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.
Just imagine getting fucked hard by Abby while she fucking coos at you condescendingly and strokes the bulge her strap creates in your tummy.
You’re a fucking sobbing, slobbering mess and here she is caressing your tummy and letting you feel exactly where she’s pounding deep into.
Your eyes are so fucking blurry you can’t even see her clearly, your face burns with deep humiliation but then she speaks, “there’s my sweetest little girl, look at you taking mommy’s strap so well, there she is,” she rubs the bulge, her big hand engulfing it easily, “there it is, hmm? You want mommy to fill you up more?”
She manhandles you with ease, years of weight training finally paying off as she repositions you on your hands and knees.
Before you can crawl away, she wraps one muscular arm around your waist and slams her strap in your wrecked hole, bulging your tummy visibly.
You gag on your own spit, cough and cry harder.
“Abby—oh… oh, it’s deep.”
Your hand flies to grab at the bulge, her hand joins in on top.
blurb - 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.
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???
author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...
One shot requested by: anyomous
wc: 18.3 k
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.
“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.
You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”
“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”
“You’re not six.”
“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”
Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.
“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”
“I know, I know.”
He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.
“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.
Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.
You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”
“I do not forget.”
“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”
You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.
And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.
“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”
Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”
“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”
Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”
You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.
Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”
“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”
He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”
Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”
You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.
“Did it get fixed?”
Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.
“You bet it did.”
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.
Joel’s watch. Working.
You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.
You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”
Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.
“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”
She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”
You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”
Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”
You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”
For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.
Then you glanced up—and froze.
“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”
You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.
“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.
“Love you too!”
The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.
The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.
“Hey!”
You turned.
Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.
“What—?”
Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.
Steady. Familiar.
You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.
His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”
He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.
“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Y‘know I can’t.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.
“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”
He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.
You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.
“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”
You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.
Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”
“I always do.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”
You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.
Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.
The taillights disappeared down the street.
And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.
That was the last quiet night.
┈┈・┈┈
The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.
You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.
The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.
You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.
Good.
Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.
You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.
Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.
You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.
You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.
Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.
You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.
Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.
The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.
The silence stretches long and thin.
Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.
The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.
You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.
You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.
You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.
You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.
For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.
The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.
You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.
Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.
You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.
The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.
You sit for a while, just breathing.
Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.
Your wedding ring.
It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.
Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.
Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.
Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.
The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.
That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.
“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”
Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.
That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.
You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.
That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.
The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.
It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.
You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.
Another sound. Closer this time.
You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.
You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.
Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.
She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.
“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.
She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.
You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”
Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.
“Nod if you’re alone.”
Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.
“Walk.”
She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.
Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.
“Community,” you mutter.
The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.
You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”
“That right?”
“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”
She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.
You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.
They’re cold. Wild. Protective.
He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.
“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.
He doesn’t blink.
You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.
“Back off, I swear I’ll—”
“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.
Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.
“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.
“Goddammit!”
She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.
“Kill her already, Joel!”
Joel.
The name stops you cold.
Joel.
It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.
Joel.
“...What did you just say?” you whisper.
The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.
Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.
For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.
Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.
Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.
You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.
You look up.
The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.
“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.
He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”
No.
No, no, no.
The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—
It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.
Your Joel Miller.
Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.
Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”
The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.
“Darlin’...”
You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.
Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.
Joel takes another step.
“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”
You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.
The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”
You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.
“Christ…” you whisper.
You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.
Then, you fall.
Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.
You forgot this.
The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.
Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.
The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.
You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.
He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.
You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.
He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.
Then—his voice, raw, breaking:
“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”
You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.
Again?
The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?
The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.
Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.
He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.
┈┈・┈┈
The church wasn’t much.
A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.
It was perfect.
Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.
“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”
Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.
You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.
“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”
“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.
Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”
“You always this confident at the altar?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”
There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.
“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”
“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”
“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.
“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”
You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.
“Never,” you whispered.
He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.
The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.
Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.
When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
┈┈・┈┈
You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.
Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.
You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.
That’s when you hear it again.
You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.
“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”
That voice.
Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.
It’s all impossible. It has to be.
“Joel?”
His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.
You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.
“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”
You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.
His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.
But all that comes out is your name.
It roots you to the floor.
You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.
He says it again. Softer this time.
Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.
When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.
Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.
For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.
And then—
You take a step back. Another. Another.
Distance.
You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.
You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”
“Darlin’, it’s me—”
“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.
You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.
He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.
“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"
“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”
“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”
“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”
“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”
Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.
And then—
Bang.
The door slams open.
“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.
You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.
You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.
Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”
“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”
You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.
Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”
“Tommy—”
“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”
The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.
Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.
Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”
You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.
Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.
You don’t cry. You just listen.
Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.
“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”
Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”
“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”
“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”
A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.
Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”
“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.
When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”
The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.
“She flinched when you touched her.”
Joel says nothing.
“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”
Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.
Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”
A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.
“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”
The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.
Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.
You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.
┈┈・┈┈
To say you’re skittish is an understatement.
Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.
The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.
Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.
Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.
Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.
Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.
You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.
Almost.
But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.
They never complained. Not once.
Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.
He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”
You nod. You never know what to say back.
He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”
You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.
Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”
You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,
“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”
He means it. You can tell.
Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.
Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.
You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.
When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.
Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”
Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”
You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”
She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.
A son. You hadn’t known.
Your pulse stutters.
Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.
No. You can’t do that. Not yet.
Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”
She.
The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.
Then you see her.
Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.
It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.
Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”
Right. Ellie.
She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.
Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”
You nod once, your throat too tight for words.
She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”
“I remember.”
“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”
Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”
You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.
The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”
She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.
You raise an eyebrow.
“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”
Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”
“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”
You just stare at her.
She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
“I’ll live,” you say quietly.
She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.
“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”
You stiffen. That one hits bone.
“Okay, too soon.”
You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”
“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”
“He wasn’t always.”
“Yeah?”
“He liked to dance.”
That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”
“He did. Badly.”
She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”
You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.
“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”
The question hits you like cold water.
“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”
“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”
You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”
Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.
You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.
She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.
And then—
Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”
The name slices through you like wire.
Sarah.
You blink, too slow, too hard.
“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”
You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.
She’s staring at you.
And her whole face has gone still.
“Oh.”
Just that.
And you know.
Instantly.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.
“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”
Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.
You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”
You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.
Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.
You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.
Gone. Forever fourteen.
Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.
You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.
Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.
Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.
“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”
Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”
You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”
Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.
You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”
Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”
Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.
You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.
You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”
Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.
Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.
Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”
Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.
A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.
Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.
“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.
You shake your head, stepping back.
He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.
“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”
He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”
You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”
“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”
You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”
He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.
Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.
He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.
He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”
You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.
He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.
“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”
You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.
You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.
You reach out.
He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.
You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.
Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.
He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.
The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.
By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.
Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.
By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.
Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.
Tonight is like every one of those nights.
It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.
“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”
You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”
That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.
Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”
Joel freezes.
“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“I just know it.”
His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.
Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”
Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.
He doesn’t flinch away.
“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.
He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.
Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.
When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.
“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”
Joel’s head snaps up.
“What?”
You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”
He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.
“Don’t say that,” he rasps.
“Joel—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”
You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.
“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”
“You already lost me.”
“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”
Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.
You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.
He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.
He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.
But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.
He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.
“Don’t,” you whisper.
He blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t go.”
The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.
Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.
You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”
“I said don’t go.”
That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.
He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.
He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.
You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.
You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.
You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.
He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.
His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.
He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.
It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.
You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.
And this new ritual continues.
Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.
The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.
By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.
He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.
Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.
The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.
Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.
“Maybe next week,” you say
He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.
And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.
Sometimes you thank him.
Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.
Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.
You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.
But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.
You curse softly under your breath.
Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.
Went to help at the barn.
Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.
You can borrow whatever of mine you need.
—J.M.
You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.
Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.
Your bras.
Your panties.
God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.
The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:
Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.
You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.
You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.
When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.
Soft flannel. His.
You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.
You hesitate anyway.
“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”
You slip it on.
The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.
And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.
The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.
You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.
“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.
But what you mean is thank you.
It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.
He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.
Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.
No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.
But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.
C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.
You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.
Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.
You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.
You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.
Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.
One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.
You take me so good, baby. Always have.
You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.
Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.
You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.
The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.
You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?
You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.
The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.
The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.
Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.
Guilt, maybe.
You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:
You might be falling in love with your husband again.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
He was early.
You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.
When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”
You smiled. “You too.”
He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.
The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.
“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”
You looked up. “Uh?”
“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”
You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”
He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.
“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”
He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.
“You love her.”
He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”
You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”
That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”
“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”
His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”
After that, the tension broke.
You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.
And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.
“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”
You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.
“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”
“She sounds smart.”
“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”
You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.
Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”
It was nice. Simple.
By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.
“Joel—”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, at least let me—”
“Darlin’, don’t even try.”
You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”
He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”
You laughed. “Don’t be.”
He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.
When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.
At your front door, he stopped.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”
“Me too.”
He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”
You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.
“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”
“Terrible at this?”
“Adorable,” you corrected.
“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”
You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”
And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.
“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”
You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”
“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.
That made you laugh. “You sure?”
He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.
The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.
And that, was the start of it all.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.
Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.
You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”
Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”
Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”
Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”
Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.
He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.
Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.
You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”
“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”
You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.
Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.
Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.
“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.
She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.
“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.
You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.
The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”
Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.
“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”
Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”
You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.
Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.
“This one’s from us.”
“You didn’t—”
“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.
The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.
It’s a photo.
A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.
You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.
Your throat closes.
You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”
“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.
“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.
Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.
You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.
Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.
You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.
Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.
It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.
A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.
“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”
“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.
He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”
“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.
He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”
“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”
People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.
“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.
He bends, leans in. “I said—”
You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.
“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”
He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.
The he moves.
Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.
You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.
A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.
You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.
Joel’s there.
Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”
The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.
Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.
Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.
“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”
He doesn’t.
You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.
Then he sees you.
The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.
Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”
You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.
He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.
Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.
You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.
The fear comes slow.
Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.
He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.
Then you pull away.
“Stop,” you say.
He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”
You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”
His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”
“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”
He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You scare me, Joel.”
The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.
He blinks. “What?”
“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”
“You are mine.”
You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”
“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”
He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.
You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”
His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”
“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”
He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”
“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”
He stops cold.
The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.
“No.”
“Joel—”
“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”
You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”
“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”
You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”
“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”
“Joel…”
He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.
“Don’t—stop—”
But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.
The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
You go still.
Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.
“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”
You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.
“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”
You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Because your hands are already moving.
You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.
Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.
“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”
“I couldn’t let it go.”
He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.
The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.
The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.
You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.
“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”
“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.
“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”
“Okay.”
He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.
Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.
Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.
You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.
He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”
He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.
“Take it off,” you instruct softly.
He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.
Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.
“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”
He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.
You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.
You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.
Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.
You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.
There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.
You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.
Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.
“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”
“Darlin’.”
“Yes?”
He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”
You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.
Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.
The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.
In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.
Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.
Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.
“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”
His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”
Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.
Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.
Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.
He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.
Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.
“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”
You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.
Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.
“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”
His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.
He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.
“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”
Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”
You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.
Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.
You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.
“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.
He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”
The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.
“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.
You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.
The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.
Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”
His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.
You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.
The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.
“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”
He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.
You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.
Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.
“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .
You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.
“I’ve missed you.”
He groans like you stabbed him.
“...I love you.”
He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”
Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.
His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”
“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”
“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.
His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.
You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.
“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”
His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.
You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.
Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.
Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.
“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”
“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.
His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.
He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.
No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.
Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.
He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.
“What are you doing.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Are you going to make me guess?”
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.
“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”
He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.
Then he began to speak, low and raw.
“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”
“I know baby.”
“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”
Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.
“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”
“I know darlin’.”
His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.
“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.
He swallowed.
“My wife.”
You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”
You smiled wider than you have in years.
“My husband.”
The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.
You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.
And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
Warnings: smut, minors DNI, pussy eating (obviously) in multiple variations.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who remembers the first time he snuck off to watch a porn tape he’d stolen from his dad’s stash. A VHS with grainy picture, the scene opened on a man going down on a woman. Joel could only focus on the way her thighs trembled, her face twisted in pleasure, the way she grabbed the guy’s hair, like she couldn’t help it, and all Joel could think was: “I wanna do that to a girl.”
