back pulled to his chest, his arm across your ribs.
“Joel.” You shift your hips to try and wake him. It works - but only in a very localised way. “Joel,” you try again, as his hand shifts, slides downward.
“Mornin’,” he rumbles, the thickened quality to his voice lifting the hairs on your nape. “Sleep well?”
“Eventually.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he sighs, and so do you as the pads of his fingertips crest your clitoris. “Lemme make it up to you.”
“You better,” you manage just as coherent thought leaves you the same time two of Joel’s fingers enter you, slow and deep. You gasp, contracting. He grunts distantly and you feel the slide of warm, hard flesh against your ass. You arch back toward him.
“Shit,” Joel says again, in a different tone of voice this time, an almost reverent one. He slides his fingers out of you to down and angles his dick into the space between your thighs, the thick head pressing against the slick notch of your pussy, squeezing in slow.
“Language,” you chide distantly as your nerves light up like a Christmas Tree on the Fourth of July. “Oh - don’t stop,” you add, toes curling.
“What, the language?” Joel teases, infuriatingly - perfectly. “Or this?” He grabs your hip and pulls you in close, lodges all the way inside you, forcing an expletive out of you that makes you hope your voice won’t carry. “Now who’s talkin’,” he adds on a chuckle and you nudge him with your elbow, hissing when he angles his hips in a particular way and shifts inside you.
“Shut up and fuck me, Joel Miller.”
He covers your mouth before he obliges, driving you down hard against the mattress. Your breath leaves you as he thrusts in deep and holds his cock there, keeping you pinned, squirming like a caught butterfly.
You grab his wrist for grip on the next devastating withdrawal and equally punishing heave of his hips. Then he does it again, and again, his fingers pressed tight to your lips, thankfully smothering your more embarrassing sounds. His other hand works you over, two fingertips pinpointed to that spot along the hood of your clit, incessant.
Joel only wavers when you start to get tight, to go quiet and still like you’re about to pounce. Then you release all at once - a jerking, weeping mess as your orgasm rips through you. He groans as you contract around his cock and it doesn’t take long for him to lose his composure - he shoves two fingers in your mouth and slides in deep one final time before his cock starts to throb inside you, filling you with warmth.
“Fuck. I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to - “
You reach back and touch your fingers to his lips as his hand lowers gently from yours. “Joel,” you croak, grinning, still panting a little “It’s okay. I mean it.”
And you always do.