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who’d always gone down on every woman he’d ever been with, even if it was just a casual one-night stand. For him, eating pussy wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. He wanted his partner to feel good, to help her open up (and god knows he needed her open wide enough to take that massive cock of his). But he had never loved it as much as he did with you… you had awakened a hunger in him he never knew he had.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who knew he was good at eating pussy from the first time he ever did it, back when he was a teenanger in the backseat of his old man’s pickup at a movie drive-in, with his girlfriend at the time. His first time, her first time, but when he got his mouth on her, he just knew he was meant for it… built for it. He’d her screaming louder than the horror movie playing in the background, fisting his hair, cumming so hard she hit her head on the window glass, and he hadn’t even gotten his pants off yet. Joel never bragged about it, he just knew how to do it, it was all about that quiet confidence of his.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who loves the taste and scent of pussy, but the first time he tried yours, his mind exploded, he didn’t know it could be this sweet, this intoxicating. There have only been a few times he’s fucked you without eating you out first, because even during quickies in the shower, he still drops to his knees, licking you from behind (he absolutely loves it that way). He knows your body so deeply now that making you cum within minutes feels effortless.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who kneads and squeezes your breasts while his face is buried deep in your cunt, flicking his tongue over your puffy clit, or tonguing your entrance, fucking you with slow strokes. Sometimes his hands are at your thighs, holding your legs apart when you try to close them, feeling overstimulated after multiple orgasms. Other times, he grips your waist, yanking you closer so he can bury himself even deeper.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who gets filthy when eating you, like a starving man with something to prove. He spits on your pussy, and slurps your slick mixing with his saliva, dripping down to your butthole (another hole he loves licking just as much). He’ll spread your cheeks wide, open your pussy lips with his thumbs and spit on it again just to devour you some more. He grunts and moans like he’s the one being pleasured, sometimes humming into your clit just to make you squirm. He loves switching between licks and sucks, while pumping two thick fingers into your entrance. He’ll slap your pussy too, right against your clit, just to watch the way you jolt.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who loves it when you ride his face. You’d told him the first time you were afraid to cut off his air, but loves it so much he’ll actually grab your hips and pull you down harder. He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe, he enjoys seeing his girl getting all her pleasure from him, tonguing you while you bump your clit against his nose. That view… you on top of him, is fucking sacred.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who ruts against the bed while he eats you, grinding his hips into the soft mattress as his cock strains in his briefs, the front of them already stained with pre-cum. He can’t help it, every whimper you make, every twitch of your thighs around his head makes him move his hips almost autonomously, searching for some kind of friction, some kind of relief. But he doesn’t care how long he has to wait for his orgasm, you always come first (literally and metaphorically).
༺♡༻Joel Miller, whose beard get soaked, his chin dripping, his nose and cheeks slick with your arousal. You can see it glistening whenever he pulls back for air, catching his breath and murmuring filthy praises to you, “Swear to god, baby… never seen a pussy so pretty.” “Tastes so fuckin’ good, darlin’. This pussy was made f’me.” “Look’a her, look how wet she is. Creamin’, baby. This pussy’s fuckin’ creamin’.” “You gonna cum in my face? Hm? Gonna fuckin’ soak me?”
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who’s been told his whole damn life he’s good at eating cunt, feels something different when he’s eating YOU, the woman he loves. Making you cum on his tongue fills him with pride, he knows what he’s doing, he has always known, but hearing you moan and praise him still drives him mental. “Ohhh, Joooel, mmm, just like that.”“Yesyesyes, right there, love. Right fucking there.” “Shit! You’re so good, Joel. I swear, never felt like this.”
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who swears he could live in between your legs, says he has all he needs there, he’d feed from your pussy, slurp your wetness like it’s holy water, breathe the air between your legs to keep him alive. And he’s there for hours, fucking you with his tongue, sucking your clit between his lips, giving you orgasm after orgasm, until you can’t feel your throat from crying and screaming out his name. And still he doesn’t stop, you have to push at his head, shove at his shoulders, kick him away, and only then will he pull back. Only then, after he’s sure you’re utterly destroyed, he’d fuck you, sliding into you so fucking easily, because you’re dripping from everything he’s done to you. You suck him in like you were made for him, like your body knows it’s Joel inside you.
👆🏻That’s the way he looks at you when you’re about to climb on top of that face
Follow my updates account: @cinnxmxngxrlupdates
A/N: WRRAAH this got way longer than I planned but I physically cannot shut up when it comes to Joel Miller and his pussy eating skills. Hope you enjoyed this little something while I’m working on some longer fics!
warnings: smut, thigh grinding, pussy eating (r receiving), finger fucking, slight praise & degradation if you squint. lmk if i missed any (first fic kinda nervous) men & mdni
wc: 1,347. mlist.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
you were an angel in ellie’s eyes. she was downright smitten with you. the way you wore your hair in two messy pigtails. either dressed up in a frilly babydoll dress or short jean shorts. there was almost no in between. sometimes ellie would play a guessing game of what outfit she’d might see you wearing that day.
your father had hired ellie to help around the farm a little over a year ago. you were immediately taken when you first saw her. that light brown hair with an auburn tint in the sun that only fell to her shoulders. her strong arms and toned body. and those hazel eyes that you looked into almost everyday.
your father must’ve noticed your change in attitude when he hired ellie. you started going outside more often. insisting on “helping ellie cause she might get hurt” even if that was such a bullshit excuse. he called you out almost immediately too. the way you’d twirl your hair around her or play with the baby goats, trying to look all cute just in front of her.
today was no different. except for the fact your father was out running errands. you were wearing a white cotton spaghetti strap dress that fell to your mid thigh. paired with brown boots. today you hadn’t tied your hair into your usual pigtails. you left the strands down. flowing down your back as you walked out to the barn where ellie was. she was stacking up hay bells. carrying them like they weighed nothing. which just couldn’t be true since you had tried picking one up to impress her. didn’t go very well. ellie was wearing a flannel with jeans and boots. her short hair pulled back into a half up half down. you swore you could feel yourself getting wet already.
you sat on the hay bell she had just laid down. preventing her from stacking another. “elliee..” you whined out her name. kicking your feet back and forth. ellie just shook her head with a little smirk. she knew your games all too well. and the little crush was clear.
when she didn’t respond, you huffed. pouting slightly. “come inside..it’s hot out here.”
“ ‘m workin’” she muttered out. she just started stacking the hay bells in another spot. you let out a long whine. god you were such a brat. “please? just for a few minutes?” you begged. looking at her with wide pleading eyes. how could ellie say no to that?
𖤓
once she had followed you inside you immediately shut the screen door behind her. she went to sit at the dining table. wiping the sweat off her brow. you poured her a glass of lemonade that you had made that morning. setting it by her on the table. then you walked up behind her and gently started massaging her strong shoulders. you felt her shiver at the touch. clearly not expecting it.
“does it feel good?” your voice was almost sickly sweet. ellie caught on to what you were trying to do but she had no energy to stop you. to remind you that she worked for your father. that this couldn’t happen. yet she also didn’t really care. she just relaxed into your touch and nodded with a little hum.
then you did something stupid. something brave and impulsive but stupid. you walked around and straddled one of her thighs. pouting at her like always. “pay attention to me.” you whined out. ellie had been paying attention to you but you wanted more than that.
she let out a rough exhale through her nose and her hands settled on your waist. she could feel the heat of your core through her jeans. you didn’t even have shorts on under that dress. just thin cotton panties. you let out a soft whine and slowly started grinding against her thigh. she sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. you were so whiny and needy today. sure ellie had noticed the crush before but you’d never attempted anything like this.
after a moment of letting you grind she opened her eyes and started guiding your hips in a firmer way. helping you get the friction you needed. one of her hands went to your back to run her fingers down your spine.
for a moment you couldn’t believe she was helping you. that she didn’t push you off or tell you this was crazy. she was actually helping you. your panties started to form a wet spot. the white cotton turning a bit see through. you let out a needy moan and laid your head against her shoulder. “want you..please.”
at your sweet words, she stood up with you in her arms. making her way up the stairs of the farm house. she opened the door to your room and laid you down on the full sized bed in the center. kicking the door shut with her heel.
she kneeled between your legs. nudging your knees open with her hands. you let out a soft whine and sat up on your elbows to look down at her. “you just wanted my attention, huh?” her voice came out rough and teasing.
you nodded and she pulled your panties down your thighs. putting the white cotton in the back pocket of her jeans. her eyes never left your pussy. now seeing it bare and glistening with need.
she wasted no time. immediately burying her face between your legs. her tongue lapped at your folds before finding your clit and sucking gently. your moans filled the tiny decorated room. you couldn’t believe this was happening at all. ellie had never gave you this attention before. clearly your countless flirting finally paid off.
ellie was hungry. she loved eating pussy and this sweet girl had spent everyday for the last year and a half just begging for her attention. she was completely immersed in your taste. her arm thrown over your lower abdomen to keep you from squirming so much. “tastes so good baby..” she murmured against your pussy. the vibrations of her voice sending shockwaves through you.
your back was arching off of the bed. hands gripping your soft sheets below you. you already felt so very close. ellie’s fingers circled your entrance before slowly pushing two in. she felt you clench around her fingers and she rubbed her hand over your stomach to calm you. “’s alright sweetheart. relax.”
a sweet whimper escaped your throat as you tried to relax. but ellie’s fingers and her tongue felt so heavenly. she curled her fingers inside of you. a long whiny moan erupting from you. a hand went do to grip ellie’s hair softly. needing something other than bedsheets to hold on to.
she felt your pussy tighten and your hips arching. she knew you were close so she pumped her fingers gently. her tongue playing with your sensitive clit. her hazel eyes met yours briefly and that’s when you completely came undone. moans and whimpers slipped past your lips. she pulled her fingers out of you and lapped up all of your juices. kissing the insides of your thighs and up your body through that white cotton dress. finally finding your lips. just a soft peck though. not letting you have too much fun.
you let out a annoyed whine and tried to pull her back but she just tutted at you. “you’re such a whiny brat. can’t even be grateful with what i give you.”
usually you’d argue back. defend yourself and tell her that you weren’t a brat. but you were too spent to say anything. all you could do was whine and whimper. she kissed your cheek and stood up straight. adjusting her hair before looking down at you. “gotta get back to work before your daddy comes home.” and with that she left your room. leaving you a complete mess with no aftercare or anything. but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. after all that flirting and purposely trying to get her attention she finally gave you some.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Summary — Fetching a zip of weed on your sorority president’s orders was only meant to be one time errand. You weren’t expecting to fall in love with your dealer, or to find out some new stuff about yourself along the way.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Warnings — College/University Alternate Universe, Marijuana & alcohol consumption, sorority!reader, Dealer!Ellie, horny reader, Reader’s kind of a bitch (Sorry not sorry), slight coming of age themes, death of a Best Friend, Briefly touched-upon grief, use of nicknames (Baby, Ellie calls you Peach), partying, Douchey Frat Boy behavior, Reader has an intox. kink, smut, dubcon elements (lots of em), masturbation, some dry humping, slight Dacryphilia, fingering, Ellie’s a little mean
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ Word count — 15k
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ A note from Me — I wanted this so badly to come out during Pride Month but alas here we are. Just consider this a June 44th release ;)
The static hum of your vibrator fills the otherwise silent hours of dawn behind the walls of the Phi Mu sorority house. You’re trapped in a seemingly endless loop of aimless masturbation that has yet to lead to an orgasm in all the forty five minutes the instrument has buzzed against your clit. Fretfully awaiting that gentle tug beneath your naval that always alerted you your climax was near.
You sneak a glance at your bedside clock. 5:45. In about fifteen minutes, the sun will pour through your curtains and successfully ruin any chance you have at getting your rocks off. With a trembling hand, you pull your curtains tighter together and yank your comforter over your head. You turn the vibrator off and rest it over your mound while you work to conjure the mental scenario that will bring you over the edge.
Like fellating the gardener who visits your house every two weeks to trim the shrubs and make sly peeks at the plentiful helpings of attractive young women walking through the lawn every ten minutes or so. He has hay colored hair and a pompous demeanor that more than makes up for the fact that you don’t even know his name.
You let the picture fill your mind, restlessly awaiting the lurch in your belly that notifies you you’re sufficiently turned on. But it never comes, so you knock the thought out of your head with a harsh shake.
Then, you imagine sucking the nipples of the TA from your previous semester’s philosophy course. She was a redhead with the cutest dimples you’d ever seen, and, if memory serves you right, the only interesting thing about that class. You are nearly certain this will be the thing to get you off (it surely did countless times last semester), but your body feels just as it did minutes before: frustrated, antsy, and so very sore.
If you were to put a mirror in front of your vagina and inspect it from above, you’d likely find it to look as though it had been flattened repeatedly under the wheel of an F-150. You rub a cautious finger over your clit only to find that the bud is almost numb and begging for you to give her a fucking break.
So, you do. You throw your vibrator toward the foot of the bed and yank your pants back over your hips in defeat, ignoring the sensation of your juices smearing over your inner thighs and leaking down the crack of your ass.
For a moment, you consider slamming your head against your headboard or letting your body roll off of your bed and onto the floor. Just to feel something, or maybe just because.
You’re asleep for maybe twenty five minutes before a quintet of knocks at your door wakes you. When you swing your legs over the edge of your bed, you have to kick your feet around for a second in search of your slippers.
The early morning sun is trying its damndest to peer through the thickness of your curtains. Though, just enough light shines through for you to take a glance at yourself in your floor length mirror and see the glaring wet spot staining the crotch of your pants. You grab a silk Victoria’s Secret robe and cover yourself in it just before opening the door.
It’s Kingston, the girl who lives just down the hall and has a penchant for making her early risings your problem. “I’m totally late for the gym, and I can’t find my deodorant. Do you have a spray on I can use? Pretty, pretty please?”
The words shoot out of her mouth so fast you hardly have time to process her request. You’re only nodding to make the noise stop.
You allow her in to get what she needs, and the vanilla scent tinging her skin spreads through your room like fungal spores. Her brown eyes are wholly alert, almost as if they’ve been surgically peeled back. It never fails to amaze you how awake someone can be before 6:30 in the morning.
She deodorizes her armpits before you can even make niceties and skips out of your room with a chirpy, “Thanks, see you at brunch later!” without shutting the door behind her.
A recently bought dress stares at you from the purchase of your closet door. You had completely forgotten your sorority’s brunch.
***
Your plate is covered in a hearty helping of french toast and apple slices, a dollop of yogurt, and one omelette. You’re surrounded by about seventy of your sisters, all dressed in white, all talking in place of eating.
An occasional cloud dots the sky, but other than that, the sun has a crystal clear view of Phi Mu’s All White Brunch. About thirtysomething small circular, white tables fill the sunny space of your backyard.
Your yogurt disappears after about two spoonfuls down your throat, and your apple slices don’t stand a chance for much longer. You skewer some elaborately on your fork before practically inhaling them.
Sitting to your left is a girl named Parker, whose entire vocabulary seems to be ripped straight from a social media comment section. “Ugh, I’m scared to even touch any of this,” She says at a volume that makes it unclear if she’s talking to herself or your entire table. “My back is gonna be soooo big later.”
You look down at her modest helping of potato wedges and egg salad. “I think you should just eat your food.” The small smile you lend her afterward is only to signal that you meant it in the kindest way.
To your right is Leila Hanamichi, your sorority’s president—a picture of grace as she demurely sips her grapefruit juice through a paper straw. She is having a rather animated conversation with the girl to her right, about plans for an upcoming party. Something about exchanging numbers and ‘making sure things go smoothly’. Whatever that means, you don't spend much time pondering it as you dig into your omelette.
Then, Leila turns to you.
Still stabbing into your food, you don’t notice her until she chirps, “Hi!” Your name rolls off her tongue, albeit unsurely. It doesn’t offend you. “Oooh, french toast! Delicious. I’ll have to grab some in a bit.” It’s clear she’s attempting to make friendly conversation, so you indulge.
“Oh, yeah, it is really good.” You say, despite not having had a single bite yet.
Her voice lowers to a soft whisper. “Do you think we could talk later? Before we all take pictures?” Almost as if she can hear the quickening of your heart, she follows up with, “Don’t worry, it isn’t anything bad. I just need a small favor from you.”
“Right,” you say, slowly processing her words. “okay.”
She gives you a brief squeeze on your hand. “Perfect.”
After brunch, just before you were all due to have your group photo taken, Leila led you into the empty living room of your sorority house.
“Now,” she says as she guides you into a pacing rhythm across the living room floor. “You know that Theta party that’s coming up?”
You nod with a soft hum.
“Well, it’s been a real hassle for the boys to plan, and they asked for my help. So, I’m—”
Offloading chores onto us to make their load lighter?
That’s not what she says, but it may as well be. At this point, you’d rather her be honest with her motives than sugarcoat it under the guise of purely being helpful.
“I need you to get weed for the party.”
Your poker face doesn’t kick in in enough time for Leila to miss the incredulity on your face. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll Venmo you whatever I need to. And Tucker knows a guy who sells already, so it’ll be easy peasy!”
“If he already knows someone, then why can’t he just buy it himself?”
“Midterms, y’know? He’s been really slumped, and he had to pay for Steve Aoki all by himself, so I just offered and…”
You tune her out without even trying, annoyed that you and your sisters were having to play housemaid to those guys. For a moment, you wonder which one of the Theta boys Leila must be fucking.
***
Do you sell?
???
who’s asking
Me?
do i know you?
Tucker gave me your number.
He told me you did.
ahh, ok
yeah i do
whatu need?
A zip, I think.
I’ve got cash.
cool cool
i can meet u wednesday @ 5
corner of mckinley
behind the old pizza hut
That’s pretty out of the way for me.
Do you know anywhere closer?
u want the shit or not?
Fine. Wednesday at five.
That night, you clean your room as obsessively as ever. Just so you can have control over something.
You pluck every bit of dirty laundry off the floor and separate it into hampers, Windex both mirrors—floor length and vanity—, and clear the empty bottles of water from your nightstand. You clear the rugs and vacuum until the carpet is layered in sleep lines, clean your vibrator under warm water and antibacterial soap in the bathroom, and move any shoes you might’ve kicked off in the path to your bed.
Finally, you take a lysol wipe and polish the framed photo of you and your best friend until the fine covering of dust is gone. For a moment, you lose yourself and you can hear her laugh in your ear as if she’s right next to you. You still have that? she’d say, We look so young.
“I know,” you respond.
It’s the two of you at your high school graduation. Hands around each other’s waists, matching gowns and diplomas. Your smiles light up the photo, her’s especially.
Her eyes carry the familiar, optimistic gleam of a high school graduate—eager to take the plunge into collegiate adulthood. Only, she doesn’t know she will be dead within a month and a half. Funny how that works. How can someone be here one moment and gone the next?
You finish wiping the photo without even giving it a final look, choosing to instead drown your sorrows in a vigorous workout tape and another round of failed masturbation.
***
The parking lot by McKinley is dimly lit by a couple of blinking lamp posts. Brilliant streaks of orange and pink smear the sky in what looks like a drunken watercolor image. Ellie arrives at 5:13 to find a car is already parked there.
Her primary customers are usually frat guys, nerds who use weed to relax, or nerds who swear weed gives them super-genius brain power. She came across the occasional dad that wanted to relive his teen years and was always stunned by her prices, always commenting, ‘this better be some good skunk for what I’m paying’.
So, she’s uncharacteristically intrigued by the figure stepping out of the white BMW before she can even fully park.
The two of you exit your respective cars at the same time. Ellie, wanting this to be quick, doesn’t even bother shutting off her engine.
She’s pretty
The thought eclipses Ellie’s better judgement, but she is wholly unable to help herself. It’s true. It’s all there in the deep furrow in your brows, the slight crinkle in the bridge of your nose. The anger visible in your eyes should give way to unease, but it only incites embers of newborn curiosity within Ellie. She wants to know how she can soften them.
The headlights of her car illuminate the delicate sheen of sweat on your collarbone and forehead. You look as though you have just worked out. A likely possibility, considering the athletic tank top, jacket, and leggings you’re wearing—all of which accentuate curves Ellie feels a guilty letting her gaze linger on.
Her eyes are just beginning to draw over the bow of your lips when they part to say:
“Do they not teach punctuality at drug dealer school?”
The words are so bluntly absurd that Ellie finds trouble being offended. “What?”
You heave a world weary sigh before rolling your eyes. “You’re, like, fifteen minutes late. I thought I was walking into a sting operation or something.”
She’s surprised at how forthcoming you’re being. Most patrons don't care that she turns up late. Usually, they’re nothing but elated that she showed up at all and are itching to get whatever she has off her hands.
However bizarre your statement may be, Ellie lets it roll off her back with a mirthless laugh. “You’re real prissy for someone buying a whole zip.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for—oh, who cares.” You cut yourself off with another eye roll. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”
You step closer to Ellie, fully bathing yourself in the warmth of her headlight. You’re even prettier when she can see you crystal clear.
She extends the package out to you and you take it, reaching into your pocket with your other to retrieve a modest wad of cash. When the exchange is made, your fingertips brush over the heel of her palm. It’s a familiar skin to skin that usually carries no weight, but now makes the hairs on her nape stand at attention.
Against her better judgement, she calls out, “I’m Ellie, by the way.” as you make your way back to your car.
You shoot her a, “Yeah, nice meeting you.” before you disappear behind the deep tint of your windows.
***
Theta parties suck ass—a fact you’re only just fully realizing as a clammy brother shoulders you in the back for probably the third time. You’re still somewhat tipsy from the shots you threw back at the pregame, but not enough to ignore the blatant discomfort of the atmosphere.
Frankly, you’re not even sure why you convinced yourself to come. Something about being a supportive sister and needing to get out of the place where orgasms went to die (your room).
Sufficiently annoyed, you venture from the backyard and into the house where the haze of marijuana smoke and perspiration has transformed the air into a murky abyss. It’s asphyxiating and pungent and it reminds you of Ellie.
It was unlike you to kick yourself for any reason, but you had been for two days over your interaction with her. She seemed nice for the most part, despite how viciously upset you were at her.
Truthfully, her presence intimidated you in an odd way. She was stupidly attractive, so much so that it almost made you angrier at her the moment she stepped out of her car.
A smattering of freckles covered her face. From the crown of her head to the column of her neck, right where the collar of her pitch black hoodie censored any further showings of skin. Her hair was tinged the sweetest flavor of auburn you had ever seen and framed her face perfectly.
And her eyes. You had never felt your body betray you on such a visceral level until you looked into her eyes. They were a bewitching shade of green that sent your heart lurching into your throat.
You could go on and on. Her lips that settled somewhere comfortably between a smirk and a pout. The half a second of contact you made with her hand—a barely there graze you were still reeling from a whole forty eight hours later.
Guilt swells in your chest.
You quickly weave your way through the sea of inebriated bodies until you were behind the door of nearest bathroom.
It’s not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but you’re not there to pee. You retrieve a shooter from your purse and down the thing in a few paced chugs. The guilt is promptly replaced with a delicious burn that your body is more than elated to host.
When you come out, the party’s a lot more bearable. Without even thinking, your hips sway to the rhythm of whatever song is playing, even if normally you’d find it a little repulsive. For a moment, you feel in with everyone else. Not like you’re tiptoeing along the outskirts, awaiting permission that will never be given to you.
That is, until an arm snakes along your shoulders. So confident and sure, as though it’s meant to be there. The touch is accompanied by the scent of cologne so sharp you can taste it.
You choke back a cough as you look up at the person. “This your first time at Theta?” he asks. He’s blond and confident enough in his approach that you can tell he’s been successful in it before.
“Excuse you?” You say, shrugging out from underneath him.
He’s offended as though he’s the one that’s just been unconsensually solicited by a strange drunk man. “Don’t be rude, baby.” He slurs, taking a closer step toward you. “I just wanted to show you around, that’s all.”
You push through the congregation of people until you’re outside. It shocks you how fast you moved in the span of only a second. But it isn't enough to just be outside with more people and music and possibilities of discomfort.
Your feet carry you what feels like miles down the street until you are completely alone on the sidewalk. You find a car parked against the curb park yourself atop the hood.
Occasionally, a gaggle of drunk girls will skip past you, moving from one party to the next. One of them will say, “You’re so pretty!” or “Ohhh, I just love your hair,” or “That’s such a cute dress. Where’s it from?”
While it does lift your spirits just a tad, you cannot help the feeling nagging at you within. The feeling that you don’t belong here, or anywhere at all. If you could shake that feeling at all, maybe you would have joined those girls at the next party.
You look down at your dress and fix its hem just a tad. It’s a white, strapless number that flows freely around the tops of your thighs. It’s a shame you had to waste it on a night like this.
A soft ahem cuts through the silence, and you snap your neck toward the noise. Behind you is Ellie, walking slowly toward the car you’re sitting on as if she’s approaching a wild tiger.
“Ellie?” It’s the first time her name has ever left your lips, and it feels wonderfully foreign rolling off the tongue. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I was at the Theta party and—”
“You were at the Theta party?” You’re unable to stop yourself from interrupting her, try as you might. “Sorry, continue.”
Ellie chuckles. “Friend invited me.” She explains. “Anyway, I saw you running out and thought I’d check on you.”
“Oh,” Your lips quirk up in what’s sort of a smile. “Well, thank you, but I’m fine. Really, I am.”
At that, Ellie raises her hands in surrender before walking closer to you with a more relaxed gait than before. She sits next to you on the hood of the car at a more than respectable distance. You highlight that part because you count the inches you are apart (five) and feel the urge to scoot closer to her.
“I never got your name,” She says. You can smell her from here. A twisted mix of mahogany and vanilla. It’s deep and sweet at the same time. You look toward her, slow and cautious, trying not to drink too much of her in at once.
She’s wearing a shortsleeved black band T-shirt that showcases the subtle definitions in her freckled arms. As well as the vague, inky patterns of a tattoo that travels from her elbow to her wrist.
“Figured you could at least tell me that. Since we’re exchanging pleasantries on top of my car and stuff.”
Your sadness is quickly eclipsed by embarassment when you look down to ee that you are, in fact, siting atop the hood of Ellie’s black Chevy sedan.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” You move to get up, but her hand reaches out to stop you.
Still, though, she isn’t touching you. Her fingertips only graze the fabric of your dress. “No need,”
“Why? Are you enjoying your time with me or something?”
“Oh, yeah,” She smiles, “Lot more fun than my time at drug dealer school.”
Your forehead falls into your palm. You’re not entirely shocked she would bring that up now, but that doesn't take away the embarrassment of having said it. “I’m—” You cut yourself off, feeling as though a plain sorry is insufficient.
“It’s okay.” Her voice drops to a lower register, like she’s trying to whisper it into the shared space between you. Even though the street is virtually deserted now. “Next time we meet, I’ll be perfectly on time.”
Hope tinges your voice. “Really?” You ask, even though Leila and Tucker will have to pay your remaining tuition balance before you buy drugs for them ever again.
You whisper your name and hope Ellie catches it before it disappears into the inky black night. She does. And she repeats it, trying it out on her tongue a couple of times. The sound sends waves of warmth rolling down your body.
Ellie moves her hand away from your dress and you feel cold without it there. She runs her palms over the denim of her jeans, and you begin to think she’s ridding herself of you bit by bit. That is, until she heaves a breath and asks, “Wanna go for a drive?”
***
Ellie’s car is a separate embodiment of her. When you slide into the passenger seat, you’re bombarded with the scent of her, multiplied by about fifty. She cranks the engine to life, and an Oasis song stirs from the radio. It’s one you recognize from an episode of The OC you watched ages ago.
You jam your seatbelt into place, pull down the passenger side visor to take a quick look at yourself. Your makeup doesn’t look horrible. A little smudged around the eyes, but it adds to the spontaneity you feel. You catch Ellie’s gaze through your peripheral vision. “Sorry,” You say, folding the visor back up. “Am I touching too many things?”
“No,” Ellie says, her tone light. She puts her seatbelt on and pulls the belt so it’s pressed under back instead of against her chest. “Touch whatever you want.”
You open her glove department and peek in before turning an overhead light on and off. Then, after a second of shallow deliberation, you poke your index finger gently into Ellie’s bicep. It’s a feeble attempt at humor that makes you immediately bury your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” You say, even though Ellie’s giggling silently under her breath. “I was, like, trying to be funny, and I’m not very good at it. That’s my fault.”
Ellie heaves one more boisterous laugh as the car drives down the road. “I’m a little drunk, too,” You say, the speed of the car making your body feel light as a feather. “Sorry.”
“Stop that.” She replies.
“Stop what?”
“Apologizing for shit,” She’s a vision as she maneuvers a smooth turn with just one hand, the other finding purchase on the back of your headrest. The contact moves her just barely an inch closer to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an unbecoming sound.
“It’s okay.” Ellie’s voice breaks through your reverie. “There’s a joke book in the console. If you ever wanna be as funny as me one day.”
“Really? You haven’t made me laugh yet.” Hesitantly, you pull the little book from her center console and flip to a random page. “Why do mushrooms get invited to all the parties?”
“Hm,” Ellie hums as she comes to a stop light. The blare of red does something to her beautifully concentrated face that is almost trance-like. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Because they’re such fungis.”
“Oh-ho!” She chortles, a full belly laugh, as if the joke was that funny. “I hadn’t heard that one before.”
“Looks like I’m the one that’s making you laugh.”
“Hey, don’t rush greatness.”
Silence purges the air for a moment, giving way to the guilt that still lingers in your chest. You glance at her focused face, your gaze drawing over the furrow in between her brows. It feels wrong to be enjoying her so much after how cruel you were.
Your voice is a squeak over the music. “I know you told me to stop apologizing for shit,”
“Then, why does it feel like you’re about to?” Ellie says, the sentence scored with a throaty chuckle.
Despite yourself, you smile. Somehow, she manages to make the hardest thing in the world (apologizing) just a little easier.
“Because, I really am sorry about the other day. I…” have been going through a hard time for the past two years. “…was having a bad day, and I took it out on you. I’m…” You want to finish with, not usually like that, but you are unsure if that’s completely true. Instead, you just say, “…sorry.”
“Can I be honest with you?” She inquires earnestly, whilst also seeming wholly unmoved by your apology.
Whatever she is about to say, you’re not sure you’re ready to hear it. Still you hum, “Mhm.”
“I think you take yourself way too seriously.” She says it lowly and a little fearfully, as if she’s trying to convey bad news in a soft way. “It’s okay to chill every now and then.”
“I am chill sometimes!” You erupt without meaning to, moving from the comfort of your seat and fully turning to face her. “I am,” you repeat in a softer register, only after proving her point.
“No, you’re not. I mean, even in your texts, you sound like a fed.” The statement is so jarringly and absurdly sincere that you can’t even bring yourself to be offended. Instead, you laugh so hard for so long that stitches cut up your sides. Ellie continues, “Who texts someone, do you sell? Like, okay. Good morning to you too, officer.”
She’s so right, you think. You are incredibly hard on yourself. You do think about yourself much more than any twenty year old girl ought to. It’s been an issue for so long that you’ve began to see it as a fact of life.
“It’s not intentional.” You say. Leftover giggles thread through your words. “I’m a very no-nonsense sort of person.”
“Life is all about balance. I think you can fit a little nonsense in.”
“Alright, o wise one.” God, this girl was all sorts of bad for you. You’re joking with the sole purpose of making her laugh and saying things like o wise one completely unironically. “Where do you suggest I start?”
There’s a mild timidness to her voice when she asks, “You ever smoke weed?” as if she’s heavily anticipating your response. Maybe, to her, you don’t look like the type to smoke. Hell, twenty four hours ago, you probably would have thought the same of yourself, too.
Your answer, though, is short and long. Yes and no. You had definitely hit a joint in an effort to impress some stoner boys in the ninth grade. And from what you could recall two years prior, you quite enjoyed the lack of inhibition that accompanied a fifty milligram edible.
“Not really,” you end up saying to Ellie. “Why?”
“‘Cause, you’re going to tonight. And you’re gonna like it.”
There’s something about the finality in her voice that makes you explode on the inside. Her telling you what you will do and what you will like without any room for dissent invokes a swell of warmth through your body. It spikes behind your ears, in your chest, right in between your thighs where you’re beginning to need her the most.
Still, you tease, “What makes you so sure?”
“I’m the o wise one, remember?” She parakeets your words from earlier, and you swat playfully in her direction. “Just trust me. Can you do that?”
Mhm, you ache to say, I can do whatever you want me to do.
You just say yes instead.
“Atta girl.”
***
Ellie drives to the old parking lot on McKinley, where the two of you met just days ago. You conclude to yourself that this spot holds some comfortability for her; whether it be for its vacant nature of vast amount of space.
It’s different from Wednesday, though. The place is blanketed in darkness, only dimly brightened by faraway amalgamations of stars and those same twinkling lamp posts.
Ellie rolls a blunt with all the finesse and care of someone performing surgery. After sprinkling and dispersing the weed over crisp rolling paper, she appraises it for a while. You stare at it too, though you’re not sure what it is you’re supposed to be looking for.
Then, Ellie darts her tongue out to wet along the hem of the paper.
It’s a methodical motion that feels like it lasts forever. You definitely want it to. You don’t even hide the way your eyes drink in the pink muscle. So full, so wet, you want to suck it into your mouth and caress it with your own, over and over again.
“Based on our first interaction, I wouldn’t have expected you to be much of a partying type.” She hypothesizes, pulling a lighter out of her jean’s front pocket and sparking the blunt to life. Graceful tendrils of smoke fill the air like tiny dancers.
“It’s on and off,” You say, watching the gentle purse of Ellie’s lips as hits it once. “Theta parties, not really. Phi Psi is usually fun, though.”
“Yeah?” She asks even though you’re positive half of what you’re saying sounds like gibberish by now.
“Yeah. They play good music, and they serve real alcohol. If I have to try and get drunk off another beer I might kill myself.”
Ellie hums a soft, throaty chuckle, and you feel as though you have hit the lottery. But, like any gambler, it isn’t good enough to win once. You want to do it again and again and again until you touch that ever elusive state of euphoria.
Dopamine rushes through your brain so turbulently that you don’t even feel nervous when she passes the blunt to you. You put it to your lips and suck for only a second. Just long enough to keep you from falling into a coughing fit.
When you breathe it in, it spreads throughout your body real slow and warm. Like you’re sinking into a bubble bath. You blow it out, and surprisingly only cough once.
“Anyway, yeah, they’re usually a good time.” You repeat the process, subconsciously uncrossing your legs. “You should come to their next one. It’s for St. Patrick’s Day.”
Stray light from a lamp post catches a portion of Ellie’s face perfectly. One of her eyes, the smooth valley of her cheekbone, that flash of auburn at her hairline.
“See, thing is, I’m not really much of the partying type.”
The sting of rejection feels unnatural to you. “It’ll be fun, though. The theme is Nothing but Green. You could, like, sell some of your weed there. I don’t know, is that allowed?”
You go to hit the blunt a third time, but are interrupted when Ellie deals a prompt pinch to your arm. It commands your attention without being altogether painful. You let yourself imagine how it would feel for her to pinch your nipples. Would she start off more gentle than that? Would she do it harder if you asked her to?
“Don’t do that shit,” She says, summoning the blunt from your hand.
“What?”
“Puff puff, pass.” She faux demonstrates. “All the time, every time. Golden rule.”
“Got it,” You nod. “Puff puff, pass.”
You are not sure if this teaching moment embarrasses you or turns you on. Perhaps it does both at once. Maybe, the fact that you’re embarrassed turns you on. Or the fact that you’re turned on embarrasses you.
“When will it start to kick in?” You mumble, entranced by the sight of smoke leaving Ellie’s lips and dispersing into the air.
“You said you don’t really smoke, right?” You nod. “Then, probably around now.”
Ellie hits the blunt again, a longer one this time. She lets the smoke come out of her mouth and nose in some entrancing trick of magic.
“Mmm,” She hums, brows furrowing in inquisition. “Your lip gloss is all over it.”
You’re so turned on you don’t even notice how you nearly grit your teeth to the point of stubs. “I’m sorry,” You whisper. It’s all you can say.
“Don’t be.” She reassures you, her voice taking on a more authoritative tone. It’s clear she’s the teacher to your pupil. “‘S just got a little bit of your taste on it now, that’s all.”
“What do I taste like?”
The words leave your mouth before you can even assess them properly. Strangely enough, you do not care to. It’s freeing to not have to think about anything.
Ellie licks her lips—slow and pensive, the way someone would if they were in deep thought. But she isn’t. She’s just trying to get an accurate appraisal of your flavor before it dissolves in her mouth.
She tasting me, you think. I’m all over her tongue right now.
“Peaches.” She decides after a moment. “Like the kind they make in Georgia, y’know. Fresh. Sweet.” Ellie softly smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth a couple times. A slow, deep gulp from her follows. “Pure.”
You feel anything but. There’s nothing pure about the way you feel right now, or the things you want Ellie to do to you.
Your mind is mangled by desire, but the usual bashfulness around it completely disappears under the weed’s influence. If she asked you right now (What do you wanna do?) you would answer with full sincerity (I want to sit on your lap, and grind against your thigh until I cum. Then, I want to do it again and again and again and again and…)
Arousal begins to drip out of you at a sedated pace, rendering your panties a sticky mess.
“That’s really sweet of you, Ellie.” You smile. “You’re really sweet.”
“Yeah,” You know you aren't hesitating when you feel her gaze ride over you in a slow, long once over. Individual hairs on your body point up under her stare. It smooths up your calves but pays extra care to the buttery softness of your thighs.
When your four eyes meet, Ellie knows that you know she was just ogling you. But she doesn't care. She doesn’t even afford you the politeness of looking away, flustered at having been caught. She isn’t embarrassed of wanting you. You just wish she would take you already. Instead, she just says, “You’re not too bad yourself.”
When the blunt has been smoked down to basically nothing (a roach, Ellie calls it) your limbs feel like big hackysack bags, and your heart is beating maybe twenty times per minute.
You use an inordinate amount of strength turning your body towards Ellie. She’s began fiddling with the aux on her radio, flipping back and forth through songs in search of what she deems perfect.
Despite being a little out of your sound mind, you cannot fight the desire you have for her to fuck you anyway. You hope that by the time you get out of her car, the evidence of your want has soaked through your panties and into the suede passenger seat, leaving a little piece of you behind for her.
Ellie calls your name just as she’s picked what she deems the perfect song—Mac Miller’s Skin. She relaxes in her seat, narrowing her eyes on you and whispering, “You feelin’ alright?”
“Mmmhhmm,” You hum, soft and content. “Does it always feel this good?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” The low rumble of her voice softens your chest like hot tea. “Helps when you have someone to shoot the shit with.”
“Am I a good… shit shooter?” You ask, though not a hundred percent certain you’re even saying the right words.
“Not bad for your first time.”
Ellie drops you off in front of the Phi Mu house not too long after. You slink out of her car just as the clock strikes 2:53 in the morning. “Thank you, Ellie,” You say through open passenger side window. “I had fun.”
“So did I.” She says. Then, after a moment of tensed staring, “Will you text me whenever you get settled in? I don't want you bumping your head or anything.”
“Okay,” You grin. “Drive safe.”
You turn away and begin walking to the door, only looking back once you’re a few paces away from her car. Ellie watches you the whole way up.
***
You slump against your bedroom door, pushing it closed with a loud thud. The space is so dark you can’t even see your own palm in front of your face. You don’t care. You kick your boots and socks off before shoving your panties down to your ankles.
Your spine goes soft at the first brush of your fingertips against your pussy lips. You spread yourself open, exposing your clit to the stiff chill of your bedroom. A soft hiss escapes your lips as you take a finger and dip it into the cleft of your hole, collecting a gush of your slick, before lathering it over your cunt. Wetting the softness of your clit and labia minora.
“Ellie,” You whine as those first few embers of goose flesh prickle over your skin. If you focus just enough, you can still smell the deep scent of her lingering against your skin. If you close your eyes, you can imagine she’s right in front of you, egging you along.
You couldn’t even make it to the fucking bed, she’d murmur into your lips, her breath fanning over tongue. The thought of her seeing you so vulnerable makes you rub your clit in a steadier rhythm.
“No,” you mewl, “I couldn’t.” Already, you feel that pull behind your navel that tells you you’re gonna cum soon. You’ve never gotten so close so fast before and the shock of it has you whining.
Is this what you were thinking about the whole time? You nod so hard that you bump your head against the door. ‘Cause I could’ve given it to you. All you had to do was ask.
That sends you over the edge. You come apart with a sharp gasp that tears through your throat. Your teeth lock together in an attempt to stop any further sounds from escaping, but you can’t help the desperate sob that comes with the relief of your orgasm.
Don’t stop, you hear Ellie’s voice say again, and your hunger is back as though it never left. Your middle and ring fingers return to your clit like reunited lovers.
“Please,” You breathe out. You’re scared of the fire erupting inside you. You’re scared that you won’t be able to stop now that it’s started.
Answer me, Ellie says, is this what you wanted?
“Yes,” you confess in a short grunt. You didn’t care that you were too high to hold your head up straight. You didn’t care that you wouldn’t be able to fight her off even if you wanted to. You just needed her so bad it made everything else seem foolish. “I wanted it so bad.”
Yeah? Her voice is so taunting it almost feels humiliating. Wanted me to reach over and lift your dress up?
“Mhmhmhmhm,”
Wanted me to play with your pussy?
“I did, I did, I did,” You pant, moving your fingers off your clit and dipping them into your sopping hole. The stretch sates you, though you have to imagine your fingers as Ellie’s just to tame that fire burning in your gut. A prurient chorus of wet sounds fill the air.
While you fuck yourself, you grind your clit against the heel of your palm, hungry for as much stimulation as your pussy can take.
Look at how wet you are for me, Ellie taunts, and I’m not even fucking here.
Your orgasm sneaks up on you so quickly, you have to clamp down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming Ellie’s name into the pitch black air. Your cunt flutters around your fingers as you ride it out.
As you begin to come down, your knees buckle together and you tumble onto the floor. You’re totally spent by this point—toes crinkling in aftershock, legs completely liquefied, heart hammering through your ears.
The scent of carpet deodorizer makes you sneeze but keeps you from knocking out on the floor. You pat around the floor for your purse, hastily retrieving your phone to text Ellie.
All settled in :)
Your text is read, and about a minute later, telltale typing bubbles pop up on her end of the screen.
goodddd
take it easy tomorrow
***
The next couple of weeks are punctuated by texts. For days after your first rendezvous, you weren’t sure if you should be the one to text first or vice versa.
Then, you were heading to your car after the end of a midday class when your phone pinged twice.
there were peaches at the dining hall td
ate one and thought of u
You responded quickly after skipping the rest of the way to your car.
Wowww
How were they?
Five minutes pass, and your heart is on edge for all of them.
nice i guess
not as good as the real thing
From then, you don’t feel so apprehensive texting her first or at all. Coming up with the most perfectly cool-sounding thing to say does leave your stomach in knots the first couple of times, but you get over it soon enough when you read whatever she sends back.
While picking up a study book at Barnes & Noble, you convince yourself to get one of those joke books on the next aisle over. You purchase it quickly so that you have no time to regret it. When you make it to your car, you send a picture of it to Ellie.
Picked this up at the bookstore.
Gonna be just like you lols
oh yeah?
spit me smth
Why don’t melons get married?
mmmm
i don’t know
tell me
Because they cantaloupe.
lmaooo
that’s a good one
i’m proud of you
Better step your game up!
At night, when you’re in the midst of sleep, three pings would startle you awake, only to be promptly delighted when you process Ellie’s name attached to them.
u up?
sorry that sounded weird
couldn’t sleep thought i’d text u
Lol. Nothing better to do?
woahh ur awake
You woke me!
Are you alright?
yeahhh
just up thinking i guess
About what?
What you’re gonna wear to the NBG party?
very funny peach
The three words on your phone nearly burn your eyes. Your chest floods with a surge of ecstasy as you process the nickname she’s given you. You read the message about seven times over, your smile stretching bigger each time, imagining the words leaving Ellie’s mouth exactly as they’re written. You’re about to read it again when a new message springs forth.
you really want me to come?
You’re the only person I want there
***
Ellie sighs as she places her cards in the center of the coffee table.
It’s one of relief and anticipation—she can finally pick her phone back up and see what texts have materialized on your side of the screen.
“One three.” Jesse says, placing his cards down to the right of her.
Dina follows excitedly after. “Two fours.”
She can barely get the words out of her mouth before Jesse is declaring, “Bullshit,”
She scoffs and pulls the pile of cards at the table into her own deck.
While this is happening, Ellie is silently swooning over a photo you’ve just sent her—posed in front of your bedroom mirror, clad in a blush-pink athletic jacket and breathy white tennis skirt. Your eyes are just the tiniest bit softer, and Ellie swears she can see a kaleidoscope of emotion threatening to burst through your irises.
She’s not even sure if you’re trying to, but you look perfect. You always do. On the day the two of you met. On the night of the Theta party. On those Instagram stories Ellie isn’t sure if she’s supposed to heart or not (though, she always ends up doing so after an embarrassing amount of deliberation).
Fit check before my run later.
She’s about to respond when Dina’s voice sifts through the chaos of her thoughts. “Ellie,” She calls, “It’s your turn.”
Ellie diverts her attention back to her hand of cards. “One five.” She quickly lies, sliding it toward the center of the table, faced down.
She surveys the caption of words under your photo, swiftly and carefully preparing words of her own to send. love it peach, Ellie types. Then, once she’s gathered the confidence, lol run to my place.
Butterflies run fretful laps around her stomach as she awaits your response. Ellie presses her eyes closed for a moment, but only sees your smile twinkling behind the lids. She goes to worry her bottom lip between her teeth, hoping to find remnants of your taste still there, like some sort of perverted scratch and sniff.
“Three sixes.” Jesse announces, no doubt present in his voice.
“Bullshit,” says Dina, just as confident, “I’ve got all the sixes.” After a few moments of whispered counting, she offers, “Two sevens.”
When Ellie opens her eyes, three texts have appeared.
Haha, you wish
Come to the party tomorrow
Then I’ll consider.
Before she can think of a charming enough response, Dina nudges her leg under the coffee table. “Earth to Ellie!” She calls out. Ellie looks up—really looks—for the first time since before the game started to see Dina and Jesse staring back at her with annoyed albeit slightly amused faces. “Hey, we’re playing a game here.” Dina cajoles.
“Yeah, Ellie. Is it phone time or friend time?” Jesse joins, clearly equally motivated by curiosity and messing with her just for the sake of it.
Ellie breathes a soft laugh. “Sorry guys,”
“What’s got you all smiley, anyway?” Dina asks with a quirk of her brow.
“Nothing.”
“Bullllshit,” Jesse says, as confident as ever.
Ellie places her cards down, trying to conceal the lump passing through her throat. Despite being surrounded by her closest friends, she can’t help the spike in her heart rate.
“It’s just this girl I sold to a couple weeks back.” Ellie confesses.
“Oh,” Dina says, utterly delighted. Ellie doesn’t miss the look her and Jesse exchange across the table. “She nice?”
Just talking about you gets her going. A rush of heat blooms beneath her cheeks. “Yeah, she’s real sweet,” Ellie says before realizing that may not be completely true. So, she adds, “once you get to know her.”
Jesse pipes up from the other side of the table.“Is she cute?”
Dina reprimands him with a glare. “Don’t be such a pig, Jess.” Though it’s likely Jesse’s only said that to make her jealous. Her features soften as she turns her gaze back to Ellie. “But, I mean, is she?”
Ellie pulls a low whistle between her teeth, her own modest way of saying fuck yeah.
She pulls up your Instagram to show Dina and Jessie. Frankly, she couldn’t help the intimidation crawling up her back when she first looked at the page. One post, sixteen hundred followers, and a bio with only two characters—ΦM.
“Woah,” Dina blurts as she taps on the lone post. It’s a single photo of you outside a restaurant. The gown you’re wearing is a deep shade of scarlet, and your full, glossy lips are tilted upward in a coquettish sort of half smile.
Jesse claps a firm, proud hand over Ellie’s shoulder. “Sorority girl,” He says the two words as if they alone convey something much deeper. “Nice, man.”
“Yeah,” Dina chirps, “when can we meet her?”
“Woah,”
“Slow your roll, D.” Jesse says in the familiar mediating way that only he can. “You gotta let her come to us.”
“Yeah, you heard him, Mom,” Ellie smiles, though suddenly fighting the warmth that swirls in her chest at the prospect of you meeting her friends. “One eight,” She says, placing her last card on the table and revealing that she’s won the game.
“Bullshit!” Jesse and Dina exclaim together.
Ellie turns her card around to show that it is indeed an eight, and is met with a chorus of grunts. “I had a lot riding on that game.” Jesse says, gathering the deck and preparing to shuffle again.
“You bet two slices of your pizza.”
DIna rolls her eyes. “Clearly that was all he had.”
“Fuck it. New game! This time I’m betting the whole box.”
Later, after the pizza boxes and wine bottles and cards have all been cleaned away, Ellie shuffles into bed with excitement purring inside her chest as she opens your messages.
i’m back peach
Hi!
How was game night?
pretty fun
told my friends about you
Oh?
What did you say?
that i sold to a pretty girl a couple of weeks ago
& we hit it off
Lolll, I don’t remember it happening that way
uhh it happened eventually
also told them i’d go to your party tmrw
The screen goes still for a few moments after Ellie last message. Only alight with your speech bubble making disjointed appearances on the other side of the screen, fading in and out in the manner of a thready pulse.
YAY!!
I could just kiss you right now.
Ellie stares at the wall long after you’ve fallen asleep, trying fruitlessly to run the thought of you out of her mind. Still, no matter how many invisible constellations she draws with the popcorns in her ceiling, no matter how many sheep she counts or puffs she takes of her weed pen, she can’t calm her brain.
The only thing that sates her is the image of you.
Figuratively, because when Ellie finally allows herself to think of you, a slow warmth rushes over her body. It begins at the tips of her fingers and doesn’t stop until its peaked at her longest eyelash.
Literally, because she pulls up a photo of you to feed the fire burning in her heart. It’s the first picture you ever sent her—a selfie of you in a cream colored, off the shoulder sweater, your face only brightened by the glimmer of a nearby candle.
You look like a dream. Ellie’s concerned for a moment that the vision of your face may be the result of her own prolonged, feverish hallucinations.
Don’t mind my eyes. Just finished a study sesh lol. Ellie reads the texts you sent under the photo countless times. When she looks back at your eyes in the picture, they do seem to show the quaintest signs of sleepiness—soft and low and too relaxed to hold up your guard.
Ellie imagines your eyes to look that way after sex. The soft, sweet, romantic kind you have on Valentine’s Day or prom night. The kind you tell your girlfriends about a couple days later over salads. (“It was the most romantic night of my life!”) Love making.
What scares Ellie is that she doesn’t want to do that to you. At least not right now. Right now, she wants your back pressed flush against her chest as plows into you from the side. She wants to grip one hand at the junction under your knee, keeping you anchored open so that there’s nowhere to go but deeper.
Does it always feel this good?
Your previous words reverberate through her head. Ellie wonders if that’s the kind of thing you would say after sex. The kind of delirious, euphoria-drunk question you would ask after she’s coaxed a fourth or fifth orgasm out of you. Does it always feel this good, Ellie?
With a heavy sigh, Ellie closes her phone and her eyes, resolving not to think about you for the rest of the night, lest she unravel her remaining bit of sanity. She fails.
***
Ellie’s text comes just as you down your fifth green apple jell-o shot. Checking your phone, you chew and suck the thickness into a smooth dissolution until it’s melted completely in your mouth.
i’m outside peach
A smile splits your face before you even realize it. Excitement surges through you so quickly your body jolts as if you’ve gotten chills.
“Sorry,” You say after accidentally bumping into a guy wearing a simple but effective dollar sign costume. He murmurs a polite, you’re good, and continues flirting with a girl dressed as the green M&M.
The floorboards tremble under the bass of Lil Yachty’s Broccoli and the hundreds of feet moving along to the music. You make your way through the crowd, passing a huddle of girls dressed a leprechauns and one not so convincing Hulk before you make it outside.
You spot Ellie instantly. Firstly, because a few porch and string lights illuminate where she stands at the front of the house. Secondly, because she’s the only person not wearing any green.
Your eyes lock as you storm up to her, and you catch the subtle appraisal she does of your outfit. You’re wearing a green, sequined mini dress that’s hemmed just beneath the curve of your ass and strappy stilettos that curl up your calves. All your jewelry is gold—your big hooped earrings, jangling bracelets on both arms, and mess of thin chains around your neck. And though Ellie can’t see it, you swear her eyes focus in on the thong you’re wearing under your dress. It’s a soft, sheer material of pale green, trimmed with scalloped lace. Two words sit woven into the fabric over your soft mound—Lucky You.
“Now it’s my turn to pinch you,” Your voice comes out familiarly cheery, even if you are trying to reprimand her. “Where’s your green, loser?”
She’s wearing another band tee and straight-legged jeans, her hands shoved into the pockets. “Is it too late to tell you I don’t have any?”
Just the sound of her voice is enough to evaporate your frustrations. It doesn’t help that your eyes are following a trail of freckles down the bridge of her nose toward the soft bow of her upper lip. And her eyes are such a brilliant tinge of olive that you altogether stop caring just for a moment.
“No,” You clear your throat to keep the word from coming out as a whimper. “because we’re gonna get you some.”
You wrap your fingers around her wrist, gently pulling until her hand is out of her pocket and interlocked with yours. Surprisingly, you aren’t as unnerved by touching her as you thought you would be. It’s warm skin against warm skin. And while the softness of her palm encased around yours sends your pulse lurching, you don’t have it in you to be nervous at this moment.
“Where’re we going, Peach?” It’s the first time you’ve heard her say the nickname aloud, and you’re certain the feeling it gives you is akin to snorting a few lines.
“I’m gonna take you to get something green. Just stay close to me and try not to get pinched.”
You lead Ellie through the crush of people, tightening your grip on her hand as you pass through one particularly congested area of clammy, jittery bodies. You occasionally look back to survey her face, gauging her features for any signs of noticeable discomfort. However, you don’t find any. Only delight and a little bit of awe as she takes in everything around her.
One particularly rough wave of movement crushes the two of you together—your back against her front. Just as your balance begins to topple and your grip unfastens from Ellie’s hand, you feel it hitch on to your hip. Her breath is warm and smooth as she whispers into your skin, “Don’t worry,” The words run over the nape of your neck like water. “I got you.”
The two of you are so close, you can feel your ass slotting up and down over the hard steel of her belt buckle. For a second, you swear you feel Ellie tighten her hold on your hip so she can grind herself against you in turn. Just the thought that that could be happening makes you insane.
You turn back to her, nearly curling your body around hers, just so you let your lips brush against the shell of her ear. “Thank you, Ellie.”
You lock the storage closet door behind you. The sound of it is a soft, sharp click that you can’t be certain Ellie didn’t hear. Under the room’s singular lightbulb, she’s ruffling through a bin of beaded green necklaces and Party City shirts.
“Find anything?” You gently squeeze your thighs together before you make your way over to her.
“Just a bunch of shirts that say, I’m Single, Pinch Me Anyway.”
“Better than nothing,”
“True.”
You let yourself idly watch as she rifles through the bin. Her t-shirt rides just the tiniest bit up her back, so you can see the minuscule divots and twitches of muscle at the strong, svelte curve of her abdomen.
“I’m really glad you could come, Ellie.” Her head only slightly twitched toward the sound of your voice, but beside that, she doesn’t pull her eyes away from the bin. Almost as though she’s making a concerted effort not to. “For a minute, I wasn’t sure if you would.”
You stalk over to the other side of the spacious closet, sucking in a sharp breath as your back makes contact with the cold, dusty wall. You wonder if the sound of your heels clicking over the floor will arouse her curiosity, but she only manages a slight glance at you through her peripheral vision.
“C’mon, Peach, I was gonna pull through. Just had to tease you a little first.” Her voice comes out deep and smooth, a glass of whiskey you want to get drunk on any day of the week. Still, she doesn’t look your way. And that irritates you, because she’s been scraping the bottom of the bin for a good minute.
“Ellie,” you allow yourself to murmur once more. “Why won’t you look at me?”
She stops moving then, and you’re stricken with satisfaction. Her voice is a low, tortured sound. “You think I haven’t been looking at you?”
Finally, she stands up, turning her head your way. It pleases you, but only for a second. You outstretch your hand and curl your index finger in a come hither motion. So, she does. Ellie stalks toward you one careful step at a time until there are only two inches of free space between you. With your bodies so close, you’ve effectively trapped yourself against the wall.
“Do you… like my dress?” On the last three words, you voice slurs the tiniest bit. It comes out not at all how you intended. Vulnerable instead of sexy. You think that’s partly because you have to suppress a green apple flavored belch under you speech.
Ellie’s eyes travel over your dress in one steady motion, as if she’s counting the individual sequins. Your nipples stiffen under her gaze.
“Of course I do.” She says after a moment.
You nudge her leg with your foot, gently brushing over her shin a few times. “What about my shoes?”
She’s unfazed, though. She doesn’t take her eyes off yours. Her brows furrow interrogatively as she asks, “What are you doing, Peach?”
“I’m just trying to see if you like my outfit.” You lie, “I wore it for you, anyway.” Well, half lie.
Ellie entertains you for a moment, glancing down at your heeled foot as it pushes the hem of her jeans just the slightest bit over her inner ankle. “You’re beautiful,” she says, “but you know that already,” Blood rushes so furiously behind the shells of your ears that you feel you might vomit right at Ellie’s feet.
“What if I just wanted you to tell me?”
“Then I’ll tell you as many times as you want.” Ellie says, contented and resolved. You want her to tell you as many times as she can muster in one breath, between kisses, against the shell of your ear in the most intimate moments.
Want burns through you so rapidly your body feels as though it may dissolve into a heap of ash. With a shaky hand, you tug Ellie closer by the buckle of her belt and kiss her.
In those few seconds, it’s everything. Everything you’ve fantasized about, everything in this world you could ever want—it resides right here in the plushness of her mouth.
The skin of her lips is tinged with a decadent cocktail of flavors. Traces of mint, honey, and the sparsest bit of sweat. The taste sends a heady buzz down your spine that disorients your vertical. Luckily, Ellie stills you with warm, steady hands upon your hips.
Filled with a new mystical sense of exhilaration, you snake a hand around her waist, letting it sit comfortably at the slender small of her back. You pull her into you, and the movement of your lips grow sloppy as your body takes in this novel contact. Her chest pressed against yours, four legs moving as one at a messy interlock, her belt buckle’s chilled metal caressing your skin even through your dress.
It’s messy, but all the more electrifying. Just as the beginnings of a whimper are building in your throat, Ellie uses the same hands holding your hips to push you closer into the wall, away from her.
Your mouths are still so close that you can taste the warm fan of her breath. “I’m sorry,” Slowly, the pair of you untangle your limbs, Ellie initiating most of it. She lets her hands fall from your hips and puts a step of distance between you. It’s noticeable enough to make you shiver at the loss of contact, yet still small enough that just a single sufficient heave of either of your chests will push you back into the other’s orbit.
“You’re drunk,” She explains finally.
Years of premature alcohol consumption up to now had gifted you the ability of holding your liquor better than most of your peers, so you wonder what gives you away to Ellie. The strong and sickly, saccharine taste of green apple on your lips? Your less than perfect balance? The audacity you had to lock the two of you in a storage closet?
“It isn’t your fault, Ellie,” Your voice is so low it hardly forms any permeation in the atmosphere, a perfect antithesis to your shame that seems to swallow the room. “I kissed you.”
Ellie clutches her jaw, a pained expression shadowing her features, as if you’ve just socked her in it. “Still, I shouldn’t have… fuck,” A moment passes where you cannot tell what emotion Ellie is feeling. Frustration? Lust? Regret? A cornucopia of them swirl through the flecks of sepia in her eyes. “Let’s just get you home, okay?”
That word—home—doesn’t help your shot nerves. In fact, it only worsens them. The Phi Mu mansion a few blocks away feels less like home and more like a place where you live. A place with all your things, all the space, all the specially cooked meals you could ever want. And yet,
“I don’t want to go there.” Your own voice catches you off guard. No longer the still, controlled sotto voce of the past. You’re petulant. Teetering on the edge of an emotion you refuse to touch. You sound as though you are about to cry. Shit, maybe you are drunk. “Can I come to yours?” You ask so quickly that the words swallow your previous sentence entirely. Ellie’s face doesn’t even get a chance to express the initial sentiment of Where else are you gonna go?
“Okay,” She resolves, “let’s go.”
***
Ellie’s apartment is only a heap of shadows and abstract heaps of shape. She grabs you by the hand and leads you through the darkness. Even while drunk, you can feel the caution radiating off her in seismic waves.
“My room’s this way.” She pulls you along towards the right (you think), murmuring something about minding your step.
You only know that you’ve actually made it into Ellie’s room when your heels no longer click against the floor but instead putter clumsily through sumptuous carpet. She lets go of your hand and ventures deeper into the space, flicking on a lamp that floods the room with warm light.
Even while drunk, her room feels emblematic of everything cool, in the sense that it is wholly distinctive to her. While her bed is neatly made—a fluffy, tempting slate of onyx and navy blue linen—her desk seems homier, with a slew of artifacts littering the top of it. A notebook flipped open, pages tattooed in indecipherable, wiry scrawl, a laptop plastered in faded stickers, a mug of diverse pens.
An acoustic guitar sits in the corner of her room, staring at you through the gaping maw of its sound hole. “I didn’t know you played guitar.” You remarked, unstrapping your heels. When your feet are finally bare, you fight off a chill as they sink into the soft floor.
“Uh, here and there.” Ellie palms the back of her neck. Her flushed disregard piques your interest, but you just add it to the mental laundry list of things you’ll ponder on further when the sun comes up. “Bathroom’s right through there.” She points to an agape door parallel to another, which you assume is her closet. “I’ll be out here whenever you’re done.”
You aren’t shocked that Ellie is in the living room when you return from peeing. It’s a sobered, impregnable distance away that doesn’t stop you from wanting to kiss her no matter how many extra steps it will take to get there.
She left clothes for you at the foot of the bed. An old, shapeless Oasis tee that swallows your body in its fabric and a pair of boxers that are as comfortable as they are unflattering.
Ellie is setting up blankets and pillows when you join her in the newly illuminated living room. She’s gotten comfortable too, having bartered her jeans and tee for a wife-beater and flannel pajama pants. “Will your roommate be upset that I’m here?” You ask, tiptoeing further into the space.
“Nah, you’re good,” Ellie’s couch is compiled of two blankets. One, you presume, is to shield your skin from the glacial sofa leather. The other, from the air. “It’s about time I brought a girl home, anyways.”
What’s meant to be a joke only sours you for some reason you can’t put your finger on. “Right.” You sigh, feeling dejected by your own murky thoughts. You take to caressing the blankets you’ll be sleeping with tonight. Their fleecy hairs are as soft as plant soil. “Thank you for setting me up out here.”
Ellie chuckles. It’s a coquettish, nubile sound that fills your body with a fresh load of butterflies. “It’s for me, Peach.” She plops her butt onto the middle cushion and spreads her legs in the most territorial fashion, taking up as much space as possible, presumably to keep you from sitting near her. “Bed’s all yours.”
“Are you sure?” You protest, “I’m your guest. Shouldn’t I take the couch?”
“A princess like you, sleeping on a sofa? I don’t buy it.” Her tone is challenging, as though there’s some sliver of possibility she’ll let you take the couch, only if you want it badly enough.
Still, she’s right. Given the choice any other time, you would make a beeline to the nearest available bed. The only reason you can think of for feigning modesty is that it grants you an excuse to talk to her more.
“Yeah,” You relent, though still dipping your knee into the only bit of cushion unexplored by Ellie’s legs. “good point there. You like it though, right?”
The it is unspoken, though clear as day. It’s staring her in the face, kneeing her couch, wearing her clothes. It chewed her out within moments of meeting her, and not long ago, drunkenly kissed her as though their lives depended on it.
You watch her fingers inch their way toward your knee, dither slightly in their path, and then curl into her palm in an anguished fist. “Yeah, I do.” From where you stand, a slit in her eyebrow reveals itself to you. You are unable to tell if it was sliced there electively or acquired from injury. You’re about to reach out and touch it when Ellie speaks again. “You should get some rest, Peach.”
Too tired to fight it, you acquiesce, returning to Ellie’s room with a reserved, “Good night,”
After leaving her bedroom door open so that only a slice of outside light shines through, you pee once more before plopping into bed. You bury your face into a pillow, pleasantly surprised to find Ellie’s scent all over it. The living room light never dims or turns off, but you’re too tired to care.
***
The time on your phone reads 2:37 when you wake up. Nighttime is still in full swing, as evidenced by the sounds of drunk collegiates whooping about outside. Still, your heart hammers wildly in your chest and your bladder screams at you from beneath Ellie’s duvet, eager to be relieved of its green apple jell-o content.
When you finally do pee and get your pulse to calm, you notice the sound of television humming from the small crack in the bedroom door. The thought that Ellie could still be awake both bewilders and delights you. You know won’t be able to fall back asleep until you check.
You poke your head out the door to see that Ellie is still awake and watching a Spongebob rerun. While she’s blissfully unaware of your presence, you dedicate a few moments of your stealth to observing her.
Even the way she lazes makes you blush. Ellie’s head, a warm crush of velvety auburn, is sunken into a pillow, denting its center. Her chest is looped into an even rhythm of breathing, a hypnotic up-and-down that makes you jealous of the air she breathes. One of her hands swings idly off the edge of the couch while the other rests on her belly, fingering invisible patterns into the fabric of her tee.
“Ellie,” Try as you might (though, you did not bother trying) you cannot stop yourself from calling out to her. Her eyes flit from the television to you, and you see them come to life as they do.
“Peach,” Her tone betrays that she’s both delighted and scared to see you. “what are you doing up?”
You push the door open wider, making room for the rest of your body in that liminal space between here and there. “Couldn’t sleep,” Ellie sits up on the couch, and her shirt rides up, exposing that smooth canvass of skin just above the waist of her pants. “What’s your excuse?”
“Same,” she confesses, “bad dream.”
You aren’t sure what part of this minute interaction pushes you into your next train of thought. Maybe it’s the way her gaze pins you to the threshold of the door. Maybe it’s because all those feelings that stormed through you at the party never really evanesced in the way they should have, and you aren’t sure they ever will. Especially not now. I shouldn’t have asked to come here, you think, she should have told me no.
“Come to bed with me?”
It’s a tall order, and you know that. You know Ellie will probably roll her eyes and grumble something along the lines of, go back to sleep, Peach, but just like that night in her car, you lack too much inhibition to care.
You aren’t expecting her to rise from the couch and murmur something beneath her breath like, come on then.
“That didn’t take much convincing.” You quip, thoroughly surprised by your victory, as Ellie flits past you through the doorway.
“I’m in no position to fight it.”
“What, does that mean you don’t want to?” You inquire, “Or that you won’t?”
“Little bit of both, I guess.” Ellie pauses at the foot of the bed as she appraises it. You’ve already dipped one of your knees into the foam and picked up a pillow for fluffing. “You’re on my side of the bed, by the way.”
“Oh, I—” You dither some as you knead the pillow previously dimpled by the shape of your head.
“No, it’s okay. Looks like you slept on both sides, actually.”
Ellie smiles, gesturing to the identical concavities on both pillows, the messiness of the comforter that isn’t confined to one side of the mattress.
“Sorry, I’m—”
“Hey,” It’s a single, three-letter word with not even a second syllable afforded to it. So, why does the sound of it out of her mouth command your attention like that of clicker trained animal? “what’d I tell you about all that apologizing? It’s okay. Now my pillows’ll smell like you.”
She crawls over onto the mattress until she’s maybe a few inches across from you. You wonder if she’s even trying to control herself around you anymore. You certainly are not.
“Okay, but before we go to sleep, can I apologize for one more thing?”
“No, but I know you’re gonna do it anyway.”
“The kiss earlier.” You enunciate the three words as if they alone convey the entirety of your thoughts. “I’m sorry if I made anything weird, or crossed a line, or…” Embarassment and a lack of proper wording silences you. “anything like that.”
“You didn’t cross anything. It was… nice. I enjoyed it.”
The relief that fills your chest is almost immediately vanquished. “Nice? Just nice?”
A wolfish chuckle rumbles through her chest. “Yeah, I mean, we were in a closet, and I didn’t want us to get too carried away. And you were pretty drunk, so…”
“Sooo, you hated it?”
“I did not hate it. I just think we have the potential for better.”
“Well, we aren’t in a closet now. And I’m not drunk anymore.”
“What are you trying to say, Peach?”
Doing your best to keep the plush of the mattress from knocking you off kilter, you lean over until all of your weight is rested on your hands and knees, and you crawl to her. You slink her way until your noses are nearly sharing the same stream of oxygen.
Ellie’s eyes give way to every emotion that flickers through her, a tried and true window directly into her soul. Is she really doing this, you see her think. Fuck, she is.
Your lips connect for the second time that night, with less clumsiness and somehow even more apprehension than before—both purely motivated by the fact that you want to do it right this time.
The taste of her lips is even sweeter this time, fermented and rich and bursting with every flavor of her. When she opens her mouth a little wider, so that you can connect your lips more intimately, so that some of her saliva leaks onto your tongue, you mewl into her.
Your mouths move in communication with each other, a sort of interpretive dance. You creak yours open wider so that Ellie’s tongue can pass through and land exactly where you need it—tickling the roof of your mouth, massaging your own tongue.
It feels exactly as you imagined so many times before, better even. Wet and warm and soft and just so her. She begins to pull out of your mouth, but you just suck her back in, demanding and hungry. For a moment you think you’re being too expressive, too transparent with your desires, until Ellie cups the back of your head, pulling you deeper in and invigorating the want that pools in your belly.
After a couple more beats of heady, sedated sucking, you let Ellie’s tongue retract from your mouth, prepared to pull away. When you do, your bottom lip gets stuck—no, caught—between her teeth for half a second. Just long enough to push you closer and closer off the cliff of your sanity and into the hysteria filled waters below.
“Shit,” Ellie audibly gulps. A thin rosary of saliva connects your faces, and some smears the bow of her lips. You curl the tip of your tongue and lick up the mess.
She releases the back of your skull and you sink unceremoniously into the mattress, feet tucked underneath your butt. “Better?” You ask rhetorically.
“Kiss all your dealers like that?”
“Only my favorite ones.” You jest despite the puddle of need dampening Ellie’s boxers.
The two of you fall into silence, the space of the room post-kiss only soundtracked by whistling breaths and shuffling against the comforter. A minute of this passes before Ellie speaks up. “Can I tell you a secret?”
You hum affirmatively.
“I didn’t actually have a bad dream.” She divulges, “I just…” Her hands gesticulate aimlessly about, groping for the words. “couldn’t sleep knowing you were in the other room. It was driving me fucking crazy.”
“Were you just going to sit there and go crazy all night? Or were you going to come in here and do something about it?”
“I definitely thought about it.”
“What stopped you?”
“I guess I’m just a coward, or I would have done it sooner.”
Slowly and a little timidly, your mouth forms around a question that’s plagued the deepest recesses of your psyche for a long while. “Do you really want me, Ellie?”
Ellie answers your question with a kiss. She crawls over to you so slowly that, at any moment, you could have protested, asked, what are you doing? But you didn’t want to.
Once she’s on you, though, she doesn’t stop. She kisses you like she’s angry you would even ask the question, do you want me.
Her hands cup your face in a way that doesn’t even feign gentleness. You’ll pull away from her when she wants you to, and only then. “Lay back,” Ellie barely breaks away from you, practically spitting the words into your mouth.
Still, you recline your entire body until your head hits a pillow. It feels so good to have her like this—on top of you, kissing you, hands caging you in place, hips finding a welcome place in between your spread legs.
You ache for her, and you’re far past hiding it. Your hands find a steady hold on her hips, grinding your center into hers through your respective bottoms. Desperate whines travel out of your mouth into hers as your body drinks in the friction.
“I want you, Peach,” Ellie rasps over you. Her mouth connects to your ear, tongue drawing a precise curl around the shell. “Want you here,” she says, just before she lands on your neck and begins sucking tenderly at the skin above your jugular. “and here,” she manages to utter. Shuffling beneath your shirt, she slides her hands up your waist until they reach the pulsing expanse of your chest. “here, too. Can I touch you right here?” Ellie nearly pleads, even though she already is.
“You know you can.” You shudder, bunching the shirt up until it’s pushed completely over your head. The stiff air makes your nipples draw up and harden into sensitive peaks. It isn’t helped by the fact that you can feel Ellie’s breath fanning over them, humid and painstakingly close.
Ellie doesn’t take her eyes off you as she flattens her tongue over your nipple and licks. Slowly, up and down, over and over again. A whimper breaks from your gritted teeth when she rims your areola. “Do you like it when I do that?”
You nod hard enough to wrench your head off your shoulders. All the while, your shaky fingers are hooking under the hem of her shirt and pulling it up, up, up until it’s shuffled off the top of her head.
With both your shirts discarded to a distant corner of the room, Ellie’s mouth returns to yours, capturing it in a kiss so fervent it springs a tear behind your eye. She’s got you right where she wants you, you presume: ensnared within a hazy loop of wet kisses, heaving breasts pressed together, cunts still seeking each other out through the barriers of your pants.
If Ellie were to say to you, right now, Would you kill someone for me? Hm? I’ll make you cum if you say yes, you cannot guarantee your moral compass would even register killing someone to be wrong; not when the feeling of her rutting up against you is so incredibly right.
She doesn’t bother asking if she can stick her hand into your pants. The intrusion startles you a tad initially, makes you tense up, until she tightens her grip at the junction between your shoulder and neck, murmuring into your ear a soft, “‘S okay, baby, it’s just me,”
When Ellie does make contact with the desire that’s been dripping out of you, the edge of her lips curl into a wolfish grin. “You’re gonna kill me, I fucking swear.”
She pulls her hand out of your pants, and you can immediately tell which finger touched you. It’s wet and glistening beneath the moonlight as if bestowed with a halo. Ellie sucks it into her mouth, a slight moan falling from her lips as she does.
You hustle her boxers down to your ankles until you can comfortably kick them off. Ellie’s eyes darken over the picture of you, on her bed and naked as the day you were born. “Here,” She extends her middle and ring fingers out to your face. “get these wet for me.”
You imagine it’s intentional, the way she purposely keeps them about a hair’s breadth away from your lips. She wants to see you debase yourself a little bit, to shift your face smallest inch so that you can scoop her fingers into your mouth. So, you do.
Your lips wrap around her fingers in a sort of sweet surrender, sucking past the first knuckles, you taste remnants of yourself on her skin. Oral fixation, you presume, is why the act of doing this has felt more intimate than anything else so far. Your eyes bulge with naïveté as her fingertips press into your tongue, eliciting a teary gag.
You would think that the audible signal of discomfort would sway her to stop, but it seems only to invigorate her. Ellie’s eyes darken, and a strong, breathy hum vibrates off of her. “Yeah,” she goads, only removing her fingers once all your tears have spilled down your chin. She examines the wet canvass of your face with indeterminate emotion. You’re expecting concern. Are you okay, Peach? or something like, I’ll be gentle next time. Instead, she scoffs a condescending chuckle, remarking, “you look so fucking pretty when you cry.”
Without trying, your chest heaves against a broken sob. Like sweet prey at the mercy of a barbarous predator, you feel helpless. There’s nowhere you could go without her snatching you from the air with seizing paws. The feeling toes the line of being both petrifying and the most exhilarating thing you could ever imagine.
Ellie shifts until her weight is propped entirely on her right arm. From this angle, her warm breath sears the shell of your ear. You spread your legs without her even having to ask, pressing your knees as far back as you can, even as it starts to hurt.
Ellie brings her wet fingers to your cunt, caressing the swollen head of your clit with a thinly veiled hunger. The sensation makes every muscle in your body squeeze taut. Your toes curl and you have to fight the urge to shut your thighs together. “Ellie,” You whine, hiccuping a little as your asshole begins clenching in time with the movement of her fingers.
“I’ll give you anything you want. You know that?” Ellie coos into your ear, rubbing your clit a little faster, a little firmer. Your vision grows fuzzy at the edges. “All you need to do is ask. Use your words.”
“I want you inside.” Your voice is crossed between a whimper and grit. A satisfied purrr hums through Ellie’s body, but the confession embarrasses you a little nonetheless.
She dips her middle digit lower, letting her fingertip sit at the cleft of your hole. You whine a bit at the contact, squeezing desperately around nothing, trying to suck her in. “Atta girl,” Her first knuckle passes through with unsurprising ease, though only paltrily sates the appetence that’s tearing you asunder from the inside out.
Ellie affords you a few thrusts of her finger, curling it upward in a slow, come hither motion to test the waters. That feeling—that initial phalangeal push—gently coaxes a high pitched whimper out of your slacked mouth. She hums, satisfied, though only temporarily, as she pulls out a bit just so she can stretch you around a second finger.
“Oh, shit,” Your breathless cries fall on deaf ears as Ellie pushes her to fingers in, down to the very last knuckle. The feeling of being so full of her stirs a heap of emotions within you. It’s overwhelmingly and maddeningly perfect in a way you’re only able to communicate through broken moans. “Oh, my—” You hiccup, pressing your eyes shut as she pulls almost all the way out, only to push back in in a way that kind of hurts.
Ellie curls her fingers in tantalizing unison, her pace controlled, though, a tad feral. You can feel it in the melody of soft grunts that sneak through her gritted teeth and into your ears. It doesn’t take long before her fingertips are prodding at a spot that makes you gasp. The part of it that isn’t made up of sheer pleasure is genuine shock. You had no idea anything in this world could feel so good.
“Right there?” She asks, all too smug and casual, as if she isn’t literally fingering the pulse of your most sensitive spot. Every attempt you make to speak is thwarted by her feverish, determined pursuit of your orgasm.
“C’mon,” Ellie further riles when your whimpers start to synchronize in time with the steady plunges of her fingers. “show me how well you can take it.”
You don’t even notice the fledgling spring of tears that are dampening your cheeks until Ellie licks one clean with the curve tip of her tongue, and then sears the salty flavor into your mouth in a messy kiss.
Then, in the blink of an eye, you feel the pleasure intensifying in every part of your body, marching you toward an orgasm so intense that you actually do start to cry. Soft, tensed wails borne entirely from Ellie’s fingers. “W—Wait,” you nearly choke trying to say the word. “I need a minute. Can you just—”
“No.” She says. You don’t even think she considers the possibility of stopping. All that’s visible in the deep pools of her irises is stalwart resolution.
You make an attempt to squirm away, but she curls her fingers into that you again, adding pressure to where you’re already so tender. “Ellie,” you plead, her name falling clumsily out of your mouth.
Your desperation does little to stall her. In fact, it seems to be the thing pushing her forward. “You’re gonna cum so fucking hard like this,” Ellie promises, “just trust me.”
And you do.
It only takes a couple more nudges before your orgasm erupts from your body with all the intensity of an ocean bursting through a dam. In the heat of it, your voice reaches a screaming pitch. “Don’t stop,” you command, aching to ride it out for as long as possible. “please, please don’t stop.”
Thick, limpid rivulets of cum rush out of you in warm spurts, and Ellie fucks you through every second of it.
The next couple of minutes are spent trying to catch your breath. You flit your eyes over to Ellie’s face, repeatedly tracing your gaze over her eyes and lips. “You’re so fucking perfect.” She coos into your balmy skin whilst planting messy kisses into your temple. Then, she orders, “Come here.” Slowly, with small protesting mewls from you, Ellie pulls her fingers out of your cunt so that her hands can cup your cheeks and lock you into another passionate kiss.
***
When the two of you have wrangled into a position of post-coital cuddling—you curled into her side, face tucked into her neck, with her tattooed arm wrapped around you—Ellie asks, “Do you wanna hear a joke?”
Halfway lolled into slumber, you oblige her. “Lay it on me.”
“A weasel walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Interesting. I’ve never served a weasel before. What can I get you?’” The anticipatory gleam in Ellie’s eyes tells you that she’s really proud of this one, and that makes you smile.
You sigh, “I’m ready.”
“‘Pop’ goes the weasel.”
You go from sleepily smiling to rolling your eyes in record time. “Good, right?” Ellie jests, filling the room with raucous laughter that you’re sure would wake anyone, if anyone was here to hear it. “Come on, I worked really hard on that one.”
Not even a full five minutes later, Ellie has completely passed out before you. She is, for lack of a better phrase, a picture. Chest billowing steadily around slow, deep breaths, mouth slightly agape with a ribbon of drool staining its corner, a gentle snore singing from her nose.
With your pinky finger, you connect makeshift constellations in the freckles on her collarbone until your eyelids grow weary. Just before you surrender to tiredness, you let your gaze sweep over Ellie’s face a final time. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth that is now curled into a soft smile. You hope she’s dreaming of you.
summary: joel has been working a lot lately and not properly been paying attention to you, at least, that's how you feel during ovulating. so, you come up with a plan, which leads to him scolding you for wearing a short dress like that. and more.
trigger warnings: age gap (joel in his 50s, f!reader in her 20s), jackson!joel, possessive, oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, breeding kink, spanking, dirty talking, light praise kink
words: 2,2k
a/n: hii guys, im currently laying in bed sick with a fever, but I thought, there's no better time to write some smut again. credits to povsmommy28 on tiktok, because i saw this pov and i thought this is an amazing idea hihi
he was just at work. on patrols. doing construction work here and there.
you know he is very important to the town. and you knew from the beginning he is an workaholic. even before you got together a year ago. but still, the last few weeks, you got no real attention from him.
because of all his work, you barely even fucked. yes, there was some lazy making out, but mostly, you were already asleep when he got home. also, you were on your period a week and a half ago, so you were in not a good mood, there was nothing going on, but now, you were fucking ovulating.
and you felt it. just instantly at the thought of him, you were fucking soaked.
you tried to initiate intimacy with him two days ago, and it wasn't even that he didn't get hard.
oh, he did.
but then suddenly tommy knocked at our damn door, because there was some kind of emergency with that one construction side at the end of town.
whatever.
now, you came up with a plan. you 'planned' a girls night out with your friends from the clinic you were working at. but what joel didn't know, there was no girls night out. you already had a lovely brunch with them the day before.
but you knew joel. and besides that he's pretty possessive, he has a soft spot for short dresses.
plan was, get his attention, tease and argue with him, which then leads to him fucking you till you can't think right.
so, you got all dolled up. hair down, some soft blush on your cheeks, and wearing your short white whimsical dress, which was just right over your butt a little, leaving a bit to the imagination.
joel was downstairs, just came home like fifteen minutes ago, and was on the couch, cleaning his shotgun.
he looked up as he hears your soft steps running down the stairs. you didn't look at him, but hell, you could already feel his eyes burning right through you.
"where are you going all dolled up like that?", he asks. deep, thick.. oh, and warningly.
"going out with the girls'— believe i told ya about that yesterday?", you play dumb. innocent. as you start to put on your cowboy boots.
"m'not recalling that'", he remarks.
silence.
then you hear his weight shift as he got up from the couch. you turn around to look at him. your heart was pounding. your legs weak. his shleeves were rolled up and he had his hair back. he was looking at you like a predator watching his prey.
fuck, he's so hot.
"well, i do need to leave so—"
he cuts you off.
"you're not wearing that.", he grunts.
the fish caught the bait.
"excuse me?", you raise an eyebrow.
"you heard me." , he growls.
god, you could already give in. your body was definitely.
"i told you that i will be going out with them. maybe, if you would've been around more, you would remember.", you sass.
"well, and i am not changing—", you shrug as you turn back around to the front door.
he puts his hands on his hips.
"you want everybody starin' at you? eyeing you like you're a fuckin' piece of meat? i know the men around here—", he says with his deep, thick southern accent.
"oh, like how you're eyeing me right now?", you say as you turn back around, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
yes, you had a death wish.
his gaze darkens. he clenches his jaw.
"careful, love", he warns.
you sigh. "look, it's not that big of a deal— i like that dress, and i think it looks good on me, so, I'm gonna wear it"
you were about to turn back to the front door again, but he grabs you at your wrist, spinning you towards him.
"you do look good. fuck, you look fuckin' amazing in that dress. but it's only for me to see. you want everybody to see your cute lace panties huh—?", he takes a deep breath.
"so, now, you're gonna do as you were fuckin' told and you're gonna change like a sweet and nice girl you are.", he growls.
you were literally melting for him.
"well, maybe i am not a sweet girl today.", you whisper teasingly, biting your lip.
he looks at you. like really looks.
then, you feel his hand wrap around your neck and pull you into a hard kiss.
mission successful.
"well, im gonna damn make ya one'", he growls into the kiss, crowding you against the front door, one hand around your neck and the other besides your head. you pull him down to your height at his shirt, obviously kissing him back until your lips are slightly swollen.
"you're a damn tease, ya know that?", he whispers as his kisses travel down to your neck, leaving marks.
"and got a hell of an attitude either", his hand runs down to your breast, squeezing it hard, while he runs his thumb over your clothed nipple.
a small giggle slips out of your throat. he looks up at you, his breath and yours out of sync.
"oh, now she's giggling huh? you think this is funny?", he growls.
"i guess i haven't fucked you properly the last few weeks huh? and that's why you're dancin' out of line, are you?"
you just shrug with an innocent smile. you try to lean in back for a kiss, but he pushes you back with one finger at your chest.
"get your ass upstairs.", he commands.
"what about my-", you try to argue, still keeping up your plan, obviously.
"i said, get your fuckin' ass upstairs. when im done putting you back in line, you may go afterwards.", he tells you. then, you gulp but slip out of his grip and tiptoe upstairs. with him slowly following.
gosh, you were so fucking desperate. he's gonna ruin you. you already know.
you were already standing in front of the bed as he walks through the door into your shared bedroom.
he chuckles slightly at the sight. he steps towards you. closely.
"first, im gonna make you properly apologize to me for mouthing off—"
"i wasn't—"
"get on your knees."
and you do.
he sits down at the edge of the bed, tilting up your chin, his thumb running over your swollen lips from the kiss before. you were practically drooling.
as you sit on your knees, your thighs were completely bare, your short dress pooling right over your hip. revealing your soft pink lacy panties a little. joel opens his belt, opening his zipper and pulling down his pants.
through his boxers, you can already see the outline of his dick.
"gonna put your mouth to better use than arguing with me", he growls as he watches you pull down his boxers and getting out his thick hard cock.
you lick your lips, before you take his length into one hand and take a long lick from bottom to the top. precum was already leaking slightly, tasting slightly salty on your hot tounge.
"there you go..", he breaths. he grabs your hair and guides your head down. his thick length goes down your throat. he groans softly. then, you speed up. he kept his hard grip in your hair as you bump your head up and down, taking his whole length. you were pushing back on your gag reflex.
his breaths fill up the room. "fuckin' taking me like that— shutting you up real good huh", he groans as he pushes your head down. your vision gets slightly blurry by you tearing up, not able to really gasp after air.
he's truly shutting you up.
you could feel his dick start to twitch in your mouth. you wanted to make him come.
"hey— easy, girl- easy-", he says with a shaky breath. he pulls your hair back and lets his cock out with a pop. you gasp after air, with a soft whine and a disappointment look.
he grabs you by your arm, hauling you up onto his lap, bending you over it. his dick pressing against your stomach.
"look at that, your dress is so fucking short, I don't even have to lift it up to see your ass huh", he chuckles as his hand runs over your butt, tracing over your lace panties.
you gasp as he delivers a hard spank onto your ass. "gonna give you a damn good spanking so you remember how to listen—"
in the following, the room echos with the sound of his hand coming against your bare ass, turning your cheeks pink. "god, i can practically feel you dripping on my lap, darlin'", he says.
"im sor— ah-", you yelp as you feel another hard spank against your butt. right after, you feel his fingers pushing away your panties and pushing two of them right into you spoaked folds.
you arch your back, moaning loudly. "now you're sorry huh? you're fucking soaked— have I been neglecting you for that long huh?", he observes.
he pumps fingers in and out of you, but as you were just starting to clench around them, he pulls them out. but before you can protest, he hauls you up onto the bed, leaning over you.
he rips off your panties, grabs your legs and puts them over his shoulders. "gonna remind you who you belong to— and who you are to fucking listen to-", he growls and then thrusts right into you.
you moan loudly, your dress now pushed up around your stomach. he doesn't let you adjust. he starts right thrusting into you, while he kept you legs over his shoulders.
"so fucking tight..", he groans as the room feels with the sound of skin slapping together.
"joel..", you moan his name as you roll your eyes back. you already started clenching around him, not far away from already coming.
"already—?", he chuckles. he noticed at the change of your breath, the change of sound in your moans, how they got louder and louder. you blush immediately.
yes, it's been a while. and fuck, you could just already cum by him touching you briefly.
"joel.. im gonna cum— please", you moan louder. he speeds up. the wet sounds filling the air, as he talks you through it.
you finally feel the long awaited wave of pleasure coming over your body, as you tense up, your legs shaking.
he rides you through the orgasm, but he does not let you catch your breath. he pulls out of you, turns you onto your belly, grabs your hair, so your head was buried in a pillow, before he thrusts into you again from behind.
you whine. you were so overstimulated.
"joel— it's too mu—", you whine as you gasp after air, already feeling another orgasm building up between your legs.
"you're gonna fucking take what i give you— and then the next time you can decide if you're gonna argue with me or not—", he growls into your ear, while he places some soft kisses onto your shoulder blade.
you could feel his dick twitch either in you. he was close. as you started to clench around him again, one hand of his slips around you, and finds your clit, starting to circle it.
"joel—", you try to squirm away from the overstimulating feeling, but he fully caged you in. him leaned over you, his other hand in your hair, keeping you in place, while you were laying flat onto the bed.
"gonna fill you up, baby—", he groans, as he keeps up his thrusts while circling your clit, you squeezing around him more and more.
some tears of overwhelming pleasure run down your cheeks, as you let out a scream at this point, as you cum a second time.
as you clench around him, as you cum, you feel his warm cum filling you up. you gasp.
you were totally spend.
mission successful.
you both remain in that position for a little bit longer as you both catch your breath. as he pulls out of you, the warm liquid mixed with your wetness slightly runs out of you. he turns you onto your back, pressing soft kisses on your cheek, kissing away your tears.
"im gonna tell you again now..", he whispers as he catches his breath, his hand brushing over your cheek. "you're gonna change, yea?", he raises his eyebrows, looking at you.
your smile turns into a smirk.
you were never going anywhere.
and he realizes.
you can see it.
"there was no girls night, was there?", he mumbles as he raises his one eyebrow.
you shake your head. "nope."
you smirk.
"you were gone so often and i figured that was the easiest way to get your attention..", you reveal your intention.
he sighs. rolling his eyes.
"neglected you that badly, huh?", he asks with a small grin.
you nod dramatically.
he chuckles softly.
"well, guess im gonna make it up to you then", he whispers as he disappears under the blanket, between your legs.
you arch your back and moan as you feel his tounge on your pussy.
